I'm still off work and I want to get better. I really do. I want to get back to work. Its not that I really love work because I don't and I don't hate work either, like some of the moaning bastard anonymous work bloggers. I have a more simple reason for wanting to get back to work. I have a punnet of plums and half a dozen nectarines in my top drawer. By now they will be going all mouldy.

My head is still a bit stuffy and I just don't feel right. I hate being ill. Not even a Night Nurse induced night of sleep helped (thanks Alanis!). If I am ill for one more day, I will go from having rugged manly stubble to being classified as a yeti.

I turn to the cure for everything, Television - but what am I having to watch?

• People willingly allowing a bald geezer to break into their house, ransack it and then getting upset when its turned upside down
  
• Andy Peters trying to make sick children feel better.
  
• Houses being auctioned and renovated
  
• People trying to make £100,000 from selling junk at a car boot sale
  
• Bargain fucking hunt
  
• Houses being renovated and auctioned
  
• Idiots with a fear of maggots trying to be cured
  
• Black and white films featuring people who have been dead for years
  

I can't believe I am actually looking forward to Neighbours for some intellectual stimulation. I feel worse now than I would've done if I'd gone to work.

Thanks a lot daytime TV.

I feel like I've been swallowing razor blades and have Animal the Muppet playing a drum solo in my head. I am sick. I do not usually get sick. I am not looking for your sympathy. I am maybe looking for you to express a bit of empathy, maybe send me some good will wishes, some white grapes and buy me a tin of Heinz Cream of Tomato soup.

In the past three years I haven't had any time off sick. Last January, I suffered from a 24-hour flu which lasted six an a half weeks but I never had a day off. I prefered to infect my co-workers with germs than stay at home. But today is different. I have decided to stay at home and nurse myself better.

And for the record, I want to make it absolutely clear that I am not staying home because Season 1 of "Lost" mysteriously appeared on my computer's hard drive. Absolutely no connection between them at all. None whatsoever.

I swallow some anadin, unwrap a Hall's Soothers and lie back down on the sofa.

"Place the item in the bagging area!"

I am using the self checkout at the Supermarket. Beep! Mixed peppers. Beep! Sultanas. Beep! 1/2 bottle of own brand red wine (Purely for the Bolognaise sauce!) "Age verification required, please call member of staff" The security guard comes over and taps in a pin number and then retreats.

As I scan my Cous Cous, I reflect, I do feel empowered but I miss the way the check out attendant greets me and so obviously flirts with me because of my irresistibility. This electronic voice just doesn't do it for me - maybe I could flirt with the security guard next time he comes over.

I am worried about putting my apples through as I do not have the wealth of experience and knowledge that a Check-Out Girl has. How will I know what type of Apples they are and what the special secret code is? And then I find the name and the code on an idiot proof sticker on the apple. Easy! Easy! Easy! I chant, like I was watching Big Daddy vs Kendo Nagasaki.

I am on a roll! Well actually a granary bagel and they have no handy label sticker on them. So I search through the menus. The closest I can find is "plain white bagel", which are cheaper. I key it in and in the process, steal a few pence from a faceless corporate empire that makes huge profits.

"Place the item in the bagging area!" I do, very quickly, and in a "trying not to be suspicious" way. I pay and walk towards the door without looking up or breaking stride.

I'm absolutely certain it'll come as soon as I get in the shower!

I am having my new desk delivered from Argos today. Argos know that I'm always on the look out for good comedy - therefore they'll deliver it exactly when I step in the shower. The last delivery I waited for, came 2 minutes before the last possible time it could arrive, this is the only other comedy option available.

I step into the shower.
The Argos Man who had been waiting outside my door for this moment, presses the buzzer.

I hungrily unwrap the desk like it was a Bargain Bucket from KFC. Since I obviously live in a world of comedy cliches I am fully expecting to have at least half a dozen screws, nuts and bolts left over at the end. I begin building. Now the big thing's connected to the small thing, the small thing's connected to the slidey thing, the slidey thing's connected to the curvey bit and the curvey bit seems to be connected to the box by stickey backed plastic.

After being buried under the curvey bit and the box, I continue to put my desk together. I screw, tweek and hammer away. I now have something which resembles three bits of a desk. Final Stage: Join the left hand side of the desk to the right hand side and to the top by using the 8 large screws. Important! Completing this stage incorrectly will have a detremental impact on the stability of the desk.

