A sign of the times. "The Motorcycle Diaries" is available to rent, but only on DVD, not VHS as well. It's happening to more of more of the big new titles. I'm having to explain to AV customers with no DVD player exactly why they can't watch this highly-acclaimed and popular film. It's often middle-age couples who are VHS-only; never keen on new technology. Well, my 60-something father can operate a DVD machine. Though I admit he's not a typical 60-something.

"Haven't you got the <EM>normal </EM>version of this?"

I sometimes apologise to these customers on behalf of the entire movie industry. There's no video version, sorry, they just didn't make one. DVD is the normal version now.

Such annoyance is understandable, but it's not like CDs replacing vinyl. No one will miss "the feel" of VHS. Not really. With its moving parts and twisting tape, with its shelf-guzzling bulk, postage-guzzling weight, and ability to shatter when dropped out of its case.

I'll miss it the least. It's quite personal. I'm still seething from the time VHS bullied Betamax out of the domestic video market. Betamax: a compact, cute, fast, sexy, less clunky little cassette. Everyone knew it was the better format. But VHS had more financial clout, spent money to promote itself, and won the 80s format battle. It's a bit like Concorde. Just because an invention is better, doesn't mean it won't become obsolete, leaving us forced to use an inferior version. The love of money for the few taking priority over the love of improving life for all.

Like many, my family started off with a Betamax, but were eventually forced to switch, leaving us with dozens of obsolete Beta tapes. One day, I thought, you'll get yours, VHS. Now that day is here.

No sympathy with occasional customer sighs. I'm dancing merrily on the VHS grave. Revenge at last. God bless Professor DVD and his invention.

And how sweetly appropriate that it is The Motorcycle Diaries that's helping to accelerate this format revolution with something small and shiny. It is, after all, about a revolutionary leader. In the format of the compact (5ft 6) and definitely shiny Mr Gael Garcia Benal.

Thanks to Ms Naher (<lj user=bettinflammen>), I find a computer shop on Tottenham Court Road that recovers all the data from my deceased hard drive. Old mails, mp3s, images, the lot. Cost is £140. Still not cheap, but far preferable to the £500 I'd been quoted elsewhere. The phrase my father would use is Tuition Fee. The price&nbsp;paid&nbsp;for learning a lesson. In this case, always make regular backups in future. A happy ending to one recent source of woe.

While a nice young man called Hassam&nbsp;is fiddling with my hard drive, I go to the First Out cafe for tea and scrambled egg on toast. Ms Emma Jackson is there with&nbsp;Ms Isabel Waidner, distributing the curious new fanzine-cum-newspaper they've created together. It's called The High Horse, and is printed on yellowing tabloid-size newspaper stock, with photocopied handwritten corrections. Mostly text, with a pull-out collage art poster, featuring a horse and a Joseph Beuys quote. The first page cites Hegel and uses the word "hegemonic".&nbsp; The whole thing is styled as a kind of thoughtful punk rock Pravda. Anything goes, as long it's an interesting read. One laugh-out-loud piece is Mr J's evesdropping of a couple discussing how camels rear their young, their knowledge based entirely on looking at a poster for the film "The Story Of The Weeping Camel", and guessing.

Articles include Mr Bob Stanley on the origins of the London Music Hall, plus Ms J's erstwhile colleague in the band Kenickie, Ms Marie Nixon, on the troubled history of her hair. When I see Mr Adrian Lobb is also a contributor, I tell Ms J I spotted his name in the credits to "Finding Neverland", as a stand-in, presumably&nbsp;for Mr Depp. Mr Lobb, one of London's doe-eyed club boys, could easily look like Mr Depp's floppy-haired JM Barrie from a distance. Ms J reassures me that it must be a different Adrian Lobb.

She tells me she's currently doing an MA. I start to explain what I'm up to, but take too long in describing how the Jerome book and the Decadent Handbook came about. I really must&nbsp;prepare a concise, clear&nbsp;answer to the question "what are you up to?", along with the one, "what do you do?" for strangers. Other people manage this sort of thing with much less fuss. I used to always say "Oh… I slip and slide through gaps in time and gaps in make-up."&nbsp;That seemed to keep people happy. I may revert to it.

