Being followed by documentary filmmakers can be very distracting. I am kept constantly aware of the intrinsic dullness of my actions by the mere fact of their scrutiny. The camera's glare is uncharitable and impatient. I find myself adding little ornamental flourishes to the simplest gestures in a desperate bid to make my life appealing to an abstract crowd of strangers. This will only work if the audience turns out to be populated with admirers of bizarrely effeminate neurotics with a tendency to overperspire.

They make attempts to reassure me, promising that magic will happen in editing, that with some jumpy cutting in the contemporary style and a throbbing soundtrack my seemingly bland and eventless existence will appear positively dynamic and make the lives of most viewers feel plodding and inconsequential by comparison. Those sophisticated viewers who are not suckered by such technical manipulation will feel superior to me and perhaps pity me, embarrassed on my behalf. I am told that research suggests that the vast majority of the viewing audience will fall clearly into one of these two camps, and that the only ones to worry about are those few who feel nothing at all, whose feelings about me and themselves are left unaltered. The goal is the creation of fresh contempt; whether it's directed inward or outward is of no real consequence.