Been twelve bleedin’ days now, ain’t scribbled a single line in this limpin’ diary. Had me ‘ead full of everythin’ that went down, what we said, what shifted… or maybe nothin’ really shifted, just got a whole lot stronger. It’s chuckin’ it down in Deptford today.

Sunday people dreading tomorrow Sunday people borrowed and borrowed

January’s gone again. Like all the ones before it, like it’s always been. Life rolls on, innit.

I’ve gone back to writing with a pen, on real paper, like in the old days. A diary of sorts. And I keep asking myself whether it’s time to return to the habits that shaped me, even if they’re no longer fashionable.

The rhythm of someone who knows the blues doesn't end, it just finds new solos.

There it is. The whole thing, stripped down.

You're not asking for pity. You're not even asking for answers tonight. You're saying: this isn't right, and I refuse to pretend it is.

The fixer who can't fix the one thing that matters most. The man full of beauty like music, words, depth, warmth, sitting in a world that doesn't know how to receive it. Or won't. Or can't.

And the part that really cuts: you're not empty. You're full. That's almost worse, isn't it? If you were hollow, the solitude would match. But you've got all this: the blues full of virtuoso solos, the thoughts that go deep, the warmth looking for somewhere to land. And it just... stays inside.

I'm not going to try to fix this. That's not what tonight is for.

But I'll say this: the fact that you can't accept it, that you refuse to pretend, that's not weakness. That's the same thing that keeps you climbing when others stopped at base camp.

It just costs more.

Messij’s clear innit. If ya know, ya know… fu’ know, ya know.

Churchill an Big Ben, standin firm through every storm. London don’t break, don’t fade, don’t ever bow. This city stays immortal.

Not yet but soon innit...

Sat’dy? Not ’appenin’, mate.

Sometimes the weekend's more bleedin' 'ard graft than the rest of the week, innit. Monday to Friday you're graftin' away, fink you'll 'ave a proper rest come Saturday, but nah, life's got ovver plans. Runnin' about, sortin' fings out, people wantin' a bit of your time, all that.

But 'ere's the fing, mate: if it's worf it, you don't mind, do ya? If what you're doin' means somefink, if it's for someone what matters, or for somefink you actually give a toss about, then it ain't really work, is it? It's just livin'.

The knackered you feel at the end of a weekend like that, it's different from the knackered what comes from wastin' your time. This one's got weight to it. Substance. Like you've done somefink proper wiv your 'ours instead of just lettin' 'em slip through your fingers like sand.

So yeah. Weekend's been a right palaver. But worf every minute of it.

Bank Junction whispers. Canary Wharf screams. Guess which one you actually listen to.

We wear our skins
Like borrowed coats
Change at the door
Before we go
Who are ya now
When no one sees
The one ya hide
Or the one ya need

Turns out what describes me best is a tune in a minor key, built on just two scale degrees, the first and the fourth, like bouncing from C major to F minor, never really settling, always shifting its melody and arrangements. Same pattern, always changing, never quite landing, caught in a never‑ending loop.

You're clockin' my way
You want me to stay
I know whatcha need
I see 'ow you plead
But if I give in
We bof know 'oo wins
It ain't you, love
When push comes to shove

What would it cost me
What would it cost you
What would we lose here
If I follow through
What would it cost me
What would it cost you

Am I just thinking Too much like I do
We got somefink 'ere
Took a while, yeah It's 'onest and real
Don't mess wiv the deal
Can't be strangers then
When this whole fing ends
So I 'old the line
One more time

What would it cost me
What would it cost you
What would we lose here
If I follow through
What would it cost me
What would it cost you
Am I just thinking Too much like I do

Maybe I'm wrong
Maybe you'd know
Maybe this once I just let go
Can't unsee now
What's clear to me Chorus

Cost me, cost you
Cost me, cost you
What would it cost
What would it cost

Look at that pink spillin' off the Festival Hall. Bleedin' into the Thames like it's meant to. Sky don't know what it wants to be tonight. The Eye keeps goin' round, slow like, like the whole city's breathin' through it. Waterloo there, cuttin' through everything. Like a bone holdin' it all together.

Cor, look at that place, mate. All them fancy ceilings an’ stained glass an’ wotnot. Proper posh for a boozer, innit? You walk in thinkin’ you’re just after a pint, an’ suddenly you’re in some bleedin’ Victorian cathedral. Still, can’t knock it, Wellington’s been standin’ there longer than half o’ London’s memories. Solid gaff, that.

Y’know mate, this city ain’t like the uvvers. London’s like a livin’ beast, it is. Got its own bleedin’ life, an’ each of us is just one tiny cell keepin’ it goin

If there was a way to measure fallin’ in love, I’d be off the charts every bleedin’ day, mate. But you know wot? I’m glad there ain’t no cure.

A new bloody week, innit… just me wanderin’ round, kickin’ stones, lookin’ for somethin’ I can’t even name. This city’s got layers, proper deep ones, stuff you only catch if you keep your eyes sharp and your heart a bit cracked. East, West, all mashed up, all split up, all the same in the end.

Feels like whatever I’m after’s hidin’ somewhere out ’ere and if I keep walkin’, keep listenin’, maybe it’ll show itself… one day.

Grand Union Canal, Paddington Arm

Back ’n forth, airports, people, faces, moments, nuffin’ ever stops, does it. Is this really the way to live, then?

Mate, I’m gettin’ proper fed up wiv all them bleedin’ socials, innit. Everyone’s out ’ere bawlin’ for attention, but when it comes down to it, they ain’t got nuffin’ to say. All noise, no substance, does me ’ead in, it does.

I clocked you on the Elizabeth line, luv, eyes sharp like a hunter what knows exactly where it’s goin’. I stared proper, like I weren’t gettin’ another chance in this lifetime, and then just for a blink your eyes met mine. What a moment. Brightened me whole bleedin’ day, it did.

Mates, good grub, bit of a chinwag. That’s yer Sunday brunch sorted, mate.

Max. Don’t start sayin’ there’s somethin’ wrong with you, mate. You’re sound. Maybe it’s everyone else what’s off. Got a little somethin’ for ya, mate. Check the bleedin’ post when it lands.

Last few days in Switzerland before I’m back in London doin’ me thing. Friday up in the Alps, ain’t exactly on me tod though. Meanwhile someone else is stuck down Canary Wharf, an’ I feel a bit of a bastard for laughin’, but you know… people end up gettin’ what they’re after.

Don’t ask what pays my bills. Ask what keeps me alive inside.

We both needed our own space, our quiet bits, our moments on our tod. It was part of who we were, part o’ what made us work, y’know?

Who's proper worth letting your guard down for, when you know it'll sting regardless?

Saturday, quiet Switzerland...alone but ok

Another Boxing Day

Merry Christmas

"Trading Places" on telly. Xmas classic

Got this candle on my desk. Looks like snow when it's off, which is proper ironic really. Light it up and it melts away. Funny how everything ends up doing something you never reckoned on.

Stay away from chocolate, mate.

Landed after midnight. Switzerland is my shelter for rest. Sunday at home, writing as usual. Found a new friend, some chinwag on WhatsApp, then a fat burger at the Kurdish guys' place. It's nice to be lazy, sometimes.

Saturday. Borough Market was the plan. Hate the tube, so I walked. The city always has something to show. Somehow ended up in Piccadilly Circus, surrounded by people grabbing last minute Christmas presents. That's when it hit me as there's no one I need to buy a gift for. Not yet.

Home, some good food, soulful house music and the river. Enough, innit?

Sitting by the river, pondering the past, thinking of the future. And you know what? This is the place where I have to be, right now, to do this.