The experience, as arsenumbingly boring a night out as I've ever experienced, profoundly affected me in two ways.

Firstly, I vowed to never again take the safe route, to seize the day and live every day like it was my last.

Secondly, it gave me an intensely passionate hatred for the music of Billy Joel. To this day, just a few lines of 'Just The Way You Are' can instantly transform me into a ranting maniac.

Thus, moving to New York City, a town that loves the music of Billy Joel with a passion, was always going to be the equivalent of a vegetarian going to work in a butcher's shop.

I took some refuge in the fact that the Long Island tunesmith had long ago drifted into semiretirement, save the odd appearance in the papers whenever he drunkenly crashed his car into a tree.

A fragile peace had been brokered; the Piano Man stayed away from the keyboard, and I promised never to go on a killing spree triggered by the chorus of 'Tell Her About It'.

But then, in the past months, Joel released a CD box set of his 'finest' moments, the modestly entitled My Lives. I didn't get it for Christmas.

Not long afterwards, he announced some shows at Madison Square Garden.

And then some more.

And then more. Now, Billy Joel has sold out 13 nights at the Garden, beating The Stones, U2 and Elton and setting a new house record. We hear Billy's writing songs again, too.

It's hard not to take it personally.

My therapist says I'm suffering from Irritable Joel Syndrome. Is this what they call a New York State of Mind?