I forgot to pick up my iPod today. I feel naked. And not in a good way either. While I am quite used to going out of the house without any underwear on, today is different.

I can't relax to the banging scatalogical garage beats of Dizzee Rascal. I can't be cheered up by the uplifting lyrics of Eminem's Stan. I can't be motivated by the verve and get up and go that radiates through R.E.M.'s music.

Instead I have to travel to work with my ears wide open.

I can hear the beeping of the green man when I cross the Busy Road. I eavesdrop on two people behind me discussing if there is a place called Stretford in London. I hear the rickty sound of the tram as it falls to pieces. I listen to the rythmic 'tut-tut'ing as the chattering classes read the Metro's latest report on how a peadophile dressed up as an asylum seeker is hanging out on a street corner drinking Diamond White with the local mob of teenagers and he's lying in wait to rape your child / wife / mother while simultaneously detonating the dirty bomb that is strapped to his chest.

Although I do hear the woman in Starbucks ask me if I want a free "Skinny Blueberry Muffin Pot" to try. Which is really yummy.

So its not all bad.