I am stopped outside Archway tube station by a beggar who strongly resembles Karl Howman, star of the 80s sitcom Brush Strokes and several long-running adverts for Flash household cleaning products. If it is Karl Howman, his life has clearly taken a turn for the worse. And he’s now acquired a strong Scottish accent.

‘Excuse me? Excuse me. Hey, Billy Idol! Only joking. You’re better looking than Billy Idol. Nice suit. Can you tell me how to get to Glasgow from here? Only joking. That’s what I do. I tell people jokes for a pound. Okay?’

At this point he has put his face a little too close to mine. And I’m effectively pinned up against the wall of what used to be Abbey National.

‘Well…’

‘No, here we go. A joke for a pound, right? That’s fair, eh? Okay, did you hear the one about the Jewish Santa Claus? You’re not Jewish, are you? I mean, I think if we can’t laugh at ourselves WHO CAN WE LAUGH AT, right? So, okay, did you hear about the Jewish Santa Claus?’

‘Um… No.’

‘The Jewish Santa Claus comes down the chimney and says to all the kids, “So where’s all the f***king presents, then?” Oh, wait – I messed that last bit up. But anyway, c’mon, that’s worth a pound isn’t it? C’mon.’

Out of sheer terror more than anything else, I hand over the pound. Karl Howman pats me rather too hard on the shoulder and lets me go.

I come away from this encounter with a inexplicable urge to boycott Flash cleaning products.

Just as the Summer Bank Holiday weather is an English cliche – freezing rain – I spend mine mostly indoors, doing the equally corny and blokey Bank Holiday activity of 21st Century DIY – to wit, backing-up my computer’s hard drive. It is necessary, mind, as the iBook’s weird crashing effect is recurring to the point where the thing is impossible to use, and I now have to take it in for repairs. Am typing this up in an internet cafe in Highgate.

So over the weekend I go through all the mp3s, photos and text documents I’ve accumulated in the two years since I bought the laptop, listening to as much of the music as possible before deciding to copy it onto CDR or delete it. All the various Fosca mixes and demos take up enough space as it is, and I guess they do need to be archived (why? I should just delete the demos too), but there’s also the music by others that I somehow feel I need to have at my disposal. I’d managed to build up about 12 days’ worth of continuous sound. Thousands of songs, over 10GB of computer memory. That’s not an achievement, it’s a symptom.

And so the old arguments raise their heads. Just how much Leonard Cohen does one person need? How many albums by The Fall or Stereolab are entirely necessary? The answer, of course, is none. Or, if you ask any of their fans, all of them. And once again I’m finding myself in that whittling-down argument: it’s just as well I’m not a Fall fan, because if I were, I’d have to own all their albums. And I don’t want to own all their albums.

After hours – days – of this dithering and choosing, I end up wishing I didn’t like music at all. Which is ridiculous – you can like music without having to collect the wretched stuff in quantity. I should just delete the lot and go out and talk to human beings. But I don’t.

I’m currently reading Ted Hughes’s Collected Letters, which contain (as one would expect) more than a few ruminations on Modern Man falling out of step with Nature. There’s an instance where he’s visiting a village in Africa, remarking enviously how the local fisherman seem so entirely happy with their lives, as they don’t want for anything they haven’t already got. They live in the moment. Though admittedly, it’s a fairly fish-based moment.

Thing is, I don’t think of myself as acquisitive, or even much of a collector. My problem is more that I hoard things automatically, then find it so hard to know what to throw out. I still feel the need to own SOME music. When I’m not looking, it quickly turns into Too Much, and the upshot is I’m sitting alone in a room in Highgate at 3AM, staring at a screen, fiddling with blank CDs, trying to work out the exact degree to how much I do or don’t like Martha Wainwright.

I bristle at this very English – and very male – connection I’ve made between liking things and having to own them. I think of that stereotypical view of Englishmen that other countries are meant to hold. That we all have (a) bad teeth, (b) collect things needlessly, and (c) are secretly homosexual.

Well, two out of three isn’t bad.

(wait for it…)

I’ve had my teeth fixed.

This iBook laptop is starting to throw worrying little fits. Without warning, the display suddenly darkens to black (as if I were pressing the F1 key), the windows slide away to the Desktop – and keep sliding back and forth after that (the equivalent of repeatedly pressing the F11 key), any discs in the drive are ejected (F12), and most annoyingly, if I’m writing, the cursor deletes some text or the web browser flips back in its history several pages. It’s as if a ghost is leaning over my shoulder and merrily bashing several keys at once. I fear an expensive trip to a Mac repair shop may be on the cards.

