A cigarette, a cup of tea, a bun
At the moment, rather like wasps angry because their expenses claim has been queried, there are many things which seem to be buzzing around my head. So, until I have managed to calm the idea-wasps down (erm, this analogy has already fallen down, hasn't it?), here are a few fragments:

Troubled-Diva outsmarting a 12 year old girl. Really silly.

Isn't it pleasing when you just discover the harmony part in a chorus of a song which you've known for absolutely ages? Well, it certainly pleased me.

What I am to do with the ever-expanding side bar you see to your right. There are still more blogs I want to put on, and Kate has already discussed the whole linking/delinking issue over at her place, but I can't quite get my head around it right now.

The new Audiville resident, with the excellent choice of 'William' as a middle name.

I'm wondering why I treat this place as though it's some private arena where I can say things that I probably wouldn't say in conversation, while at the same time knowing that it's accessible to any monkey with an internet connection.

Also, I'm deciding whether a new series would be an almost suicidally bad idea, whether I use the series as a way of not having to think of new things to say every day, or whether I should just shut up and start planning it.

Should I apply to be D's stalker? I mean, I know where he lives and everything, so I reckon I'm partly qualified, to say the least.

I'm getting very irritated by the sound of constant drilling by Victoria station, especially when combined with half-remembered lyrics running around in my brain: 'Rainy café, Kentish Town, Tuesday' being the prime culprit at the moment.

Warning: there may well be updates to this ramble throughout the day.

Real life is even more boring than reality television, and that's saying something
Sunday morning. A flat in Camden Town. One twentysomething sits on a blue sofa. He can't find his book. Another twentysomething is padding about the kitchen, wrapped in a red towel. He can't find his mobile phone. The two occasionally speak.

"Were you drunk last night?"
"I think so."
"That pretty much means 'yes', usually."
"Okay, yes. Why?"
"Well, you were shouting at the TV in the pub a lot."
"That's because the England game was on."
"Oh yes."
"Why do you ask?"
"Half the time I can't tell whether you're actually drunk or not."
"That's because you're drunk too."
"Oh yes."

Silence.

"Have you seen my book?"
"Which one?"
"253."
"Oh, yes, I borrowed it. I'm nearly done."
"Okay."

Silence.

"Have you got any cigarettes?"
"I've got three left."
"Can I have one, then?"
"Sure."

The twentysomething in the towel abandons his search for his mobile phone, lights a cigarette and then goes back to bed to finish his flatmate's book. The other twentysomething remains on the blue sofa.

Tea Break
To start off, our first café customer is Lyle who has requested a Black Russian and, to follow, a coffee. No problems so far, thank you for your order.

Next up, a Guinness with a Guinness chaser for Mr Hg. A man after my own heart, clearly.

Then we have some Earl Grey tea for Mike, though I had to warm the pot by my lighter rather than an Aga, dahling.

Stuart has requested San Rafael Lombardo. Oh. Ah. Can't actually get hold of that, Stuart, sorry to say. I can, however, provide you with a description of San Rafael in California and the former Crystal Palace and Sampdoria midfielder Attilio Lombardo. Oh, and here's a beer as well, so you don't feel left out.

One shot of Smirnoff Blue vodka, no ice for Mr D, back from commenting haiti.

For Jane, there is a Double Jack and Diet Coke (and I'll make another one and keep it ready for Pix, if she's up to it).

Some Eccles cakes for Dave and a pint of Young's Special – a very good choice, by the way – to wash them down.

One mojito for D, though I think he might have already had enough. Keep an eye on him, someone. I remember Pete's appalling behaviour at my last tea break here and I don't want a repeat performance.

Here's a very large Diet Coke for Pix, but she can sneak over to Jane if she needs a shot of liquor. I don't think D will notice.

And we come to Vaughan. His order? A bottle of gin. And a straw. And a teacake. In that order.

Let me see, who else? Oh, of course, apologies. Lux, here's your Stoli Cosmopolitan. And I must say it does look rather tasty.

Me? Oh, that's very kind, I'll join Mr Hg and have a Guinness Extra Cold, thanks.

And who's that sneaking in through the door? Hmmm, late, eh? Oh, alright then. For Kate (time difference is a valid excuse, I suppose) there is a Cape Cod (vodka, cranberry juice and a twist of lime) available.

Update: Goodness, it seems our transatlantic brethren are just getting here on time. For our favourite New Yorker, Krissa, there's a glass of Bailey's and a (nudge, nudge) 'cookie'. Enjoy.

To all of you, slainté and I hope you all have a very good weekend.

MIA
If there is one thing that the blogworld has been missing for the past week, it's been the soothing posts of Uborka's Karen and Pete. However, we have also been missing tea, crumpets, macaroons, devilish cocktails, lagers, Guinnesses (Guinnei? Guinnui? damn these plurals) and maybe even the odd (whisper it, Pete might hear) pie.

So, this afternoon, there will be a tea break at the Café Londonmark. You may choose beverages of alcoholic or non-alcoholic content, and you may also pick some cakes or a p-i-e or just some bar snacks. Orders in the comments box before 3.00pm and you will served before 4.00pm, thus allowing you to enjoy your last hour of work kicking back and relaxing. Which, let's face it, most of you do anyway.

Fifteen-to-One: 1
One thing to say:

1. Londonmark is one year old today. Thanks for reading.

Fifteen-to-One: 2
Two people to whom "mad props" (oh, yes, I know my street argot) must go, as it is their fault that you are reading this drivel:

1. Sashinka: not only the world's foremost expert on British Gas and London bus shelters, but also a guru for modern living, as superbly shown by her advice on voicemail, how to shop, the rules of engagement, parking, gossip, and what to do in an emergency. All of this is written fabulously and in wonderful style, while also encompassing technological problems, Jewish identity, diet tips, film reviews, international politics, and her own excellent short stories. She is also a fellow North Londoner, absolutely charming in person, directly responsible for me now calling my local cinema the "Camden, Odeon Town", and the first blog I ever read.
2. Troubled Diva: The Shirt Off My Back project. Tops For Pops Decades. 40 in 40. The best Pet Shop Boys live review ever. Four very good reasons for envying the fact that he is a very good writer indeed. From the PDMG to his own line of merchandise, Mr TD (with occasional quotations from the mysterious K) is absolutely hilarious and compulsive reading, especially when taking on the really big issues in life, like … well, coffee: You lattay, I lartay. He also completely reassured me at the first blogmeet I attended that I didn't need to know much about the internet to write a blog (sorry to fulfil your prediction so accurately), one of the few other bloggers I have met who smokes (no longer a pariah), and the second blog I ever read.

