Riding MUNI, the San Francisco transit system, hasn't been nearly as bad as I expected. I only have to ride it, in any case, after work, when I go to the gym; and it turns out that it's actually quicker than driving since I'm taking the underground streetcar line that runs from the Embarcadero, a few blocks from my apartment, to the Castro, a block from my gym. It gives me a rest break, and a break from the frustration of my usual mad drive through rush-hour traffic. It reminds me of when I used to take the Underground in London each day - I used to spend the journey looking around the cabin, making up stories in my head about the people I saw. It provides a little bit of extra humanity that is missing when you spend your entire time in a car.

The only real negative I've seen so far is that I arrive at the gym just about ready to take a nap. Yeah, if I drive to the gym, it's a load of stress, since I have to not only cross Market Street, but also get around the traffic waiting to get onto the Bay Bridge. But the adrenalin charge that I get from wrestling with the traffic always leaves me fired up by the time I get to the gym. Road-rage - hmmm, I wonder if it's an effective alternative to the steroids that 50% of the other men at the gym are on.

I feel bad, sometimes, that I so frequently write about the same old stuff. And I sympathise with those that find that boring; of course there's a ready remedy - don't read it! I've never claimed to live a "fabulous" life. And, believe me, I too get bored with these subjects - they're forever whirling around in my mind like a tornado, scraps of information being sucked in, feeding the frenzy. Maybe one of these days, the whirlwind will come to a stop and I'll actually come to some answers. The alternative is that the whirlwind gets out of control and cuts a destructive path through my life's otherwise placid landscape.

So why do I keep writing? Apart from the sheer need to express myself, I know that some readers get something out of it. Almost every time I write, I get at least one email from someone who identified with some aspect of my humdrum life; and the fact that I'd written about it, illuminated it in their own life and gave them a new perspective, or brought back happy memories. It leaves me feeling a small glow - that I've done a tiny little bit to change the world.

Besides, I think most peoples' lives can seem small and insignificant if you're not a player in them. And it's the lives of these kind of people that don't get broadcast. So think of me as speaking up for the ordinary, quiet guy!

And think yourself lucky that, appearances to the contrary, I do hold back - I don't just throw it all out there. I do want to keep some of you as readers, after all. There's a fine line between expressing myself truly, and keeping it interesting. If I wrote, for example, week after week, about my career frustrations - how, at times, I've felt completely lost and helpless - yes, a few would identify. But most of you would end up either pitying me (which I'd hate), or recoiling with distaste. I'm just not a good enough writer to make such introspection compelling. So I keep it to myself, mostly, and my career counsellor - where it probably belongs.