HIDDEN

Nothing dims the spirits and sours the mind quite like a night shift. Living in this parallel universe - awake while the rest of Britain sleeps - is not something I relish or enjoy. I only tolerate it because of what might come further down the line. But everyone has their breaking point.

I call one of the girls at work "The Mole". She comes in, moody and bleary-eyed, at the start of the shift. She plonks her stuff on a chair and then proceeds to switch most of the lights off. She usually hibernates for the first couple of hours of her shift. I'm sure that one day I'll creep up on her and find her burrowing under the editor's desk.

She also happens to be a bitch, spreading her poisonous gossip about anyone and everyone. No wonder I didn't recognise her when I first came back to work here. She was so bright and bouncy; she smiled. Then, when I saw her back on night-shifts, the true Mole revealed herself once more.

Before this last brace of nights I went to see "Hidden" at the cinema. The film is so subtle, understated and suspense-laden that it drew me in from the start. At one point the entire cinema gasped, in unison, at what was unfolding on screen. Those Froggies may snaffle billions a year in undeserved farm subsidies; prevent foreign firms from taking over theirs; and have a smarmy adulterer for a president, but they do from time-to-time make remarkably good films.

I would dearly love to write more, but it's 3.50am and I can barely keep my eyes open, much less think of anything worthy with which to fill these pages. Goodnight.

YUM YUM

Jet-lag, stress and a hangover are not usually the ingredients for a girl to look her best. But it doesn't seem to have done Veronica any harm.

It had been at least three years since I'd last seen her (drunk, and wobbling all over the dance-floor of the Atlantic Bar). And I was quickly reminded about what I'd been missing. She is painfully beautiful: five-ten, pure-perfect, bronzed skin from her recent travels; blonde hair that gleams; and a figure slimmer than any you'll find in northwest London. I just wanted to kiss her.

Twat that I am, I got a little lost on my way to hers. And then very lost on our way to the restaurant. Fucking Notting Hill! But it broke the ice. The restaurant was pleasant, if not a little over-priced. We talked, we ate and she drank. And drank and drank. In fact, she drank so much water I didn't know whether to be impressed at her bladder's retentive qualities (I imbibed about half what she did and had to pop to the loo twice vs her none) or blown away by how much alcohol she must have ingested the night before. Either way, she was hydrated by the time we parted. I hope I didn't have one of frequent bouts of verbal diarrhea.

Despite her obvious physical qualities, I could see why she was single. It all comes down to one organ: her brain. She has a very big one. She has a very powerful personality. Not over-bearing, and not un-nice - in fact, she's rather sweet. Veronica just has her head screwed on and clearly doesn't allow laggards to join her on her journey through life. Even so, she has a softer side, definitely one I want to explore further. But she doesn't give much away. She said lunch was lovely, but made no attempt to suggest that it was something that would be repeated. I hope it will be. She - and lunch - was yummy.

SPREADING MYSELF TOO THIN

Okay, so things are beginning to get a little confusing. As things stand I am pursuing five girls at the same time. Is that too many? Admittedly, I am a little worried that a) I'm going to be caught out (not that I'm being unfaithful to anyone - none of them is my "girlfriend" yet); b) It's going to get expensive (the shnorrer in me refuses to die); and c) I'm not going to have any time on my hand to see my friends, the vast majority of whom will be in my life a good deal longer than any of these women.

At least tonight I have the night off - a party in Camden with pint-sized Bob. I was thinking of leaving the car at home and drinking. But it's so abysmally cold that I would rather be dull and sober with an easy ride home than well-lubricated and charming, but with frozen nads.

WORTH A SQUIRT? NOT IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE ANNOYING!

I thought I'd put one-night stands and mindless, meaningless encounters behind me. Not because I'm 30, but because I simply don't enjoy them. I never have. Sure, for half an hour - okay, two minutes - it feels great, I feel alive, desired, fulfilled. But then there's the aftermath which involves one or all of:

a) pretending to want the girl to stay over when all I really want to do is to roll over and get a good night's sleep without having to engage in inane conversation with someone I never had anything in common with in the first place. Will you give me back my bloody duvet!;
b) kicking the poor girl out or, better still, her asking me if I want her to stay, to which I say "it's up to you" or something that makes her think that it's her decision;

If I kick her out - which I would never do pro-actively - I feel guilty. But that's nothing compared with the sullied, cheap and empty feelings that overwhelm me if she stays.

