Remember remember, how skint you were in November.

You know what really gets on my nerves?

Slow meandering pedestrians on narrow sidewalks.

Seriously, let me set the scene. It's a bitterly cold Wednesday evening. I've got a forty-five minute walk to the train station and my hands are already purple at the knuckles, despite my best efforts to keep them warm in my jacket pockets. All I want is a clear stroll to the Watford Metropolitan line and what do I get? Some useless dithering yuppy-sort, eratically veering left and right at a snail's pace - giving me no opportunity whatsoever to overtake.

Overtake? Alright, I didn't mean for it to sound like the 800 meters, but getting home is an achievement that I'd like to bask in before 9pm if it's all the same to you, pavement hogger.

I've noticed that if I scratch my beard, it sounds like house music. Isn't that a bit weird? Go on, try it at home. Give your chin a good scratch and I promise you, the noise vaguely resembles a house beat.

Ten minutes later and I'm debating a change of career. DJ Stubs, and his rough house beatz. You can't tell me it wouldn't catch on.

I could swear that I ate a meal catered towards cats last night. Anything I find in the fridge which is made out of chicken, doesn't require cooking and expires the following day is bound to catch my attention. So these cold Chicken bites were no different. But unfortunately, they were horrifically rancid.

You know when you slit open a sachet of Whiskers and scrunch your nose at the smell of cat food? Well, it was like that, except by the time that I truly appreciated how vile the smell was, I'd eaten half a bag and the taste was stained on my tongue for the rest of the night.

So bad was it, in fact, that I'm absolutely convinced Muffin is sitting at home today wondering what happened to his Friday treats. Sorry dude. Hunger called.

Anybody else tempted to jet out to Sudan with one of those 5ft teddy bears wearing a "Hi, I'm Muhammad!" t-shirt? Just imagine the stares, man! The story of the British teacher is likely to rumble on for some time yet given that she's just been found guilty of blasphemy and sentenced to 15 days in jail.

And did you hear how the extremist Islamic Brotherhood reacted to the news? "If she has been found guilty of purposefully naming the toy after the prophet, she must die." Well, no beating around the bush there!

I've given up all hope of understanding the art of bathroom science. My mum's loaded the shower cabinet with just about every fancy new bottle under the sun. I've seen gels, creams, lotions and god knows what else. Can somebody please explain to me the inexplicable fascination that a woman has to products with "baby" marked across the front?

I mean, don't get me wrong. I understand the concept perfectly well. But being the youngest in the house at the ripe old age of 19, I've clearly outgrown the phase where I need baby lotion dabbed over my botty and a dousing in talcom powder. So tonight I took a chance with one of these potions, and I have to say, it didn't go particularly well.

Now there's only one thing I know about a bottle that sits on the bath basin. It's either for rubbing in to my scalp or lathering over my body. Having already shampoo'd my hair in true male fashion, with my eyes clenched shut to avoid the frothy white foam, I reached for some baby lotion and covered myself from head to toe. Not the best idea, I have to say. I spent the next 10 minutes standing there butt naked trying to unlubricate myself.

It caused a massive commotion, and ultimately a regrettable shower experience. Almost as bad as that time - in deep vertical meditation - where I leant back expecting to find a wall and crashed spectacularly through the shower curtain. But at least I went down in style. Naked style, that is.

Judging by the theme of this blog, I probably come across as a very bitter young man. I'm really not. I keep getting asked when I'm going to actually convey some happiness, but that would be too easy. Besides, I tend to think that people would rather read somebody else's gripes than a tale of happiness. It's suffering for fashion.

That said, I've been a sniping little so-and-so lately. Perhaps even mildly offensive in an irritating kind of manner. There's no plausible way of explaining it other than my usual habbit of hiding behind words when I'm hurt. I can be really stubborn, and if I find that somebody means more to me than I do to them, I tend to back pedal really quickly and make myself as unfathomable as possible. Not just with relationships, but in friendships too.

I hate having my feelings questioned. It hurts to say something nice to somebody, genuinely mean it, and for them to not believe a single word just because of a reputation - no matter how justified or unmerited it may be. I don't get close to many people. So it's a kick in the teeth to spend so long talking to somebody, somewhat hoping that they'll see a softer side of you, only to find out that they still judge you by a reputation that's out of your hands.

My solution is, and always has been, to bolt the door. To tuck away the vulnerabilities and serve up the stereotype that they're expecting to find. It might not be the best way of doing things, but it works for me and it obviously works for them.

Anyway, another month has passed and another financial cycle has begun. Payday has landed, and my spirits are naturally high. I'm always on the crest of a wave with a grand sitting in my account. But I just know it'll be gone within a fortnight.

I'd like to blame my spending woes on an overly generous streak. There can't be too many blokes who'll buy their mates a round of chicken burgers, for God's sake. But seriously, I'm determined to set some money aside in the run up to Christmas. Easy to say now, not quite as simple when I'm stranded in Soho at 2am and a £60 cab home is staring me in the face.