There are some days when i sit back in reflection wondering how on earth i found myself with the life i have. I wouldn’t change it for a second, but it has its periods of dramatic madness that equally excite me and worry me.

So i couldn’t sleep as usual, and got my average 1 hour at Jo’s place writing about the world after spending 10mins longer than needed in a taxi debating freemasonry and world conspiracy theories with the driver. After a relatively lazy morning, i took flight for Mayfair and shut the inner flat door behind me. Unfortunately, in a sleepy daze Jo had somehow locked the outer door which left me trapped in an alleyway. With no phone battery, and no way back in. I squeeze the last 30 seconds power out in a desperate cry for help, but she can’t hear me on the other end. In something reminiscent of a Carry-On film, i’m shouting at the neighbour’s argumentative ex-wife on loudspeaker telling her he’s trying to call someone for me, half-standing on a fence and waving my arms frantically, wondering who i should call to repair the door after i’ve broken it down. A few hours and a James Bond-commando-style climbing run through several back gardens later, i was finally home free. I popped round the corner to get a drink, and somehow ended up in a conversation with a rather dangerous looking yardie hoodie guy in a supermarket discussing CIA drug running, how to make a mean curry and the economics of crack cocaine distribution.

Out of over 100 emails, Jon sends me a message telling me he’s sent me a cheque for a few thousand pounds unexpectedly, for no discernable reason, as i’m txting people from a BT payphone. Having missed my lunch in Soho, i find my old flame, who as well as being incredibly resourceful enough to have tracked down where i work and where i am, and is more beautiful than i’ve ever seen her, standing outside my office waving her car keys at me, demanding a coffee when i have to get to Marylebone, as well as inviting me to go on holiday with her. As she drives me to the station, i plug in my car charger and take a call from LA asking me if i’ve decided whether i’m going to take the $5 million dream Hollywood job i was offered the week before and settle in California that would make me a multi-millionaire within a few weeks.

My executive coach collects my tired, black-eyed exhausted carcass and drives me into a small Oxfordshire village, and takes me through my early childhood experiences, helping me to understand that the little boy who was there that it wasn’t his fault.My dog is dying, and i realise i’m going into Amitriptyline withdrawal again from drinking over the last few days and forgetting my medication. Not a single piece of solid food has passed my lips and i’m so faint i can barely think. Somehow i end up at Heathrow terminal 4, staring at the departures board with a coffee in my hand and wondering whether i could get away with randoming disappearing for a few days on a plane.

I stare into space after rustling around the train carriage trying to find a plug socket with the female conductor, wondering exactly what i’m going to say to the EU Commission in two weeks and pouring over the fax print-out from the Parliamentary Committee for the Media & the Arts, who want me to speak there in May. One day they’re going to find out i’m just 28 and the state of my hair is similar to my gravitas on these things; all is fraud.

I walk through Oxford Circus and correct a street preacher about the bible quotes written multicolour on his wooden board, provoking a minor argument about theological accuracy in the middle of the road outside Carnaby St in front of about 20 onlookers. The dinner with Beth and Carlos as soon as i get back into town, and Amanda txts me to say that she thinks my ex-girlfriend Jemima is eating in her restaurant and she’s about to go over and chat to her. The food is ruined by realising i will be losing my solace to Manchester quicker than i would be in Sunny Los Angeles.

Then i stand there at Waterloo in the haze of my cigarette smoke pondering on my rather absurd love life. My recent ex-girlfriend hates my new close friend, is completely convinced i’m sleeping with her and thinks i have a new girlfriend. My old ex hates the recent ex. The girl who wants to be the new girlfriend hates the recent ex and the recent ex hates her, but the recent ex is also playing jealousy games with her friend making his girlfiend jealous (and me in with the bargain), and the guy’s girlfriend hates her. The old ex fancies the new girl, and the close friend is the old ex’s new best friend. The old ex is talking to the very first real ex and the recent ex sends me a txt as soon as she wakes up. I’m somewhere in the middle of it all wondering why the recent ex is my ex at all, what the fuck she wants to send me as she’s never sent me anything, whether i should be with the close friend or the new girl, enjoying having the old ex back in my life and then realising none of it will even fucking matter in a few days if i go to LA.

The train journey is an hour of talking to the most qualified drunk person i’ve ever met - a man in a pinstripe suit eating a Burger King, who is not only a barrister, but used to be an army doctor. We spend the time talking about the complexities of treating bullet wounds in Afghanistan, how money is used as leverage to ensure the right verdict in court trials and the hilarious horrors of NHS privatisation.

Today i had not 1, but 3 good samaritans. The first was the man who got me out of an alleyway when i was trapped; the second was at the station when he let me charge my phone, and the third was a mystery man i shared a taxi home with who paid for my ride voluntarily, who then introduced himself as one of the directors of BP, handing me his business card and inviting me round for drinks at Easter.

My life may be many things, but its certainly unique and rarely boring. Life doesn’t imitate art. Life is art.