Walking down Charing Cross Road, "69 Love Songs" by the Magnetic Fields is blaring out of a practice amp set up outside the music shop Macari's.&nbsp;Shockingly blatant noise pollution for some, but for me it does the trick, and I go in to buy two packs of guitar strings purely out of gratitude. Music shops usually tend to have atrocious taste in music. Not this one.

I'd better use the strings, then.

<A href="mailto:thehighhorse@hotmail.co.uk" target=_blank>For a copy of The High Horse, price £1.50, email here.</A>

Mr Therapist thinks I should have taken the AV job. Just what I need after making an uneasy decision: people telling me I've made a mistake. He says I'm sexually attracted to sabotaging my own life, to destroying my own time. That the so-called accident prone side of me is a subconscious manifestation of this side. That I'm a perfectly normal person (with a modicum of talent with words), who has placed himself upon a pedestal and refuses to do Normal things. Rendering me immobile, stuck, but that's the only way I like it. Taking the job, getting off benefits, would mean a Life Change, and that's something I'm scared of doing. And this destructive side is also the source of my depression. So he says.

I don't deny I need SOMETHING. I'm just not convinced the retail side of things is what I'm best at. I've been at AV a few months now, and I'm still making basic mistakes, giving customers the wrong change, not knowing how to juggle customers with friends when friends come in to say hello. I've been told off a few times. My heart tells me I can't do this full-time. Is it possible one's heart is an idiot?

I must be good at <i>something</i> in this world. Something that can sustain a modest living.

Oh dear, now I'm at fully home to Dame Self-Doubt. Is it time to cut my hair off again?

Archway Video offer me a full time position. After much agonizing, I decline. I effectively turn down an enjoyable job in a pleasant part of London, within three minutes walk from my bed. It's not the money – I could do with the money. It's not the use of my time which I could be spending on more creative acts – I know all too well that having nothing to do all day often means one ends up doing… nothing all day. Even Mr Larkin continued to stamp library books until he died.

It's the responsibility. Working full time would mean me locking up at night, and I just don't trust myself. My accident-prone Frank Spencer side would see to it that sooner or later Something Would Happen. I'd find myself counting the days to being sacked in disgrace. I just couldn't take something awful happening on my shift. The place is unique. Much of AV's back catalogue video stock is deleted and irreplaceable. When "Before Sunset" ("one of the most romantic films ever made") came out last year, AV was one of the few places one could get hold of "Before Sunrise", the film it follows up. As you might imagine, many people wanted to watch this first film again. Rather startlingly, it was currently unavailable to buy on any format. Bit of an oversight on the film company's part, I thought. Possibly something to do with rights. Regardless, the AV video copy suddenly found itself upgraded from Weekly to Overnight, and has been constantly rented out ever since. It can finally get a break soon, as both films are finally released on DVD next month.

Pretty much every paid job I've ever had has featured me breaking something, or ruining something, or getting told off constantly. At 18, I worked in an Ipswich video shop. One night, the police called. I hadn't set the shop burglar alarm properly, resulting in a blaring siren waking up half of Ipswich. Which, as you might imagine, is no mean feat. I had to be driven into town to reset the alarm.

Then there was the time I worked in a convenience store in Bristol circa 1990, which also rented out videos. One day, I unplugged their computer from the mains, in order to plug in the hoover. Result: the computer's entire video rental records were wiped. It was one of those old 80s computers that needed to be closed down properly before switching off. I can still remember my tears as I was frogmarched to the filthy shop basement, plunked into a seat and told to wait till the manager arrived. Which he duly did, in a bad red tracksuit. The clothes some people wear when they're not meant to be at work. He couldn't sack me – they had trouble getting staff on their wages as it was. But the manager gave me this big pep talk – no, a lesson – about The Trouble With Me. About how I had "a monkey on my back". Or was it my shoulder? He said, "Some day, you'll thank me for what I'm telling you now."

