I am on the Jubilee Line and the train driver tells everyone there is a problem at Ooh-est Um (West Ham). And so we're sat in the middle of nowhere but do we mind? Do we hell!
Please look at the beast that is sharing this end of the carriage with me...
I don't think you get the full scale of just how enormous this guy is.
So to help you, I have devised a scientifically accurate diagram which shows in exact detail why wet spots were appearing in my Bikkembergs.
I am represented by the blue guy on the left. He is a granite-sized block of pure muscle power.
God is evident on the Jubilee Line.
A voice mail arrives.
"Hi, this is a message for Bobby. It's David. You've got a missed call from me now so you've got my number. I really hope to hear from you - oh yeah - we met on the Tube. Okay, bye."
I am going to have to meet him. It's the polite thing to do. Coffee? Tea? Sex?
Just because you meet someone for coffee doesn't mean you're going to be forced to walk down the aisle with them in six weeks' time.
(This is me talking to myself, you know this already.)
In the gym. Nothing has changed. I work out. I do chest. The end.
On 3 June I will be at Heathrow Terminal 3 preparing to board a flight to Johannesburg and then onto Cape Town where I will stay for 11 days and during that time, spend my birthday with friends and family.
At this moment I have booked that flight.
Now slightly dreading holiday to Cape Town. It always ends in tears.
Specifically on the flight from Cape Town back to London. It has to be different this time.
I will insulate myself against feeling anything for anyone. Wearing your heart on your sleeve sucks. I wish mine had been sewn somewhere like the underside of my sock.
Maybe I should get a blade, tear my heart out and bury it under Westfield shopping centre.
I'm trying not to feel anything so I don't know what's supposed to go here.
This fucking no-carbs, no sugar, no fucking normal food diet is just absolutely fucking killing me.
This is dinner...
Smoked fucking salmon and dry chicken - the good stuff with no water in it.
And that's it. Grilled chicken and smoked salmon. And sometimes turkey breast or dry tuna. A protein shake if I'm lucky.
I don't know why I'm doing this. Why?
Oh yeah, because I'm paying Chris and exorbitant amount of money to treat me as badly as he can. It will be worth it.
If I have a sixpack I will be liked. I will be popular. I will be understood. I will be tolerated. I will have choice.
People will want to flock to be my friend on Facebook.
You know who I'm thinking about.
Come on, for God's sake. It's Monday. That was Saturday. It's time to move on.
So I'm on the phone to David from the Central Line and he seems very excited. I agree to see him on Sunday afternoon in Soho.
It feels like I've made someone's day.
I know what this feels like because someone made my week the weekend before last when I got a text saying "Hi Bobby, nice to meet u last night. I'd like to see you again! Fx"
Right. I am imposing a ban on any mention of Francois. I will cross that bridge when or if I get the chance to.
I need something to occupy my time.
I am grading all of the more than 8,000 songs on iTunes.
The song with the highest award and the most plays is Sia's "The Girl You Lost To Cocaine."
The only song I have awarded one star but have played the most is Madonna's "Candy Store".
Tomorrow I have filled the day with as much activity as possible.
Lunch with Lizzi in Islington, cinema with Katie and I say to Chris I want to do a session of arms that will destroy them.
Just keep busy, busy, busy.
How the hell did I let this happen?
Like, enough already.
Okay, new week slightly less than fresh start. Tomorrow will be different, I swear...