Suddenly, I'm in an alien environment. Not that my home is particularly other-worldly - I don't have to navigate my way through surreal H.R. Geiger-esque landscapes to find the kitchen, or clamber over moonrocks to get to the bathroom - but it's a strange place to be, just the same.
It's strange because I shouldn't be here now. Not really. Not during the week. I should be at work. That's what proper people do Monday to Friday. They go out and earn a 
crust, instead of idly doodling away at keyboards or noodling away on guitars.
It's strange because it feels so distant, so far away from everything I took for granted for so long. It's only Ealing for heaven's sake, but if feels like a completely different world. A world that's cut off from the rest of civilisation.
I didn't really notice the strangeness of it for a month or so.
At first, the phone would ring a dozen times a day, and new emails would regularly ping their cheery way through, delivering messages of support, condolences, suggestions and invitations. I still felt part of it all. I still felt connected. I almost still felt busy.
Then, as the weeks went by, the calls got fewer and further between and the emails gradually dried up, until getting my penis enlarged was the only offer in my inbox. No offers of work. No-one offering to meet me for a pint and a chat. Just the promise of a bigger dick. And a link to hot babes on-line (which I suppose means your dick only virtually gets bigger, rather than actually necessitating an out-sized pair of boxers).
I've realised that it doesn't matter how many hopeful emails you send, how many calls you make, or how hard you try to stay in touch - once you're out of the club, your voice gradually gets fainter and fainter until you can't be heard at all. You're in a different space, and it's one that working people don't have the time or inclination to visit. Quite rightly.
Of course, as virtually every annoying bastard you meet in the boozer tells you (I know you're trying to be kind, but honestly it only exacerbates the situation - please just buy me a pint and talk about the football), this could be the best thing that's ever happened. It's a blessing in (a not very convincing) disguise. It's the chance to branch out, to move on and do something new.
The trouble with something new, however, is that by its very nature it's an alien world. And people aren't desperately keen to let you into it.
As complimentary as people have been about my writing, getting anyone to commission me for anything other than advertising work is like trying to get a Norwegian ref to give a penalty.
I was put up for a writing job a while ago, for example, but when I got in touch the headhunter (12 years old if he was a day), took one look at my CV and said, 'Sorry, this isn't for you. You're an advertising man, and they want a digital writer.' A digital writer? What do they do, then? Write in bloody binary?
I would have hoped that, having written award winning press and TV work for a huge range of clients over the years, not to mention having written DM, banners, comedy, speeches, brochures and even websites (covering subjects as disparate as the motor trade, insurance, incontinence pads and luxury golf clubs), he might have seen that I'm nothing if not versatile.
But the truth is, while one might have assumed that the brave new world of communication would offer all sorts of exciting possibilities for creative cross-fertilisation, the reality is that all that has been created are some nice new pigeon holes.
Still, even alien environments can be successfully explored if you've got the inclination and determination.
A couple of months ago, for instance, I thought the world of gypsy jazz guitar was inhabited by people very different from me. People with unnaturally dextrous hands and ears tuned-in to exotic harmonies. I, on the other hand, 
was from somewhere else entirely, where rockabilly and blues rule - OK?
But, thanks to no little blood sweat and tears, in a relatively short time I've actually evolved, and grown from a grunting leather clad rocker into a sophisticated manouche stylist.
Oh, all right, as anyone who knows me (or should I say used to know me) will tell you, I'm still a leather clad grunting rocker, and probably always will be. But at least I'm one that can now trip the light fantastic on the melodic minor scale, embellish things with a carefully chosen arpeggio or two and end with a nifty chromatic flourish. All with an enigmatic Gallic smile.
If only someone would let me flex my writing muscles…
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