Words from a professional Mouse Artist.

Pointless fact of the day. The average ballpoint pen can write a line two miles long before running out of ink.

Even more pointless fact: A pencil gets blunt before you reach the end of Ashburton Road.

I've been experimenting with substances. And by substances, I refer to the accessories above the sink.

Our bathroom is like a science lab full of exotic coloured bottles with labels written in a language that, I could swear, only woman are taught to understand. Highlights, volume, colour vibrancy, heat damaged frizzy hair.

Sod it. Bring a teacup, mix them together, and take the best of all worlds.

I'm a typical man in the bathroom. I'll grab the nearest bottle - hoping that it's shampoo rather than conditioner - and douse myself in it until I feel effectively frothy.

But God, if I get anything in my eye, you wouldn't believe the commotion. It's like a wounded dinosaur desperately reaching for a towel, lashing bottles off shelves left right and center.

London Underground.

Never have so many people gathered in one place where so very little is said.

The Jubilee line was a ridiculous crush this evening. The sort of packed ride where your face is literally inches away from somebody elses' yet you both remain silent throughout - by law of that unspoken English etiquette. A bit of a change to the clubs in Bournemouth, mind you, where it's perfectly acceptable to slap the skirt of a random stranger and flaunt a cheeky smile like you're the best of playmates. Not that I've tried. I'm being a good cat until I find the cream.

Anyway, I mentioned trains (a common gripe of mine, clearly), so I'll be damned if I don't continue. Am I correct in assuming that the point of railworks is generally to improve the service? If that's the case, why have half the lines been part suspended on weekends for the last six years?

Whatever work you're doing, it's clearly not working. Give up, go home, lets not be redirected via Guildford while you do squat all.

This after a mammoth two and a half hour journey back from Bournemouth where I honestly thought I might die of stomach cramps. I managed to get dragged in to conversation with another chirpy Southampton girl. It's a regular occurance apparently. But following this weekend, I'd much rather have been left to snooze in her lap and be petted like an overgrown kitten after supper. Perhaps I'm too demanding with strangers. Oh I do love my affection.

My Ghostbusters outfit went down like the Titanic in the arctic sea on Halloween. And by down, I mean quite literally, it was close to my ankles at one point.

For some God forsaken reason, I decided that wearing clothes under the overalls would go against the spirit of Ghostbusting. I'm no stranger to commando, but I am a stranger to waiting at the bar topless with an inflatable backpack as the sole protector of my nipple modesty.

To add to this, I kept losing my gun. The blonde girl made a hobby of marching over at regular intervals to hand it back to me, yet I'd find somewhere else to forget about it. Freudian tendencies or not, what good is an unarmed Ghostbuster? I'd be about as effective as my wagoned mate, Tom, at a beer festival.

It's late Sunday night and that can mean only one thing. The week is at its lowest ebb. On the bright side, things can only get better. And they'd get better real fast if I could just shift some of the severe stomach contractions that I'm currently suffering from. Quite frankly, this is bordering on a pregnancy scare. No worries though, work tomorrow!

Part of my glamorous job as a web developer involves cycling through online applications and testing for defects. Or to go all techie on the world - usability testing.

Now, there are many different ways to test software, and many things to consider. But us industry kids have a pretty handy shortcut.

If your girlfriend is capable of using it, doesn't break it, and thinks she knows what she's doing...you're on the right track. Unfortunately I don't have a girlfriend to exploit in this sense. So I use my imagination, put myself in her shoes, and sure enough - defects galore!

Yes, life as a web developer hardly offers too many opportunities for charisma to shine. I spend my long walks home pondering the thought of changing my job title.

Just saying it out loud, Web Developer, it's so uninspiring. Can I not be a Cyber Consultant? Or a Mouse Artist? Even just a Digital Plumber, man, we all know what those cretins get up to on the job.

If you have any suggestions, please do send them on a postcard.

My barnet has finally been chopped. You remember the scene in Apollo 13 where they have to watch one half of the shuttle disappear in to space as a sacrifice for fuel? Yeah well, this mop has been the survival of me over the last eleven months.

Without it, I simply have no valid excuse to ask for a good ruffling.

It's all a bit worrying, to be honest. The kind of girl that I'd like to attract would most likely struggle to approve of the short-haired scruff that I now am. On the plus side, it's nice to be able to see and hear again.

I'm off to have a baby and some calpol.