Sorry. If you both hadn't been so readable, stylish, funny and thought-provoking, we could have avoided all this. You have no-one but yourselves to blame.

Fifteen-to-One: 3
Three things that would make my life so much better:

1. An army of evil squirrels: After much debate with D and Pix while they were sitting on a Google blanket and I was sitting in a tree (and no, I was not k-i-s-s-i-n-g, before your inner adolescent asks), it was decided that what would dramatically improve my standard of living was a legion of malevolent squirrels trained to do my nefarious bidding. They are not quite as exciting as Mr Burns' flying monkeys, but they could be just as e-vil, mwahahaha. I might have to save up for a bit, though; the training courses could be expensive.
2. My own island: It doesn't have to be a tropical paradise, it doesn't have to have the best weather, it doesn't even have to be a particularly large island. Just a little island where I can build my own house and then live there free from the cares of the world and away from anything, anything that even resembles commuting. Naturally, it would help to have some kind of lair in which I could train my evil squirrels and this would save substantial amounts of cash: some kind of 'home teaching', rather than sending them to expensive private schools.
3. One hundred billion dollars: Actually, a couple of hundred grand (sterling) would be enough to keep me in a style to which I am not accustomed: in the black. Not being a profligate soul, all I need is money for rent, bills, booze, smokes, the occasional meal, maybe the odd CD every other month and a supply of evil nuts for my evil squirrels' sustenance. Hardly a tall order.

Fifteen-to-One: 4
Four things which make me wish I had stayed in bed this morning:

1. Arriving at work (late) to hear the words, "Oh, Mark, [Very Senior Person] has been looking all over for you". Damn.
2. Being asked by Very Senior Person about some work I did a while ago and finding out that, effectively, I had completely wasted my time on the original work.
3. Very Senior Person's inability to let me actually get on with things uninterrupted for longer than about 10 minutes. "Just checking to see how things are going on …" is etching itself into my skull right now.
4. With Very Senior Person's new project, I have already told her that I have no idea what I am doing, yet she is completely ignoring this because I am far more junior than her and therefore am required to do this, even though the end result will be absolute tosh.

Fifteen-to-One: 5
Five words that I overuse:

1. 'Actually': how redundant. There's very little difference between saying "Is it?" and "Is it actually"? A possible influence for this may have been the Pet Shop Boys' second proper album. I am pleased to note, however, that it is not only my problem, but is even being celebrated in celluloid by Richard Curtis with his first film as a director being entitled Love, Actually.
2. 'Well': the classic thought-pause when asked a question. It can also be said on its own to signify disapproval or indignance or with another word to communicate that something has been done, er, well. Vastly overused in my vocabulary and often used as a substitute for actually committing to anything. It is never, ever used by me in phrases such as "that was well lush", because such things are crimes against language. Also, it's not the early 90s any more, all you cool kids.
3. 'Sorry': this appears to be one of the first and last words out of my mouth most of the time. Somewhere inside the gaping black hole where other people keep their brains is the notion that I have to apologise for my entire existence. Although even I occasionally subscribe to this point of view, there is really no need to apologise for absolutely everything ever. It's a very irritating habit, which I know annoys other people, and for which I would like to say 'sorry'.
4. 'Quite': I use this in a similar way to saying 'well'. 'Quite' is one of the fantastically handy little words in that it is short, easily understood and can mean virtually anything depending on one's intonation. Also, I can say 'quite' to mean 'well, that's because you're a complete moron' whereas the other person will interpret my 'quite' as 'Mark is in complete and utter agreement with me here, on my very reasonable point of view'. How terribly handy.
5. 'Ocelot': I think I may have made this one up. But it is a rather lovely word, isn't it?

Fifteen-to-One: 6
Six things which lead me to believe that today will be a very bad day:

1. I wake up late and then have to spend twenty minutes looking for my Travelcard. Twenty sodding minutes.
2. On my walk to Camden Town station, I am asked for spare change twice, offered a Big Issue once and strong-armed into the road because someone isn't looking where they are going once.
3. The Northern line is, of course, delayed. I am already late and this is making me even more late. The reason given is something to do with blah, blah, blah, we couldn't be bothered, we know we say we run a public transport service but in fact this is just someone's personal train set and they'll run it when they like, thank you very much.
4. I visualise hacking fellow commuters' limbs off with an axe due to their complete inability to "let passengers off the train first, please" and their utter selfishness with incredibly large and incredibly yellow rucksacks. This may be due to the fact I'm briefly re-reading American Psycho at the moment, a book ill-suited to someone irritated and on a tube train.
5. Victoria station is packed to the rafters with morons.
6. All the people at work want to stop me and talk to me while I'm trying to slip in unnoticed. I get a cheery "Good afternoon!" from one of my 'funny' colleagues. I visualise the axe again and decide that it's time for coffee: our coffee machine is out of order.

Fifteen-to-One: 7
Seven things I wish I had learned when I was younger:

1. Confidence: I wish I had a bit more confidence, particularly in social situations, ie meeting people for the first time. If there is a party where I don't know anyone, I'm likely to be close to the wall/wine, gently and very slowly introducing myself to a small number of people. It can't be genetic, as my sister and father both have the ability to walk into a roomful of strangers, announce their presence and – within 5 minutes – have the entire room loving them.
2. How to read a map: I've already expatiated about my lack of geographical knowledge, but it really is frustrating at times. Case study: while still at school, my (now) flatmate Mike was driving some friends and I to a house party in Watford. Not being on first-name terms with the Watford ring road one-way system, I sat in the front with the map: expedition navigator Mark. After about 10 minutes, I had no idea where we were but managed – with some small success – to hide this fact. Until we got to a T-junction with a queue of cars behind and Mike asking "Left or right?". After a few moments of "Hang on", "I can't hang on", he asked in all exasperation, "Mark. Left? Or. Right?". To which I replied in all sincerity, "Yes". I'm not entirely sure he's ever forgiven me.
3. Dealing with emotions: Although only half-English, I seem to have inherited/adopted/had instilled a 'stiff upper lip' mentality when it comes to dealing with annoyance, guilt, triumph or calamity. It's a hybrid between the coping attitude of making sandwiches for the funeral reception when you should be crying your eyes out and the 'not in front of the ranks' discipline of holding feelings tightly inside; the 'wait till I get you home' school of thought.
4. Electrics: I really would have liked some practical lessons on exactly how to sort out cables so that, for example, I can plug a TV into a video into a cable TV box into a DVD player without running the risk of (a) electrocuting myself, anyone around me, or the entire postcode, (b) ensuring that the only channel we will be able to receive is BBC Parliament, (c) the whole damn lot just packing up and refusing to work.
5. Self-control: this one speaks for itself and I'm not going to incriminate myself further.
6. Piano: I had piano lessons when I was much younger and I wish that I had continued with them, because the noises I manage to strangle out of a piano deserve to be prosecuted at a war crimes tribunal. I wasn't terribly good and that was probably because, although I practised, my piano teacher was absolutely rubbish at teaching. Great at piano, appalling at communicating that to me. By contrast, a few years later when I wanted to learn a few basic pieces, I went to my friend's mother who was a piano teacher. Within a few weeks, she had me playing these few pieces like a pro. Unfortunately, I've forgotten them now.
7. Latin: because I was given Winnie ille Pu ages ago by a very dear friend and it's a real pain reading through it with a dictionary. Even though certain parts of the translation are fairly obvious: Heffalumpus = Heffalump, Ior = Eeyore, Porcellus = Piglet, Pu = Pooh, etc.

Fifteen-to-One: 8
Eight things I think I'm alright at:

1. Tolerance: I don't really mean tolerance here, I think, perhaps instead I mean acceptance. You have a viewpoint. I have a viewpoint. That's good. We can debate. I'm not going to dismiss your argument simply because it doesn't correlate 100% with my own. That's difference. Which is interesting.
2. Crosswords: I'm just an addict here, I'm afraid. I don't know why I find them engaging, funny, curious and compelling, but I do. And fortunately, I seem to do fairly well at them. They're simply great fun.
3. Listening: In true Frasier Crane style, I'm listening. I get genuinely interested and concerned when other people are having problems and, truism of truisms, other people's problems are always (a) a relief from your own, and (b) easier to deal with than your own.
4. Pool: although some way off brilliant, I am slightly above average at playing pool and occasionally, just occasionally, I can play some good shots. Let's just say that I wouldn't disgrace anyone if I were playing pool in a doubles team with them. Unless it was Steve Davis.
5. Calmness: I very rarely get angry. I'm not really one for throwing plates, vases or hissy fits. Exasperated, yes. Irritated, yes. Towering-inferno-of-rage, no. And I think I know why, and you can try it at home if you like: repression.
6. Storytelling: I just really like telling funny stories, whether they are jokes or just situations from my past which people might be able to relate to. In the same way that giving presents is often better than receiving them, I think that although telling stories against yourself is often embarrassing, it can also be a stepping point for other people to open up.
7. Adaptability: like the frog in a pan of cold water which is heated to boiling point, I can get comfortable in most situations (even a hedge) and with a fairly wide group of people. I think this comes from my father and my godfather, both of whom can speak on terms with both paupers and princes. I hope that I do so half as well as they do.
8. Diplomacy: by this I don't mean negotiating peace treaties between implacable enemies. Or perhaps I do. Certainly negotiating expedient compromises between parties with separate viewpoints and axes to grind. A lot of the time it's about 'losing face', ie making sure that nobody has to. Besides which, it's a useful skill being able to talk someone who is about to start a fight into buying you a drink.

Fifteen-to-One: 9
Nine things where I "must try harder":

1. Keeping in touch: I am a sporadic correspondent, where the word 'sporadic' actually means 'crap'. I must note that keeping in touch with someone on an accurate basis means more than simply sending one email to China every three months or so.
2. Remembering accurately: as a bear of little brain, I am hopeless with names, birthdays, directions, times and all those other minutiae which make up life. I must start to listen to people when they introduce themselves, rather than focus on getting my own name right. Remembering my own age and birthday would be a beginning, also.
3. Moderating drinking: alright, this is a bit unlikely, but there are only so many headaches and blackouts that anyone is entitled to, and I think I've done more of my fair share. I must learn to say no, especially to the killer pint before last orders.
4. Being where I'm supposed to be: When people say 'Primrose Hill', they may well mean 'Regent's Park'. They may actually mean 'Primrose Hill'. It's a good idea to check beforehand rather than randomly turning up in a park in North London and hoping. I must remember to check with people where the hell they are, and take a map, before I leave the house and wander through leafy NW1.
5. Swearing less: apparently, the subsitution of curse words for normal adverbs and adjectives is the sign of a lazy mind. F**king right. I must think before I speak and only swear when it is absolutely, positively necessary, such as when describing traffic wardens, the Northern line or my annual bonus.
6. Exercising properly: to be honest, exercising at all would be great progress. I must look at an hour's worth of football every month as inadequate exercise rather than 'going mad on that whole health thing'.
7. Learning sincerity: one of the beauties of the English language is tonality – the word 'really' can be spoken so as to mean about twenty different opinions dependent on the previous sentence. I must begin to use words in an interested and sincere manner rather than treat the entirety of the language simply an opportunity for sarcasm.
8. Spending less: see point 3 for corroboration. I must learn to stop worrying and love my bank balance.
9. Dressing appropriately: at some point, my work place will decide that a tatty black t-shirt, some cords and a pair of Nike ACGs is not suitable dress for a grown-up to wear to the office. I must stay one step ahead of them and occasionally wear a proper shirt or something.

