The lunch break rush hour in Central London.

"I'd love to date an anorexic. Just think of the double meals, man."

"Mhm, yeah..."

"...And don't even get me started on the snap factor."

It's thanks to conversations like this that I can honestly say I enjoy my day's work in the city. You can't help but overhear some of the most ridiculously un-PC remarks.

Londoners - myself included - just don't get it. We had a fire drill today. An unusual event in itself given that it's our company policy to save alarm testing until mid-morning on a Thursday. But this was a real one.

The alarm went off and was greeted by an office full of web developers and account managers chewing gum and casually continuing with their day jobs. For over a minute, it rang out, then silence.

One of my colleagues sulked off to the kitchen to finish cooking his bagel, while I sniggered at the thought that hey-ho, we could have been burning alive and nobody cared any the wiser. A few moments later, the fire alarm sounded out again. What was the reaction? It was mainly consignment to the realization that we were actually going to have to leave the office, travel down ten flights of stairs and wait outside to be registered like a bunch of school kids on a packed Clerkenwell Green.

Not even the slightest tilted nostril to the smell of fumes. A trickle of project managers seeped through to the cloakroom, retrieving coats and hats for the meandering descent via the emergency exit.

I'd finally given in to the idea of moving my arse at this point. Making my way towards the end of the room, I passed one of my workmates who was still clinging to a nitpicking client by the end of his phone.

"Listen, sorry, I'm really gonna have to go now. The fire alarm isn't stopping and we're definitely evacuating. I'll call you back in five?"

As casually yuppie as it gets, right there.

I could just imagine the client's horror at the events unfolding in our office. Images of employees darting for the exit amid the flicker of flames and priceless work drifting up in smoke.

"So, err, you do actually have our files backed up, right?"

"That's right."

"Can I ask where?"

"Under my desk on a bunch of floppies. Must dash, we're burning alive."

Ahh, don't you just love it? I'll do it in my own time, thank you very much. That attitude goes a long way to explaining the nature of this city.

You'd think that if burning alive in your workplace wasn't grave enough reason to trigger concern, then neither should the sight of a clipboard wielding Oxfam volunteer. But no, no.

Londoners can take the end of the world in their stride, or just about anything. Unless, of course, anything involves being pursued by a freakishly beaming 19 year old in a green wooly I'm in hat. Never have I seen grown cockney men flapping their briefcases in such a hurry to avoid the inevitable..."Two seconds of your time, please?"

But it's never two seconds, is it?

You only want my name, you say. Yet the second I scribble it on your rain soaked pad, our brief meeting becomes a gauntlet of addresses, telephone numbers, marital statuses and my aunty's next of kin. Sod off, why don't you?

I always give them the same slip-off.

"Sorry mate, I'm in a hurry."

Only this time, Oxfam had decided to camp out in front of my destination; a packed KFC. Armed with the potential guilt of rejecting starving African kids (or whatever stereotypes they're shooting for these days), I sighed and agreed to hand over my details.

As if my own personal information wasn't enough, she possessed the bloody cheek to ask if I had a girlfriend. Assuming that I was simply being sweet talked in return for my favour while I filled out the form, I said that I did.

"Aww, how sweet. What's her name? Can you fill in her details too, please?"

I twitched on the spot and - eventually - handed over a fake email and fake telephone number. You'd think these charities would act on a little more goodwill and a little less cold-calling, but hey, at least we're fighting Aids, brother.

Anyway, I finally shifted her attention to a flock of surely obliging tourists, accepted my I'm in badge and stomped off with a scowl. And you know what really cheered me up?

The thought that it cost Oxfam more money to manufacture this free badge than I'm ever going to donate when they spring me with their evening cold-call.

Yes, ultimately, I am killing African kids.

Mister Whiska and his sea breeze dreams.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is a good service running on all London Underground lines - except for the East London line...which is suspended until 2010."

Well, it's a bloody good job I don't take THAT route to work or there really would be some vintage tutting and fuming coming TFL's way. There's only one thing I hate more than being crammed in to a hot, sweaty Metropolitan carriage. And that's being crammed in to a hot, sweaty Metropolitan carriage in the middle of summer.

While I'm personally looking forward to the arrival of some warm weather and late night vegetation in my local beer garden, I dread the thought of rush hour commuting with our shambles of a tube service. It's become so unreliable that I'm routinely stressed through the eyeballs before I've even parked myself at a workstation by 9 'o clock.