Well, I can't remember a word of what he said. Just his appalling taste in clothes. That showed him.

Then there's the soup I spilled on a customer during my shortest ever job. I was a lunchtime waiter in a Suffolk pub. Hired and sacked within one hour.

And then there's the countless times I was Sat Down and Told Off about The Trouble With Me at Our Price, Hampstead AND Holloway branches. More tears.

I recall the time a friend told he'd met one of my erstwhile Our Price Colleagues.

"I used to work with Dickon, you know," she said.

Pause.

"Everyone really hated him."

I really did my best at that job to Get On and Work Hard. And if anyone I used to work with is reading this, I'm sorry if you hated me. I didn't hate you. What was it I did that annoyed you? Or didn't do? Perhaps you'd like to tell me about the Trouble With Me. Everyone other employer has. The usual email address.

Then there was the village pub washing-up job where I was attacked by their three small yapping dogs, ripping the bottom of my trousers to shreds. I wouldn't have minded, but they did it <i>every day</i>.

You see, Dear Reader, this is all very amusing for you to read, but I have to <i>be</i> me. This isn't a sitcom, it's my life. I'm 34 this year. I think I've effectively put the case for me being Unemployable in most normal jobs that other people find so easy to do. You can't accuse me of not giving the things a go.

Something unconscious inside me even seeks out this klutz-like trouble, I think. The other day, I found myself wrestling furiously in the window with a newly-erect Hellboy. He is a double-sided free-standing cardboard cut-out, backed with "Envy", a straight-to-video affair with Ben Stiller and Jack Black. Setting up this display unit had deckchair-like Comic Potential which somehow brought out my inner Slapstick Child. I wasn't falling over deliberately, but some side of my character wanted me to. No one was watching, needless to say. It was the saddest thing in the world.

Ye gods, what a history of woe. And this is only a fraction of my Record of Employment. The more I think about it, the more I feel the world truly does owe me a living. So the deal I have made with myself is this. I only have the right to turn down a pleasant full-time job if I treat writing like one too. Really, this time. Get up and clock on. Songs, stories, and at least one diary entry a day.

Above all, I know Archway Video could do better than me, and I would feel guilty occupying a position meant for someone else. <i>I</i> wouldn't hire me to lock the place up at night, so why should they?

So. There's a full-time position available at <a href="http://www.archwayvideo.com">Archway Video</a>, the greatest little film library in North London.

A good quote cited by Victor Lewis-Smith in the Evening Standard.

"The difference between kinky and perverted can be described as this. Kinky involves using a feather, while perverted involves using the whole chicken."

Definition of “pretentious”: Something vaguely original or interesting that one doesn’t like.

For the flip side, a quote picked up by my Uncle Mike:

“Just because I don’t understand you, doesn’t mean you’re artistic.”

I have no general education beyond GCSE level, and none of my 9 GSCEs was in Art. One couldn’t study Art as an Admirer, as I would have wanted it, only as a Practitioner. This didn’t stop me from educating myself. Thanks to being the son of art teachers, who ensured I had words like “esoteric” crowbarred into my vocabulary by the time I started primary school, and thanks also to the crash course I received osmotically working at Kenwood House (I can now happily drone on about the life and works of Vermeer, Rembrandt, Turner, Gainsborough and Reynolds to anyone who’ll listen and many who won’t), I like to think I know a little bit about art AND I know what I like. The arrogance of the auto-didact rears its aesthetically ugly head.

A few weeks ago. A call comes from the Institute Of Contemporary Arts. Would I like to be part of a living piece of art there? For money. I am terribly excited. I rather like the ICA. At last, I think. My chance to be the new Gilbert and George and get paid for something I think I could do. My heart leaps.

A day or two later. I am shown into a small deskless meeting room at the top of the ICA building, up far too many winding narrow stairs. There is a lift, but it looks older than Canada and not nearly as friendly. I pass a small army of backpacked foreign students sitting in the corridor chatting loudly in non-English. A common sight in London, almost heartwarmingly reassuring. They might well be there by mistake.

