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It is a cold, crisp morning; the sort that draws an involuntary wince when the twin comforts of a snuggie, and the remnants of warm tea are withdrawn somewhat suddenly. Having not visited the gym in two weeks and a few days - blame my trip to the middle of nowhere, not my laziness - the plan is to drag myself there at some stage over the course of the day. The dry, sunny vista that greets my eyes looking out onto Pittodrie beguiles me into kitting myself out in my gym get-up; which is how at the ungodly hour of 9am on a Saturday I am high tailing the 700 yards or so from my house to the gym. The forty-five minute amble on the treadmill passes by uneventfully enough - today there are neither svelte, graceful does nor brawny, over-fit ones to terrorise me, or show me up for the lazy bum I am.. ...

Feeling chilly in the westerly breeze is how BBC weather describes the start to the day, and walking briskly from my house to the bus station, I ponder just how right that prediction is in spite of how well I think I am wrapped up - thermal undershirt, long sleeves, a fleece and a wind breaker notwithstanding. I have always thought it interesting just how well predictions of lousy well work as opposed to ones which promise warm, dry spells, or not. Confirmation bias maybe? ...

The one slight positive from the events of the last few weeks has got to be the opportunity to start over. For one it is a big reset of sorts, one from which I hope I can learn. Rock bottom/ square zero’s great in that regards - having hit there, the only way is up, if there is any movement that is. Looking back over the year so far, and the bevy of girl shaped failures that litter it, an overt eagerness to gain clarity and definition appears to be one of the key recurring hurdles at which I have fallen. At first it was due to the need to gain some sort of closure on the wife plan as the 34th birthday loomed, and then the pressure to demonstrate progress to the hordes of interested, knowledgeable others. ...

I am carefully arranging the items in my shopping basket to make room for the 1800g tin of milk I have just taken off the shelf when someone to my left blurts out - Brossss.. Your Nidoooo milk no get part 2 o! So engaged in that most banal of tasks have I been that I have not noticed him until he has spoken, pretty much directly into my left ear, I might add. When I look up, his face has a vague familiarity to it. I give it a few seconds before I give up trying to place the face, and assume he is someone I have run into at church, or one of the multiplied baby birthdays I have been forced to attend this year. I smile and explain my thinking behind grabbing the big tin - I come to this African shop on the corner of George and Fraser’s only so often, and for what it’s worth I try to make it worth my while. ...

I’d like to think that looking for sympathy has never been my thing, but if it was, the circumstances of the tiff with Tee were never going to get me any. Nothing epitomised that better than my veritable wing woman K. In fairness to her, she had voiced several concerns over a month ago when the noises about moving to America had begun to get louder. It was in fact one of those conversations that led to her concluding that I was hell bent on getting myself hurt. ...

Sinking… and feeling for rock bottom is the sense of where I feel I am at the moment; very much like the proverbial lead sinking in water. The thing with Tee rather than being the primary cause of this latest bout of malaise helped precipitate it, not least being the most recent of a string of setbacks in the girl department running through the year. There’s work, and the fact that the guys I currently work for recently lost a major service contract they had held for the better part of 8+ years. With that has come the potential for staff moves, down-sizing and all the other fun and games associated with trying to bring overhead down. Even though my own role seems safe amidst this sea of change, there is the additional complication of the particular client I support shuttering activity on the plant I work for. My UK visa is tied to my employer so the uncertainty associated with work, or not working does leave the mind in jitters. Another layer of complexity is the fact that I want to do something different. Having spent the greater part of the last 10 years - since December 2003 - in topside pressure system asset integrity, I do want to get my teeth into subsea materials and corrosion a lot more than my current role might allow… ...

Tee and I had the talk, from which it transpired she wants/ can only be just friends with me. The bulk of that conversation was her version of the well-worn, if clichéd it’s not you, it’s me spiel.. One can only handle being told about being a great guy with a great heart so many times before it begins to ring hollow, like the copout I have always felt it is… ...

It is very nearly a month since I gave the #52SmallChanges project any kind of intentionality. I could blame a mini season of depression occasioned by my fixation on S, or the fact that I have upcoming exams I am freaking out about, or work - which I have had loads of. Bottom line is I haven’t been on the money with regards to the small changes I was meant to be progressing through till the next birthday. The barely there silver lining though is besides the ‘get more sleep’ change, I’ve pretty much kept up with the new habits I have picked up in the first three weeks. ...

Against my better judgement – and that not for the first time – I call S on Sunday evening. Predictably she doesn’t answer her phone. The first and only acknowledgement of the missed call comes on Tuesday night, a full fifty-two hours later, when she texts to apologise for missing my call, citing being tied up with chores and ironing. Given she is someone I have been trying to get a face to face with since early July; and who pulled out of yet another agreement in principle to meet up the Thursday before the Sunday on which I call her citing busyness again; it does begin to strain the limits of credulity to imagine these are just random, real limitations on time as opposed to a fully intentional strategy to avoid meeting up. ...

Standing at the window looking out - as I am wont to do on most slow Fridays - waiting for our old, creaky coffee machine to piddle out water for my cup of tea, G. asks me if I am ‘talent’ spotting. I do not ask what exactly he means, but there can be no ambivalence here. The coffee machine sits right next to a large window, with a view which although largely taken up by monolithic grey, granite buildings does include enough of the perennially busy street to provide a feast for sore eyes on most days. Unfortunately on this occasion there is no talent to be spotted. It is that nearly dead period just before lunch hours kick in across the city where most serious talent is locked behind desks squirrelling away at work rather than strutting their stuff across the streets. The clear nip in the air also means that what sparse talent there might be is very well covered up, the skimpy summer outfits now replaced by coats and scarves. G. and I moan about the weather - it is predicted to hover between 10 and 14 degrees all weekend with a smattering of showers here and there; hardly the kind of weather to inspire any serious weekend plans. The darned autumn I suppose. ...