***

Last night: to a pub quiz at the Prince Of Wales in Highgate Village. Pub quizzes are of course deeply unflattering, but it’s really an excuse to catch up with the friends who invited me: Rhoda, David B, Anna S, Miriam. We come about halfway in the final scores. My contributions include the following:

– the ‘Grumpy Old Man’ who wrote the play An Evening With Gary Lineker is Arthur Smith.
– the 1970 children’s film whose child star appeared in a 2000 remake is The Railway Children (Ms Agutter being the star).
– the 80s Oscar-mopping David Lean film is A Passage To India.

More than a few questions about sport, which I always know nothing about. It’s that very mid-30s sentiment:

I am glad I do not like football.
Because if I liked it, I would have to watch it.
And I hate it.

Heading past the age of 35, there’s a crossing out process. You find things not to like – and let them fall happily through your fingers like water. It’s okay not to have an opinion about The Foals (or whatever trendy band people in their 20s are meant to have an opinion about). It’s okay if, like my hairdresser, you never watch movies – at all – because life is short and you’d rather watch football. You get a stronger sense of what you DO like, and if something doesn’t seize your heart at once, you shrug it off rather than waste time forcing yourself to like it.

Books take on a page limit – if you don’t care about the story by the time you’ve hit Page 50, you put the book down and look for one which DOES keep you reading. It is the author’s fault, not yours. There is the worry that you may be missing out on The Perfect Book, coupled with the dawning realisation that you’re never going to read everything. If you’ve ever wanted to read Proust, for instance, you feel you should probably give it a go sooner rather than later. So this whittling-down process takes on a new urgency.

But whereas the youthful version is a shrugging, sulky ‘whatever’ or ‘bothered?’, the late thirtysomething’s act of letting things go has a certain slinky serenity. Other people will always do the football-liking thing for you. You see the world as your stunt doubles.

‘No, no, you go ahead, dear boy. That football won’t watch itself.’

***

Some noting down of overdue events. Recent nights of over-indulgence: twice at the Boogaloo with Mr MacGowan, once at the Idler party on May 1st, in Clerkenwell. My attendant hangovers last throughout the following day. I do like to go out for a few drinks, but can’t manage more than once or twice a week. Physically as much as fiscally.

The Idler bash on Clerkenwell Green – which is more of a traffic island than a green – involves May Day festivities: prancing performers in medieval dress, acting out St George & The Dragon antics with the requisite dragon head prop, lutes and bawdy singing, plus a real roast pig on a spit. While this is going on, I spy a more latter-day attired man in jeans – who is clearly NOT part of the event – passing among the crowd and furtively offering bootleg DVDs for sale. A very 2008 sight juxtaposed with the medieval. The spotted and the chatted-to include Neil Scott, Rhodri Marsden, Salena Godden, John Moore, Sophie Parkin, Susan Corrigan, Sean Hughes, David Quantick, Tom Hodgkinson.

Boogaloo the other day. At one point I find myself sitting among famous drinkers. Shane MacGowan on my left, Johnny Vegas on my right. A drinking musician and a drinking comedian. I introduce myself to Mr Vegas. He looks me up and down.

‘Your name’s Dickon? Blond hair, pinstriped suit? I’m sorry, but if I took you back to my parents it would be The End of Christmas. They’d say, “You’re never going to London again!”‘

***

A Spanish blog has reviewed the Fosca album, and I’ve put the text through the Babelfish web translator in an attempt to read it. Needless to say, this will always produce a combination of inadvertent humour, odd poetry and gibberish, but I particularly like the results on this occasion:

Somebody remembers Orlando? No, the graceful ones do not become: it did not refer to me to Orlando Marconi but to the pioneering English group of that one moved that the pirate press had denominated like Romo. Good, the singer of Orlando (what it is sharp well with English accent: Orlandou…) Dickon was called (and still it is called) Edwards. After to separate the mentioned band that failed in great form it formed Fosca with a select group of London musicians. The first rule that maintained is the strict one ‘prohibited to use slippers’. It is not a joke, not: it is an obsession of Dickon not to ‘espores’ (entrerriano pure) or, as a Uruguayan would say, the championes. Both first discs of Fosca were produced by Ian Catt of Saint Etienne. After years that happened remote of music wrote for magazines besides some longer article and several tests. It was rumored on his endeble health and, after all that, it recorded the third disc of Fosca in a cellar of Hackney. The result is one of best learned discs indie-MGP of the last pair of years, the influences are extensive but always within the scope of the MGP British, by far of The Smiths, The Cure, The Pastels, Orange Juice, the Pulp de Separations and Freaks and also something of Momus. Notable.