Half a dozen strangers are in the room with me. They are mostly students of art or philosophy with time on their hands. The artist, Mr Tino Sehgal, is seeing an awfully large amount of people to be in his work, and I am just one of many. Not a good sign for me. That he also needs to deal with his potential Art Performers via a staff of Small Busy Women With Smaller Busy Phones is a give-away. This is a major, professional operation. There is Money involved, and one can’t argue with Money. When I gave talks about the paintings at Kenwood House to groups of bored local schoolchildren, they suddenly perked up when I mentioned how much money the Vermeer was worth.

If Mr Sehgal uses me in his Art, I am told, I shall be paid by the hour, including rehearsals. But the right people have to be found. It is a job application like any other. Except not like any other.

The ICA woman who leads me into the room sits on the floor in one corner, falling into that common duty of many a PR, PA or other tireless administrative wheel-oiler: that of The Chaperone. She is fetching and parading human specimens for Mr Sehgal to peruse, taking them safely out of his sight afterwards.

Mr Sehgal is young, dark and casually dressed. He speaks with real passion and belief, though admits he is still not quite sure about what this Art piece will eventually turn out to be.

What IS definite is this. The art involves no paintings, no photographs, no films, no special lighting. Not even a light bulb going on and off. It is about using hired hands to be the art themselves. Choreographed performance and discourse with the Visitor. The visitor will wander into a bare room at the ICA and find a handful of Tino People coming to life and walking backwards towards them. The Tinoettes then start talking among themselves about the visitor. “What do they want? The Purpose Of The Art Is…”. They will say the same Art Phrases over and over again, as one, starting in a whisper. If the Visitor does not respond, they will fall to the floor in slow motion, in sync, slowing down the phrase as they fall. Or possibly none of the above.

Immediately I am in a dilemma. Part of me thinks this sounds all too much like a lazy parody of Modern Conceptual Art. As imagined by an frightened ignoramus in order to ridicule it. A sitcom writer’s idea of Modern Art. An embarrassing episode of Only Fools And Horses where Del Boy visits an Art Gallery.

Another part of me goes a step further and genuinely fears that Mr S is an actor, and this is all a set-up for an amusing late-night reality TV show at my expense. Made for Channel 4, or more likely, E4, by the likes of Dom Joly or Adam and Joe. Or Muriel Gray – again. I actually look around the room for hidden cameras, and when I get home, check the web to see if this Tino Sehgal really exists. He’s for real, all right, and he’s terribly acclaimed. I blush at typing this confession, and hope Mr S takes my doubt as a compliment. I think he thrives on doubt, actually.

Once I’m convinced that Mr Sehgal is not a living piece of someone else’s idea himself, I want to encourage and praise his courage, because to do otherwise means lining up with Pavlovian whelks like Brian Sewell, Richard Littlejohn, or that wretched government minister who described one year’s Turner Prize entries as “cold, conceptual bullshit”. Ridicule, as Mr Ant pointed out in the popular 80s song “Prince Charming”, is nothing to be scared of.

I enjoy a lot of things that dare to be regarded as pretentious, egregious, cod-intellectual drivel. (Unkind Reader’s voice: You can smell your own, Mr Edwards).

I admire the interesting and unusual, the thought-provoking, the challenging and the experimental. One of my favourite films of all time is “Liquid Sky”. My favourite film of 2004 was Mr Von Trier’s “Dogville”, with its black theatrical space, lack of set, and actors miming the absence of furniture or props. I also am a fan of Ms Emin, Mr Warhol, Mssrs Gilbert & George, Mr Beckett, Mr Jarman, and Mr Robert Wilson, among others.

So why does my stomach turn Cartesian Cartwheels as Mr Sehgal describes his piece?

Two words which always give me the screaming ad-dabs.

Audience Participation.

In my mind’s eye, Mr Sehgal is saying “I’ll get this side of the audience to sing “London’s Burning, London’s Burning”, and THIS section to sing “Fetch The Engines, Fetch The Engines.”, and THIS side to… Dickon, are you getting your coat?”