Tonight I shared my bed - briefly - with Mariella, our voluptuous Brazilian (who, when the layers came off, actually wasn't as curvy in the right places as I had been led to believe).

After rebuffing my initial attempts to woo her to my home last week, she came back on the scene on Saturday night. I'd just been out with Lisa and we were back at my place watching Garden State (which is phenomenal) and engaging in intermittent smooching. (which reminds me - just downloaded Tenacious D "F*ck her Gently" on iTunes, which would be quite soothing and romantic if it didn't consist of advice on how best to bone your woman, albeit softly).

My phone bleated into life: a text message from Mariella. "So I'm at this place called Guanabara," it began. "and just saw a guy who looks so much like you. I almost asked if he was looking for on-board service. Wish it had been you! How are you?"

When Lisa went home, I replied. I told her I was fine and that it seemed she needed more entertaining. "I'm ready when you are..." I told her.

"So here's the thing," she said. "I have been ready. But I'm Brazilian, so the way it works is you have to begin entertaining me with drinks in a nice bar (some nice kissing) and we take it from there..."

Who was I to deprive her? So I took her out for two drinks tonight. Total bill, including my G&T and a diet coke: £9.00. Outside the bar - coincidentally-located just two blocks from my flat - the air was so cold that it sucked all the energy out of me. Mariella would be doing likewise within 15 minutes.

We got back to mine and started tearing into each other like bison on heat. But when I went to relieve her of her jeans, she stopped me. Frigid? Pricktease? Her period. Bollocks! "Okay," I thought to myself. "At least I can get a blowjob off her." Two in fact. The pleasure was double, though, not because she came back for second helpings. But because while being fellated by her I gained some respite from her Brazilian/faux-American accent and her incessant whining.

As we lay in bed in the afterglow, all I could think was how I really didn't want to be laying in bed in the afterglow with Mariella. Next to the woman that I love; my wife, one day, couldn't be happier. But being with someone I don't have those feelings for simply reinforces what's missing even more. It's just not worth it. Although I've never taken drugs, I assume that this is what the come-down must be like.

At 10.30pm, Mariella said she had to leave. Shame. I walked her to the station (because although I might not think or write like one I am, at least on the surface, still a gentleman). I don't think I'll ever see her again.

Which brings us back to Lisa. I took her out on Saturday night. We went to a pub. It was a former snog's birthday. Midway through the evening a pretty little, fun-sized girl walked up to me. I recognised her immediately. It was Veronica, my first love.

I hadn't seen Veronica in about 10 years. She still had the attractively-dimpled cheeks; the incongruous-lashing of pink lipstick; and a tom-boyish lariness that I found instantly attractive.

Of course, she was very different now to the Veronica I fell in love with when I was 10 years old. "You broke my heart," I reminded her. Laura, to her credit, didn't seem to mind that Iappearedd more interested in Veronica than her. I had just bumped into a long-lost primary school-friend, after all. I gave Veronica my card. The next day, she texted me to say how nicee it was bumping into me. "Likewise," I replied. I suggested we meet up. She said sure, but nothing confirmed so far.

My only fear now is that any day now another Veronica, one that my friend James is setting me up with, returns from Asia. So on the one hand I want everything to work out with Vernonica1 (there would be an element of poetry if I ended up marrying the girl I was besotted with at primary school). But I also want it to work with Veronica2, a tall, toned, fit blondey who once went out with my friend Samuel.

And Lisa? No complaints so far. At least, she's yet to be eliminated from my enquiries. Further probing definitely required.

STUFFED

It's been almost eight hours since I gorged myself. And I'm still not hungry. Which isn't really like me. My days - unless unseemingly busy - are usually built around meal-times, rather than the other way around.

Today's festivities revolved around a bar-mitzvah. Coincidentally enough, it was the anniversary of mine - the one where Moses gets pulled out the water, grows up and, ignoring a speech impediment and modesty, tries to get the Jews freed from slavery. The highlight came in the post-service shindig.

It was like the good ol' days: jockeying for position around the fish balls (to paraphrase Marilyn Monroe, "the best part of the fish"); shoulder-barging people away from the smoked salmon; and generally satisfying all my glutinous urges in the space of a calorie-filled half hour. I ignored everyone, but then, everyone else was troughing too, so I don't think anyone noticed.

