But it was not until the 22nd century and the refinement of quantum theory to the point of application that such aspects of pathology were truly understood. Once physicists first observed the behaviour of particles that existed in a multidimensional and pantemporal state, physicians came to understand organisms that functioned in a distinctly similar manner; in particular, viruses. This led to a broad reclassification and recognition of a number of existing medical conditions, the most famous of which, we now know, is the quantum virus known as Gauisus Poena, or as it was previously termed, ‘Love’.

An analysis of any individual’s previous ‘romantic’ relationships will inevitably demonstrate itself to be the progressive pattern of such a viral infection. However, despite significant pharmaceutical advances in treating the debilitating effects of this virus, it remains a curiosity why so many remain both belligerently uninoculated against infection, and willfully receptive to its symptoms.

BEN is seated on the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery smoking a cigarette. He is exhausted, having been walking the city all day and is still trying to ignore his body’s insistence that it really shouldn’t be so bright at the moment for what should be just gone midnight. A HOODIE suddenly approaches him…

HOODIE: Youlikeipopraptall?

BEN: What’s that?

HOODIE: You like hiphop or rap at all?

BEN: Not really, no.

HOODIE: ‘kay.

BEN: Sorry, it’s not really my thing.

HOODIE: ‘kay. You want to buy my CD? (extends hand to offer several CD-Rs scrawled upon in illegible red and green marker pen)

BEN: Well, I would, but it’s not really my thing, thanks.

HOODIE walks off in disgust. BEN stubs out cigarette and continues upon his merry exhausted way to buy something cheap to eat from the Pacific Shopping Centre.

… As I anticipated you write very well and the atmosphere you convey was sometimes all too dark for this reader. However, that merely shows that you know what you are doing. Nevertheless, I have no direct experience of handling fiction in this area and don’t have enough confidence in my ability to find a publisher for you to offer to read the complete work.

I’m sorry I can’t offer to help you.

And from one of the busiest, most respected agents in the UK as well. She replied within a week of receiving my manuscript. Not the sort of reply a first time novelist is used to. It’s usually just a postcard that says ‘NO’.

I cannot begin to describe how utterly content I am with my life at the moment. And I write that sentence fully aware of my conceit and hubris in doing so.

You see, I recently deleted a post that began in precisely the same way, but went on to say the exact opposite. I was really low when I wrote it. Depression’s like something between herpes and an unwelcome relative - you’re stuck with it for life, and you never know when it’s going to turn up unannounced with its insufferable luggage or how long it’s going to hang around making your life hell. There’s no reasoning with it. There’s no magic cure or words to make it just get the message and go away. You just have to sit it out until it gets bored and leaves you in peace.

I will make no further mention of this ex-post, other than to say thank you to a good friend who gave me a harsh but sincere (and thus fair) verbal smack for posting it, and to apologise to An Unreliable Witness who took the time to comment only to find his words so ruthlessly denied substance like my so many unwritten diary entries, or countless Tory protestations of being a socially conscious liberal party.

I won’t wax lyrical about my blissfully exhausting weekend contentment anymore than to say a HUGE thank you to Jane Bodie, Claire and Nina at The Royal Court for putting together the most insightful, stimulating and encouraging course (and indeed group) I have ever been a part of. Suddenly ideas seem to be pouring out of me through the thin film of sweat upon my brow as I lounge here typing, mid script, exhausted on this hot June evening less than a week from my 28th birthday and spilling Marlboro Light all over my long suffering MacBook’s keyboard. No thanks meanwhile to London Underground for giving me a train delayed by five, then ten, then twenty, then a final thirty five minutes this morning, making me half an hour late and costing me between £5 and £10 worth of tuition time. Doesn’t sound like much does it? But I don’t see why I should waste £10 for the privilege of London Underground making me late yet again. God bless my mum however who raced to Gunnersbury tube station at a moment’s notice to pick me up and drive like a lunatic to Sloane Square to get me to my course on time. If anyone else gets similarly stood up by LUL I’ll give you her number. Her taxi service is fair and reliable, though you will have to suffer Magic FM for however long your emergency journey may take.

Working with words and ideas gives me a buzz that I can’t describe. And I’d forgotten that. I’d really forgotten why I wanted to be… why I am a writer. Getting into a novel, a short story, a poem or a script I’m working on is a high you can’t appreciate unless you’ve been there too. It’s better than sex and the closest my cynical soul can get to being in love. It’s the total antithesis to depression. It’s as if as soon as that unwanted relative finally leaves, that pretty young thing you thought would never call unexpectedly whisks you away for a romantic weekend. Suddenly you get what life’s all about. Suddenly colours you hadn’t noticed not only flush brighter than ever before but take on colours of their own, smells remind you of everything and everyone you’ve ever loved and every breath you take of it all says to you in a huge endless hug “You know what? You’re fucking great you are. I love being with you.” And you just can’t get enough of it.