I’m also reminded of those museums where out-of-work actors are employed to dress up in period costume and play a part. My heart sinks if I see one, and I try to side-step them in such places. My leisurely day out to a museum or gallery has suddenly become a stress-filled game of Avoid The Actor. “Oh, God,” I think. “Please don’t talk to me in your silly attempt at a Victorian Accent. You’re not Lord Elborough, inventor of the Patent Steam Water-Radio, you’re Dave Davison, Equity Member (Clean Driving Licence, Dance: Jazz and Tap), in a bad false beard. Who once appeared in a 1998 episode of The Bill, or possibly Casualty, and is currently Resting. I’m glad that doing this means you’re earning money based on your skills, but please don’t approach me…! Give me panels to read, guides to digest, even one of those audio guides, but leave me alone to enjoy the Art and the History by myself, quietly, and in my own private space. Life is stressful enough.”

Back at the Art Audition, Mr Sehgal asks me what I think an innocent visitor might say when they find themselves with a gaggle of paid Tinoettes advancing backwards upon them asking questions.

I reply, “SECURITY!”

This gets a laugh from some of the other applicants, but not Mr S. It is my turn to explain:

“My worry is that you might have a problem with the dreaded English Reserve and their Fear of Embarrassment.”

“That’s not MY problem,” he snaps back.

I want to reply “I rather think it IS your problem”, but say nothing. I feel he doesn’t want to understand me. Which seems a mite unfair as I’m doing my utmost to understand HIM. But one must never ask for reciprocation of affection. That way, Dear Reader, lies misery.

“Anything else you want to ask?” he says.

“Will you be there to keep an eye on us?”

“No, I’ll be there to do that”, says the Chaperone in the corner suddenly. I suppose she’s the Stage Manager to his Director.

In the days after this encounter, I feel I’d better decline the job. Although I could do with the money, and it would make an interesting diary entry if nothing else (a common justification for much of my uneasy decisions in life), my heart and stomach says I’d rather not. I could see myself faring badly in my role, failing to keep a straight face, bumping into my fellow Tinoettes, giggling, falling over, getting beaten up.

I consult friends. Some say it sounds fantastic and unique, do it. Others say it sounds deeply embarrassing for all concerned, you’ll regret it, don’t do it. Perhaps this is how Professor Greer felt before agreeing to go into the Big Brother house.

In the end, Mr S decides for me. I get a call from an ICA apparatchik chick. Thumbs down, into the lion pit. He doesn’t want me.

In the way that it’s better to resign than get fired, I feel a bit hurt, my pride a little dented. But I put it down to, once again, the position being for a good Art Performer, not for a good Dickon Edwards.

Perhaps he thought my appearance is too visibly that of someone who wants to be Living Art. Perhaps he thought I was mocking him at the audition. I wasn’t – I was more uneasy about his expectations of visitors (though I suppose that IS a kind of mockery: a lack of faith).

Perhaps it was my dreaded Default Expression of Aloofness, something I don’t do on purpose, that he took exception to. As if I were silently sneering “I can see right through you, Mr So-Called Artist.” Which I wasn’t, but I know that’s something I do. Or perhaps he could discern, from just looking at me, my propensity for Frank Spencer-style clumsiness and a tendency to play the clown. Albeit the sad clown. Perhaps he could also tell that I’m very bad at working within a group, and at following group choreography. So it’s for the best in the end.

I later hear that Mr S has hired Mr Tim Chipping. Alan Bennett says good art should make you want to put it under your coat and walk out with it. Well, I’ve met plenty of people who’ve wanted to do that with Mr Chipping. Good luck to him and Mr Tino.

When I mention this sorry tale to an unkind acquaintance, he replies “You applied to be a piece of Living Art – and failed! YOU! That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” And laughs that kind of forced laugh that represents deliberate cruelty rather than spontaneous joy. I laugh with him. That’s the only way to react.