(from eloasisdelta.blogspot.com)

Pleased to see the diary has been linked to by a blog entirely about Chopin, thanks to my entry the other day about the film Impromptu (plus the use of Chopin pieces by Take That and Monty Python):

http://chopin2010.blogspot.com/2008/04/chopin-currency-april-22-2008.html

Radio 3’s In Tune last Friday features a pianist playing some Chopin live in the studio. Every time presenter Sean Rafferty finishes chatting with her and introduces the next piece, there is about eight seconds of footsteps and chair creaking while she walks across to the other side of the room to sit down at the BBC Piano. I presume there is some technical reason why she cannot be interviewed at the piano seat, but I actually prefer it this way, making the live performance all the more alive, and less like a CD. More footsteps on the radio, I say.

You can also tell the pianist definitely isn’t wearing Flip-Flops.

After this, Mr Rafferty plays a familiar-sounding symphony on CD. Slow, stately and haunting, it’s one of those pieces which leaves me racking my brain, trying to work out if I know it from on a film soundtrack, or (as is shamefully often the case) a TV commercial. A quick look at the Radio 3 Website and its handy playlists reveals it’s Gorecki’s Third Symphony. Specifically, the early 90s recording with Dawn Upshaw that looks like this:

Then I remember. When I worked in the Hampstead branch of Our Price in 1995, this was the biggest selling classical CD at the time, so no doubt it would have been playing on the shop’s sound system on a regular basis. The other big favourite with customers was the first Portishead album. Gorecki’s Third and Dummy: the sound of mid-90s Hampstead dinner parties in a nutshell.

***

I pop into the huge branch of Zavvi at Piccadilly Circus, the one which didn’t stock the Fosca album a couple of weeks ago. Am now delighted to find there’s three copies of the Fosca album in their racks, which is two more than HMV. Thank you, Zavvi.

***

Having a new album out, if nothing else, gives you something to say at parties. What do I do? What am I up to? Well, I have a new album out with my band. Three copies in Zavvi, 1 copy in HMV. There you go. Well, you did ask.

The truth is, right now I’m not really doing anything. Not really. I loaf around at home, or I drift around Central London and Highgate, install myself in cafes and libraries (either the British or the London), read, try to write, think, and sip tea. Sometimes I go for days without speaking to other human beings, beyond my mumbled transactions with shop staff, supermarket cashiers, and street beggars.

Beggar at Holborn Tube: (standing around, approaching people at the station exit) Can you spare any change? I’m waiting for my benefits to come through, and I need groceries.

Me: Okay, sure. (fumbles in purse)

Beggar: I don’t suppose you can stretch to a tenner?

Me: (slight snort) Ah! Sorry. But I can give you 50p? (looks in purse) Or 70p? I’m on benefits myself, you see.

Beggar: Really? You don’t look it.

Me: Well, just because I’m on the dole I don’t see why I should look it.

Beggar: Yeah. (thoughtful pause) I don’t really look it either.

And he says this half approving of the sentiment, and half sorrowfully, as if the problem with his lack of begging success is that he just doesn’t look poor enough. He’s in a nondescript but untattered jumper and jeans, is clean-shaven and doesn’t smell. By making himself comparatively presentable and clawing back a bit of personal dignity, the worry is that he’s washed himself out of the begging market.

As I turn to leave, he pats me on the back in a ‘good for you’ way, presumably for dressing as if I can afford to give beggars £10. Of course, the men of my age and younger who CAN afford to give £10 to beggars tend to dress scruffily, as it’s the fashion of the day: unkempt beards or stubble, baggy jeans, battered trainers, uncombed hair.

The beggar doesn’t look poor enough. The unemployed Mr Edwards doesn’t look unemployed enough. And the monied young men of London don’t look as if they can afford a razor.

Two bouts of usefulness today.

First is a paid stint as a clue-giver in a Treasure Hunt. Sarah H has hired me to stand on the bridge in St James’s Park as ‘a suited man’, for about an hour. Various teams find me, I give them the clue to the next bit of the hunt, and they move on. It’s work even I can do okay, it’s fair to say. Particularly the being distinctive in a suit bit.

One small boy passing me checks to see if I am a living statue.