And as if two days of intensive scriptwriting workshops weren’t enough to remind me of everything I’d somehow forgotten, I staggered home utterly intoxicated with the world only to hyperventilate all over again. I’m once again in print. Ms Peach, the original yummy mummy, has done an incredible job compiling submissions for You’re Not The Only One - a collection of entries from bloggers around the world that’s to be praised not only for the sheer stupendous scale of the thing, but for a sizable chunk of all proceeds going to a much needed cause.

Buy a copy.

Do it now.

It’ll possibly be a while before I post again. Not only have I urgently got to do something about all these concepts suddenly yawning and blinking awake in my head like lazy students remembering their degree but, as I mentioned, I’m turning an holistic 28 on Saturday. As a result I’ve treated myself to something. Just a little thing. Y’know, for the dawn an’ all that.

There’s suddenly so much to do and I cannot wait to throw myself into it.

Take care y’all.

1) Don’t do that.

2) Music really does sound better through earphones.

3) The grass is always greener. Be happy with your lot, not unhappy over someone else’s.

4) Wear sunscreen.

5) Don’t bank with Abbey National. Ever. EVER. Unless of course you want to waste money, have high blood pressure and go grey before your time. In which case just start smoking. It will work out healthier for you in the long run.

6) You can do anything you want…

7) … but always be polite to and mindful of other people. If even a tenth of the people who live in London did this, I’d never leave. I’d probably even use the tube without instantly calculating how to avoid Oxford Circus.

8) One day in your mid twenties, overnight, the things you do in life will suddenly seem arbitrary. You’ll think it won’t happen to you, but it will.

9) You’ll only ever truly regret not doing something rather than doing it.

10) If you must get a credit card “for emergencies”, keep it in a drawer with “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY” written in thick red marker pen on the front. Keep a live tarantula in the drawer. One that really hates you. Never, ever, take the card out with you. Especially not to the pub.

11) Blonds are evil.

12) Politely ignore all advice and make your own mistakes.

13) But trust me on the sunscreen.

An actual transcript…

BEN:  You know you said just go for the zeitgeist - y’know, like Amy Winehouse - take something old and make it modern?

LITTLE ONE:  Yeah.

BEN:  Like, put a modern spin on it by throwing in a few swear words and talking about being wasted?

LITTLE ONE:  Uh huh.

BEN:  So how about ‘The Two Ronnies’, only more modern: ‘The Two Arseholes’?

LITTLE ONE:  No.

BEN:  No, it would be great. We could have two giant arseholes.

LITTLE ONE:  (shudders) Just… no. But we could have two blokes referred to as ‘the two arseholes’.

BEN:  Bit limited.

LITTLE ONE:  Well, we all know what they are, they’re the two arseholes. But what’s their names? Like, “oh their names are” - ring ring! - “hang on I’ll just get that,” oh no, we never heard their names!

BEN:  Hmmn.

LITTLE ONE:  And while the audience are watching it I’ll go round and flood the room with laughing gas. Ah! A laughing factory! Like when they make different things every week! Like ‘Bertha’! (sings the theme tune to ‘Bertha’).

BEN:  No.

LITTLE ONE:  (sniffs) A factory that makes models of miniature factories.

BEN:  That’s Austin Powers.

LITTLE ONE:  Clown factory.

BEN:  No.

LITTLE ONE:  A children’s entertainer.

BEN:  No, definitely not.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Yes, Mayor’. Like ‘Yes, Minister’. I like that. ‘No, Mayor’.

BEN:  I don’t think Boris Johnson would be available.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘The Conservatives’. Cos it’s all shifting, innit.

BEN:  Aye.

LITTLE ONE:  Ah! Youth centre chavs!

BEN:  Bit ‘Byker Grove’.

LITTLE ONE:  Then an adult version where they all get kicked at the end.

BEN:  Hmmn.

LITTLE ONE:  Stupid kids who are all teens, like a modern Enid Blyton, and they go on an adventure round their estate and learn a lesson every week.

BEN:  Like ‘South Park’.

LITTLE ONE:  Yeah!.

BEN:  Like ‘South Park’.

LITTLE ONE:  But with real people! They could be called R Kelly, Susan, and Dangle. Dangle’s the funny one.