Fifteen-to-One: 10
Ten things I just don't understand (culled from a list of thousands):

1. Geography: I have no idea where anything in the world is, especially not in relation to where anything else belongs. Tanzania? Dean Street? They might be quite close, they might not; I have no idea.
2. Body: why is it that when I get four hours' sleep after (no surprises here to regular readers) having had a few drinks, I wake up early feeling great, but when I go to bed at a sensible time and get at least 10 hours' sleep, I then feel rotten? All that's aside from various limbs or muscles randomly hurting. I understand it when I've (shock, horror) done some exercise, but when I've done nothing at all?
3. Money: I know it's nice, I know it's helpful and I know that although a small amount pops into my account at the beginning of each month, it goes away very rapidly despite how little I have to show for it.
4. Reality TV: I have enough bitching, tension, underhand manoeuvring, mediocrity, intrigue and stupidity in my life already; I'd prefer not to watch it on television as well, thank you.
5. Sums: I'm not even going to legitimise my lack of knowledge in this area by calling it 'mathematics'. It's 'sums'. And I can't do them – that's why I live with an accountant. Don't even mention long division.
6. Mobile phones: my mobile phone is always running out of credit (see point 3) and battery life, the ringer is all wrong, the phone book bit is in a mess and goodness, but it's a pain. I resisted getting a mobile for ages and bloody hell it shows. I can text people (but not in txt), call people and that's about it.
7. Meetings: the very apex of time-wasting. In our company, we adore business meetings whereby everyone gets to chip in with their ridiculous ideas, chew the fat, spout endless garbage and generally annoy. The sum total of all this endeavour? Nil. Why bother? Why ruin my day with a two-hour pow-wow which achieves nothing. I could achieve nothing on my own, I don't need to be in a stuffy room with people I don't know to do that.
8. Hooligans: what's the point of going to a really important football match abroad and – rather than actually watch your team represent their club or country for 90 minutes through superior skill and elegant finesse – spend the entire time throwing punches and bottles at other people simply because their allegiance is to a different club or country? Is it really worth spending all the time and money getting to the football ground for the express purpose of not watching the game?
9. Science: what I know about physics, chemistry, biology, et al, could fill a postage stamp and there would still be enough space for the collected works of Ian Fleming. The one thing I do remember is that an apple dropped on Stephen Hawking's head and that's why we have electricity. Or something like that.
10. Women: I don't think this really needs explanation, my archive (god help me) speaks for itself.

Fifteen-to-one: 11
Eleven things I probably shouldn't have done:

1. Convinced a friend, who was 'coming up' in the pub at the time, that the pub cat sitting by his feet had been trained to sniff out drugs and indicate this to the bar staff by sitting next to the person who possessed narcotics. Due to his 'altered' state, he did actually believe me.
2. Responded to a (now ex-) girlfriend who asked "how do I look?" with the words "like a cheap f***ing tart". I was drunk.
3. Grappled with a mugger in the doorway of The Camden Tup until he gave up and ran off, rather than simply give him the £30 I had just taken out of the cashpoint. When I went back in, the two friends I had left there asked "Mark, why are you bleeding?".
4. 'Liberated' a traffic cone, while driving to a schoolfriend's birthday party, at some traffic lights, to discover that the car behind us was, in actuality, a police car.
5. Attempted to climb up to my fourth floor flat from the outside, while drunk, when I'd left my house keys somewhere. It was a bit of a fall back to earth.
6. Convinced someone from the year below me at school, while at a reunion, that I worked in the label design department for Heinz baked beans. Due to his utter gullibility, he did actually believe me.
7. Reviewed a book for my student newspaper which I had not read. At all.
8. Driven a drunk best friend to Enfield in his car without a driving licence or insurance or directions.
9. Drunk inexpensive local red wine in the south of France until I couldn't actually taste it, then continue drinking. Then be violently ill in the bathroom, then refuse to speak to my friends in any language other than in French, then have to lie in bed in searing summer heat with a pounding headache for two days with the Colossus of all hangovers.
10. Called my mother on New Year's Eve to wish her a happy new year just before my drunk best friend saw a police car and shouted loudly to me, "Mark, let's nick the cop car!".
11. Slept in a hedge in Radlett rather than walk the extra 100 yards to my friend's house. I was drunk.

Fifteen-to-One: 12
Twelve adolescent daydreams:

1. Become Pope Mark I and immediately install all my friends as Cardinals and Archbishops, change loads of Catholic doctrine to make the church less, well, annoying, and immediately announce Prada as the official couturier to the Roman Catholic church ("really dig those tailored vestments, Your Holiness").
2. Captain a spaceship, taking it to strange new worlds, etc, etc.
3. Rebuild the library of Alexandria, staff it with librarians and then refuse to lend any of the books or manuscripts.
4. Win a Nobel prize. For what, I have no idea, but it's always nice to be appreciated.
5. Play in central defence for Newcastle United, captaining the side and winning the Premiership and Champions League, thereby earning a call-up to the England squad where I go on to win over 50 international caps and the Golden Ball award.
6. Defeat Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Sun Tzu, Genghis Khan, Charlemagne and Marc Anthony in pitched battle.
7. Be a really evil Bond villain with an underground lair, sharks, henchmen and a diabolical plot to rule the world, mwah-ha-ha.
8. Entirely redesign the London Underground network so that it actually works.
9. Suddenly, and for no explicable reason, get up out of my chair at work and launch myself out of my fourth-floor window (parachute hidden under my jacket, naturellement). It might surprise my colleagues.
10. Be a Mafia consigliere – it just sounds cool.
11. Track down and trade barbed jibes with Professor Moriarty before pursuing him through a series of adventures, intrigues and imbroglios until the day of reckoning between us.
12. Anything I've seen in films where I have immediately said "Wow!" afterwards; I want to do all that.

Fifteen-to-One: 13
Thirteen things that will bring you bad luck:

1. Breaking a mirror.
2. Walking under a ladder.
3. Spilling salt.
4. A black cat walking across your path.
5. Giving your credit card details to someone you met over email who purports to be from Nigeria and can give you a percentage of their wealth for only a small initial investment on your part.
6. Approaching Mike Tyson and claiming that he is one of the following:
   • a poor little stress bunny, who's a bunnikins, yes … you are, yes you are.
   • a bit camp, really.
   • a f%$*ing nutter.
7. Wearing your favourite Tottenham Hotspur home shirt while wandering through Highbury.
8. Being a government scientist.
9. Eating yellow ice.
10. Claiming "Bill Gates isn't such a bad chap, really" loudly at Apple Expo.
11. Paying excessive attention to your mobile phone at the expense of other noises.
12. Driving the wrong bus.
13. Thinking of a thirteenth item at work while your line manager wanders past and gets a very clear look at your computer screen.