I am convinced more than ever that it all comes down to Comedy, to Humour, to Wit in the end. As Ms Laurie Anderson says, if you MUST create performance art or conceptual art, use humour. Take the mickey out of yourself. Send it up. If you can, make people laugh intentionally, rather than nervously. Even if – especially if – the laughter is tragicomic, bittersweet and wry. And don’t involve audience participation – you may not “have a problem with that”, but the terminally English do.

I’ve been to see Shakespearean tragedies, and found the audience laughing at anything vaguely resembling humour. People want to laugh. Being serious is so much easier than being funny. And so much safer. Best be funny on purpose.

Then again, could it be that the laughing little boy in the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes just had bad taste?

When I wrote about treating 2005 like a blank slate, I wasn't quite expecting my computer to take me literally.

Four days ago my hard drive broke down completely. And the last time I made any CDR back-ups of data was January 2004.

Just got the machine back from repairs, fitted with a new drive. On top of losing all kinds of original text, images and stored emails I'm now £110 pounds poorer, and I have to go through the long process of re-downloading all the updates and programs I use on my paltry dial-up connection.

Apparently, Data Recovery services exist even for a hard drive that "the BIOS doesn't recognise" (my quotes to indicate I don't want you to think I know what I'm talking about). But such services are upwards of £500. Is what I lost worth that much? I have no idea – I can't remember. That's why I used my computer to remember things for me. And now this has happened. It's as if my PC has argued that, as I failed to get much writing done during 2004, it's taught me a lesson by effectively wiping the year, Jim Carrey-and Kate-Winslet-like, from my memory. Thank goodness for web diaries.

So, Dear Reader, if you've been expecting an email from me, I could well have lost it. <b>Please get in touch again</b>. My profuse apologies.

This time, in addition to making more regular CDR back-ups, I'm starting to favour the less frustrating medium of (whisper it), pen and paper. Pocket diaries, address books, notebooks and <i>cahiers</i> courtesy of Moleskine, the stationary fetishist's brand of choice. I realise this probably makes me far more of a fashion victim than if I started to wear jeans around my ankles, but so be it. I do like my stationery.

For the first time in 4 years I eschewed spending Christmas alone in Highgate to be with my parents in Suffolk. My choice. No real reason other than it'd been a while, though the passing of my last grandparent in 2004, coupled with my brother's choice to spend Yuletide in New York, had a little to do with it. The time was spent in a gentle haze of indulgence, with the only lucid moments invested in helping my father and mother with their computer-related queries. I'm hardly a PC Support Engineer, but I do know how to write instructions for slightly advanced e-mail usage in Edwards Parent-ese.

I'm back now, renewed and revived, full of optimism, energy and ideas. I intend to have a creative and productive 2005. Best get on, then.

A recent theme of mine has been Better Late Than Never. Many people are still wishing each other Happy New Year even though it's January 3rd. So I hope this belated Seasonal Message will not seem too out of place.

For me, 2004 was the year of The Distracted Catalyst. I procrastinated for most of it, and didn't really do very much at all, at least in terms of being able to point to things I'd created. Yet I found myself helping to make things happen for other people. Bringing people together, even if only as a talking-point. Something some people had in common was being acquainted with me (I hesitate to write "knowing me" – and therein hangs a therapy session or ten). This comes as much from a decade of flitting about in different London scenes, at the intersection of different Venn diagrams of social circles, never quite committing to any group of friends in particular, rather than anything else. Myself as the Littlest Hobo of London life. Which comes with its own attendant pros and cons.

There was Scarlet's Well, a band I love whose live incarnation I had a hand in forming, even if it meant myself being dismissed after months of rehearsal. Still, it was a decision I couldn't help but agree with. They needed a very good guitarist, not a passable Dickon Edwards. And I enjoyed every rehearsal immensely. They may have seemed bad value on paper: I only had the one concert with SW as a guitarist. But as a fan this was far, far, better than playing no concerts at all. And seeing the rehearsals in terms of regularly playing music with people I adore and admire, in terms of delighting my heart; I'll always feel the dividends.