On the way home, the conversation drifted or, rather, degenerated into musings about sex and religion. When I was abroad, I recounted, there was a question and answer session with a rabbi. It was no-holds barred, so someone asked the grey-bearded Chasid if you had to wear your kippa , or yarmulke, during sex: "If it falls off, it falls off!" he replied, to much tittering.

Anyway, I only have about 10 minutes before Lisa (the one I met in Israel - not the one on the plane, the other one) comes over. In truth, I can't remember if that's her name. I mean, obviously I know her real name. I just can't recall what pseudonym I'd apportioned her for the purposes of this blog. Indeed, it's all getting rather confusing. In a bid to keep my identity hidden, I've changed my name and the names of all the people who pop in and out of my terribly exciting life. And now I fear I've forgotten half of them. Only Emms - and, of course, you, Kazza, - have their real names up in pixels here.

If memory serves, my Greek gal is Mariella. She wrote to me after last Sunday, when I told her that I didn't think we could be together. This is what she wrote...

Actually, come to think of it, I can't put it up here. I know she won't read it, but if ever she did, or someone who knows her did, I don't think she'd be too happy. Turning someone down for no apparent reason is one thing; exposing their personal feelings to public scrutiny is quite another. This may make for duller writing. But I think I can live with that.

RUNNING OUT OF TIME

I used to think that 10 minutes was a long time - being told to "wait 10 minutes" was equivalent to being gnawed to death by a toothless pony (actually, that sounds quite pleasant). But you get the point.

It was only when I was in South America that I began to realise the true meaning of time, or rather, how irrelevant it could be. During their evolution South Americans appear to have managed to marginalise time to such a degree that it no longer matters to anyone.

I think I've managed to import this problem to Britain. Time is now elastic. Today, for example, I've been up for 12 hours and I all I have to show for it is four new shirts and this tawdry blog. Which reminds me, I'm running late...

DON'T DO AS I DO

I like to think of myself as a bit of a stockmarket guru. But then I like to think of myself as the finest slice of [salt]-beef cake; a six-foot stud who only has to blink at a woman for her to melt.

Sadly, I am none of these. I'm 5'11' with a tightly-held paunch. People tell me I look like Mulder off the X-Files. And my favourite hobby - according to time spent - appears to be blogging (or, as we call it England, wanking). Oh, and I can't stock-pick to save my life.

Actually that's not entirely true. I'm generally very good at picking dogs. Professionals buy low and sell high. I tend to do the opposite. This week, after everyone and his wife and his wife's friend's dog's neighbour's aunt had already piled into Google, I decided it was time to take the plunge. Twenty-four hours later a Japanese Net firm gets raided and Google tanks. Plus ca change!

Ooh. I almost forgot, Rosa the Brazilian cleaner was also on fine form when she put my red wine in the fridge. Classy! And her countrybird, Mariella, cancelled on me. So I still haven't Christened my new bed. Though come who may, I'm pretty much settled on the name Bob. Buenas noches.

THE BRAZILIAN

I had planned to write about Mariella tonight. You remember, the voluptuous Brazilian I felt up on the plane to Israel. She announced her return to London with a text: "Hey, Mr Airplane. I'm back in London and, after getting used to Eilat, I'm wondering how to keep warm here...Think I may need one of those flight blankets...Or do you have better ideas?"

I do. And she's coming over tomorrow night when I plan to put them into practice. More on her tomorrow. Meanwhile, I have other Brazilians to wax lyrical about.

We'll call this one Rosa. She's my mum's cleaner, and now she's mine too. From what little I know of her, she's as thick as a Brazil Nut tree, several Brahma short of a six-pack.

First, she calls me at 6pm to say she can't get into my flat - even though she has the keys in her hand. Unuh!

I arrived home and find that she's emptied my dishwasher - normally not a big deal, but this dishwasher wasn't ready to be emptied. It was full of dirty dishes. Our intrepid Brazilian had removed everything, washed it (badly) and then put all my milky cutlery in with my meaty knives and forks.

Had she been here, I would have strung her up. I mean, what kind of a moron takes dirty dishes out of a fucking dishwasher? It's called a dish WASHER for a bloody reason! I couldn't even remember which of my black-handled Ikea knives were for milk and which for meat. Which proves what I've long believed: if you want something done properly, you've got to do it yourself.