LITTLE ONE:  No, really, Susan’s like 25 stone. Obese… obese! ‘Obese City!’… (coughs) Who all live in a little hole under the… (pause) mayor’s building.

BEN:  This is just typing practice for me.

LITTLE ONE:  And nothing more.

LITTLE ONE:  There’s some good stuff there.

LITTLE ONE:  A band. (Makes popping noise) Ooh! Magic bag! A band who keep trying to get a record deal and never do and you never hear them play.

BEN:  That’s been done many times.

LITTLE ONE:  A cat in a bag… let’s blank that. Oh, that’s my crazy Jesus spent.

BEN:  That’s my crazy Jesus spent?

LITTLE ONE:  Creative juices. That’s my creative juices spent.

BEN:  Ah.

LITTLE ONE:  A wood shop… where they’re all wankers. And a really lovely delicate middle class girl has to work with them, and they’re all (demonstrates their attitude by coughing up phlegm in manly way) and she has to take orders for wood and she’s all distraught.

LITTLE ONE:  This is going very well.

BEN:  I think we should stick with the mix of ideas we had before - Brian Blessed in a house that travels through time and space, and a dog who doesn’t like breakfast, with a family who drinks tea out of a different cup every week but doesn’t realise it.

LITTLE ONE:  Regulars.

BEN:  Regulars?

LITTLE ONE:  In a pub. Oh, that’s ‘Cheers’. How about ‘The Man Who Thought He Could Reason’? And always gets beaten up at the end?

BEN:  That’s just Boris Johnson again, and why does everyone have to get beaten up at the end of your things?

LITTLE ONE:  An opera singer.

BEN:  Yup?

LITTLE ONE:  Who’s a tosser. And it’s a very sophisticated agency… ah, boring shit. Do you remenber ‘May to December’? Ugh. (Suddenly gets up) Oh! This will help! (Gets notebook). The other day I watched Top 50 sitcoms and I took notes.

BEN:  How serendipitous.

LITTLE ONE:  I gotta lot here. Okay. Let’s look at, oh, Top 50 characters. ‘Rigsby - fast. Wants Miss Jones.’

BEN:  Was it Miss Jones? or James?

LITTLE ONE:  Jones.

BEN:  He was always saying Miss James or Joan wasn’t he?

LITTLE ONE:  (Ignores Ben) ‘Bill Cosby. Natural.’

BEN:  Git. Natural git.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Monty Python - an element of surprise with handbags.’ (Quotes Monty Python at length). ‘Wayne and Waynetta.’

BEN:  I’m not a Harry Enfield fan. I like Kathy Burke, but not Harry Enfield.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Hancock - miserable funny. You knew he was never going to win so you felt sorry for him, like Ricky Gervais in ‘The Office’. (Suddenly shouts) I’m the only gay in the village! Everyone’s okay with minority. ‘Green Wing’, Dancing in the surgery. Niles, Frasier. Difference in brothers, blah blah blah, cotton wool. Mrs overall. Frank Spencer. Stump’s lovely wife.’

BEN:  Huh? Who’s Stump?

LITTLE ONE:  Stunts. Lovely wife.

BEN:  Right, cos that wasn’t making sense for a moment.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘They auction Marlon Brando at Southerby’s.’

BEN:  Who do?

LITTLE ONE:  They do.

BEN:  Do what?

BEN:  Nevermind. That actually happened though.

LITTLE ONE:  Mmmmnn. ‘Abusive friendships.’

BEN:  Yes we are.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Victor Meldrew, plant in toilet.’

BEN:  This is just a monologue isn’t it?

LITTLE ONE:  Ooh, I can’t read that at all.

BEN:  I thought so.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Vicky Pollard. You actually believe she’s a girl. Demonstrated decline of articulacy. Young Ones. “Oh no the front door’s exploded… My parents are dead. You think that’s bad? Yes I do piss face.”‘

BEN:  Can we stop doing this now?

LITTLE ONE:  I’m not finished yet.

BEN:  Please.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Channelling pain into jokes. Wallace and Gromit, long suffering family friend.’

BEN:  Wallace and Gromit is not a sitcom!

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Spaced’…

BEN:  Now that’s brilliant. That’s the kind of thing I’d have liked to have written if it hadn’t already been written. Bastards.

LITTLE ONE:  ‘1990s slacker lifestyle.’

BEN:  Bastards. Bastards..

LITTLE ONE:  ‘Tony Benn doesn’t want to be out of touch.’

BEN:  Shame.

BEN:  How is it you’ve written pages and pages of impromptu notes about sitcoms and not one bit of it is either usable or funny?

