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I've been sifting through my junk today. Moving house is all rather tedious, but it's a cathartic process also. I've kept folders. Folders with all my various documents neatly contained neatly within. Bank statements, credit card statements, phone bills and so on.

These go back to 2003. Dear Laaard some of the things I bought back then, some of the people I called. I was a different person entirely. Sifting through these papers I hardly recognised myself. I also had a folder full of your more personal stuff. Your basic fun stuff. Your photo's, your letters and your what nots.

I found pictures of me with orange hair, black hair, blonde hair and no hair, cavorting with various Latina females I used to work with back in the US of States. I had letters also. Ahhhh..there was panging of the heart at reading these.

People just don't write letters anymore, not hand written letters that arrive in the post. Receiving letters is a wonderful thing. I'm going to email in to Obama about this. More letter writing should go on. We'd all be less angry if we received letters from friends at least once a week.

Ten years ago that was. Where does all the time go? Where where? It only seems like yesterday. That was the best time of my life. Clinton was President then. He was a good time Charlie. Bush ruined it all. My life got significantly more boring once Bush took over. Coincidence? I think not.

Removing money orally from a cleavage yesteryear. She's a Doctor that woman.
I knocked about with classy types back then.

Still, it's not all doom and gloom. Moving house allows one to close a chapter and open up a new chapter in ones life. I'm not 25 no mo' so I doubt the next stage of my life will involve much cocktail drinking and late night/early morning vomiting. I shall probably eat a lot of crumpet, but alas the breaded kind only.

I'm OK with this though. There comes a time in a chaps life where he has to buy a more comfortable wardrobe, revert to a high fibre diet, adopt a more eccentric lifestyle and wave ones fist at a child at least once a day.

I'm ready for this. I'm about that age where I should be living in a bungalow and have my food delivered by an old grey haired lady called Vera who'll check that I'm warm enough and knit me a cardigan for my birthday. She'll speak loudly because she'll think I'm deaf and she'll compliment me and how well I look.

So yes, a cardigan I'll wear, while playing the ukulele after a crumpet and tea lunch. In the evenings I'll continue with my research. That Paul's a funny chap, the neighbours will say - funny peculiar. And they'll be right. And why not.

Baaaaaah.