I look down at my pile of bits and bobs. I have only 8 screws left. That's not funny I think, I have used up every bit and have none left over. I'm supposed to have loads left over and then we're supposed to laugh and pretend I've forgotten to do bits. I know what I'll do! I insert 4 screws to join the wobbly desk together.

Look I have 4 bits left over - that's funny that is. Laugh!

This is torture.

My stomach is knotted up with anticipation. I can hardly concentrate. I have had three cups of coffee to calm me down but I am jittery. I can barely keep my mind on my work. Or anything. Holly Willoughby could walk into this room right now, dressed in a leather cat suit and offer to do things to me that are illegal in 30 of the 50 US states and I wouldn't be interested. (Its her off Ministry of Mayhem, Google her and then watch it on Saturday on ITV as they have a midget called Ray)

My Canadian Friend is meeting Laura, our Mutual Friend, to get some juicy gossip on another Mutual Friend. She has promissed to text me as soon as she has found out. The two of us could gossip for England. Well she couldn't. She could gossip for Canada but will hopefully get a British passport soon so she will have dual nationality and be able to choose who she gossips for. A bit like Kevin Pietersen.

Ever since this meeting was arranged we have been discussing the likely possibilities. Could he be making his French live-in-Girlfriend an honest woman and marrying her? Could they have split up? Could she be pregnant? Could they be moving to France? Could he have grown a third head?

I know a watched pot never boils but I've been staring at my phone for the past hour. They went to lunch at 12:30 - surely she should've texted by now. Maybe I'll chase it up. Right soft key, new message, "What was it then? Something and nothing I bet.", send message, 6, 999, 0, 222, 2 66, search, OK, send. And then I get a reply.

Turns out he just got drunk and tried to kiss a male co-worker.
Which is, I think, the absolute antithesis of something and nothing.

Someone must be dead!

Or maybe Sir Alex has finally come to the conclusion that he'd be much better having me warming the bench instead of Tim Howard. Surely they are the only reasons why the phone would be ringing at such an ungodly hour. It is half past 10 and I have been asleep for 30 minutes. I have been very tired recently and have been going to bed earlier and earlier. It is only a matter of time before I go to bed even before I have woken up from the night before.

I check the caller ID. It is my soon to be ex-friend Carl. I cannot be bothered answering the phone, it requires too much energy. I cannot lift my finger to press the button. I throw the phone to the floor and ride out the next three rings before he gives up and stops ringing me. And quiet descends. I can hear the urban fox going through the discarded garbage left where there are no bins, the distant sound of the police helicopter chasing a scally doing a bit of T-D-A and the muffled screams of my upstairs neighbours engaging in some light S&M.

My mobile! He'll ring that next. I get up and dash to my special charging chair that has more volts running through it than a Texan with learning disabilities. I use this chair to charge all the things which need charging; my mobile, my iPod and my exceptionally cool Bluetooth headphones. I fumble with the mobile - unlock keypad, now where's the off button? RIIIIINNNNNGGGGG!!! Too late, I can't avoid answering this one.

"Hi mate, its Carl. Just ringing up for a chat, I hope this didn't wake you."
"No I had to get up because the phone was ringing."

As you all know, revenge is a dish best served covered in chocolate sauce with ice cream on the side. He is moving to Toronto soon so I will probably accidentally make a load of time difference mistakes - "Oh I'm sorry I thought you were 5 hours AHEAD!"

Rolf Harris!
Donald Bradman!
John Howard!
Sir Les Patterson!
Dame Edna Everage!
Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin!
Ned Kelly!
Kylie Minogue, can you hear me?
Kylie Minogue, can you hear me?

Your boys took one hell of a beating.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing to you as one of the major high street retailers to highlight a major problem I have uncovered recently. It came to light over the recent Bank Holiday weekend and I thought it was important that I draw your attention to it as soon as possible.

I currently own two sets of "Day of the Week" Socks, which I have purchased over the past year or so from different Major High Street Retailers. I have noticed more and more socks like this for sale over the past few months. I have a feeling that the number of socks on sale will increase. I am usually a good barometer for trends and fashions. I was the first kid at school to go have a 5-a-side football party - well ok, I wasn't the first kid, but I'd had mine planned for weeks before Big Jeff organised his. It wasn't fair I tell you! I looked like a copy cat rather than a trend setter but thanks to my therapist, I am working through those issues.

