NO CONTROL
So after years of fantasising and self-inflicted torment, I've finally arranged to go and see the object of my affection.

And then what do I do? I go out on more dates in the past week than I normally do when my mind isn't elsewhere.

Right after Emma's wedding, I arrived back in London exhausted and disinclined to do anything more energetic than be absorbed by my leather couch in front of Curb your Enthusiasm.

But London-based L called. She had tickets to some Jewish music festival on the South Bank.

I agreed to go, not realising that the only thing Jewish about the spectacle was the audience, the songs (which were written by one), and the hilarious transformation of "Get me to the Church on Time", from My Fair Lady (I think) to "Get me to the Shul (synagogue) on Time."

Dull doesn't begin to describe it. I walked out halfway through. L was upset, so we talked in the cafe till the show was over. She dropped me home. It was at this point that brain disengaged and willy took over.

I asked if her if she wanted to come in. She did. And as soon as she was inside I miraculously found my missing energy...

Even as I was fondling her bee stings and sliding my hand where it really oughtn't, I asked myself what I thought I was doing. I had no answer. The red, trident-wielding devil sitting on my shoulder won - again.

On Tuesday, I met up with R. Sweet, pretty South African girl, with a cherubic face and awkward affectations that reminded me of a house-mate of mine at university.

After two rounds at an overpriced Hampstead pub (£16!), I walked her home. I went upstairs. She showed me the view, gave me some wine, and within about 10 minutes I was in her bed. Fully-clothed, I should point out, but in her bed nonetheless.

"What are you doing?" I asked myself once more. Again, brain disengaged. I brushed aside my doubts and went straight for my target.

Thankfully she behaved reasonably well. I left around 1am. But as I walked through the freezing mist home I felt like a tart. And I feared that I might be prejudicing my impending visit to see the L my heart has desired all of these years. I pray that I am not.

DON'T BALKANISE MY HEART
I could be on the brink of falling in love with the woman of my dreams..or the greatest folly of my life so far.

For years I've fantasised about jetting across Europe to visit L. I'd arrive at her office with a bunch of flowers, persuade the receptionist to let me go inside unanounced, and then just tap on her on the shoulder and have her melt in my arms.

But now I don't have to. As the three people who read this blog will be aware, earlier this month I took it upon myself to tell L how I felt. I told her everything - that my heart always skipped a beat when an e-mail of hers dropped into my inbox; that I'd been smitten with her for five years; that I'd never met anyone like her and that I didn't think I ever would.

Her initial reply was disappointing but expected. She was with someone; she couldn't invite me to visit, but if I wanted to, I could still come.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I said. I didn't want to be a muppet who travels across a continent when he knows he's not welcome.

Then it happened. I came home last night and there was an e-mail waiting for me. It was L. In an uncharacteristically detailed and heartfelt missive, she told me that she does think of me; she does want to see me; and she does want to know if we are meant to be together.

I was gobsmacked. Had I misunderstood her initial snub? Had I blown my one chance of happiness with L, something I'd literally prayed for and cried myself to sleep over?

Not yet. I'm flying to meet her next week. My heart and my head are both in knots. I'm in ecstasy, I'm scared, I'm excited, I'm exhausted. I could be on the brink. This could be it. L and I could finally get together, fall in love and lock lips as the credits roll. Then again, I could be about to be shat on from the greatest height imaginable - I could soon be floored by a massive, heart-breking turd. But I want to do this. I need to do this. If it's meant to be, I know that it will...

DRUNK AND CONFUSED
My toungue felt like it had been tenderised and toasted. My stomach bubbled like a witch's cauldron. And I felt confused.

I didn't drink much last night - probably a half dozen or so bottles of Budwar. And as the morning mist cleared, I realised why I felt lost.

Just two days after the Croatian object of my affections had finally put an end to five years of fantasy, I was having a heart-to-heart with N.

N and I are that curious hybrid of friend-cum-partner. We first went out six years ago. I was hooked. She broke my heart. I hated her. I forgave her. We got back together again. I went away. We were friends. And now...Now, I think I want a third bite of the cherry.

I planned to tell her at some point. Just not last night. But when she started telling me how my friend D and I were a perfect match, I had to tell N why I disagreed.

