Diversions

Not, of course, due to the impressive lack of attention I've paid to my reading list (I like to think of "suggested summer reading" in the same vein as the "suggested recipes" for apricot chicken crunch on the side of a cornflake packet '“ to be attempted only in times of severe boredom, and largely indigestible when you do).

No, it's because I seem to have forgotten how to speak proper.

Or rather, most of my summer's wordsmithery was conducted in the virtual realms of the Herald computer system and, ever the model for articulate literacy, Facebook.

So while the connection between my brain and fingers has been worked to a level of fitness such as to ensure I need never fear Pacman defeat again, my brain-to-mouth connection has been reduced to that of a seven-year-old, or football commentator.

I feel like I've taken Night Nurse and it hasn't worn off yet, or possibly that I'm still operating on dial-up while the rest of the world had switched to broadband.

It's become standard for each of my sentences to have a large gap in the middle where I flail my arms around and stare into the middle distance while my companions shout out suggestions for the word I'm looking for.

It's like charades, but without the Christmas leftovers or threat of a resulting family feud.

More embarrassingly, when the grey matter fails me I've started inventing my own replacement words '“ "diseasery", "hyperchondriacness" and "splendidment" are all genuine examples of speaky stupidness I've produced in the last month, unaided even by alcohol, elderly stilton or other intoxicants.

However, I have two comforts. Firstly, that my verbal idiocy appears to be contagious '” my flatmate Kirsty has started using words that rhyme with the word she actually wants, to creative results. This week she explained some nasal twitching with the pithy phrase "I'm sorry, I thought I was going to cheese".

And secondly, I have a suspicion I'm actually doing sterling work for the development of the English language. I like to think Douglas Adams, author of the supremely brilliant The Deeper Meaning of Liff, in which he used English place names to define concepts "there aren't words for yet", would be proud of my linguistic creativity.

So in his honour, I've used a London tube map to knock up a few of my own:

- Rotherhithe (verb): Upon realising just before you leave the house that one's phone is about to run out of battery, the act of plugging it into the charger for all of three minutes, stand over it flapping one's hands and willing the energy bars to increase with your eyes. Which it never will because you're not magic.

- Theydon Bois (noun): The precise window of time in which it's ok to tell an acquaintance you've forgotten their name. After the Theydon Bois had passed, social interaction becomes potentially awkward as the nameless party can only be referred to as 'darling' or 'mate' and can never be introduced to anybody.

- High Barnet (noun): Proven to be the only characteristic Amy Winehouse and Margaret Thatcher have in common.

- Shadwell (noun): The type of person who always believes he can lick his own elbow and fold a piece of paper more than seven times, despite persistent attempts proving otherwise. Shadwells enjoyed their heyday in the mid 90s, with Noel's House Party and The Generation Game giving them prime showcase.

- And finally, Perrivale (verb): To end a piece of work, such as one's newspaper column, in an abrupt and lazy manner because you've realised you've reached your word count, your flatmate's making cheese on toast downstairs (or "cheesing on toast" if the verb is to be continued), and you can't think of any more clever things to say, anyway.