A young man and woman sit at a table in a London pub. The woman is almost inscrutably calm, just back from a third fag. The man aligns the lip of an ashtray with the tabletop grain, clutches his elbow, flicks his nose.

Man: And by the third novel, it was like, Houellebecq man, this is the first two again.
Woman: Yeah, like he’s trying to work something out, and does, but it won’t take.
Man: Yeah. Ah, this is peaceful isn’t it. I haven’t had this for… must be five years.
Woman: About two here. I don’t want to spoil it by getting piddled though eh.
Man: Yeah, no. But sod’s law, I’ve been just about deaf in my left ear all day. Every bloody time I’m due to meet up with a woman…
Woman: Deaf?
Man: It’s just a coincidence, it’s not psychosomatic. This morning some water fell in my ear and–
Woman: Some water fell in your ear?!
Man: Yeah, you know like when some water falls in your ear? That. I was in the shower, which has tended to increase the likelihood.
Woman: Your voice just went falsetto then as well, what are you nervous about?
Man: I’m not nervous, it’s–

Unfortunately it has happened again during the word ‘not’. At this point another man appears. He’s at least 7 foot 16; leather jacket; thick, glossy brown hair seldom seen on non-equine lifeforms. He comes to a stop at the table and fixes his gaze on the woman. The first man’s eyes swoop to his knees, the woman does a double-take.

2nd Man: [to the woman] I think you’re done here, aren’t you?

His voice is so rich that several patrons’ internal organs dissolve. The furniture’s varnish ages drastically. He holds out his arm to receive hers. She rises like a snake. I’m not implying anything there, I’m being literal, it’s just how it looks.

Woman: I’ll just… go… to the Ladies’…
2nd Man: [bowing] But of course.

The woman goes to the toilet. The second man sits down with the first. The first man reaches out – a screwdriver is in his hand.

Man: Part of your neck covering’s come loose. We’re lucky she didn’t notice. I’ll just…

He screws the artificial flesh back in place.

Man: Okay, as usual it turns out she doesn’t give a shit, push to shove. Well if we keep this up, one a day, two at weekends, you’ll have paid for yourself before I hit 60. Superb. Let’s go before she gets back.

The man lifts a control pad and presses a button. The robot rises.

2nd man: Yes, Master.

The two leave. A woman sitting at the bar turns, clearly grumbling. A similar control pad is in her hand. She looks over at the Ladies’, huffs and puffs.

2nd Woman: These bloody things, where the fuck is…

The barman turns to the second woman with a chuckle.

Barman: Oh ho ho ho! Oh ho ho ho! Now don’t you worry your pretty little head about technology there Madam…

I bought this grill yesterday, up that Comet. Teppanyaki grill, £29. It died about ten minutes after I first turned it on.

So I took it back this afternoon. Contrary to my imaginings on the bus it was replaced without incident, without voices being raised or Rugby manoeuvres from Security. But when I got home I noticed by the sink the wooden spatula that had come with the other grill! I had not put it back in the box, prior to returning the grill, but instead had left it out.

I now had two! Of the spatulas. I was so pleased. I could probably get one for about £1.20, and I’ll never use either of them, as wooden utensils harbour germs, but I interpret the second spatula’s presence in my kitchen as compensation, possibly even a form of medal, all the same.

Next Tuesday, Boots present me with my trial pack of Daily Disposable contact lenses. I’m going to wear each of them for at least a week. Even if the second wearing throws me into a fog, I will stick it out.

I went into this pub earlier in the week. I goes, “Can I use your loo? I am staying, me mate’s due, but I’m busting.” She waved me through. On the toilet I had another heart attack, and had to be dragged out of the pub apparently with my trousers round my ankles, such was the undisturbable delicacy of my condition. But, as I mused after coming round later in the hospital bed, I had already used the toilet, gratis.

That’s right, Capitalism, it’s pay-back time.

And you’re paying in full, motherfucker.

“Come quick, Doctor! Come quick!” shrieked Nurse Baker. “Mrs Dalglish in Cedar Ward has eaten all the things.”

“Eaten all the things?” said Doctor Porter.

Along to Cedar Ward went trotting Doctor Porter and Nurse Baker.

It was true. Mrs Dalglish, in Cedar Ward, had eaten all the things. The dialysis machine was gone, the fruit bowl was gone. The wall-mounted television set was no more, and part of a bed was just disappearing into Mrs Dalglish’s mouth at that moment. The crumbs of a cabinet spotted her blouse. But there she stood, still as tiny as when she’d been admitted with acute aura failure. The Aura Dialysis Machine was the only one of its kind, on loan from the States and worth a million dollars.

