New play arriving slowly ... perhaps 82 pages ... write one and a half pages ... write it out four times ...drain it down to ten lines ... leafing through Denton Welch's JOURNALS; it's 1942, he is dying from a spinal injury, riding a bike across the Home counties, feverishly trying to sell his short stories, munching strawberry tarts, observing naked sailors in long grass after swimming, constant alertness for nosey neighbours in village. He hears Noel Coward meeting an actress -''Saw your show last week, Mr Coward, never laughed once''. NC replies ''that's interesting. I saw your shoe last night and I never stopped laughing''. Something elusive in this pastness. Where is the social knife in between the dainties?

Have had an ICD implanted under my skin. Heart has AF. There is a wire through the ventricle. The ICD is a kind of very new pacemaker. When the heart stops, it fires a 360 volt bolt into the heart. Invited out to new friends. Supper with eight very highly paid Local Authority executives. One couple boast about their six pensions. Another guest, new to me, commences to pour poison on Ian Tomlinson, the newsvendor who was clubbed to death by a plod whilst innocently walking home from work through the G20 demonstration. Lost my temper. Started to shout. Heart must have shot up to assumed 160 pm. Suddenly the ICD hit me with its 360 volts. Chair flew back. Panic. Wasn't about to drop dead in front of them after winning the argument. Tottered outside into Brixton. Two more kicks from the ICD, and the heart came back, dropping to 70-ish pm. Legs jelly. Sweating away. Slow to get home. Indoors, the phone rang. My son George. Told him. He pissed himself with laughter. How much is that ICD worth? About £15,000. ''Now, Dad, you don't sound so good. I'm gonna put you on EBAY before it's too late!'' Glass of water. Read a bit ... Denton Welch still networking away. Lemon Scones now with Edith Sitwell. The ICD giving murmuring tremors in my shoulder. Faint premonitions of unfinished business with cardiac arrest. And not a plod in sight. Erhm ...that social knife?