I'm not the only one with hearing difficulties.

I saw a Metronet van parked up on St Alban's Road yesterday. I can't even begin to describe how tempted I was to spike the tires and leave a note on the windscreen. "Minor delays" on the way home for you, pal.

What is it with these service announcements about a "good service" on the Metropolitan Line? You've got some cheek to be chirping that line when half of it's suspended and I'm counting on a replacement bus service to reach my destination.

Besides, good service? There is no good service. Only one which gets me from A to B on time.

Throw in a television, a snack bar, and let me rest my feet on the bloody seats. Then you can praise your good service.

Without turning this esteemed blog in to an emo sobfest, I have a bit of a dilemma. I'm no longer the Slim Jim that I used to be. Not that I've gone all podge on the world, but my 32 incher is starting to get a little too soft for my liking (good grief, what a sentence). So from this day forward, I'm cutting down on beer in favour of spirits. I figure I should shake off the emerging Stella pouch before my happy trail turns in to an arduous mountain climb.

And I really should start working that Argos rowing machine. It's clogging up too much of my bedroom to be left to gather dust. But there's a problem; it squeaks. Really badly. I'd have an exhaustive workout, but to the people downstairs, it must sound like I'm having a passionately loud solo sesh.

I found myself pondering random nonsense on the way to the bakery today. Why do ambulances have two siren sounds?

There's the "nee-naw nee-naw", and then you've got that bloodcurdling war-siren screen.

But if the ear busting "nee-naw" isn't enough to inform you of an arriving ambulance, what's the screech gonna do for you?

I could swear. The driver's just sitting there, toddling between sirens, trying to scare as many unsuspecting pedestrians as possible in one trip to A&E. It's probably a lunch time sport topic for them.

Following the issue of unwanted noise, I was woken at 7am this morning by the sound of my mobile phone. So I picked it up, bleary eyed no end. "Adam is calling..."

Weird seeing how I don't have an Adam listed in my contact list, but I answered all the same. "Hello?", and no answer.

Nine minutes later, "Adam is calling..." Again I picked up, and again no answer.

It took three cycles of me slamming the phone down in a huff to realise that Adam was actually Alarm and I was actually very late for work. Balls.

Whoever at Sony Ericsson decided to make the wake-up alert exactly the same as the default ringtone, well, you owe me £8.20 for the cab from Watford Met Station to Imperial Way, mate.

I probably shouldn't blame my phone. Anybody who's had the god forsaken burden of sleeping with me in the past will be able to confirm that I'm notoriously restless in bed. I twitch. I turn. I scratch. I lick.

I'm like a man with fleas, baby.

But when I finally do pass out, I'm gone for good. There's no waking me.

Have you ever watched one of those beautifully romantic and wonderfully heroic chick flicks where the newly intimate couple wake up perfectly aligned in spooning position?

Doesn't happen.

As much as I quietly enjoy the soft scent of a girl's hair on a Sunday morning, I don't love it enough to sleep with my honk wedged in the thick of it while I struggle to breath.

I usually wake up in a tangled ball of sheets. My motto is that if she happens to be lucky enough to be draped in a couple of my limbs, I've been a good catch.

And finally, I've had a few people asking me if I have a LiveJournal. The answer is very simply, no I don't. LiveJournal is a barren wasteland of teenage drama that I could do without. I've been there before and it takes a whole, what, two weeks? Two weeks before every entry is directed at friends, with a ridiculous smattering of surveys, quizzes and useless tripe.

That said, those - and I can only think of one - who've been reading between the lines will know that this probably isn't quite as random as I've been letting on.

I'm off to see whether the new girl's worked out the difference between Pepsi and Tango at Chicken Cottage.

Pep-Si.

Tan-Go.

Ain't no such thing as an Orange Pepsi, love. Now please, third time lucky?