Fifteen-to-One: 14
Fourteen things I do but I don't know why:

1. Keep cufflinks in my bag even though I've worn short-sleeved shirts for the past two months.
2. Still expect my teddy bear, Edward, to respond one day when I'm talking to him.
3. Keep my Newcastle United shirt neatly on a hanger while my expensive Jermyn Street shirts lay all over the place.
4. Say 'thanks' to someone after I've done them a favour.
5. Forget that my sister isn't just a good mate, she's actually related to me.
6. Push the bridge of my glasses up, even though I'm not wearing them at the time.
7. Drink Guinness out of an Old Speckled Hen glass when this doesn't affect the taste, consistency or temperature of the drink in any way at all.
8. Say I'm rubbish at things even when I know I'm quite good at them.
9. Check the destination of the northbound Northern Line tube trains from Euston, despite the fact that all trains northbound from Euston go to Camden Town regardless of Edgware or High Barnet branch.
10. Add pepper to food before I taste it.
11. Chastise my computer although this has no discernible effect on its operations.
12. Ask "in what sense?" rather than reply to a question, even if I know what is meant by the question.
13. Check the time when I have the entire day free with nothing to do.
14. Apologise. All the time.

Fifteen-to-One: 15
Fifteen things you just never want to hear:

1. I didn't think it was loaded.
2. You're the father.
3. It's the Inland Revenue for you.
4. Actually, I never passed this course at medical school.
5. I'm sure you owe me more than that.
6. We just stopped serving.
7. You were told about the sharks, right?
8. I was positive those security cameras didn't work.
9. What does the word 'terminal' mean?
10. I thought you had the tickets.
11. The strip-searches are surprisingly thorough.
12. They can sense fear, you know.
13. You've got insurance, haven't you?
14. Trust me, I know where we are.
15. Well, that's my flight.

Things Mark thinks are stupid
The third in an occasional series
Heathrow Terminal 4. Because it's a massive pain in the arse to reach, they don't let you stop there for longer than twelve nanoseconds, the trolleys never work properly and driving there will result in you enduring traffic jams in Chiswick, the Hammersmith flyover, the flyover by Royal Oak, around Marylebone station as well as getting into work two hours late and grrr, it makes me mad.

The art of losing
Loss, like elation, desperation or euphoria, is one of the extremes of human emotion. The way in which a person deals with loss is often a good indication of their character. To follow a much-hackneyed quotation:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss

… you'll be a man, my son.

'If' – Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

There many different types of loss, some more serious than others, and our reactions to those different kinds of loss take different shapes and forms but all contribute to others' perceptions of us, and often our perceptions of ourselves. How we believe that we respond to events fashions our furthering attitudes and informs our future actions. And sometimes – only sometimes – we actually learn something about ourselves.

Games
Some of us are good at games, some of us aren't. In England there is very much the culture of the dignified loser. We seem better equipped to laud a player or team who have striven to reach the apex of their sport but have failed at the last hurdle than we are able to celebrate outright success. Think Tim "Choker" Henman. Would the general population be quite so endeared to him if he actually won Wimbledon one day? I'm not sure.

I think this is something to do with the culture of amateurism which has traditionally been key to English life. The notion of the 'gentleman amateur' has persisted from the days of Empire, since chinless wonder blue-bloods were shipped through their public schools, Oxbridge and then sent out to rule the natives in some far-flung country which they had probably never heard of before.

Kazuo Ishiguro sums up the mentality perfectly in The Remains of the Day, through the character of the noble diplomat, Lord Darlington, addressing the professional American congressman:

"Let me say this. What you describe as 'amateurism', sir, is what I think most of us here still prefer to call 'honour'."

And so in sports and games, we must be prepared to lose. Indeed, we are almost coached not only to lose but, if we win, to take as little pleasure as possible from it; we simply mustn't be a bad winner. No gloating, no exultation and certainly no baiting those whom you have defeated. Take the plaudits quietly, mumble something about luck, pay tribute to all competitors and then beat a hasty retreat.

Likewise, we should never be a bad loser. The posture is common: head slightly down, arms either folded high across the chest or hands clasped and held by the waist, face showing disappointment but in a good-natured way. We compliment the winner on his/her triumph, rue our own shortcomings, and then stand to one side while the laurels are distributed. Not for us the hair-wrenching or berserker rampages of other sporty types, no sir. Quiet, pathetic defeat on the sidelines; far more dignified, you know.

Objects
At school, we had a lost property office. By the end of my first term, they had come to know me very, very well, due to my inability to keep any personal items with me for longer than approximately two weeks. It was merciful that we were required to sew name-tags into all our sports kits and school uniform otherwise I could have got through an entire haberdashery within the space of twelve weeks.

Postcards and letters, t-shirts and sweaters, passports and parkas, mobiles and chargers
Two tennis racquets, blue Rizla packets, a new sheepskin jacket, I lost it all
Through my life, there have been many rare and precious things I have tried to call mine
But I just cannot seem to keep hold of anything for more than a short time
Possessions of a sentimental kind: they were mine, now they're not.

'Lost Property' – The Divine Comedy, Regeneration (2001)

Each year in London, 60,000 items of lost property are recovered by passengers and visitors to the capital who have lost their umbrellas, watches, wallets, briefcases and the suchlike. 135,000 items were handed in across the tube network last year to the Lost Property Office in Baker Street, where they keep all the little items that careless people like me lose. Except not all the lost property is exactly run-of-the-mill: a bag full of Australian Aboriginal grubs, a kitchen sink (yes, literally), two funeral urns and a wedding dress feature as some of the more exotic objets manqués.

As a past master of being able to lose things even when they have been surgically grafted onto me, there are several tips I can offer to minimise the danger of being parted from your most valuable keepsakes and chattels:

• Keep your bag tidy; that way you'll realise instantly where everything belongs and when something is missing
• Run through a mental checklist of what you are carrying when you leave your house or workplace, as this helps you to remember what you're carrying
• Keep the same things in the same pockets; you'll familiarise yourself with having certain things in certain places and come to expect them to be there
• If possible, put things in pockets where you will be able to feel their presence, ie a mobile in a trouser pocket or a wallet in an inside jacket pocket; you will be instantly aware when they are not there
• Stop being such a slovenly, careless, featherbrained, slipshod moron.

I hope that these tips will help you become as organised and efficient as I am. In which case, God help you.

