I’m tired. Very tired. It’s a little after 4am San Francisco time - noon GMT - and I’m sitting in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow airport, thanking the lord for Boingo hotspots and trying to commit these few hundred words to cyberspace before the daylight finally penetrates my brain and my whole body goes into jet-lag meltdown.

And to think I was so organised 24 hours ago. My column was written - 1000 words on a big subject of the week; a big subject that I now can’t talk about, for reasons I also can’t talk about. Don’t ask.

Still, I’m a professional and there’s no use crying over spilt milk - I’ve spent five pounds on a coffee, opened a fresh Google Document and am all set to write am alternative column on  how happy I am to be back in London, and how excited I am for the opportunity to catch up with all the amazing and inspiring start-ups my erstwhile home has to offer.

But therein lies the problem. While I’m certainly happy to be here - it’s my 30th birthday tomorrow, and there is a party planned - the truth is, I’m just not all that excited about London’s current crop of dot com hopefuls.

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