I’m coming to the end of a month of intellectual inertia. I mean, I’ve done stuff – written journalism, promoted the book, sorted my accounts (well, sort of) … but I just haven’t thought stuff. Consequently my brain’s itching like it’s starting to scab. I’ve got ideas, probably too many, but they won’t mean anything unless they’re committed to paper or, rather, unless I commit to one.

There’s a popular nonfiction book that would take me out to SA, which would be fun; or a grand novel set around the romantic poets – a cool idea too knackering for serious consideration. Or, what about an anthropomorphic epic of eighties excess and contemporary ennui? Or a new faux noir set on the estates around White City? I’ve got plans for scripts too – a feature about a deluded poet (I mean, it may not appeal, but it won’t be hard to write), a TV show (think The Wire meets The Prisoner), or, best of all, a romantic comedy that would star, I’m thinking, Cameron Diaz and Ashton Kutcher. The last of these would be shit, but it might make me rich.

Unfortunately I just can’t get going; mostly because I can’t escape the feeling that there’s already enough travel writing, novels, TV and films, and more than enough romcoms. It’s a sobering thought to consider that your most valuable contribution to the creative canon might be to do nothing. Oh well, I imagine something will change, because something always does. I guess I’m waiting for that rush of insane, obsessive confidence that convinces me I’ve got something to say – it’s just about my happiest delusion.

In the meantime, therefore, I’ve been strolling the streets of Glamoursmith, granting myself petty purpose: yesterday I paid in a cheque, today I’ll replenish my sock drawer, tomorrow I’ll buy a new ink cartridge. Luckily, I seem capable of remembering only one task at a time, so this low functioning existence could drag out a bit yet. In fact, I reckon I could sleepwalk through the rest of my life like this.

One thing that’s struck me is the banners that have been erected around the Broadway: I HRT Glamoursmith in Summer. I assume they’re not ironic, but I particularly like the fact that each one seems to have been stuck up next to a CCTV camera, like the council’s some kind of half-arsed Big Brother. Haven’t they got anything better to do with their time? Haven’t I?