LITTLE ONE:  (lights cigarette) ‘Take a character, and think about what house would he live in. What car would he have? Lynx, voodoo, Africa. Shouting out about Dixons during sex with chocolate on face.’

BEN:  This is all Alan Partidge isn’t it?

LITTLE ONE:  (nods) ‘Fawlty Towers - beautful towers, beautiful and funny. Only 12 episodes. Honest and funny.’ And that was based on when Monty Python stayed in Torquay. And they left because the man there was so rude.

BEN:  Really?

LITTLE ONE:  Yeah.

LITTLE ONE:  And what have we learned from this, Benjamin?

BEN:  That we have to stay in a really bad hotel in Torquay.

LITTLE ONE:  Theme park! Or a doctor’s surgery for really small people.

BEN:  I think we should stop now.

It happened again, somehow more as teenage viscera than the teenage innocence of before but no less warm in effect. Only there were three this time. One was a boy - a cheeky, impudent libertine. Another was an ex, tacitly competing with me for the libertine’s attention’s. And one, curiously, was a girl.

I know. So far this reads like a BBC Sitcom proposal.

I met the girl on a bus. There was some sort of major delay on the underground (a dream clearly not steeped entirely in fantasy) and we were two of several hundred people who found themselves shoved together in typical London commuter joined-up thinking, trying to board a rail replacement bus. We got chatting. She seemed to think I was straight, and I let her (for some odd reason, a lot of women seem to. Note to self: say ‘whoops, duckie!’ more in company). Next we were kissing, and I went along with it. Somehow it wasn’t all that bad. Y’know, for a girl. I even remember feeling something close to genuine affection at the time (about as much as I’m capable of offering any man these days, certainly, not that that’s a great deal), but I’m relieved it’s merely a dream. Waking up remembering kissing a girl the night before is, I’d imagine, a similar response to waking up remembering you had a cigarette after one month of virtue.

The libertine meanwhile was your typical nineteen year old - dangerously clever, impossibly energetic, impishly witty and intolerably cute, blue eyed (naturally, though surprisingly neither blond nor Canadian) with all the chutzpah of someone recently aware of people laughing louder at their jokes as an act of foreplay itself, and the reluctant attraction to them you increasingly submit to as a result. I say ‘typical nineteen year old’, but I’ve yet to meet any such boy. If my life were a Raymond Chandler novel, this sort would clearly be my homme fatale. This apparently grants me a future somewhere between Quentin Crisp as Philip Marlowe and Uncle Monty.

Immediately my ex silently declared a cold war as far as this boy was concerned, a war he seemed to immediately win by the event of my surrender. If you ever want to win against me, simply force me into a competition. I will instantly walk away. I rarely compete against anyone except myself. If you ever want to lose against me, give me an ultimatum. I will nearly always choose the alternative that didn’t. I think the ex factor (ho ho) probably represents my insecurity of separate friends I’ve made ‘coupling off’ after I’ve introduced them to each other and leaving me behind. It also makes me realise that I can be very passive aggressive / passively defeatist in relationships by immediately refusing to ‘fight’ for someone I’ve just met, surrendering to the assumption that if they were truly interested in me then they would do a little fighting of their own. You can only chase after something that leaves you a trail to follow after all.

I’m not quite sure what lesson this was meant to teach me however, as my habitual passivity ultimately won out. After an age (or a nanosecond according to current oneirological studies) of watching the ex peacock-step about my Devil-May-Caring Lolitus, the latter trumped the former’s colourful display with a quick turn to me and a politely wicked enquiry as to whether he and I should bathe together now, or just go straight to bed. In a gloriously unsportsmanlike victory, we then proceeded to eat each other’s faces off for the remainder of the evening, until my ex slunk away sullenly from the dream as a deposed alpha male. Serves him right. Even in the dream he had a boyfriend.

I woke up at the precise moment my dream self fell asleep in his Rimbaudish lover’s arms. There was no eczema on my paw this time, but my right hand was sore from where I’d slept on it, my wrists and metacarpels already sprained from yesterday when I sat down somehow stupidly in Soho Square, distracted by the self-satisfied offensive tramp who had invited himself to join us. As I slowly became aware of the dim light of the real world, Friday flavoured from behind the curtain, I recognised this playing on iTunes beside me.

I’ve been walking about the house since I got up with a feeling that I’m meant to be somewhere else - that I’ve left someone behind, and that I’ve forgotten their name. And that this clearly won’t be the last time. Somewhere in my head is lodged this stubborn conception of a phantom lover, more real and familiar than anything I could encounter from the moment I wake up to again falling asleep.