BLASTS PAST AND PRESENT

One of the happy coincidences of turning 30 is that everyone else you know is turning 30 too. Last night I went to a "surprise" party for a guy I went to primary school with.

I walked into the Bethnal Green bar at just gone nine. Everyone looked familiar, yet at first glance it seemed like I knew no-one. Through the smoke-filled haze my eyes honed in on Jeremy, a pube-haired (former?) pot-head whose style of preference had outlived the demise of grunge. I'd not seen him in years. He'd just completed a PhD.

Next up, Dana, now married but still with fond recollections of a New Year's Eve I'd once spent at her parents home in Southgate. We were 17/18 at the time. It was a Friday evening so, with due deference to the Sabbath, we walked round to a friend of hers who was having a party. Sadly for Dana's friend Martha, not all of those attending behaved - fans and lights were broken, beer and wine spilt on anally maintained rugs and the house generally trashed. Martha's parents - whom we could call eccentric if we were being polite, or stark raving bonkers if we were not - returned home early. "I built this house with my bare hands!" cried her demented dad. We scarpered. I tried to go out with Dana after that, but I seem to recall that she was grounded for eternity. Oh, and she didn't fancy me.

Back in Bethnal Green, I bumped into Bubba-Pappa look-a-like Miranda. I'd last seen her on a beach in Tel Aviv 12 years earlier. I hadn't missed her.

Anyway, Miranda's friend intrigued me more. She remembered meeting me once, 17 years ago, on a night bus. We never actually spoke but she recalled the episode because she'd had her first period. "I leaked all over the bus," she confided with just a little too much detail. I apologised for epitomising this traumatic event in her life and moved on.

The party itself was in honour of Itai. We used to attend primary school together. I remembered his 10th birthday party - Dolly Mixture and Salt 'n' Vinegar crisps were in plentiful supply (making it a far better party than this one). And BMX Bandits was on video - at the time, Itai said, I'd told him I'd already seen it. He told me to sit down and watch it anyway. Was I really that rude?

I hadn't planned on a late night. But when I got home my cute nieghbour Anabelle was entertaining some friends. She was drunk and maybe, just maybe, a little interested in moi. In the end, I contented myself with an almost kiss on the lips and went to bed at three.

Today, though, was more traumatic. I cooked lunch for Maria the Greek. My mum's meat pastries were perfect, the salad delightful and the bolognese amazing. The only problem was Maria. Sweet, kind-hearted, flirty and obviously into me I just couldn't bring down my wall. I told her I didn't think things would work between us - she thanked me for my honesty, but having sat in her seat scores of times before, I knew her gratitude was hollow. I broke her heart. And my only solace is that for the first time in a long time I thought with my head and not my nob.

SHE MAKES MY DAY

This little ditty is dedicated to Karen the freelance writer from Minneapolis. Before your response to my rodent rants I truly felt that my friend Emms was the only person in the world reading my writings. But you've changed all that. So I thank you, even if your praise of my comic genius was ironic (you live west of the Hudson, so I can only assume it wasn't).

Anyway, Kazza, you'll be pleased to hear that I have some more mouse-filled musings for you today. You see, I'm not one to keep an amusing anecdote to myself. So when I told my pint-sized pal Jeremy about my infestation, he told me about one of your unfortunate countrymen. This from the BBC:

"A US man who threw a mouse onto a pile of burning leaves could only watch in horror as it ran into his house and set the building ablaze.

Luciano Mares, 81, of Fort Sumner, New Mexico, found the mouse in his home and wanted to get rid of it.

"I had some leaves burning outside, so I threw it in the fire, and the mouse was on fire and ran back at the house," he was quoted as saying by AP.

Though no-one was injured, the house and everything in it was destroyed.

"I've seen numerous house fires, but nothing as unique as this one," Fire Department Captain Jim Lyssy said."

I can just imagine what was going through Luciano's (nickname, Lucky?) mind:

"That's a good fire, you old coot," I reckon he said to himself. "But I'm out of petrol, so how can I give it that little bit of extra oomph? Hmm. Let me think. Wood? No. More leaves? No. We've got enough of those already. Hang on a minute! Where's that mouse I found earlier? And they say you get stupider with age..."