Putting SW on the same bill as Gentleman Reg was my idea of a mini-Meltdown festival. I helped to drag Gentleman Reg over from Canada and play his first London dates, because I wanted to see him in concert and couldn't afford to go to Toronto. Like SW, I got out of bed and did something about the new music I do like, rather than moaning about all the new music I didn't. Something I'm particularly proud of.

In 2004 I was made the first Ambassador of my local pub, The Boogaloo, Archway Road, which hosts all kinds of events from secret gigs by Bright Eyes to literary readings by Jake Arnott. I gave spoken word and solo performances, as myself the Songwriter, as myself the Flaneur, as Jerome K Jerome and as Quentin Crisp. In all cases I came away realising it's best to learn the words beforehand rather than read from notes, to douse the nerves and promote articulacy. More work to be done, then. I discovered this year that both my mother and my late grandfather have given after-dinner speeches to rooms of hundreds of strangers across the country, and in my mother's case, across the world. So it's something I'd like to at least keep trying, if only to carry on this slight family tradition. I may even enrol in a class.

Which brings to me the fiction-writing evening course I attended. It came as a shock to the system at first, feeling back in the classroom for the first time in years, wondering if I have to revert to Schoolboy Dickon too (answer: no, but it's hard not to). Regardless, the benefits of a regular tuning-up of the mind – and of having to read one's efforts to a room of strangers and getting instant feedback – can't be underestimated. The same goes for starting weekly therapy sessions, which are doing me good, if only because they're easier on the nerves than taking a cold bath every Monday morning. They have much the same mental effect.

Helping out at the best-stocked video library in North London has made me watch far more decent films than ever before, and introduced me to ones I'd otherwise never see. One can't beat the feeling of being taken by the hand of great film-makers, to be lost in their world for a couple of hours. I'm constantly discovering such new worlds, new gems to watch: the place is a treasure trove.

Achievements I suppose I can point to included writing the Afterword to a Proper Published Book, a new edition of Jerome K Jerome's Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow. Again, something that delighted me immensely as a fan of the book, an indulgence which I hope others can enjoy. The actual Afterword was a brief text, but I did work quite hard on boiling down what I wanted to say into the word count, and was pleased to see it quoted in the Evening Standard. Never be afraid of conciseness. Something I should apply to my diary entries, to make them more regular and less like clichéd buses.

I found this first tentative dip into the waters of the London Literary Scene, intriguing and exciting. One publisher told me I was too young and glamorous to be an author (even at 33), and that I'd make more money and have more admirers at my feet if I started a rock band. Ho ho. Well, that chapter hasn't quite closed. I do intend to get the third Fosca album done this year, write songs for others, plus the much-mooted Dickon Edwards Songbook – A Tribute To Myself project launched upon the world with as much jolly cultish PR as I can hustle. After that, well, we'll see.

I have such ambivalent feelings about the current music scene. Visiting my parents, I spy the Scissor Sisters album in their collection, next to Peter Skellern. It's official; my parents are more in touch with pop music than me. My father was born in 1936.

I definitely still love all kinds of goings-on out there, from the last Kylie single to many of the underground acts appearing at London clubs like Kash Point. Whether I want to Join In myself right now I'm not so sure. I realise more than ever that Music only matters to those to whom it matters. And today the worlds of fiction or of writing for radio, stage, TV or film seem more appealing. As long as they are offshoots of Being Dickon Edwards. The plan is to write regardless, and see what form it takes.

On New Year's Eve 2004 I wasn't so keen on all-night celebrations, and instead went to the Boogaloo for a couple of drinks. From 11.45pm to closing at 1am. As I live across the road, my environment changed in seconds from a quiet state of lying on my bed reading, to a room full of loud people. But the overall feeling was one of friendliness, not aggression. Sure, it was New Year's Eve, and the long-term sincerity of such friendliness is in doubt. But I do think recent world events injected a modicum of perspective into the proceedings. One that Life is to be celebrated, enjoyed and made the most of, if one finds oneself lucky enough to be in possession of the stuff. A little hedonism, some indulgence, but mixed with productivity and of doing things worth doing. And above all, channelling all feelings toward others into niceness, politeness, consideration and kindness. Even if – especially if – doing so goes against one's default character traits.