Relationships
Breaking up with your partner is one of the most intimate losses than an individual can experience, made all the worse because often you not only lose the other person but their family, their friends, places you've been together, books you've read out to each other on sunny days in the garden, the smell of their hair first thing in the morning while they are still asleep, the feel of their skin when they've stepped out of the shower, the shared jokes and comments which were whispered laughingly behind cupped hands, and all the little details which make a relationship so much more than a friendship.

On the face of it, you have lost your partner. A shared unit is now a solitary unit. A single bed which seemed as cramped as a matchbox now feels the size of an aircraft carrier. A ready meal for two is now slightly too much rather than not quite enough, and they don't steal scraps from your plate while you're not looking any more. The loss you feel in your mind and your heart is made more concrete by the everyday routines which were previously set for two, but which must now adapt back to one.

Everyone deals with such losses in different ways, such as lapsing into solitude and feeling self-pitying by shutting themselves away from the world. Alternatively, others choose to go to the other extreme by becoming the social dervish of their group of friends, always the first for a drink, always at the centre of the dancing. Some swear off relationships for life, unwilling or unable at that time to expose themselves to the emotional pain again. Others, more in need of validation than companionship, immediately seek out a new, replacement partner to rekindle the embers of being in a couple.

Although the memories of relationships past stay in most of our minds and, with time, crystallise into snapshots in our inner photo album, breaking up with someone often makes us lose our affections for other things as well: the restaurant of the first date, the favourite park bench for reading the Sunday newspapers, the rendezvous point outside the tube station after work. All these are lost also, occasionally to flicker back into life when in some years to come, you walk past that restaurant and smile gently to yourself.

And I suppose that's the real art of losing. You can lose anything between a game of chess, a satchel or your girlfriend and you will feel annoyance, irritation, anger, fear, betrayal, jealousy, resentment or heartbreak. But, and there is always a 'but', for the really important things in life, you know that later on down your road, you'll catch a glimpse of the jacket she always wore, or smell his favourite aftershave, or notice the way in which someone moves their hair exactly the way your former partner did, and you'll transport back to your memories. And they are a lot harder to lose than anything else in the world.

Update:

The art of laughing
Laughter is apparently the best medicine; personally, I prefer paracetamol and a shot of Jamesons, but maybe that's just me. In most social gatherings, there is a premium placed on laughter, except of course at funerals, the memorial services of loved ones and stand-up comedy shows featuring Jo Brand.

An afternoon spent at a friend's house, going out to the pub in the evening, or a Sunday lunch – if you're out with friends at any of these or other relaxed, sociable situations, then there will probably be laughter. It's important to be funny, or at least to appreciate funny things and demonstrate that appreciation vocally, by laughing.

Most people tend to divide into one of two categories: they're either the peacock or the hyena:

The peacock
Do you have a compulsive urge to wisecrack in any given situation? Are you powerless before the god of puns? Can you remember jokes easily and tell them well? Can you perform a complete 15 minute stand-up routine about a colander? Is wordplay a close personal friend who comes round to your place often and never forgets your birthday? If your answers to these questions are 'yes', then you are a peacock.

You enjoy showing off to others and getting them to laugh, you are persistent in your dedication to the perfect punchline and relentless in your pursuit of absurdist gaggery. You are the life and soul of the party. You may need to get out more and stop watching all those Eddie Izzard videos on sunny days in your living room with the curtains closed.

The hyena
Do you enjoy listening to other people tell stories? Do you like to be amused? I make you laugh, huh? Do I? What am I, a clown to you? Am I here to amuse you? Do you show your enjoyment of a well-told shaggy dog story or pithy one-liner very loudly? If your answers to these questions (or at least the ones not directly stolen from Goodfellas) are 'yes', then you are a hyena.

Although you are not a joker yourself, you love nothing better than sitting back and listening to a good raconteur tell a funny anecdote. Like as not, you'll be laughing in between the various elements of the joke, setting yourself up for a huge guffaw at the end when the punchline hits. Your laughter scares children and small animals within a radius of five miles from your person.

Whether you are the peacock or the hyena, you will encounter many different forms of laughter upon hearing a joke, seeing some particularly amusing sight gag, or simply watching somebody trying to get out of a canoe and ending up capsizing into the water, losing one of their shoes, grazing their thigh and catching Weil's Disease.

Smirking
Not really a laugh, because the smirk is silent, but it is a stepping stone on the way to real, audible laughter. Smirking is often considered to be related to smutty stories, anecdotes or jokes. Failed chat-up lines are often the most common cause of smirks:

• If I said you had a great body, would you hold it against me?
• How you doin'?
• Is there a mirror in your underwear? Why? Because I can see myself in them.
• How do you like your eggs in the morning?
• Are you legal?

None of these are, per se, funny, so there's no need to laugh. It is only when you discover that someone has tried any of these in real life (with the inevitable crash-and-burn result, one would hope) that you feel the need to laugh, and so the smirking begins. A smirk is often also an indication that you have told a joke and, though not funny, there is a need to acknowledge the fact that something nearly funny nearly occurred: it's a good halfway house.

Tittering
Similarly to smirking, tittering is not quite a full laugh. Tittering is appropriate for risqué humour, stories of inappropriate behaviour, the recounting of failed chat-up lines in a self-effacing manner or just gossip. A main drawback to tittering is that you will definitely be compared to Dick Dastardly's canine companion Muttley, whose tittering has become the stuff of legend to generations of children raised on Hanna-Barbera cartoons.

Tittering can be done in one of two principal ways. Firstly, and most commonly, through the mouth. Air escapes through closed teeth where the lips are slightly open, with the emanating sound resembling a "tss-hss-hss-hss-hss" sound, as though Kaa from the Jungle Book is desperately trying to exhale but Shere Khan has one of his paws resting fairly heavily just below the snake's throat.

The second way to titter is through the nose, with the mouth closed. This noise is more of a "hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm" and sounds similar to the sound of a steam locomotive travelling really quite fast through a canyon area, where the sound of the smoke escaping from the funnel has been echoing through the valley, but you are several miles away and can only just make out that it is a train. Something like that.

Reactions to the titter are not always positive though; often it is taken as an indication that you are only laughing politely while not finding the story humorous in the slightest. You must therefore ensure that you are smiling while you titter, in order to convince the storyteller that you are enjoying his narration. It also helps to (a) look them in the eyes, (b) remember what they say in order that you pinpoint the bit you enjoyed most, should they ask you to retell their tale, (c) take off your headphones while they are talking and (d) be in the same room as them.

