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.