Anyway, back to the socks! Since I bought them, some of my socks have become worn and required throwing out and some had been lost in the rip in the space time continuum created by washing machines. The two sets I had have been whittled down to one and bit sets. I have one pair of Monday socks, one pair of Tuesday socks, two pairs of Wednesday socks, two Thursday socks and one pair of Friday socks.

One of my problems stems from the fact that I have two Thursday Socks but from different sets. This now means that on a Thursday I have to wear one green sock and one purple one. I would like to be a fashionista and wear odd socks but I have to rebuild my reputation after dying my hair bright red.

If only I had lost socks from my Wednesday sets!
Both sets are Orange!
(Orange Wednesday? A subversive advertising message?)

But my major gripe came on the Tuesday after the August Bank Holiday, I picked up, what I believed to be Tuesday socks but were in fact Monday socks. I then spent the whole day wearing socks which had the wrong day on it. This caused me a lot of mental anguish as whenever I crossed my legs, I was forced to sit with my hand over my ankle so my embarrassment was not increased. It turned out I had done this because both the Monday and Tuesday pairs of socks were coloured red!

And then I realised that there really should be an industry standard for "Day of the Week" sock colours. The cost of not standardising could be CATASTROPHIC. If I were to throw spaghetti at the wall and then draw a graph it would show that sales of socks would decline dramatically if there was no normalisation in the market. I have conducted a preliminary focus group looking at the possible impact and Pete, who plays on my football team, has said that as long as I pass to him more often, he'll agree with me.

So my proposition to you is that, as one of the Major High Street Retailers, you work alongside other retailers to create stability in the "Days of the Week" sock industry and bring a measured and uniform approach to future production of "Day of the Week" socks. For that reason, I propose the following colour scheme:

Monday - Persian Red
Tuesday - Cobalt Blue
Wednesday - Safety Orange
Thursday - Violet
Friday - Tea Green

NB: Saturday and Sunday are deliberately left open, each individual company should interpret the colours for that day. Also, I don't wear them on weekends so I don't care what you do.

I went with a the stronger bolder colours at the start of the week as a way of getting people motivated for the weeks work ahead and to help shake off the cobwebs from the weekend and then into more pastel shades for the latter half of the week to help people wind down for the weekend. I do not however, wish to preach on how these colours should be interpreted on the actual sock. I have noticed that colour is used differently between retailers, say on the toe, round the top, on the heel and to write their name on. This distribution would be left entirely up to each manufacturer. This is not a nanny state, after all.

I also write a very intellectual and influential web-log (or blog) which is based on the Internet. I command respect from literally dozens of people who read it. If you sign up to this agreement then I could use this influence to persuade them to visit your stores.

I am also collecting names for a petition which we hope to hand to Tony Blair. It will ask for the Government to form OfSock, which like OfCom and OfWat, will regulate the industry. This will use Socrates as a figure head and look at implementing my standard colour scheme across the country. At the moment we only have two names on the petition, mine and my dad's (who hasn't really signed up but I've got power of attorney over him), but I expect this to grow exponentially.

I do not want you to think I am some crazy, odd ball, lunatic who just enjoys writing funny letters to companies. I am deadly serious, I realise that I am probably too late for the autumn line of clothes but with the January Sales on the horizon, this would be the opportunity to get rid of old stocks and bring in new line for the new year.

Yours faithfully,

MB

Spider!!!

It scuttles across the floor of the lounge and under the sofa. It has legs that are at least 4 foot long and its body is all hairy and the size of a ping-pong ball. I shriek like a grown man, bring my feet up off the floor and wrap my arms round my knees and adopt the fetal position. If it is true and "they are more scared of you than you are of them", this one must be terrified.

My usual fall back is the vacuum cleaner, mainly because it can be done at arms length but with 10 foot long legs and a body the size of a cricket ball, I'm not sure it would fit. More importantly, I don't want sign guy leaving a sign on my door saying "You have been reported to the council for noise pollution." Hmmm, My Canadian Friend is coming over tomorrow night, I could try and trap it under a glass and leave it there for her to dispose of.

I take the grown up way out; shut the door and pretend it doesn't exist. Not for the first time, I lie in bed shaking, doubting my manhood. OH NO! What about Doc? My stuffed dwarf from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves is still in there, he is sitting on my window-sill watching for illegal fly-tipping. I wonder if he'd be able to withstand a Spider Attack! I suppose all that time spent underground will have prepared him and he does have a tiny little pick axe.

