The only problem with having a bright idea is that someone else has probably already had it first.
It was my intention to write to Channel 5 with a concept for a game show that I once saw on Australian TV whilst living in Sydney and which I soon became hooked on.
I was going to sell that idea for £2.25 million (despite not having the rights to it) and retire to the Hotel du Cap Eden Roc in the South of France, to live the rest of my life smeared in Hawaiian Tropic, basking in the sun and wolfing down plates of foie de veau and crevettes.
Then I noticed that Channel 4 recently discovered 'Deal or No Deal' for themselves and my plan was scuppered. Whilst it's no Crystal Maze, it's still, if you'll excuse the profanity, damned good viewing.
It even seems as though the concept of asking a glut of celebrities to rally around a total unknown in order to raise money for charity, has been done before.
Only yesterday I was informed about the work of Andy Gotts, a photographer, who spent 8 years taking snapshots of A-listers, each subject being asked to refer Mr Gotts on to another of their A-list friends in a form of '6 degrees of separation'. I on the other hand have just 7 months and am far too shy to ask for referrals.
So anyway none of this news has helped my general mood and melancholy air. My recent mildly depressive mindset has come about through a number of factors:
My failure to yet break through the '30 Meeting' barrier.
My failure to get a solitary response in the last week.
My failure to interiew a potential new flatmate who isn't either a) insane b) Austrian or c) an accountant.
My failure to secure 'extra borrowing' on my mortgage (due to peanuts income).
The fact that my most serious relationship in the last two months has been with Lara Croft.
The fact that my left lung hurts when I inhale.
Today I greeted Nicky Clarke, bless him. In my opinion, the world needs more Nicky Clarkes. Not only is he a gifted craftsman, teasing the hair of his customers into a state of sheer perfection and thus providing a valuable service to improve the lives of countless women, but he is also prepared to offer some of his precious time to aid some daft bloke complete his daft celebrity meeting project.
I left work early to attend Nicky's salon in Mayfair and emerged blinking into the crisp November air at Bond Street tube station at 5.15pm. Fortunately there was no cold November rain about but It was still 45 minutes pre-handshake time.
It was here that the pungent Oxford Street aroma hit me, a smell which is no doubt familiar to so many frantic shoppers. That sickly sweet smell of nuts being swilled around a wokfullof of sugar and being roasted by a man who to be fair, was not altogether hygenic looking. The sign read 'caramel roasted nuts', but judging by the proximity of this cooking apparatus to one of the busiest thoroughfares in one of the busiest cities in the world, a more accurate description would have been 'part peanut, part soot, part caramel, part carbon monoxide, part sulphur dioxide and a trace of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons'.
The other familiar smell was the cloying stench that was oozing out of every scented-candle shop, which instantly reminded me that there was only 51 shopping days until Christmas, and that I now know what to buy for everyone I hate.
So it was, in this queasy state, that I made my way down South Molton Street, around Grosvenor Square, past fortress US Embassy and onto Mayfair.
Noticing that I was still 35 minutes early, I decided to do a quick circuit of Berkely Square in the hope of finding a discrete watering hole. I stopped briefly outside Annabels to consider whether or not I should pop in and enquire about membership prices but then I realised that I was wearing the wrong shoes, wrong clothes, wrong face.
Eventually I found a crowded little pub, the sort of pub that I like, ie instead of being full of polished wood and chrome, has a migraine inducing patterned carpet and thick curtains and could double up for your average living room in Penge. So I had a wee dram of the rare mountain dew, completed the Sudoku puzzle on the back of a beermat (fantastic idea) and retraced my way back to Nicky's salon.
I didn't have to wait by reception for too long, before I was whisked upstairs, where my generous host was midway through applying curlers to the hair of a very glamerous young lady. Interrupting him made me feel a little guilty, but he really was nice as pie and within 30 seconds of having the photos taken, I was out of everyone's hair for good.
Because they swept it up.
And so what we have here, not the first time, is a picture showing the smiling face of one of the 500 celebrities on my list, next to my ridiculous gurning and unphotogenic expression. Unbelievably enough, once again I look like a cross between a startled camel and the class idiot in some backwater Mississippi school. Amazing.
Have a good weekend.