On the bright side, boarding a Farringdon bound train isn't quite as challenging as this. Although for the sake of sorting the men from the yuppies, I sometimes wish it was.

It's been an unusual week in which I've spent half of my time back to the wall fighting a surge of April deadlines, and the other half parading around Ruislip Manor in the guise of an overgrown kitten. Whiska Wednesday, my girlfriend dubbed it. A chance to show the world and Giovanni's Restaurant just how convincing we could look with face painted whiskers and a candle-lit dinner.

Unfortunately, mine were drawn on with such blatant disregard for symmetry that I ended up looking more Mickey Mouse than Macho Tom. I'd do it again though. Hey, a man's gotta have an excuse to lick his crotch in public.

Am I the only one just about sick to death of hearing about the fiasco that is the arrival of the Olympic flame? Not being funny, but if I wanted to give a damn about some celebrity jack-pot running about with a torch, I'd switch on Lord of the Rings. As it so happens, I've seen more interesting blazes in the comfort of my own home.

The London Olympics just doesn't do it for me. I've been brought up in a city where the world's most famous sporting occasion boils down to a shake of my head and a derogatory "there's enough foreigners here already, who needs a bloody village?".

And besides, have you seen East London lately? I needed reassurance that I had after mistaking the landfill dump sites for Stoke on Trent.

I'd love to be optimistic, I really would - especially considering my unusual shift towards a good mood. I don't know whether it's the renewed fire of a happy relationship, or the fact that I've walked home to a drawer full of fresh undies, but I've been chirping a little over-enthusiastically lately.

Business as usual can resume next weekend when I set off to the south coast for a three day bender in Bournemouth. If the weather picks up, I might just have to break in my new swimsuit. Which is absolutely nothing, by the way. I miss the days when I could trawl the beach butt naked with nothing but a flake cone in one hand and a sea breeze up my arse.

I'm a little too hairy to get away with it these days. But the prospect of smelling fresh air arrouses my excitement after far too long inhaling petrol fumes. I guess it's just a shame that the closest I'll get to fresh air in Bournemouth is the time it takes one of my friends to finish his first blunt and spark up a second.

I made the mistake of blurting out my experimental substance fetish to a work mate not too long ago. It served to remind me just how ignorant people can be on the subject of drugs. I know, because I used to be like them. The slightest mention of the word and you're stepping in to dangerous territory marked by junkies, pale looking Albanians and Babyshambles' debut album.

What a load of condescending bollocks. Having spent a couple of years shaking my head at people who'd dismiss drugs as the poison of the stupid, I'm glad to say I've opened my mind and learnt to appreciate the experience of connecting to your surroundings in such a different and surprisingly more clear vision.

I don't believe in abusing precribed pills or designing for drugs. Natural is definitely the way to go. But as far as being detrimental to a person's health or their ability to carry out a job - you only have to cite one word to render the stereotypes useless; alcohol.

It bothers me when people answer quiz questions like "Have you taken drugs?" with a blank "I'm not that stupid."

Well how stupid are you, really? I suppose you've never had a cup of coffee either? Because we're talking about the same influence of substance.

Anyway, after getting in to a bit of a heated debate, I let the issue slip. Ultimately, I was just as ignorant not too long ago so there's no good in spitting feathers from the other side of the fence.

Life in the city is a pretty draining affair. I work for an agency where the day isn't finished until the job's been signed off. And while I get the chance to slack occasionally and bite my thumbs - I'm usually nailed with a violent rush of changes at 4 o'clock when a client needs something for a publisher without fail.

I'll never understand the fascination with internal meetings. I don't want to be taken to the conference room for an hour long brief carving much ado about nothing when I'm siting right next to you and could make the changes in five minutes. For all of the talk about improving processes and integrating project management tools - sometimes I wish common sense would prevail. Other than that, I do enjoy my job.

We have a list of new initiatives circling the office, and one happens to be filling me with more dread than the rest. The "take a colleague to lunch" scheme.

Every week, somebody chooses a colleague to go to lunch with and the company pays for the privilege. A nice gesture, of course. But how in the bloody hell do I go about inviting a colleague to lunch?

