Bored reading blogs? Try adding the phrase 'I haven't had sex for ages and...' to the beginning of each blog entry you read.

Play one of the starriest games around.

What's important in the world today?

Uninspired, I typed in 'inspiration' into Google, just to like, y'know, see what's inspiring in Googleland. And whaddyaknow, it's Inspiration Software, which seems a bit of an oxymoron to me.

Meanwhile, under uninspired, which is where you'd perhaps hope to find inspiration, can be found Firdamatic - The Design Tool for the Uninspired Webloggers.

Hangs head in shame.

After recent discussions about social software sites such as flickr.com, it seemed timely to happen upon an article about 'fixers' in The Sunday Times. Fixers are 'the people who provide', in this article's case, 'the cream' of the people who provide.

The quote that made me think of online communities was '...to get in to either club makes you a hottie — to know Sacco makes you superhot.'

The importance of online connection to someone who's an opinion former in the gentrification of (your own) identity interests me most.

I'm not sure what my profile on flickr says about me, or the people who I'm connected to, ad infinitum.

For example, is it better to list out the films I like on my profile? For what audience would I do that? For me? For one I wanted to impress, or out-art? Does it say more about me not to list my favourite films? Or to do as I have, write something random-ish.

My identity isn't confined to static lists or who I'm connected to, or who connects to me, although all are part of it.

When I walked home I watched a plane flying underneath clouds illuminated by a crescent moon which made me feel extremely remote. Now my most pressing concern is a hatred for wet mushrooms in salad.

How can I ever represent myself fully, online?

After a large glass of wine with R in wintery pink sky heaven, I wandered home and I:

:: walked past a shop called 'Sitting Suite'
:: saw three girls run screaming across the street while everyone else turned to stare
:: saw a child wearing a white snorkel being pushed in a pram
:: watched a man inflating a tyre by hand (foot)
:: laughed out loud at thought of R rushing to get ready, then thinking 'oo, quick cup of tea'
:: saw two kids in cars racing up a street with gravel flying

Magic.

Supposed to be writing up a job app, which makes this an ideal time to observe yet more thoughts about space.

So, there I was standing, staring into space waiting to pick up my latest Amazon parcel (Echo and the Bunnymen, Songs to learn and sing, and a copy of Granta's Over there - how America sees the world), really quite happily, chatting to the black waggly dog at my feet. Next thing I knew I got a nasty, now then, this person's too close to me feeling at my left-hand side, and it was scary gym man.

Scary because he insists on sparking up conversation on the thankfully rare occasion I see him in there and scary because of the content of his conversation which is invariably racist.

He took this fully-clothed opportunity to remark on how the black dog had probably been trained to bark at 'certain shades of colour' and mutter on about the time it was taking for the black post office attendant to get the other people's parcels, to which I could only mutter back I'm sure he's trying his best.

His proximity and vile conversation makes my skin crawl.

A new word to add to ever expandiating vocabulistory: disconcentrating, or the act of not concentrating due to distracting thoughts.

Think you can scent moral rot a mile away? Buy yourself a ticket to see Dogville - take a cushion, it's three hours long - sit back, relax and question the human race, yourself included.

Ugh, the map completely broke the page. If you missed it, linking to the map of visited places is a better solution for me, nice and tidy, just how I like it.

In a scary new deviation of placing an image in the body of this page, calm, breathe, here's the places I've visited in the world, courtesy of World 66:

She's called Natasha and she lives next to me. She is not a man. Got home after a visit to the not-so-new any more Saatchi Gallery with lovely L, to bastard bass from hell in my flat. Decided that only thing for it was to stride round and say hello. So I did, and wasn't even nervous, I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

I did lie dramatically by saying that I'd been away and was she new here and I'm sure she didn't realise but the bass on her music was really loud.

And she had to get out of the bath to answer the door.

Have you ever noticed the way in which people read weighty and confidential-looking business documents on the tube, in full view of other tube-goers? Is this:

a) because they're very important?
b) because they're very busy?
c) because they're stupid enough to think that we think that because they're reading weighty and confidential-looking business documents that means they're very important and very busy?

We don't care! Stop working, read Metro for heaven's sake.

Strategy for dealing with noisy neighbours part one: TV noise won't cover it. You need your own music, best facing towards the offending wall/ceiling/floor and coming from behind your head. Ever tried holding two magnets the wrong way round (you know what I mean) together? That's the effect the music has.

I wimped out at 11pm after one soft rock bassline too many (you tear me up inside? break me up? bastard, I'll break you), but called security to do the dirty. Fifteen minutes of quiet, then back on. Until 3.30am. Peace reigns now, so I'll take the opportunity to hammer in a few nails right next to his bedroom (because it is a he, surely). Ha, yes, that will help.

A titchy tad bit tetchy, brought on by drinking the better part of two bottles of wine last night. The people in the flat next door are either a) new or b) have a new stereo, either way my blood's boiling somewhat as I'm thinking of all the nice polite non-noiseNazi words I can choose to say when I go to knock on their door. Or maybe I won't.

This is a nice idea, photographing lettering in London, might steal that.

Oh oh delightful! Especially Flora 1 and Flora 2.

Let not time dim the brilliance of Peter Perkins.

Oo oo oo, Psychocandy is winging its way to me. Was inspired to buy it again by the last track in Lost in Translation in order to relive late teenage years brooding over Dave Gedge (not quite the best thing ever to come out of Leeds), any excuse to draw Moo! logos over my A4 seriously ringbinder school files, clutched to chest, wearing a pencil skirt, V neck and disinterested expression.

I'm just watching Alex Best crawl her way through compartments of meal worms, eels, cockroaches and currently, turkey feathers.

I'm not sure who looks more stupid, her, the producers, or me for watching.

Oh, and looks like Tony Blair's done a U-turn and will, after all, ask for an inquiry into the decision to go to war with Iraq. (Or should that be 'in Iraq'.)

When words fail you.