“That’s really annoying,” said Doctor Porter.

“It is,” said Nurse Baker.

“Some people can eat what they like and not put on an ounce. Bitch.”

I was In Tesco the other day when I saw some tinned meat. It was ‘chopped ham and pork’. I thought to myself, I wonder if that’s better than chopped pork and ham.

So many things to experience.

I was just about to go into this cafe this morning, when the bloke coming towards me on the street turned to go in there too, so we sort of bumped into each other. He goes, “Watch it, I’m a gangster you know.” I sort of chuckled a bit. He goes, “No, I am. Ask anyone.”

I goes, “I’ve not heard of a gangster announcing himself as a gangster before,” and I laugh through me nose. So he grabs me by the throat and bangs me head against the ajar door.

“I’m a gangster – end of, like,” he says.

I says, “Nah, you’re not a gangster.”

He says, “Aren’t I?”

I says, “No.” So he punches me in the stomach, I go down, and he kicks me in the side of the head. I goes, “How does that make you a gangster?” So he picks me up by me hair, knees me in the nose, blood starts gushing out, I start to have an out of body experience. As I drift I just manage to say, “Gangster my arse.”

So he gets this Stanley knife out of his pocket, slashes me left hand open, blood everywhere, then he kicks me in the bollocks. The chef comes over and he says, “Lee, shall I call the police?”

The other bloke goes, “I wouldn’t if I were you, I’m connected. I’ll have your place burnt down.”

I says, “He won’t, he’s crap. He thinks he’s a gangster.”

The bloke says, “I am.” And at that point he pulls a junior hacksaw out of his coat pocket and starts trying to saw me head off. It’s hard to get a purchase of course – he probably got the saw from Wilkinsons. He gives up on that and twists me arm up round me back, and he says, “Say I’m a gangster or I’ll break your arm, pal.”

I says, “I could say it if you like, but I’d still be thinking you’re not a gangster ’cause you ain’t.” So he breaks me arm and throws me through the window.

Then he comes out and he says, “Last chance.” I shakes me head with me eyes shut – all smug, like. So he starts kicking me in the head, then he picks me up by the hair again and starts ramming me head into the window frame. Then he storms off.

I love winding people up like that.

I feel a bit embarrassed today, as last night I dreamt I’d been walking around with my jumper on inside out, but woke up before I’d had time to put that right. The only way I can save face is to have a dream set the day before in which I write BE CAREFUL WITH JUMPER on the back of my hand.

I’d decided to buy a wooden toilet seat so I headed off to Wilkinsons. On the way a woman coming toward me on the pavement asked me the time. But she was still about 60 feet away, barely a dot on the horizon. I’m sure there are EEC guidelines on this – isn’t the maximum distance for time enquiries 8 feet? I think I remember reading that. Maybe she’d forgotten to brush her teeth. Good to know that even in Gravesend communitarian spirit isn’t dead. Or perhaps she’d been rehearsing her enquiry the length of the street and nervously mistimed the actual performance. We’ve all done it. I’ve made similar faux pas myself out of nervousness, like once when I was a student I held a door open for a similarly distant woman who I’d also forgotten was a feminist. I didn’t see her again for seven years, but when I did I explained that I’d merely held the door open to be ironic. That night, for the first time in seven years, I slept like a baby.

They had plenty of toilet seats in Wilkinsons – some black, some white, one with a mirrored surface.  Quite the cornucopia.  I was intrigued by the possible emboldening benefits of the convex mirrored surface but still plumped for the wooden one. It’s a pine effect toilet seat. I will feel like such a charlatan when I’m having a shit later.

I then left Wilkinsons and used a public lavatory. A bloke, pointing at my toilet seat – the pine effect one I had bought; he wasn’t in the cubicle with me, initially – said, “You’re a bit fussy aren’t you?” I explained that if men can take their own snooker cue to a pub I can take my own toilet seat to a public lavatory to enjoy the sport of my preference. I hadn’t intended this to sound flirtatious, but we soon had some explaining to do as the St George’s Centre security staff began to pile in. I had previously had a rigid policy of not talking in public lavatories, which I intend to return to as of tomorrow.

On the way to the bus stop I couldn’t help smile at the toilet seat. I felt excited about the later fitting. It’s good to have something to look forward to.

You know how dogs sometimes sound like they’re saying something? Well, this morning I definitely heard a dog saying both “Aggro!” and “Messerschmidt!” I opened the curtain and looked over – the dog was asleep.

So, not only a talking dog but one having a nightmare about World War II.