Chuckling
A chuckle is a popular form of laughter, both for the peacock and the hyena. The peacock likes to hear a chuckle because it is one of the accepted forms of genuine amusement, indicating that s/he has told their story well. The hyena likes to chuckle because it makes them sound generous in their praise of the joke, as well as making them appear to be generally good-humoured and able to take a joke. Chuckling at a joke is definitely a win-win scenario for all concerned.

Most jokes told receive a chuckle because most jokes told are not superbly funny but amusing enough to prevent you from poking your eyes out with a the corkscrew attachment of a Swiss Army knife. Some (brief) examples of chuckle-worthy humour include:

• Did you hear about the Irish orphanage which had a parents evening?
• How many mice does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Two, but they have to be careful to avoid the filament.
• What's black and white and red all over? A penguin who supports Manchester United.

So none of them are exactly comic gold, but they're old favourites which are fairly likely to get a bit of a chuckle.

Guffawing
This is generally only done by those hyenas who really do love a story, or people with enough lung capacity to inflate a Zeppelin. Upon hearing the punchline, you have to tilt the head back, roll the eyes, thrust your chest forward and let out an short but repeating bellow of laughter, generally at a volume disproportionate to your surroundings; if you are laughing in the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, this means you will probably need to train as an opera singer before attempting to fill that place with guffaws.

Those who guffaw are most likely to be people unable to moderate the tone of their voice anyway, and may need some time after the laugh to recover their (thin veneer of) poise. This recovery period will be accompanied by wiping tears of mirth from their eyes, holding their stomach to indicate that such prolonged and decibel-heavy laughter has caused their sides to ache, and perhaps noise of an "oh" variety to indicate that while they still want to laugh, they are trying to calm the engine down to allow the teller to begin a fresh story.

Be wary of those who guffaw. Although some guffaw in genuine appreciation, others may be attempting to upstage the joke-teller, to prove that their ability to respond to a joke is superior to the teller's ability to relate the joke. Don't let them steal your limelight. If necessary, begin your next joke while they are still recovering, thus making it impossible for them to wind down in an attention-seeking manner. If they do try to interrupt you, then they will have ruined the set-up of the joke and will be seen as a bad sport. You've got to let them know who's boss.

Shrieking
The high-pitched hellish laughter of the damned, shrieking is the refuge of those who have no self-control whatsoever. If you have a shrieker in the crowd of people you are entertaining, give up. They will simply not bloody stop. Shriekers tend to be (a) drunk, (b) drunk, (c) drunk or (d) girls. Although there are always a few male shriekers in any crowd, men will probably attempt to turn their shriek into a guffaw before the laugh reaches its highest pitch; I think it's something to do with testosterone or their voice breaking or puberty or whatever.

Certain women, however, sacrifice their pleasant chuckling for a more banshee-like primal shriek which scares away any pets in the postcode, has the ability to shatter glass at up to a mile's distance and causes anyone with even a mild cold to grab their ears in an attempt to stop them bleeding. If you are lucky, however, the shrieker will stop after a few minutes to collect themselves. If you are really, really unlucky the shrieking can continue for up to ten minutes, only slightly diminishing in volume, and thus ruining any attempt for a follow-up story.

Seek out shriekers and make sure that you only tell them unfunny jokes; although they will form an opinion of you as a poor raconteur, your cat will thank you for it.

Groaning
And then there is, of course, the groan. Groaning is the companion to laughter; in many ways, it is a form of laughter itself, though in a less complimentary and appreciative way. The groan is most often heard when someone has heard the joke before but doesn't want to stay silent. It is also useful when the joke or the punchline is in poor taste and you wish to register that although you think it's funny, you are still a decent, upright, moral citizen who in no way wishes to make fun of others, ie you want to weasel out of it.

There is a tendency amongst groaners to adopt this laugh as their standard laugh for every story, situation or punchline. This can be a dangerous thing for the groaner because at best, it makes them out to be someone who has heard every joke before and therefore a spectacularly bad audience. At worst, it makes them out to be prudish, puritanical and slightly oversensitive on behalf of others. If the response you receive every time you tell a joke is "You really shouldn't say that, you know", then you are less likely to tell that person any more jokes.

I'm not too sure how possible it is to change your style of laughing. Some people go through the entire range of laughter depending on the situation, whereas others will laugh exactly the same way at almost everything. Some people rarely laugh at all, whereas others will laugh at even the most unfunny things or situations where laughter is incredibly inappropriate. Some people will bellow with mirth at the slightest bon mot, whereas others will remain blank-faced at undisputed comic genius. The only real conclusion is that it's a funny thing, laughing.

The art of lazing
The trouble with being really lazy these days is that it demands such effort. When I was a child, lazing seemed such an easy thing to do, especially at the weekends, in the evenings, and during chemistry lessons. Now, with the work and social pressures of mid-twenties life, lazing is something which you have to put in your calendar or organiser: "8.30pm-8.45pm: Laze. Set reminder for 5 minutes."

There are, of course, ways in which you can maximise your laziness, to make sure that you achieve absolutely nothing during your allotted period of lethargic meandering. There's no point just turning up somewhere and beginning to laze; you might actually get something useful done before you know where you are. It's a slippery slope out there, you know.

At home
Mmm … a lazy day beckons ahead of you. You wake up naturally, without any rude alarm clock interruption, and probably stretch your arms or rub your eyes. Alert: don't get up. Repeat: do not get up. If you are to be lazy today, the last thing you want to do is start actually moving only minutes after waking. Don't be silly; give yourself at least half an hour laying in bed, muttering "Mmm" to yourself, perhaps hugging your duvet appreciatively, maybe even fluffing up your pillows just a little bit more.

When you have decided that to stay in bed any longer would make you resemble Sloth from the film Seven, you can get up and start doing what you would normally do to get ready. This should be influenced by only one thing: slowness. Follow your routine, just make sure that it takes that little bit longer. Do you normally shower in ten minutes? Make it fifteen today. Do you normally gulp down your breakfast before running to the tube? Well, today, you can spend an hour over breakfast while reading the paper.

You are now ready for the challenges of the day ahead. There are two alternatives: it is fair weather or is it horrible weather?

