Commuting erodes the soul.

Oh, not right away, not so as you'd notice after the first day, or even the first week, but over time. As you deal with the shovers, and the people taking up an extra seat for their bag, and the people who stand right in front of the doors when you're trying to get off the train (both inside and outside), and the cumulative hours of just standing in the train wishing desperately you were somewhere else. Slowly but surely, your soul is eroded, and eventually you become one of Them. A Commuter.

You start shoving with the rest, because there's no other way you can get a seat. You start pushing your way off the train because you can't stand to be in there a second longer than you have to. It's every man for himself and to hell with the rest of them.

I only really realised this today, when I allowed someone to get off the train in front of me and realised that this simple piece of courtesy had become the exception. So I'm going to try and remember to do that more often. It may only be the equivalent of a sticking plaster over a sucking chest wound, but sometimes that precious extra little slice of time is enough to save a life. As Paul Daniels was so fond of telling us, Every Second Counts.

I have on my desk a box of Twinings Assam tea bags, upon which is written the phrase “Traditional tasting tea”. It may just be me, but I think they're missing a hyphen there. Either that or the “Traditional drinking tea” was on a different shelf and I missed it.

Today I wish to pay my respects to a dear, recently departed companion. Ever at my side, ready at a moment's notice to spring to my assistance, asking nothing in return but to have the worst shaken off and be allowed to dry properly.^[1]

Rest well, faithful friend, stalwart deflector of wind, rain, sleet, hail and snow. You tried your best, struggle as we both did against the mighty gusts assailing the Wharf this autumn morn. But alas, 'twas to no avail – Dame Nature in her capriciousness destroyed you, bending your spars beyond hope of repair and finally leaving me, drenched and gasping, seeking what little shelter I could behind the little building next to the pedestrian crossing.

To Brolly. Rest in peace. We shall not see his like again.

Until lunchtime, anyway.

^[1] Admit it. At this stage, you're worried.

Today I would like to discuss condiments. In particular, spicy ones. Specifically, mustard. More specifically, the mustard I had on my sandwich at lunchtime.

Now, I have no objection to spicy food. My devotion to a good Thai green is well-known, I am very fond of chili, and indeed hot food of most stripes.

However. When a condiment's sole contribution to the meal is to totally obliterate all other flavours while simultaneously giving you the impression that your nostrils are aflame, I feel that perhaps it's gone too far. Why bother having anything else in your sandwich at all, if this is the sensation you seek?

Also, mint sauce is not supposed to be sweet. Damn you.

Here's a little thought exercise – if you were putting together a soundtrack for your movie, what tracks would it contain?

It's not necessarily your top ten favourite tracks of all time, because they might not work well soundtrack-wise. It's just the tracks that fit with the scenes in your head. Man.

Plus it doesn't have to be ten. It could be more. Mine is.

Here's my current one, in no particular order:

• Mas – Kinky
• Elements – Lemon Jelly
• Four Little Diamonds – Electric Light Orchestra
• Smartbomb – BT
• Carrera Rapida – Apollo Four Forty
• Marrakech – Hybrid
• I've Been To A Marvellous Party – The Divine Comedy
• The Perfect Crime – Apollo Four Forty
• Cosmic Dancer (2002 Remix) – Deepsky
• Ich Will – Rammstein
• Offshore (Original) – Chicane

So what's yours?