Two pick me ups

I've never heard the word mojo used outside of blogs but anyway, if you've mislaid whatever it is, try these:

- Bit of A Blur by a hilarious guy from Blur I'd hardly heard of. Best rattled through on a Sunday afternoon in the pub, with Abbot Ale.

- Boeing Boeing. Farce best enjoyed sober, after work, with your mum. I am grateful for my mum; must definitely tell her that one day.

Not keeping up appearances

Wiping the vomit from the corner of my mouth with a Rizla paper last night, eyes still watering, I saw that a tramp had witnessed everything. Happily i'd managed to puke neatly into a discarded paint tin but really - vomiting one's expensive meal in front of a tramp is too naughty.

So I dropped a £20 shame payment into his delighted lap as we passed and as soon as we were beyond earshot my friend Caspar flipped.

"Dude! What is wrong with you! We've got to talk about this man - something's wrong. Don't go to Wales. I'll come round, cook you dinner, we'll talk this through."

"Whoah Caspar, I'm fine. OK perhaps having a minor moment but no crisis!"

"No way - you have to tell me what's wrong. I'll call you tomorrow"

Shit - he was really worried! Caspar is someone I've known since school (in fact he's a close friend of Blond Brainbox's ex, but that's another story) and he suffers pretty frequent depressions during some of which I've acted as advisor. The idea of having him counsel me was not something I've ever considered, indeed would ever consider, even if i thought i needed help, which I don't. But it was weird seeing him concerned and eager to help like that; perhaps he saw a chance to repay something.

So back in the office I am:

- touched at his concern; but
- somewhat annoyed at myself for exposing what i admit may have been a slight chink in the armour; and
- of course, mediaevally hungover.

Honestly...

The exuberance of my where-shall-we-meet email appeared to have frightened Blonde Brainbox off our evening drink, gladly planned last friday over the phone:

"Can we do lunch on Thursday instead - I know it's not as exciting but things are getting mega stressful before my trip."

With leaden heart I said OK - lunch sounds great, how about Wagamama?

And she never replied!

I know girls get certain behavioral privileges, but really? Whatever happened to "something's come up can we do it another time"? Perhaps that's just as rubbish, I dunno.

Whatever to do?

Last night I dreamt I was walking around in public without clothes - I haven't had one of those dreams since school! I don't think I was very bothered about passer-by's opinions this time, I just wanted somewhere private to take a piss.

Well, I woke up from this at 3am - anguished - and for the next few hours lay in bed wondering what the hell was up.

In my grog I think I decided there was some secret corner of me that I'd never shared with anyone and that all I needed was someone to trust with it, and that thence onwards my life would be complete, and where is this person as I'm fed up of waking up in semi-drunken sweats?

My sober self congratulates the sleepy psychoanalyst - but can I have some practical tips next time?

For example, what do I do about Blonde Brainbox (the only girl I've properly fancied since the Big One), who recently - five months after our crazy one-night stand - texted me with a mildly suggestive reference to the hairbands she left behind, and subsequently agreed to meet for a drink some time after her exams finished (on the 14th - today!)?

What is with her? She hardly even replied when I emailed her a specially-composed comic-romantic ballad on Valentine's Day - except to say "that was the nicest email to receive". OK so you think I'm merely sweet, fine... but then why are you texting me now?

My yen for self-destruction means we will inevitably meet for a drink at some stage, her permitting, and should it go badly this page will bear a full report.

London: rubbish

Last night a female ex-colleague called and we went and did some drinking in the City. She is fairly attractive and drew a few purrs from my friends.

We always got on pretty well at work and I have of course considered whether I'd "go there" myself. But, as we drunkenly exchanged stories of our recent opposite-sex travails, I remembered how different we were.

For her and a million other Londoners, life is Seeing Friends, Visiting Museums, Walking in Parks and Eating in Restaurants. But for me - to sound like an arse - it is travelling, nature, adventure and pondering.

My soulmate will feel as out of place in London as me. She will cringe at the mock-culture of London's street festivals. She will be nauseated by the Gü marketing campaign ('puds' - what the fuck?). The idea of having someone wash her hands for a tip will amaze her (does this happen in the Ladies? is the handwasher always black?).

Every day perhaps, like me, she will squeeze onto the tube and think "What. Am. I. Doing??"

Charles or Sebastian?

My relationship with Best Pal was under discussion last night in the Slaughtered Lamb where a gas leak had forced us out of the cellar bar - gig cancelled - and into our cups.

BP's artistic, educated, female [yeah!] work colleagues were claiming he & I had a "romantic friendship" going on. The big question was who was Brideshead Revisited's Charles Ryder in the pairing, and who Sebastian Flyte. While BP apparently exhibited Flytesque naughtiness, I was easy to imagine treasuring Aloysius. These smart early-thirties women just can't resist taking the piss!

So anyway, one of them has taken a 26 year old toy boy, another is half-way to snagging one, and the third declares herself intrigued by the idea. And yes, I increasingly fantasise about toyboyhood myself.

No doubt Freud would have something to say about the fascination-with-older-women 'phase' guys my age go through. It may also be to do with the fact that girls chill out a bit towards men as they get older - we become benign idiots rather than devil's spawn - and Being a Nice Guy starts working again after years of irrelevance. The pressure to mis-sell yourself like a 90s pension is off and you can score as the person you are...

That's probably all bollocks but has me thinking - how about a 34 year old for my next "romantic friendship"?