CORNER TURNED?
For the first time in months, things appear to be looking up. Over the next week or so, I have three interviews for jobs I actually want. And, and...I pitched my new biz idea to a listed company, and they loved it. If not for my streaming cold and blocked head, and an air of asphyxiating humidity permeating northwest London, I'd be on top of the world. I may even have gone out to celebrate. Instead, I'm watching the Road to Perdition for the umpteenth time while trying to see if my favourites on JDate are online. They're not. I am sweating more than a fat Hungarian in a Turkish steam room. And I need some sleep. But I just know I'm going to have another restless night. Why can't it just piss down and be done with it?

SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY
What a waste of a day. Dishwasher man stood me up again. Instead of 10am he turned up one, removed the door from my current model and said he'd be back tomorrow.

So that was the morning gone. By the time I'd read the paper and had lunch, it was already mid-afternoon. No-one was around, the weather was foul, and I was so bored that I resorted to playing online poker. I won - $37 for about an hour's toil - so I suppose it was a success of sorts.

Whiling away the hours, though, is not my idea of fun. Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those religious fanatics who thinks every hour is precious (it is, but I just don't consciously think like that). But I do have a sense of stagnation - going nowhere even though I have so many things I could, and should, be doing.

Time is overtaking me. Nine months back in this country and I've achieved little, if anything. Delusions of writing a book, building on my experiences abroad or even starting my own business appear to have become just that: a delusion. And I sometimes feel so trapped by own boredom and lethargy that I can't even bring myself to use the time on my hands to do something about it. Perhaps if I were busy and happy I'd be more inclined to do all the things I wanted to do? But then, if I was busy and happy, I wouldn't have the time, or perhaps the need, to do them.

MELTING

I must apologise to my fellow Londoners. It's been so oppressively sweltering these past few days that when cycling to and from work I've dispensed with my tee-shirt, and ridden topless. I've yet to cause any accidents. Though I'm sure that with my chest-rug bristling in the breeze, there may have been some unconfirmed sightings of the Missing Link.

Otherwise, the week's been notable only for its dullness and the new lengths to which my editor will go to do nothing. She's turned her slothfulness into an art-form.

After-work, things have been no less uninspiring. I'm still waiting on last week's job interview. Otherwise, I'm attempting to work on my million-dollar idea while watching Goldfinger and writing this blog. It's not easy.

At least, though, I don't worry myself about Z. Last Thursday, after what must have been two months of courtship, I ended it. On paper, she was most things I was looking for: pretty, fit, kind-hearted and fun. But for some reason - probably the dearth of intellectual stimulation - that spark was just lacking.

When I told her, over the phone, I began by asking her how she thought things were going between us. Of course, she knew what was coming. She took it well. Too well? Assuming she was telling the truth, she felt - or didn't feel - the same way I did/didn't. It was painless.

So now I'm back on the market. I feel a little lonelier than before, but I can at least breathe again. I even met a cute lawyer on Sunday night at the pub. She'd just split with her bloke and said she'd call me, rather than giving me her number. No news so far, but she made a promise. So watch this space...

ZZZZZZZZZZ

I'm going through "the change", or at least, I'm about to. First, I had a job interview. The head guy, dressed from head-to-toe in black, oozing Jewish camp, was decent. The lady that followed him was kind: when she told me how much I'd be paid if I got the job I was almost aroused!

Next up came the written test. I was to speak to no-one and was forbidden from using the Internet. Twenty minutes in, though, a problem emerged. It was my bladder. It was bursting, and yet I had two-and-a-half more hours of brain-teasing.

Nearby, one of the worker-bees was not working, so I asked him for my minder's extension. He gave it to me, I called her, and let me out to the loo. Phew!

That evening, I met up with my girlfriend, Z. I cycled, saving time and money. Except that I got another arsehole puncture. Which meant that after watching District 13 - which was pretty enjoyable nonsense - I had to walk all the way home from Camden.

But before I did, I made a decision, of sorts. I no longer had anything to say to Z; she was beginning to smother me; and her insistence that I a) lied about not knowing that the film was in French and b) that I should have averted my gaze from the screen because she wanted a kiss, just riled me. Now I just need to tell her. She'll be heartbroken. But I just have to do it.

CHEATIN'
Confused doesn't even begin to explain how I've been feeling since Saturday.

The day itself - blighted by England's predictably, nail-bitingly, ridiculously disappointing World Cup quarter final - was a good one. A BBQ, fun people and V.

I'd met V on Friday night. The moment I walked into the room I locked onto the shapely, Aussie's pea-green eyes and cheeky smile. I was smitten.

My smittenness continued into Saturday when she turned up at the aforementioned Barbie. I ended up smooching her before going to pick up Z - my girlfriend - and taking her out for a damp squib of an evening at Kensington Roof Gardens (get to front of queue - "that'll be £20 each, please," says doorman. "Goodnight!" says I.

Roll on Sunday and I got an earful from best friend T about honesty, and how I had to either tell Z or get rid of her. "She's falling in love with you," she said. "I can see it in her eyes."

I'd never heard T so disappointed in me. It was as though I was no longer the person she thought I was - honesty and integrity, after all, have been two of my bulwarks for as long as I can remember. If I don't have those, what do I have? What is anything else worth without them?

Throughout a sleep-deprived Sunday night these thoughts ran through my mind, over and over and over until I drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

Tonight I went out with V again: a picnic in Primrose Hill (a safe distance away from Z's home neighbourhood). We didn't have much to say. And as I looked at her more deeply, I realised she wasn't all that after all. Must have been the wine, and the beer, and the Pimms.

So objectives changed. I brought her back home, but the tea I enticed her with was all she wanted from me. All the while, I kept asking myself why I was doing this? Why when I have Z would I risk breaking her heart and messing things up, not to mention screwing with my conscience, for a bit of heavy petting with a frigid Australian? Answers on a postcard, please...