Recovering from a bout of addiction to nothingness. Even modish onanism, junk food and junkier TV have lost their appeal. And I think I’ve actually developed bed sores.

One fix is to become distracted from the distraction. Put off the procrastination for another day. Creep up on yourself when you’re not noticing it. Take yourself from behind. And bingo – you’re writing again. Just don’t tell the black dog on your shoulder. Or is it a monkey on your back? I’ll settle for a sardonic dodo on the elbow.

A lot to debrief. The other weekend: a wet weekend of old friends.

Saturday: to Ms Charley Stone’s in Crouch End for her birthday barbecue. I stop on the way to pick up Ms Rhoda, who’s just moved to the same area. She was effectively made homeless a couple of weeks ago, by a very unfeeling – if not to say criminal – former landlord. But her friends came through for her in a really rather touching and uncommonly selfless display. In mercenary old London too. They helped her move at extreme short notice, provided her with somewhere to stay, and lent or donated essentials.

What’s particularly interesting is that Ms R used her blog – LiveJournal and its comments system to be precise – to alert her friends to her crisis, and the bulk of the rescue was organised online. I admire her greatly. She says she admires me for NOT having that kind of blog, for deliberately cutting myself off and writing a diary where others can’t comment or chat in the space underneath. It’s not like I can’t be contacted: people can email me easily using the box on my site.

You’d have thought people would prefer the equivalent of private one-to-one tuition over a classroom environment. I think it’s the ‘Have Your Say’ Culture of internet message boards and comment boxes. Apparently this is now called “Web 2.0”, ho ho.

The one-on-one way is the way I’ve always liked it. I tried an evening class recently, and rediscovered my old school habit: I don’t get on well as part of a group. Instead, I’d always be either directly addressing the teacher one-on-one – if not actually sucking up to them – or performing for the rest of the group as if on a stage. I just can’t ‘do’ groups. On school trips I’d always walk with a teacher, and rarely chat to my classmates. The teacher had all the secrets, all the answers. Whereas with groups I felt then – as I do now – that whenever I try to fit into a class or a room of people or join a discussion, the darts suddenly pause in mid-flight. The room goes silent. Or worse, I’m ignored. On top of which, there’s the sensation that a comment left on a blog is given an un-looked for permanence way above its station. Some casual fanboyish query I might make about “Star Trek: Voyager” in a newsgroup circa 1995 can remain on the Web today, staring back at me down the years. Perhaps it will be there forever. And to what end? The chat must stop. If I have anything to say at all, I should say it here alone, the only place it’s actually looked for.

So it’s a gamble of sorts. By not wishing to be at the mercy of others, I may cut myself off from those who could rescue me in hours of need. But this distinction is enough to keep me out of the loop. For better or worse, it’s what suits me. I want people to read me, and go. Like an 80s brand of shampoo.

Naturally, I wonder about myself being in the same position as Ms R. If I were made suddenly homeless, could I rely on the same sort of rallying-round? I wouldn’t like to burn that bridge till I come to it.

There’s a more publicised case of blogs curing homelessness in the news this week. A middle-class thirtysomething London woman had a breakdown, was made homeless and ended up reduced to sleeping in her car for months. By using the internet terminals in public libraries, she kept a blog about her daily struggle to survive, to keep clean, fed, warm and safe. And the good news is she found somewhere to live thanks to the international attention generated by her blog. And yes, she’s now got the inevitable book deal from it.

Incredibly, her blog also attracted some abusive comments accusing the woman of exploiting her own news story, and for placing a donation button on her pages. People can be very strange when they see an apparent patch of greener grass on the other side, even if it’s part of a wasteland. Resenting a homeless person for not suffering enough takes some doing. Well, yes, it IS a form of begging, and I was accused of doing the same the last time I had a donation button on my diary. But I see it more as Busking With Text. What would you prefer: someone collaring you on a train or bus for money? It’s a familiar sound: the train compartment door slams open, and the passengers’ hearts sink… “Ladies and Gentlemen… I’m sorry to disturb you, but…”

Would you prefer someone physically invading your space to ask you for spare change? Or someone playing Bob Dylan songs loudly and badly in a subway? Or someone providing you with entertaining – and silent – reading matter, which you’ve sought out yourself?

Well, apparently there are people out there who DO prefer people in penurious states to be sitting on the pavement with a sign and an upturned cap, or playing a harmonica badly, rather than writing a public journal and asking for donations. I shall take great pleasure in disappointing them.

This is the logic of such detractors:

“Dear Dickon. Just get a sodding job. Preferably one you hate. Like mine. I’m having to work hard at something I hate doing, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t too.”

I’m lucky to vaguely know hundreds of people to nod across a noisy room to, and to be read by thousands more as a public diarist. But though I have many favourite authors, I wouldn’t necessarily want to lend William Burroughs a set of cutlery or leave DBC Pierre alone with my possessions for an unspecified interval. Indeed, many writers I admire on the page would have me crossing the road to avoid them in real life. I’ve ploughed my own aloof furrow for so long, that I do rather have to take the attendant cons with the pros. But it’s what works for me.

At Charley’s bash, I drink and eat too much – for which I’m grateful. And I make a slightly drunk but sincere speech about Constant Friends.

Sunday, to the Queen’s Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. Again with TMC, again for a Q&A with a joint hero of ours. This time, Mr Stephen Sondheim. Introduced by the interviewing critic as just ‘Sondheim’, one word. Like Morrissey or Donovan.

He reveals there’s going to be a movie of Sweeney Todd, directed by Mr Tim Burton with Mr Depp in the lead role. Everyone says ‘Ooooohhh!’.

He describes the Menier Chocolate Factory’s current production of Sunday In The Park With George as one of the most moving theatrical experiences of his life, and I’m rather pleased. Because I saw it myself last December, and spent most of the evening in a mess of gushingly appreciative tears. I’m keen to revisit the show in the West End, though I’ll have to go alone to spare any companion the embarrassment of having me sob on their shoulder for the best part of two hours. At the Q&A, Sondheim particularly cites the opening moment in the show when a slash of animated colour tears across the white canvas backdrop, synchronised with Seurat doing the same in the foreground with his pencil on his notebook, all in time with the musical’s opening arpeggiated chord. Taking a line for a walk, indeed.

Audience member: What’s an ideal day for you?
Sondheim: I’m incredibly lazy. So every day is remarkably pleasant.

A composer after my own heart.

I think about the homeless woman with no friends, finding help – new friends – via keeping a public diary. I think about Ms Rhoda finding who her real friends are via her online ‘Friends’. I think about people I’ve known who come and go through my life, all the people I know only vaguely, but for so long, and the people who are the nearest thing I have to long-term friends. I think about Tim Chipping, and Charley Stone, and lines from the Sondheim song “Old Friends”.

Most friends fade
Or they don’t make the grade.
New ones are quickly made
And in a pinch, sure, they’ll do.
But old friends let you go your own way —
Help you find your own way —
Let you off when you’re wrong —
If you’re wrong —
When you’re wrong —
Old friends shouldn’t care if you’re wrong —
Should, but not for too long —
What’s too long?
Old friends do leave their brands on you,
But old friends shouldn’t compete.
One upbraids you
For your faults and fancies,
One persuades you
That the other one’s wrong.
Here’s to us — who’s like us?
Damn few!