Second usefulness is on the way home, waiting at Tottenham Court Road tube. I am sitting on the bench closest to one end of the platform, when a couple of tube mice begin scampering around close by. I rather like the sight of mice scampering around the floor, dirt-covered or not, but the lady sitting next to me on the bench has a rather different attitude. She suddenly grabs my arm and shouts, ‘Oh my god! Oh god!’ Clearly not a mouse person.

‘It’s okay, they won’t come near, but I’ll shoo them out of sight,’ I offer. Which isn’t exactly a Herculean task. It only takes a sudden movement in the mice’s direction to clear them off the platform and into the tunnel. But the women is effusive in her gratitude, with audible relief in her voice, and for once I feel almost manly.

Just as well there are no Tube Snakes.

(smackle. smuckle. smackle. smuckle. SMACKLE. SMUCKLE.)

I am walking along an empty avenue between Highgate Village and Hampstead Heath, and this is what I hear. It’s the sound of footsteps getting steadily closer. I know it’s a man, because the sound has a determined, competitive force. Except it’s not a stern clomp-clomp, but a ludicrous, sticky smackle-smuckle.

He is, of course, wearing Flip-Flops. It is heatwave weather in London.

Sumer is icumen in / Lhude sing flipflop

Well I say heatwave, but just as Mr Coward sang all those years ago, it only takes the merest hint of noonday sun to trigger an Englishman’s mad switch to full-on beachwear mode, even though the nearest beach is fifty miles away.

If said men were showing off their waxed feet and painted toenails, a la Quentin Crisp, I could understand it. But funnily enough, most of the gentlemen who have opted for this silly shoe are not exactly of the Crisp stripe.

My grumblings over the aesthetic qualities of these plastic foot-thongs aside, I can’t see how Flip-Flops are the most practical choice for getting on and off escalators on the Tube, hot weather or not. And the wearer can’t walk anywhere without going smackle and then smuckle. Which I think is a bit silly, at least for ostensibly manly men walking the streets of a metropolis.

But of course, it is me that is made to feel silly. I’m wandering around in my usual attire – today it’s my pinstriped navy blue suit and knotted silk scarf, because:

(a) it’s actually not as hot as people are implying. In fact, there’s something of a chilly breeze, and I need to wear a jacket.

(b) my own legs and feet are unsightly, and I feel it’s my duty to keep them covered up in hot weather. And the rest of the year too.

and (c) because I am me. I look better in a suit. I think all men look better in suits. Beautiful weather shouldn’t mean ugly clothes. Which would Michaelangelo’s David look better in: Flip-Flops and shorts, or a pinstriped suit and silk scarf?

But I realise I’m in the minority on this one. And guess what, I can’t walk a few yards from my home without strangers helpfully reminding me of this fact.

On Highgate Village High Street a couple pass me, both wearing Flip-Flops. The man hisses to the woman – but in a volume clearly intended for me to hear:

‘What the HELL is that bloke wearing?’

A few doors along, outside the Gatehouse pub, a sunburnt bald man in short sleeves clutching a pint shouts at me:

‘Oy mate, where’s the funeral?’

I’m in a pretty bad mood by now, and stop to address him.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, where’s the funeral?’

‘Funeral? What do you mean?’

‘Well, why are you dressed like that?’

‘Because it suits me.’

And I walk off, shaking my head in what I hope is that ‘stupid bloody question’ way. Except I quickly increase my stride, as it dawns on me that he might take my reply as an insult – and give chase.

Needless to add, I already regret this somewhat pathetic attempt to defend my sartorial choice. I should have either smiled sweetly and walked past, or better still, come up with a much better retort:

‘Oy mate, where’s the funeral?’

(triumphantly, arms aloft) ‘Ah, I am in mourning for my own life…’

Awoken by the doorbell, I run downstairs only to greet a Jehovah’s Witness brandishing a magazine with a candle on the cover. Next month: a different candle.

‘Not interested, sorry.’

‘Ah.’ She turns to go. ‘Still, lovely day, isn’t it?’

And it is. Sunshine has finally hit London, with something of a solar vengeance. I stop sneezing from my on-off cold, only to start sneezing from hay fever.

Outside, everyone’s in shorts and sandals (though not me), where only a few weeks ago it was winter coats, torrential rain, hail and even snow.

Later, I saunter through Trafalgar Square, which now looks like the postcards: pristine fountains, blue sky, happy crowds in sunglasses. I fully expect a musical number to break out at any moment.

I don’t always give to beggars but when I do, I slightly overdo the pleasantries, pleased to find myself in a good mood.

Today, a forlorn-looking fifty-something man standing near Tottenham Court Road asks me for spare change.

