Now, I have never had much time for people who stand around pointing fingers, accusing others of 'selling out'. There is a significant shortage of people living unconventional lives, and the name-callers are seldom they; also, as Robert Zimmerman so eloquently (if tunelessly) pointed out, you got to serve somebody.

But as I get older I see friends whose temporary jobs somehow became permanent, couples who marry because they're supposed to now after two years' dating then have children just to get the in-laws off their backs, other single men who have never had to change a nappy talk about their desire for a family, and a generation whose previously self-satisfied mocking of the 1970s has transformed into a genuine desire to recreate that era, complete with disposable and horrific fashion, permanent confusion on the topics of sexual promiscuity and working mothers, and a disturbing attachment to scented candles.

In the last few years friends my age have coupled off, produced babies, acquired mortgages and generally bought into the fantasy of a settled and proper life, and anyone who suggests maybe their effort could have been used for something more unusual or interesting is smugly told 'oh, just grow up'. Of course at some crucial point circa the age of 27 they all gave up what they loved and settled for what could allow them the income to buy new cars. On the other hand are the older friends whose marriages and careers - often not even the first ones - are falling apart, whose children hate them and who do and spend whatever they can to try to regain a trendily-dressed, fast-driving, surgeon-tightened facsimile of youth. What I wonder is why the younger ones think the same fate will not befall them.

It's as if we think that by having put marriage off until you're 30 all problems will magically be solved. But we are not making better, or even significantly different, choices from women in the previous generations who 'married too young', we are living out our youth without doing or learning anything and simply deferring bad choices to the point where biology demands a sperm donor so the baby madness takes over, and hang the consequences. Hey, I took a year off after Uni and went to Thailand, now I deserve some IVF!

Where do these/ Innate assumptions come from? Not from what/ We think truest, or most want to do:/ Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style/ Our
lives bring with them: habit for a while,/ Suddenly they harden into all we've got/ And how we got it...

I should talk. I was out comparison-shopping for garden gates last weekend.

The people I admire most are on two ends of a continuum: a handful of friends who choose either to pack in as much as possible, figuring that life is short and nothing is left behind, or those whose motto is Live Forever Or Die Trying, because at least they've looked at the abyss, acknowledged their fear of it, and are doing whatever they can.

Everything else is just middle - middle class, middle England, middle-of-the-road. Fine for some, but when you were six was that what you wanted to be when you grew up?

He: 'Have you read the stack of 2000ADs in the bathroom?'

Me: 'Not really, just flipped through.'

'I think you should read this Judge Dredd, it's really good.'

'Wow. Funny how you pick out the one about prostitutes for my perusal. Cheers.'

'This is so symbolic of how we see things differently. I thought you'd like it because it's a very adult, self-contained story.'

'It's a about murdered hookers.'

'It's also about how Judge Dredd has depth of character and how he's sympathetic to the woman at the end.'

'What, he only gives her six months imprisonment? You call that sympathy?'

'For Dredd it is.'

General notes on things currently weighing on my mind:

1. I am ever so tired of overinflation in speech. Shuffling between home and work (both in the dark) is not a 'great day'. Being paid in the mid-30s while the less clever but business-minded of your year at Uni pull down salaries larger than the entire value of your profession's pension fund is not 'well-paid'. Sitting at your desk fifteen minutes before I arrive in the morning does not make you a 'hard worker'.

2. If after five years a man doesn't know when your time of the month is imminent, it may be time for him to reassess any claims re: being a very sensitive and empathic sort of person.

3. Nine months of slogging through more long-distance relationship purgatory is not 'soon'. Flights starting from where you work to where we live in July is not 'any day now'.

4. I am generally regarded in real like as a Smart Cookie, so keep in mind that any option you suggest will probably have already been considered by me, and I don't particularly appreciate being told how to suck eggs. Especially not by the smug little madam at the desk behind mine. If your hit rate for making useful suggestions falls below 10% perhaps it's time to institute a regime of keeping these things to yourself?

5. You really shouldn't be reading this from work, you know. People have fired for less.

I was at home, doing not much of anything, when A4 rang. ‘Fancy going to a gig?’ he asked.

‘Of course, who and when?’

‘Half Man Half Biscuit, tomorrow night in Cambridge… oh, and it will just be you and A3.’ A3 had bought two tickets, one for him and one for A2 (who was away at a conference), and A4 couldn’t go. Well, at least I’m third choice.

[Quick background, for those who just joined us: I met A3 while on holiday with A2 some years ago, we fooled around a bit until I found out about his girlfriend, we hang out a few times a year and there’s always a little tension. If by ‘little’ you mean ‘metric tonnes of’. Oh, and he still has the girlfriend. And he works for A2. And is A4’s boss. And, because I keep forgetting to post this story, the gig happened last year.]

‘Great.’ I checked train times; I could probably just make the last train back after the gig, especially as HMHB date from the Pliocene and thus like to be finished well before 11pm.

I arrived in Cambridge approximately on time and found the venue, only getting lost once or twice on the way (a record for me – but then I did see Yo La Tengo there some years ago). Also, there was a thick stream of Dukla Prague away shirts to follow.

A4 had said my ticket would be at the door, and it was. I peered inside – no sign of A3. I amused myself with a pint and reading the backs of people’s shirts. Also noticed there seemed to be a slight discrepancy in Dukla kit; some people going for the 1960s burgundy sleeve/gold shirt scheme with others opting for the somewhat more flattering, but certainly inaccurate Home kit (colours reversed). And I’m certain I saw a goalkeeper.