A. Fair weather
Go into your garden or, if you don't have one, your communal garden for your block of flats or housing estate. If you don't even have a communal garden, then go into someone else's garden. The probability is highly weighted in your favour that they will be at work, so you don't have to worry about rude interruptions, irate neighbours or threats of being shot for trespassing. Items you should take with you include:

• a beach towel
• a folding deckchair
• a book/magazine/newspaper
• a notebook and pen/pencil
• a cold beverage, preferably bottled
• a lighter and your cigarettes
• a Walkman/Discman/iPod (with sufficient tapes/discs/MP3s)

You are now ready to spend hours lounging in the sun, drinking your iced tea/real lemonade, smoking cigarettes and generally doing nothing. Should you wish to lie prone, you have your towel. Otherwise, the deckchair will provide you with back comfort. You will probably do absolutely zero but you have diversionary options with the reading and listening material, should you need them. At no point should you try to think serious thoughts; save that for when you are stuck at your desk at work, ie when someone else is paying you.

B. Horrible weather
Go into your living room/drawing room. Light the fire or, if you have no fire, turn up the heating. If you have no heating, then wear as many jumpers and cardigans as you own. Select the most comfortable armchair you have or, if you prefer, the sofa. Drag the armchair/sofa as close to the fire as can be achieved without burning either your furniture or yourself. Items you should have with you include:

• a cup of tea
• some biscuits
• a deck of cards
• a notebook and pen/pencil
• a book/magazine/newspaper
• a lighter and your cigarettes

Just a reminder: in both nice and horrible weather, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can send a carrier pigeon.

In the park
Park preparation is remarkably similar to being at home in nice weather, except that all the items you take with you must fit into a small bag, and you should be prepared for any items to be (a) soaked by rain or some children having a water fight near you, (b) covered in freshly-mown grass blades or dust, (c) broken when an inconsiderate cyclist slams straight into you, causing you to drop your bag, or (d) stolen, because there are some right thieving bastards out there, eh?

When buying a house, the most important thing is location. Location is equally important when picking your spot in the park: too close to the playground and you'll be overrun by tartrazine-overloaded kiddies using your iPod as a frisbee. Too close to the main gates and you'll be dodging insane cyclists, runaway prams and, well, morons. Too far from the ice cream van and your 99 cone and flake will have melted by the time you get back to your idyllic hideaway. So choose carefully.

Once you have located the perfect place, ensure that your towel/rug is placed on an entirely grass area; it is this writer's experience that few things are quite so surprising as plonking yourself down for a pleasant afternoon reading in the park to find that directly under your rear, hidden among the blades of grass, is a surprisingly sharp stone. So surprising in fact that I added a whole new invective layer to my spoken vocabulary (for 'spoken', read 'semi-screamed').

Using your rucksack as a headrest, lie back on your rug, ensuring that any items which are not heavier than an elephant sitting on a Boeing 747 are secured either to your bag, to your person, or to a rather large and instinctively mistrustful Doberman which you have trained since he was a young whelp and who has come to regard you as both mother and father. The following items are particularly valuable and you don't want some spotty criminal making off with them while you are basking in a balmy summer's afternoon:

• your wallet
• your camera
• your keys
• your cigarettes
• your lighter
• your clothes
• your private parts

One essential to bring to the park is your sunglasses. These are important because they will enable you to avoid being blinded by the sun's reflection off expensive silvery wristwatches which joggers wear ostentiously while doing their nineteenth circuit of Regent's Park to prove that not only are they richer than you, but they're also healthier and fitter. Gits. Also, gentlemen, sunglasses allow you to look at pretty girls while avoiding any of those awkward eye contact, strained body language or substantially large boyfriend problems.

Just a reminder: in the park, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can send a helicopter.

On holiday
Whether you are holidaying in the UK or abroad, the best places to go to laze are the beach and by the hotel swimming pool. This is because all the active people who have gone on holiday with you will be placated by the range of options of things to do, leaving you free to ignore them completely and get some shut-eye. If they insist on plaguing you with their ridiculously unreasonable demands, such as "Let's play volleyball", "Let's go up to the top diving board" or "Give me my room key, I need my medication", then you can claim with some justification that the recommended course of action for them is to sod off.

In a hot climate, you may well find that you wake up earlier than usual. Only those devoid of backbone would consider this to be an instruction to get up. Do you want to laze or don't you? If the answer is yes, then you should immediately take steps to get back to sleep, ie lie there until you fall asleep. You're on holiday, there's no need to rise before 11.00am. Then, when awake and breakfasted, you can pack your small rucksack and head for the pool, the beach, a sandy little isolated cove near the bay, a quiet bank by the river or anywhere else where (a) there are no people or (b) there are no people worth talking to.

Lazing in the sunshine can very easily be ruined by one element: sunburn. There is one very easy way of ensuring you don't get burned: do not step into direct sunlight, never mind stay there for longer than twelve picoseconds. This is, however, not necessarily practical for all holidaymakers. Other recommended options are to wear light, airy clothing which will protect you, such as cotton t-shirts or shorts over your swimwear, covering yourself with sunblock or tanning lotion, or alternating periods of sunbathing with swimming in cool water such as the sea or your swimming pool. Staying away from the damned sun might still be safest, though.

On no account should you involve yourself in any form of activity holiday unless you have brought along with you a butler, valet or gullible friend, ie someone to do all the work for you. Camping, whitewater rafting, skiing, paragliding … well, quite obviously, none of these are going to allow to laze around doing zero work. You shouldn't even be thinking about them, you fool.

Just a reminder: on holiday, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can arrange for you to be extradited.

At work
This is a bit trickier. One way of lazing at work is to play on the internet; this is not pure lazing because your eyes and your mouse finger are actually moving, but it is certainly more lazy than doing what you're paid to do. An even more advanced way of lazing is to return to the same sites each workday and provide some feedback on the words they have written. If you're going to be really, really lazy and workshy, though, you could try and write something daily yourself for your own little area of the superinterhighwebnetway, some kind of log of your life on the web. Not sure what you'd call it though.

Just a reminder: at work, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can get someone else to do it.

So, these are just a few ways of honing your skills at the art of lazing. As you can see, though, I need to practice a bit more myself. If I were truly a master of lazing, I'd never have been bothered to write this far.