‘But of course! Certainly! There you go!’

‘Thanks,’ he says, taken aback. And then: ‘If only more people were like you.’

Which in turn takes me aback.

Getting back into the routine of going to the Library, punctuated with cafes, if that’s what it takes to get me sitting at a desk as opposed to moping in bed. But this also gives me an excuse to wander around Central London, its parks and squares, people-watching. Or being people-watched.

Walking on Shaftesbury Avenue the other day, I receive jeers and pointing fingers from a gaggle of young men in a passing vehicle. It would be nice to say that said vehicle is NOT a large white van, if only to buck the stereotype. But no, a white van it is. It’s the kind of incident that, were it placed in fiction, the author would be accused of creating lazy, two dimensional characters. Still, they may point and laugh at me on the street, but I’ve now compared them to badly-written archetypes of fiction. That’ll teach ’em.

I wonder if they’re from out of town, that they’re on a job which involves driving through Central London, and if this is some kind of spectator sport. ‘Let’s drive through London and laugh at all the funny-looking people. That’s a good idea.’

***

Recent dithering over what to do with myself has resulted in nights spent in, regretting that I could have gone to a party or a club, alternating with equally awkward nights spent out.

At some of the latter, I’ve felt I just don’t know enough people there. I do know one – the one who has invited me – but that’s it. So I chat with the one I know, spend money I haven’t got on drinks, and then go home by myself, feeling I’ve managed to forget the whole Having Fun In A Group Environment business, somewhere along the line. That I’ve misread the instructions. Sometimes I feel so awkward I can barely breathe.

Ah well, I think, as I sit by myself at the birthday do of Ms Sarah B, upstairs in a private room in a Chalk Farm pub. At least I’m free from the White Van Men.

And then a lady comes over to me, somewhat intoxicated.

‘Excuse me. I’ve just GOT to tell you… that you look like…’

Place your bets now.

‘…like an extra from The Mighty Boosh.’

And she goes away again.

That’s a new one. In January, it was ‘Oy! Rhydian!’, several times on public transport. My hair is a kind of zeitgeist test.

(Actually, I’d love to be an extra on The Mighty Boosh.)

Other things said to me the same night.

‘Excuse me, were you once in a band called Orlando?’

I nod and brace myself for the unknown.

‘I just want to say… I bought one of your singles.’

‘Oh, great. Thanks.’

‘Well, bye.’

And off she goes. Did she like it? I guess not, or she’d have said so. I should be grateful to be spared.

Finally, I’m collared by a man who speaks a little too slowly and stares at me with the intensity only a minimum amount of alcohol can induce.

‘Didn’t you use to be in a band?’

‘Well, I still am, but you’re probably thinking of-‘

‘What were you called again?’

‘Orlando.’

‘That’s it. And wasn’t there someone else in the band?’

‘Yes. There was someone else. Hence the word ‘band”

‘What was he called again?’

‘Tim.’

‘That’s it! And who did he go out with again?’

‘Oh. Um. Well… you’ll forgive me for going to a party without first compiling a detailed romantic history of my bandmate from over ten years ago, but… ‘

He’s clearly not interested in any other subject. Or indeed, anything about me. He just wants to make the connection, however tenuous, however drunken. So I venture a name, out of misguided politeness to him.

‘Um…maybe you’re thinking of… Ms X?’

‘That’s her! I went out with her friend’s sister.’

‘Ah…’

‘Enormous breasts. Enormous.’

‘Ah, really? Right. Well, good-oh.’

And he just stares back. He has finished with me.

A couple of days later, I am having Afternoon Tea at the Wallace Collection. I know most of the seven or eight people – we’re a loose collection of bohemians called The Teaists – but not all. One of the ones I don’t know says this to me as her opening salvo:

‘Didn’t you used to be in a band called Orlando?’

‘Why, yes. Thank you. I am STILL in a band now, in fact. Though mostly in Sweden.’

‘Didn’t your singer go out with a Ms Y?’

I’m taken aback. It’s the same enquiry, but a different ex-girlfriend.

‘Um. Well… I HEARD that was the case. From other people, in fact. Actually, I think I may have missed that particular meeting…’

And she mentions how she knows the lady in question. Though no breasts are involved. That’s it – no comment on the relationship, or on either party. No details. Just a connection she wants to share. Except it’s not my connection, it’s Tim’s. Am I my old bandmate’s romantic keeper?