Damn, I need to pee. I get up and move towards the hall. But there it is, blocking my path. It has grown. It is now at least 40 feet wide and it has a body the size of a football. Its jaws are dripping with spider spit. It looks wounded, probably from a battle with a midget miner. I break out my emergency spider squashing paper, creep up behind it and whop it.

And now the guilt sets in. Although being squished by the MEN:lite is a more humane way to go than say the electric chair, gassing or listening to a Will Young CD, I hope it didn't feel any pain. I shed a tear. What if I've just deprived a wife of her husband and a child of its role model and bread winner. I resolve to build a shrine to dead spiders once I get the remnants of this one out of my carpet.

"Attention Idiots!"

Uh oh, things are getting serious. The sign guy is back.

"I have repeatedly asked residents not to put any rubbish in this building and these notices have repeatedly been ignored. I will state it again - Rubbish put in this building will not be collected. It needs to be put in a bin."

"I know who it is who is leaving the rubbish here, I have seen you do it. You are guilty of Illegal Tipping - I have reported you to the Council who will take immediate action against you. The SITE MANAGER is also aware of the situation."

Three things sprang to mind:
1. This guy is pure comedy. Long may he continue as that way I don't have to come up with any original material to write about. Although his continued sign goings on is delaying a very funny story about Mini owners and also the "Sock it to 'em" campaign.
2. Ha! I can't see a Council ever doing anything immediate. Plus they'll all be winding down for Christmas.
3. I can't believe he has reported them to the Site Manager. Its like being grassed up to the head master for trying to look up Gillian's skirt in Junior School. No one likes a snitch. If he was in prison, he'd have to be careful in the shower.

I am in a moral quandary. He reminds me a lot of Palestine. I like the objectives and the over arching aims - getting back land which was once yours, making sure rubbish is put in the bin and getting fair treatment of a minority. But I'm not sure I like the methods - suicide bombings, writing notes and killing innocent people. Hmmm, something needs to be done to lighten this up.

"This is another Rubbish Notice!!!"

The self appointed thought police and head of the resident's committee is angry, again. They are using a larger and bold-ier font. They resort to using a red letters at one point! Someone is very upset.

"Even after putting my polite notice on this door, people have continued to put rubbish in here. Today I have had a telephone conversation with the local council and they have confirmed to me that they will not collect rubbish that is not in bins. Today I have had to move a box with the words "CHARLOTTE'S CRAP" written on it, along with other garbage. If this continues, I will have no option but to search through the trash in an attempt to identify where it has come from so I can deal with each resident individually. A fellow resident."

I stand reading the notice, after returning late at night from a secret meeting with secret people. As I stand there using the back-light from my Nokia 6630 to read the note, I look up towards one of the flats which overlook the bin place. I see the curtains twitching and a face looking out, checking to see if I am putting rubbish in there. I can feel the eyes of the world watching me.

The next day I am sitting at my desk installing my new wireless network and I see someone go up to the door and read the notice. They stand, rubbish in hand reading this lengthy tome. They look thoughtful. They open the door and put their black bag inside the building.

"This is a Rubbish Notice!!"

One of my neighbours is annoyed. We have three small out-buildings for rubbish however, only one of them currently has bins in them - due to the Management Company, not caring about the development anymore since they have sold all the flats on it. The closet one to me is just the other side of my car parking spot.

This one has no bins in it. If I want to put rubbish in a bin, I have to walk another 10m to the next hutch. I have thought about driving the car there but the only think stopping me is that I don't want my car smelling of rubbish. It already smells of pizza and bananas.

I go out and read the notice.

"The refuse collection service will only collect rubbish if it is IN A BIN. There are no bins in here. I have had to personally move one bag of rubbish from here into the bins. This is just a polite notice to other residents!!! Rubbish in here will not be picked up. Please do not put it in here. Use common sense. A fellow resident."

I scurry back in and think of ways in which I can distort the notice to make it funny for my readers. In the end I decide to write it out verbatim. I sit and watch from my window as someone reads the notice. They then open the door, put a box of rubbish in there, close the door, re-read the notice and then go back to their flat.

I'm currently taking bets on what the next in the series of public information posters will be - Don't throw mail down the drain, the postman will not collect it from there - is currently favourite.