So it's been a while, and I barely know where to begin. Perhaps I should start with today...

I feel like a mousing cat this evening for some reason; all round black hunting eyes and darting tail. With a bit of a hyper go go remix; maybe of a dodgy pop dance chart tune you'd never own up to liking: frenetic, cheesy, euphoric. The energy's coming direct from my gut ...yet I could feel it in the wind earlier. Vibes in abundance... odd occurrences, too many little synchronicities... I'm not sure where the divide is between the worlds. Is it simply post-aftermath chemical bounce back from D-Percussion? All the spiritual awakening that's been going on amongst the women I'm aquainted with? Just feeling alive again after a holiday? Well, whatever it is, there be magic afoot.

Earlier on I sat in Jam Street writing up case studies about parental involvement in Wythenshawe schools. Two young-ish guys in suits blew in and introduced themselves before offering me a job on the spot as PA to Max, the younger of the two. I mean perhaps I looked a bit scruffy and broke, but wtf? Their new business venture, to be launched soonish at the new Manchester Hilton at the top of the Beetham Tower, is the Manchester franchise of the Ibiza Angels . From what I can fathom the angels are troupes of girls in white thai pants providing 'T'ai Chi' massage to beautiful people at vapid London media events & shite corporate Ibizan clubs.

Max showed me a powerpoint presentation whilst standing up. I noticed he didn't connect up somehow in the way he ordered his speech, like someone with mild mania. They kept saying their heads were all over the place. Apparently Kate went to their last party in London. They bought me drinks and literally offered me the T shirt, complete with winged lady design moniker, all the contacts I could possibly want from their glib PR-speak-infused world, plus a fairly crap wage, in exchange for some afternoons of emailing and phone calls. I played along.

Daryl recognised me from the door of the Bothered Tsunami bash at the Southern (wtf). He seemed so local, oddly familiar with all my usual reference points. All this, yet still not quite tripping the alarm bells. In someone with antennae sharpened by teenage waiting around Blackpool bus station, that's quite a feat. And despite clocking him watching me at a different cafe last week, marking him down as some ageing chorlton sauncer

Anyway I blew the job when I asked Max (model looks, absolutely no idea) why he'd not taken the opportunity to shoot James Blunt in the face when he was star guest at an event they'd organised in Ibiza. Oh well never mind eh. So why did the whole episode feel like some kind of surreal test? Kind of scripted, even expected, like deja-vu.

Similar themes ensued, repeating themselves throughout the day in other combinations.