The thought process must go something along these lines:

‘Why, I recognise that man with the funny blond hair and suit. He is filed away in my brain. Not by himself, but as The Other One in a band. Which in turn is filed as The Band of Tim Thingy. Who is filed under Boyfriends of Ms X. Who in turn is filed under People I Have Known. I think I’ll go up to that blond man and tell him of this connection, and nothing else. He’s bound to really appreciate it!’

It’s one thing to be haunted by your own past relationships, but to be haunted by the relationships of someone you were in a band with over a decade ago is something else.

Still, it helps put my vanity in place, I guess.

But If this happens again, I have my answer ready.

‘Didn’t you used to be in a band called Orlando?’

‘Yeeeeeeessss?’

‘And didn’t your singer-?’

‘Probably.’

Have calmed down now from my ranting about the London election. I like to think I’m entitled to one post-election rant every four years. All done now.

On the positive side, I do think Mr Johnson was gracious to make that speech praising Mr Livingstone on his defeat. And I’m also really glad the raised profile of the election made for a much higher turnout than last time. Incredible to think Ken actually polled more votes than he did in 2004, and still lost.

I’m pleased to have friends and readers and Diary Angels from all political corners (well, except the BNP), and want to keep it that way. It’s the old Quaker saying – wanting ‘a sense of all conditions’. When I stood for council election in 2006, the people I got on with the most were all Tories. They just had the nicest manners. We had to agree to differ over the politics thing, that’s all.

Ultimately, I respect everyone who voted at all. It’s those who didn’t bother that I feel more strongly about. I want to show them that exhibit in the Museum Of London, a looped film of suffragette Emily Davison throwing herself under the King’s horse at Epsom, again and again and again. How anyone can come away from that without resolving to always use their vote till they die is beyond me. People were imprisoned and died while fighting for the right to vote. In some countries, it’s still the case.

Ms S and I went to see ‘Persepolis’ at the East Finchley Phoenix tonight. It’s the animated story of a woman’s childhood in Iran, where she lived through one revolution and one war. Pretty political stuff, making you thankful for enjoying such stability and comparative liberty in the UK, or so I thought.

While walking back to Highgate, Ms S told me she didn’t vote last Thursay. She said she doesn’t really follow the news and so had never bothered to register. I moaned at her – albeit smiling, in semi-jest – and begged her to sort it out for next time. Just as well it wasn’t Friday night.

***

Here’s a newly uploaded video of Fosca (self, Rachel Stevenson and Charley Stone) performing an acoustic version of ‘It Only Matters To Those To Whom It Matters’. It was filmed in a Stockholm cafe, in late March:

http://blogg.svt.se/psl/2008/5/2/musik-med-fosca

Insult added to right-wing injury. The BNP have gained their first ever seat on the London Assembly.

Funny how reaction for its own sake engenders reactionaries. The idea that, if you’re unhappy with the way things are, you pick the polar opposite. That there are other alternatives doesn’t seem thinkable. ‘But the Greens won’t get in…’ Not if you don’t vote for them they won’t.

Whenever you start thinking of candidates ‘having a chance’, you’re trying to second-guess the herd instinct of others, and that just won’t do. The whole point of voting is getting away from the crowd, empowering the individual. You vote for the one you want, not with one eye on what everyone else might want. I think that goes some way to explain today’s results.

This failure of the imagination, this fear of difference, of individuality, of standing out from the crowd, forces people to go for misplaced conformity over sense. From a full range of choices, they narrow it down to what they think everyone else is doing. I know it’s my personal crusade, but there’s a link between this way of thinking and prejudice against otherness of any kind. There is danger in numbers.

The media can barely count beyond two, either. The idea of a ‘third way’ has been devalued, being too often enshrined by those already in the top two choices who just want to get the edge over their rival.

London voters have fallen in step with this binary swing. ‘It’s about time we went right-wing again’, they’ve thought to themselves. Why? Because they want something different and can’t break out of the either/or way of thinking. And in a city famed internationally for encouraging so much choice, so much diversity, so many ways to live, so many ways to be, it seems all the more sad that when it comes to the ballot box, diversity is the last thing on Londoners’ minds.

So Tory it is, and the same spirit mutates into voting BNP on the other form, reaction against Labour and Mr Livingstone equated with voting for actual reactionaries. In for a right-wing penny, in a for narrow-minded pound.

The saying goes ‘may you live in interesting times’, and some Londoners think having Boris and the Conservatives in charge is going to make life in the capital more interesting. But like ‘brave’, the word may be a euphemism about to backfire. ‘Interesting’ can also be a polite way of saying ‘ill-advised’.