2005-01-17 - 11:14 a.m.

So I passed off that fake coin buying a drink in Subway. Suckers. I did this at the same time as cashing in my two full loyalty cards. This is always a bitter-sweet moment, because you get the huge sandwich for free, but you know that means you are back at square one and several weeks away from the next free one, but the feeling of deflation was cushioned by indulging in this laundering of money, gangster-like activity.

I may even have to go gangster full time as I just this second found out that we are all being laid off at the classified ads paper � I mean, I did manage to stretch a four week contract out to over two and a half years, but even so. Hello unemployment, my old friend.

All this is coupled with finding out that my gangster nickname would have to something along the lines of Pablo �Dry Eyes� Kickasso, my optometrist helpfully confirming on Friday that I have severe dryness of the eyes. I never like hearing a medical summary that involves the word �severe�, unless it�s going to be something like �severe improvement of the immune system�, or �severe good health for the foreseeable future�.

Severe dryness of the eyes is fairly unglamorous as conditions go, though, and in terms of seriousness, is perhaps on a par with severe dandruff or severe hairiness of the ear. There�s no rush to book you into a hospital and get to work on things, anyway. After a half hour examination, including that thing where they shine a thin, bright light into your pupil and you feel like crying, I have some drops and a five week wait.

I don�t know what it is about my body and the regulation of its liquids. I�m already a salivary gland down, cruelly wrenched from me in its prime, and which obviously affects my spitting, and now my crying looks to be under threat, too. Honestly, what will be the point of watching Dead Poet�s Society any more?

Next thing you know I won�t be able to sweat or have a wee. I�m going to become 95% water.

Still, it will be nice not to be able to show any remorse when I am out dispensing gangster justice full time. I got in some good early practice at a different sandwich shop near Victoria trains station at the weekend.

As I queued to pay, a malodorous skank-monger off her mash on god knows what sidled up to me and asked me how to get to King�s Cross, obviously upping the chances of her being a drugged-out prozzy. I asked her how she wanted to get there, offering the tube as the most convenient means. �How the fuck should I know?� was her edifying reply, and one that didn�t really encourage me to help her any further.

I went back to concentrating on my queuing, which didn�t go down too well as she had obviously singled me out as the person who was going to guide her home, a job without any obvious perks other than the warm glow of helping out a sweary junkie with perfume that doubled as a de-lousing agent.

I did my best �I�m now going to ignore you now� stance, which to her credit, she countered with her best �I�m going to call you a wanker in my loudest voice� display. I had to move to another queue in case anyone thought I was her cruel-hearted, unable-to-shed-a-tear boyfriend or something, which displeased her even more.

It was about then that she decided to try and punch me.

Now, I�m a runner, not a fighter, but luckily the punch wasn�t so much sign-posted as lit up in neon with its own expensive pyrotechnics display. I�ve seen doped up sloths throw quicker punches than that, and I even had time to have an internal dialogue regarding the ethics of defending oneself against a (slowly) rampaging harpy.

Anyway, I dodged by moving three inches to my right.

And then I took her out.

OK, strictly speaking, I politely complained and had the teenage Assistant Manager take her out (of the shop), but gangsters shouldn�t need to constantly prove their credentials, after all. Yep. Ol� Dry Eyes is back.