Morning – find it harder than ever to get up out of bed and journey to the therapist. Aches and pains. My jaw has started to click when I eat, though there’s no pain. Never did this before. Started a month or two ago, when I began to sleep with these tooth-whitening gel-filled moulds in place, as per dentist’s instructions. Both dentist and GP say the clicking is nothing. Health consists of having the same diseases as one’s neighbours.

Sunny day. In a front yard of one of the houses on Highgate Avenue, two men are breaking rocks with enormous mallets. Work personified. And yet I consider getting out of bed one morning a week to attend a Belsize Park therapy session akin to a task of Mr Hercules. I could be breaking rocks in the hot sun, just like in Mr Strummer’s jolly song, I Fought The Law. And yes, before you write in, I do know that’s a cover version.

On the tube to the session, Claudia A gets on at Archway. I explain where I’m off to. She says “If everyone who found it difficult to get up and go somewhere every Monday morning needed therapy…”.

Therapist reminds me to get a job. Even the most menial employment would, he thinks, get me on the road to doing the work I really want to do. Work begets work. I’ve had all the time in the world these last few years, and what have I to show for them? Can’t argue with that, really. It’s advice I’ve heard elsewhere, too.

I have a second appointment in the clinic – a 3 monthly assessment with a youngish woman. A few days before, she posts me a lengthy questionnaire for to complete and bring to this meeting, where I offload more of my mind’s baggage. Effectively two therapy sessions in one day. And still I feel I’m barely scratching the surface.

I mention this assessment meeting with Mr S, the regular therapist.

“So, did you fill out the questionnaire?”
“No. I haven’t had the time.”

He laughs. Understandably enough.

What HAVE I been doing? I simply have no proof unless I write it down. Maybe if I write it down, I’ll realise just how much time I waste. Stare back at my wasted day, in the hope the next one will be more productive. It’s one of the main reasons for keeping a diary at all.

Afternoon – shopping in Swiss Cottage and Tottenham Ct Road for replacement musical equipment. Somehow between the last Fosca gig (December 2003) and now, I managed to lose a few essential leads, adaptors and so on. Occupational hazard. In Bristol I once knew a heavy metal-playing Japanese boy whose entire gig-playing accessories – pedals, plectrums, leads, etc – consisted of lost property from other bands’ gigs.

Read the latest issue of Word Magazine on the Tube. Feel a bit embarrassed reading this in public. Silly old Mr Springsteen on the front. I’m not manly enough to be seen in public with this. I’m not one of the editor Mr Ellen’s so-called Fifty Pound Men. These are a new social group he’s identified and rants on about proudly, like Mr Simpson and his Metrosexuals. And I suppose I’ve got my Default Men.

As I understand it, Fifty Pound Men are entirely comfortable Nick Hornby boy-man types, aged 30 – 55 (and ageing), with enough disposable income to spend £50 at a time in HMV or Virgin, on a mixture of DVDs and CD albums, often delving into the shops’ now permanent 3 For 2 sales. It’s the fact they’re coming home with physical goods, rather than downloading the content on the Net. Satisfying the male hunter-gatherer instinct. Where once was bison and antelope, now it’s Coldplay and Aimee Mann. They’re meant to be quietly saving the music industry.

Evening – with Ms Silke and Mr Sam to the Phoenix to see the latest Todd Solondz film, Palindromes. His usual black comedy mix of non-monstrous paedophiles (2 this time), cold sex, suburban garden teeth and anti-Disney children. Utterly original and marvellous, despite what some reviewers think, wrongly. Definitely my favourite of his works so far. I never quite enjoyed Happiness as much as others seemed to. I felt the segments about the paedophile and the obscene phone caller far upstaged the other stories, and warranted whole films in their own right. With Palindromes, Mr S takes just one story and works his episodic sub-plots within. It’s the tragicomic odyssey of a 12 year old girl played by many different actors, all of whom are superb. She gets to be several different teenage girls, one beautiful floppy-haired JT LeRoy type boy (who I naturally feel is not given nearly enough screen time), one enormous black woman, one small under-12 black girl, and the more well-known Ms Jennifer Jason Leigh, who I suppose now counts as a veteran actress. Ms Leigh has arguably been playing sullen teenage girls all her career – even when she was Dorothy Parker.

Thinking about this multi-actor device, I recall that the other hip US indie filmmaker called Todd, ie Mr Haynes of Velvet Goldmine and Far From Heaven fame, was last heard planning a movie about the life of Mr Bob Dylan. The single character of Mr Dylan was to be played by a bevy of different actors of different age, race and gender. I wonder if great Indie Movie Todds think alike?

Ultimately, I feel it’s wonderful that Mr Solondz is even allowed to exist, and have the sense his real masterpiece is yet to come. It’s a shame this month’s movie publicity cake has been swallowed entirely by the new Star Wars, with people acting like the bullied sheep Mr Lucas wants them to be. Just ignore Star Wars, I say, and hopefully it will go away.

Besides, Mr Sam’s seen Episode 3: Revenge Of The Hoodies or whatever it is, and safely tells me it’s rubbish. So that’s that.