The temptation so many times during the year was to feel what I'm ashamed to admit was quiet envy. An entirely useless emotion unless one acts on it. Do something about it, or be quiet, goes the inner voice. Take those energies you're wasting on resentment and spend them on doing something creative, positive and kind.

Not just envy of others being able to get things done, either. I have to confess I've been envious of others going to a place or event that I'd like to have been to myself. But then, I'm not those people. One can't be envious of people who aren't oneself. Apart from the shocking bad form in polite company, it just makes no sense. The response when one hears about such jaunts should never be a sulky "Wish that was me", but "Good for you, tell me all about it." Likewise hearing of the success of others. Be happy for them, and if one feels resentment bubbling under the surface, convert this negative feeling into a positive, constructive one.

So I still have not yet been to New York, Berlin or Toronto, at the risk of comparing myself to the moss-gathering Mr Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life. But I have made all kinds of new friends from these very places, who were kind enough to come to London instead.

As for New York, well, lately it's been rather easy persuading Witty Americans to leave their country and go to London (or anywhere else). One silver lining of the state of things.

It's the same with affection: easily tangled up with the Resentful Ego. One must never give purely in the hope of receiving. Never send a Christmas Card purely because you want one back for yourself. Likewise a birthday present. Likewise a kiss. Likewise the thought of a kiss. If one has affection to show, one must show it in the politest and most gracious way. And one must never, ever, stand by the letter box waiting for a reciprocation, a requitement, something in return.

The news that enormous sums of money have been quickly donated by the UK public to help victims of the Indonesian tsunami is a good illustration. It proves that people don't need a bad charity record in order to spontaneously give millions for a good cause. I hear that Mike Read is making such a record anyway. Forgive him, his ego took a bit of a battering in 2004 with his "Oscar Wilde" musical closing in one day, and needs a bit of feeding.

Singing the phrase "Feed Our Egos" along with the Band Aid 20 song is the only way I can cope with hearing it. Why else are they applauding themselves at the end of the record? No one would dispute the Good Cause, but why does a Good Cause have to equal a Bad Record?

Just give, if you feel the need to give. Let the applause come as a surprise – and from someone other than yourself. Or if you must do something to raise money or awareness, do something useful rather than pointless. Make a good record.

In the case of Band Aid 20, I'd have preferred a "Sunscreen Song" style hip but thoughtful spoken-word piece educating people about the cause. It would still have gone to Number One, and radio listeners would have come away learning something more about the Sudan situation, other than there's some "clanging chimes of doom". Or failing that, a four minute silence.

Ms Rowling's two little Harry Potter charity spin-off books are actually worth buying regardless. Mr Morrissey's PETA-supporting compilation of his favourite obscure records is at the very least, a curiously eclectic pop compilation. Don't sit in a bath of baked beans (the equivalent of the charity record) for a Good Cause. Spend the same time and energy on doing someone's garden for charity (I'm thinking of my time in the Cub Scouts during charity Bob A Job week), clean windows, give up smoking forever. Charity really shouldn't go hand in hand with Embarrassment.

Now, I realise that this lesson of striving to be positive, constructive, kind and giving rather than negative, judgemental, unkind and expecting to receive; is bordering on the clichéd. But it's a lesson I'm addressing to myself as much the World. And it's one I admit I still have to learn. A self-confessed narcissist has to battle with their own Resentful Ego all the time, to convert its ugly clamour into something pretty and useful to everyone.

You are my witnesses. That I can type these words in my Highgate bedsit and they'll be read across the world by friends I've met and friends I've not yet met, is something I'll never take for granted. Thank you for reading. Hope you'll stick around.

If "It's A Wonderful Life" were to be re-made in 2005, the closing message would have to be:

"No man is a failure while he has friends. Even if they're mostly on the Internet."

A happy and productive 2005 to you all.

Dickon Edwards
Highgate, London N6.