The support band were rather good, but really, who comes to these things to hear the support? I figured the probability of my being the only person in the room who had never seen HMHB live before at about one.

There was a tap on my shoulder. ‘You’re looking very clean and nice tonight.’ It was A3.

‘I didn’t have time to think about dressing the part,’ I said.

‘I thought I was the most conservative-looking person in here until you turned up.’ (At this point a very large Goth woman of a certain age bounced by, facial piercings all a-jangle, waving her Joy Division oven gloves madly.)

The music, incidentally, was very good. It’s always a pleasure to be somewhere where people are actually interested in the music rather than chain-smoking and screaming dull conversation at their duller friends; at other gigs I have been tempted to buy the shirt I spotted once that said SHUT THE FUCK UP – THE BAND IS PLAYING (on the back as well as the front), but that night there would have been no need for it.

Did we enjoy it? Yes, undoubtedly. I was aware of A3’s proximity to me, especially as we edged towards the mosh pit, and halfway through, when his hands rested gently on my shoulders, then my waist, then my hips, and I was certain he was sniffing my hair but I wasn’t going to move, because to do so would certainly have made him stop.

A2 has always accused me of not-so-secretly holding a torch for A3. (And his point is…?) He’s right, of course, I probably would drop everything if someday A3 rang to say he and his girlfriend had split. But I equally expect that will never happen – both the ringing and the splitting – so have to live with the inevitable disappointment every time we do meet alone.

We sang along to most of the songs, and I slowly inched back towards A3, tilting my head to his chest, feeling the warmth of his body. We’ve kissed only a few times, and that was, what, two World Cups ago? Eventually I did have to peel away, to get down the front for the encore, and then we made a quick escape from the club, and ran all the way to the train station.

I laughed, panting, we had made it with a few minutes to spare. A3 patted the seat next to him. We sat on the platform, trying to remember which songs the band had played, and in what order (as were more than a few others fresh from HMHB). ‘So, what time’s your train?’ I asked.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘I’ve booked a room in town.’

‘Oh, you should have said.’ He gave me a look. I hate the look. You know it – the look of someone who likes playing the come-here-go-away game, but is mortally offended when you call his bluff. ‘I mean, I could have booked a room myself. We might have gone for a few more drinks or something. Or you could have come back and stayed at mine – in the spare room, of course.’

He ruffled my hair as the train came in. ‘On your way,’ he said.

‘Good night.’

‘It was, it certainly was.’

It’s been some time since I’ve done an FAQ, and seeing as it’s the start of a new year and all that, it might be useful to do another.

So, where do you live these days?

North of London, and I’ll leave it at that. Might be Watford, might be Wick.

How did the book thing work out, in the end?

Not a nice experience, but a useful one. Useful to meet some talented and clever people in the book biz. Useful to experience the ins-and-outs of being published without having to suffer a book tour. Useful in the sense that an occasional reminder that envy and smugness are baseline personality traits of humans is no bad lesson.

What did you do with all the dosh?

There wasn’t nearly as much dosh as one might imagine. Less than was being reported; more than most first-time authors make (but only a bit). Enough to secure a respectable house in a respectable area. Not enough to retire to Mustique and live out the rest of my days being hand-fed slivers of papaya by nut-brown natives.

What are your current living arrangements?

I live with one boyfriend, aged 32, who is only home at the weekends. Also one kitten, aged 20 weeks, who is there all the time.

Do you still keep in touch with N/the four As/Angel/OOP?

Yes, though he’s well domesticated now and so rarely available; as much as ever; good god no, though I did see her in Germany last year where we studiously avoided each other; we meet for coffee and to swap relationship horror stories every few months.

Have you picked your Desert Island Discs, just in case?

Hasn’t everyone?

When is the series on Channel 4 coming out?

It isn’t. I learned this not through any of the expected channels, but by a chance comment on the scriptwriter’s blog (at least it leaves her free to do more beautiful things, as she cheerily pointed out). Le sigh.

Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?

Yes, but while they are not a secret from the people who know me in real life, they are most definitely a secret from this blog. What I can say is that they don’t involve losing weight, exercising more or stopping drinking/smoking/drugs/weekly jaunts to Beijing/whatever.

How do you feel about blogging/society/new media/etc…

You know what? I don’t care. Conferences about new media? Don’t care. Fourteen-year-olds committing suicide on their MySpace pages? Don’t care. I’m glad to have had the opportunity to write two books – would you have turned that down? But I’m equally glad I don’t have to make the media rounds, being asked about what blogging “means”. It doesn’t mean anything, any more than books as a species mean something. No one ever asks what newspapers and telelvision “mean” (though perhaps they should). I’m glad to return to real life now, and not have to big up blogging in order to earn a crust.

Was the blog worth it, in the end?

On balance, yes. I didn’t lose anything that was worth keeping.

Any advice for someone looking to give up the office grind and work as a freelance writer/novelist?

So you want to be a writer… you and everyone else. There are two ways to get published: know people or get lucky. I got lucky, and there are similarly two requirements for that: work hard and have balls. Twiddling around on a laptop with two thousand words you wrote in 2002 is not going to get you published – a novel is about forty times that length. Also, writing don’t pay the bills. Even after two moderately successful books, I still have to go to work. If you are very, very lucky and do very, very well, you just might get out of debt and have a smallish amount to put in an ISA, because in case no one ever mentioned it, there is no such thing as a pension scheme for freelance. And I have to write shitty pieces for shitty magazines about things I’d rather not, so expect that you will have to too.

Any shout-outs?

Apart from making fun of some of my lame exes and their so-called careers, no.

And were you really a call girl?

But of course.