"We get on brilliantly," I told her. "We play off each other. You make me laugh like no-one else does. I enjoy being with you. And then, when I saw you at your mother's funeral, I saw a side of you I'd never seen before. I saw you had a heart as well."

Her reply was, well, typically enigmatic. She felt the same about me. She fancied me, enjoyed being with me, could snog me right there and then, but wasn't sure if I was right for her. When she saw me with D she was jealous, but then realised that D and me were probably a better match.

"Try it with her and then come back to me if it doesn't work," she said, seeming to echo Sting's exhortation that if you love someone you should set them free.

But I'm unvonvinced. While I like D, find her attractive and get on with her, there just isn't the same chemisty as there is between N and me.

Still, I called D today all the same. She wasn't there so I left a message. Then I called N - she's the one I want. And she knows it.

AN OASIS OF IRONY
I'm on a 747 somewhere over Borat-country. I haven't a clue what time it is. All I know is that I'm hungry and that the more I read the hungrier I get.

I put this down to two things:

First, I'm flying Oasis Hong Kong, the new budget carrier from the people that brought you Dragon Air. For the second flight in a row they've forgotten my kosher meal and after wolfing down the unmelted tuna-and-cheese melt I'd bought at the airport, together with a gourmet cookie the size of Ireland, I haven't got any food left.

And second, I'm reading the fascinating, though poorly-written, expose of America's fascination with Competitive Eating: Insatiable: Competitive Eating and the Big Fat American Dream.

Once I've ploughed through Jason Fagone's murky prose and his references to parochial cultural icons and events, I'm left reading page after page about sauce-drenched chicken wings, garlic-laced hot dogs and bucket-sized portions of Tiramisu.

Being a budget airline, Oasis sells food to passengers. But after munching on one Snickers, there's nothing else to munch on that isn't a pot noodle, smoked almonds or yet more chocolate.

I turn to my book for distraction. "There'll be a non-meaty sandwich on its way in just a few more hours," I told myself.

When it finally arrived, I attacked my cheese-and-tuna focaccia with all the good grace of a hyena that's just stumbled upon a dead zebra. It was gone in 10 seconds flat. "Maybe I should get into competitive eating?" I thought. "I always clean my plate before most people have even made a dent in their food. It can't be that hard!"

An air-hostess passes my seat. I ask her for another sandwich. I am less ferocious, but I destroy the hapless creation in record time. And I reflect on my predicament.

When I was at school, there was a joke that lippy public schoolboys used to tell:
Q: What's the definition of "suspicion"?
A: A nun doing press-ups in a cocumber field.

I now have a definition for irony: "Reading a book on competitive eating while starving on a plane."

Oasis itself was pretty poor: four-year old films; delays; forgotten food; and a flight time longer than any other because the company forgot to get permission to fly over Russia.

Still, as a result of my complaints I've now been offered a free return flight to Hong Kong. Next time, I'll bring a packed lunch.

HOT ROCKS
Five beers and a curry into the evening and the James Bond credits are rolling in front of my bleary eyes.

I've just come from Le Grand Hotel d'Angkor, a unashamedly pompous palace of a hotel in Siem Reap, Cambodia, where the doormen are so posh they wear ivory-white Prussian-esque Pickelhauben. The architecture was French colonial in style, the pool was Olympic in size and you need a mortgage for dinner.

Yet this isn't even the most impressive hotel here. Everywhere I look, I'm blown away by the builders. Sipping beer alongside the FCC's saltwater pool I felt like a sweaty, French civil servant from the 1930s.

Even the new hotels, which could have ended up like a tacky version of Las Vegas, are mind-blowing. If ever I come to build a gaudy mansion on The Bishop's Avenue, I'm going to ship over boat-loads of Cambodians.

Ealier today I had two of them catering to my every muscular need, kneading my folds of flab and aching limbs with their hands, elbows and boiling hot stones. The chef d'oeuvre involved one of them leaping on to my torso and pressing down hard on my groin. Needless to say, I finshed myself off back in my room.

Soon after, I sent L a mail that I began writing the night before. It was one of the toughest things I've ever composed. In it, I fessed up to five years of obsession; that I'd always felt a deep connection between us; and that I'd never met anyone like her nor felt that I ever would. I told her everything. Why? Because she asked. Now I have to wait for her reply. I dread to think what it might say...