See, my predicament is such that if I invite a girl, I blatantly want in her pants. And if I invite a guy, well, I blatantly want in his pants too. I think I've found new reason for the work nights out though. Grab myself a drinking partner, invite him or her out to lunch, and get absolutely hammered on the job.

It'll ease the tension, if nothing else - bar perhaps my long term prospects.

This is not an April Fools joke.

"What's black, blue and busy in the kitchen?"

"The wife, if she knows what's good for her."

Oh, what it does to spend too much time in the Middlesex Arms.

Weeks have passed, clocks have gone forward and still England rains. Jokes have been told, pints have been downed and corners of the nation have been christened in my name. I'm still in employment, Hell has frozen over and through shock, horror or surprise - I'm fond of a girl who likes me too!

It's been a while since I've committed my thoughts to a blog. Well, it's been a while since I used the word commit at all. But these last few weeks have seen some uncharacteristic developments in my life. I'm no longer single, for one. Don't worry, I'm not going softcore. The slippers and pipe are safely locked away, but it's fair to say that I'm a happy bunny right now.

I've known the girl in question through a friend for a while now, though we didn't meet in person until three weeks ago. She's lovely and gets me smiling when I'm in need of a chirp. I didn't think it was possible to fall for a Harrow girl. No offense, Harrow girls. But if you've seen the St Anns' Primark on a Saturday morning, you know what the hell I'm talking about.

I must've spent ten minutes staring at her while she chick-flicked out to a Hollyoaks omnibus on Channel 4. Normally, I'd be summoning my best diplomatic persuasion and contesting the TV remote. But as she reeled off the entire tragic story of broken down soap romances, incestuous relations and high school cattiness...I don't think I listened to a single word. That's probably when I know that I like someone.

I've kinda accepted that girls will be girls. She'll like her god awful sitcoms, engage in her outrageous gossip, and won't hesitate to drag me around shopping for hours on end. But for me to still adore her and miss her by the time the train's taken me home - that's something I'm thankfully still soppy enough to appreciate.

It only takes one read of this blog to work out just how far off the rails I'd fallen since my relationship breakdown last year. Man slapper, would be a polite term for what I was becoming. A mess would be another.

I've learnt that people will always form their own misconceptions when the image you portray is...a betrayal in itself. And I hate the thought - well, the knowledge - that I've hurt people in the time that it's taken to get myself back on track. I'm sorry to those who feel somehow lead-on by my scattergram behavior.

I hope that I've always been genuine and frank with my feelings. A liar is the last thing I'd want to be known as. It's hard not to feel a little guilty for trampling over friendships to pursue a relationship, but hopefully people will understand that I'm happy and that I haven't been for a while.

I spent Sunday stalking Camden to help her find a dress. I say help, what I really mean there is "hold her bloody coat and let her loose on the racks upon racks of clothes and accessories while keeping a safe distance". There is no such thing as helping a woman to shop - not beyond carrying her newly snapped up purchases and keeping a straight face at the girly dilemmas. Right little trophy lover, I am.

Camden Market is a stodgy old place. I have to admit to completely underestimating the number of dodgy shirts to be found there. I've always associated Camden with scene kids, or those trying too hard. I suppose I still do, really. But any market selling 50's era psychedelic hip-shirts deserves a second chance. I'll be back on my own this weekend to do some serious wardrobe stocking.

Well hey, it is the new season.

On the subject of clothes shopping, I also have to muster a suitably extravagant outfit before Friday for a birthday party. That in itself could be quite tricky with my 9-5 working hours and Farringdon being what it is; a yuppy's haven about as out there as the Burton knitwear range.

I'm in a bit of a situation really. Most of my catastrophic garments are provided at a discount price from the illegal Hong Kong trade. I say that with little to no exaggeration. One of them was delivered with a tyre mark staining the package - presumably where it fell off the back of a lorry.

So with three days to go and East Asian shipping out of the equation, the window of opportunity for a shocking spandex cat suit may have finally been opened. It is, after all, my lifetime ambition to put Kevin Barnes to shame.

And yes, I know. You can treat my fashion sense with misinformed disapproval, but at the end of the day...I'm funding a third world economy.

What've you done for charity, lately?

PS. If you like reading this blog, please do a playa a favour and head on over to the UK Kliq Forums where more of my drivel can be found, amongst the drivel of many others. Registration is free. Showing your love and doing so is priceless. God bless your mothers.