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.’