Lots of travelling in recent weeks, dear reader — hence a slight slowdown in blogging activity.

Thought stifles action used to be my mantra — the more you think about things the less you find yourself capable of actually doing. These days, I find it’s almost the same with writing — you can spend too much of your life writing about stuff and not enough time getting out there and doing it. And don’t get me started on the soi-disant ‘social networking’ site, Facebook. Nothing social — or indeed, networky — to my mind about sitting in of an evening, alone but for your broadband connection.

Which takes me off in another direction — did anyone see Love, Virtually the other night on C4? Girls, girls, girls, don’t you see these dating websites are tapping into your worst neuroses? Take the girl who said, 'I might be a minger in real life but I photograph well… ' Err, so what happens when they meet you? (She wasn’t a minger by any stretch, by the way.) Or the one who said she then read his Facebook page and tried to work out who that girl was he was pictured with? Or how about the one who said, ‘Oh, blokes are the worst for forgetting to come off dating sites one they’ve started going out with you.’ Forgetting? Oh, my poor love, do you honestly think they’ve forgotten? They haven’t forgotten, they’re just hedging their bets. What unspoken rule says they should put all their eggs in your basket until such time as they go off that basket and plump for another one?

My advice is, log off right this minute, ring up a mate or work colleague and get yourself down the pub, where you never know who you might bump into. Nothing beats real-life chemistry, call it the face-to-face book if you like, for seeing if you like what’s in the window. Better still, why not go to a comedy event? I remember at The Mighty Boosh last year seeing two girls being chatted up by two boys sitting behind them, dressed in Mexican attire (can’t remember which episode that was in tribute to, and admittedly, that look wouldn’t exactly have been a winner in my book, but full marks for effort, lads). I thought at the time that a shared sense of humour — preferably warped — is a great start. (Worked for my Partner in Crime, although I do wince at times these days at what comes out of the mouth or pen of Frankie Boyle, his comic of choice.)

Anyway, travelling is the topic, not relationships. Been to Siena (for a wedding in the Tuscan Hills, oh, La Dolce Vita), been to Latitude (oh, the humour of Phil Jupitus and Marcus Brigstock and the ballet of Matthew Bourne and the spirited guitar-playing of Rodrigo Y Gabriela), and then to Northampton where mates have bought a handsome pile for a song compared to what you get in Brighton. (We’re househunting right now so don’t get me started on house prices.)

And my conclusion after many, many (too many) hours in a car? Let’s go by train next time. I don’t deny I enjoyed the break from commuting, but five hours to get to Lowestoft, five hours to get to Northampton, three hours to Stansted, adds up to a lorra, lorra hours on the M25. If only we’d had better radio reception in the car; if only we’d changed the CDs occasionally; if only we’d had my iPod gizmo working so we could hear umpteen different tunes. If only we could have both relaxed, as we would have done on the train. If only, it must be said, the train had been cheaper — it cost £40 in petrol to Northampton, £110 by train. And the hotel virtually threw in the parking at Stansted.

Time to stay at home and blog for a while now, methinks. And the same goes for all the thousands who we shared exasperated moments with — not least the friendly folk who all got out and stretched legs just in front of the Dartford Tunnel when we ground to a complete halt. Drivers, friendly? Who'd have thought it? But they — we — are actually quite nice when we get together face to face. There I go again — I can feel a theme coming on here. Don't you agree?