Nice one, Lucky. Had you been inside the home you would no doubt have been a shoo-in for this year's Darwin awards, which honour people so unbelievably obtuse that they're removal from the gene pool does the rest of humanity a favour.

RODENTS ALWAYS COME IN TREES

Following on from my gerbil confessions of yesterday, today was the day of the mouse. These Jerry-mandered little buggers are running amok between the walls of the house that houses my home. I've not seen any lately, but their cutesy little mouse poo is apparently smeared all over the shop. Lukily, the neighbiour living beneath me has a rat-catcher cousin.

Bob popped over this afternoon. He walked up my stairs, opened the door to the airing cupboard and peered inside. He groped underneath the boiler and shaked his head disgustedly, confirming his worst fears.

"You've got mice," he said.
"How do they get in?" I asked.
"They come in on the pipes," he replied.
"Don't they drown?" I asked, in all seriousness, as I conjured up images of pipe-diving Mousekowichs.
"Not IN the pipes [you moron], through the holes around the pipes."
"Ah," I said.
"You can tell you're an office worker," he added.
"Do you by any chance shove mice up your arse?" I enquired. Okay, so I didn't say that. But I bet he does.

GERBILS

Half an hour ago I was again feeling sorry for myself. Now, after successfully logging in to my online bank account, I feel re-energised, re-optimised and re-inspired. More worryingly, perhaps, I keep hearing the words "shove a gerbil up your ass" ringing in my ears. At this point I should probably confess that I used to own a brace of these endearingly cute desert rats.

My first one was called David - yes, David the gerbil. He was named after my best friend at the time. He had golden fur like a labrador, loved his swarthier wife Susan, and when he escaped from his cage he did a one-legged tap-dance that could put Lionel Blair to shame. He loved his nuts.

David and Susan begat Robert (my next best-friend) and Simone. It was at that point that I kind of lost count. A couple of albinos followed - Egor (I didn't mean to drop him on the cardboard box and permanently kink his neck, honest!) - and, less imaginatively, Albert. Some died of, er, natural causes. Others I sold (gerbils had not yet been fully emancipated). None were shoved up my ass, placed in my trousers or deliberately harmed in any way.

Nonetheless, I was attached to my gerbils, emotionally. So much so that I recall composing a gerbil rap one windswept afternoon when Games was called of. With a chorus sung to the tune of the "He's a skoller and I'm a skoller" advert, it went something like this:

I'm a gerbil and I am cute
I'm brown and furry, also minute.
Everyday I like to play on my little wheel.
But if my owner comes I start to squeal (behave, please).

So, I'm a gerbil and you're a gerbil and gerbil's true with brew
When a gerbil comes to you can do
You can be a gerbil too, a gerbil nice and cute (squeak, squeak).

I don't know if Eminem's slightly ruder homage to the humble gerbil was inspired by this or not. But listening to "shove a gerbil up your ass" while cycling to work the other day was one of my more surreal - yet strangely pleasurable - recent experiences. Listening to it again on the tube today was no less bizarre. And given how crap the rest of my day was, songs of rodent-beastiality were undoubtedly the highlight.

TWO DOWN

In the space of two nights, I've eliminated two more girls from my enquiries. Well, one at least. Very sweet girl - religious, rabbi's daughter, pretty. But, sadly, about as exciting as a wet weekend in Blackpool when the casinos and rollercoasters are closed for maintenance.

Drinks with Natalie this evening didn't fare much better. She was in one of her wierder moods - understandable, perhaps, given that one of her closest friends is lying comatosed in hospital after a stroke and her sister has cancer. I'll give her one more chance.

As for me, I feel totally uninspired. I feel like I have a million things to do - job applications, book pitches, DIY - yet I'm doing none of them. Everything gets put off till the next day or week. I feel like I'm swimming in mud. I go through my days with the same sensation I have when watching late-night trashy TV: I'm tired and I know I should go to bed, but I just can't be arsed. And the less I can be arsed, the more I hate the fact that I'm going nowhere.

Meanwhile, time is ticking. I've been back in this forever-frustrating country for four months now. And I'm still not happy (will I ever be able to achieve my ambitions here?). Today, I got a rejection letter for another reporter's job - for regional news. I never really wanted the job, but I kept the letter. Perhaps one day I'll have enough of them to show "Rejection" as my Turner Prize offering.

I might just have to go away again. Not to run away from anything. I'd be running to something; happiness, fulfillment maybe. At least my life would once again be my own.

"You're not going to get married until your 48," my French friend Jean told me last night. He wasn't trying to be rude. But he wasn't smiling when he said it either. He meant it. And it hurt, because it dawned on me that he might just have a point.

I'd told him that I was considering giving Lea a second chance. On our first and only date I took her to The Terrace, a flat-packed-looking restaurant incongruously plopped into the centre of Lincoln's Inn Fields.

I discovered two things that night: that if you go to Lincoln's Inn Fields on a Saturday night you'll see more stretched Limos than you're likely to see turning up at the Oscars (it's the only place in town where there's enough space for them to park); and that there's nothing wrong with being a schnorrer.

You see, I'd taken Lea to The Terrace not because I'd heard a rave review. But because I had a 50% off voucher from Time Out.

When we arrived, I let Lea sit down at the table. Safely out of sight, I whipped the carefully-preserved voucher out of my pocket and handed it to the waitress. The food was fine and the atmosphere okay (I thought it was smarter than it was, told Lea, and she'd turned up wearing a sexy black number). More to the point, though, I saved £27 that night! Lea didn't suspect a thing - she had a good meal and I didn't feel out of pocket. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Alright, so if she'd found out she might not have been impressed. But dating's expensive, ok!

Lea was sweet, reasonably pretty and coquetishly nervous. Her broad smile, though, was too gummy (I only like to see teeth when a girl grins).

She was Greek, from Salonika, a stone's throw from the village that my mother's parents hailed from. Our great-grandparents probably played with each other in the playground at school. There was a certain poetry about our meeting.

I took her home afterwards. But I didn't call her again. Why? I just didn't think "it" was there. And if it's not there, then I usually don't waste my time again. One more crossed off the list. One step closer to finding "the one".

But then Lea texted me on my birthday. A fully three weeks since we'd spoken. Someone that thoughtful - and interested - deserves a second chance.

Jean's comments only reinforced my feelings on the matter. "You're looking for a carbon copy of you," he told me. I couldn't argue with him. Instead, I remembered the countless occassions I'd been out with perfectly decent girls - pretty, intelligent, feisty - yet I'd let them get away because "it" wasn't there on the first or second date. I expected us to click.

I remembered Vanessa the French girl (beautiful, sweet, can't even remember why I gave up on her), Cecilia the Uruguayan (the only girl I feel I've "made love" to since I lost my virginity - she moved abroad); and Rachel, the North Londoner I'd kissed once and never called again. By the time I realised what a witty, pretty, fun-loving thing she was, she was already with someone else. She's now married, as are the other two. In fact, as I joked to my Yanky friend Emms (probably the only person who reads this blog!) the other week, I think I'm a lucky charm for women - going out with me is the surest way of guaranteeing that they'll be married within six months. Just with someone else. If it wasn't so true it'd be funny.

BLOODY SALES

I realised two things today: one, that White City is nowhere near the West End; and two, that the sales at Oxford Street's finest emporiums are a pile of poo.

I mean, okay, so Paul Smith shirts normally cost £99 and now, whoopee doo, they're a steal at just £65. But that's still three times more than Mr Buyrite, only at least there (does this cheapskate's wonderland still exist?) you don't get served by cocks who look down on you snootily just because your nose is snivelling from the cold and your brow is still sweating from the bike ride there, both bodily juices congealing in mid drip as they twist their way onto the velvet rug below. And well blow me, the only watches on sale at Selfridges are the crap ones. I didn't buy anything. Unless you count the faux brown leather blinds I ordered from John Lewis. They're probably not even the right size for my windows. And they weren't even in the sale. A bad day for shnorrering.

AND THEN THERE WERE FIVE

I'm exhausted. And it's all Natalie's fault.

Who's she? I wish I knew. I mean, I know WHO she is - she's about 5'10'', brown eyes, feather-soft curls and is prone to descend into uncontrollable hysterics whenever I say something funny, which is usually at her own expense.

This last point in itself would, on paper at least, suggest that she could be my ideal woman. Indeed, there was a time when I thought the same.

I'll spare you all the details - I once wrote 20,000 words about our brief fling and my prolonged obsession/depression when she dumpled me.

We met in April 2000, almost exactly four months after my 24th birthday. It was the Jewish Festival of Passover and we'd both turned up to the communal meal being held at my synagogue.

The proceedings were well under way when Natalie walked in. She was tall and slender. She wore an ill-fitting cream dress with a brown horizontal stripe across the bottom. Her smile stretched from ear-to-ear and never for a moment did it fade. Her brown eyes had the infinite depth of a teddy bear’s; so brown that, from where I was sitting, it looked like she had no pupils. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

Occasionally, I caught her looking at me. And when I did, neither of us flinched.

Then it happened.

All the wine Natalie had been quaffing -- quite impressively, I might add -- was beginning to take its toll. She reached for one of the bottles of water in parched anticipation, unscrewed the top, and out came a loud hissing sound, followed quickly by half the contents of the bottle -- all over a very wet and red-faced Natalie.

She laughed so hard I thought she would wet herself even more. I was mesmerised. I got her number and we went out.

I remember how I turned up at her flat to find her on the phone. I handed her a bag of cinnamon balls that I'd stolen from my mother's biscuit tin. We went to see Being John Malkovich at the cinema, which we both loved. I took her out to Pizza Express later that week.

That nigt, we kissed. Never before had I felt so utterly taken in by someone. I drowned in her. I wanted to wrap myself in her. I didn't think I could ever be this happy.

And then...nothing.

It would be four years before I would kiss Natalie again. In between, I obsessed about her for a full year. She messed me around so much I sometimes wondered if she was pure evil. I couldn't eat or concentrate at work. I was depressed. I hated her.

But I don't anymore. For reasons known only to her, she kept in touch with me, mailing me out of the blue and occassionally calling. She came to a leaving party of mine last year and we hooked up again.

I knew this was dangerous for me, but I was in control this time; indifferent. I even told her about the feelings I'd once had for her. She had no idea. But then I went away again and now I'm back.

Which brings us back to the present day, or yesterday. Five years after I first invited her over to my new flat, she finally came round, with her sister. She'd ventured into my neck of North London for the first time since my return. I didn't even bother changing out of my pyjamas which I'd put on in anticipation of an early night that never materialised.

Natalie stayed for 45 minutes and then left. I hope I see her again soon.

In the meantime, I'm a little overwhelmed by ladies right now. There's Mariella, the voluptious Brazilian I grappled and groped with on the plane the other day; there's Lisa, an attractive, combative, handful-of-a-girl whom I kissed on New Year's Eve; Miranda, the rabbi's daughter I've been set up with but haven't seen yet; and Vanessa, the gorgeous (natural) blonde I used to fancy, but who went out with my mate Stephen, and who doesn't seem to remember that I once e-mailed her to ask her out after which she never spoke to me again. Interesting times...

BACK TO WORK

I read the other day about the proliferation of blogs. It seems that the vast majority are of no interest to anyone except the author himself. Given the dearth of comments about my magnum opus in-the-making, I'm beginning to wonder whether mine might fall into the second category. But I shall carry on regardless.

I just got back from Isreal. Well, Eilat to be precise, a dusty, unplanned city on the country's Red Sea Coast that bears no resemblance to the rest of the Holy Land whatsoever.

I hooked up with a singles tour group. I used to think there were few things sadder than those desperados who travel abroad with the sole intention of finding a spouse. But now I realise I was wrong - sadder still are those people too disorganised to get on the trip in the first place, but who insist on following them around all the same, like an unwanted puppy.

Out of 160 people - split evenly between boys and girls - there was one gorgeous girl, about half a dozen passables, and a truck-load full of mingers.

My favourite was one of the so-so six. If not for her pot-belly and fluffy boots (in the desert) she could have been quite attractive. But then she opened her mouth. Someone, it seems, had made the mistake of talking about bananas. She has a phobia. Not just about eating the phalic fruit, mind. That, at least, could be understandable. This freak, though, feels queasy at the mere mention of the word - like a vertigo-sufferer throwing a wobbly when someone says "altitude".

"Is it the taste, the texture, the shape of them?" I asked.
"No, just the word," she replied.
"What about plantain," I asked.
"What's that?"
"It's like a giant savoury banana," I replied. "They cook with it in the Caribbean."
"Banoffee pie?" I continued.
"You're such a dick-head," she seethed, as she rushed to the back of the bus to distance herself from a hail of banana-fueled abuse.

What a fruit-cake!