We live in interesting times.

And that is a pity. Interesting can often lead to exciting, and that way trouble lies.

Have you ever thought of spicing down your life with dullness? I'm being imperfectly serious. And I'm not the only one.

Tomorrow, at the Conway Hall in Londonshire, a momentous event will not take place. Instead, the Boring Conference, an annual one-day celebration of the mundane, will offer a series of presentations guaranteed to pique your ennui.

The bland will lead the bland with topics including "Stratford shopping centre", "Quiet evenings in the Moriglen Care home", and "Postcard depictions of Post Office Tower".

Conference organiser James Ward, who has never knowingly caused a stir with his less than riveting price label collection, prefaced the event with this important announcement: "The seating arrangement will be the same as last year's, complying with British Conference Hosts' Association guidelines, sections 4, 8, 9 and 358."

However, so-called Mr Ward caused consternation among militant dullards by changing the brand of plastic cup that will be available during the low-key proceedings.

You may think this all tongue-in-cheek, an interesting expression formerly used to signify contempt. Indeed, consulting at leisure the fascinating compendium Wikipedia, I am able to bring you this news: an early use of the phrase in that sense appeared in Tobias George Smollett's enervating potcooler The Adventures of Roderick Random. That was published in 1748, you know.

I have forgotten what I was talking about (reader's voice: "Yay!"), even if, in the strictest sense, I was not talking at all. Oh yes, the conference being tongue-in-the-side-of-the-face.

Maybe. But, if so, that fleshy, muscular organ of an oral disposition salivates over a seriously insipid point. To wit: dull is good.

Boredom promises order, routine, predictability. It's said also to be the prerequisite for creativity, but I don't think we want to go there.

More prosaically, the cultivation of boredom is necessary for many careers, notably the law, particularly if you've ambitions to be a clerk in a civil court. I have sat through such proceedings, leaving the depressing excitement of a busy newsroom to plonk myself wearily down at the back of an undecorated space where the only thrilling sound came from an electric fan.

In such circumstances, it's necessary to compose the face and to steel oneself against the temptation to bang one's forehead rhythmically off the desk. One must merely sit, like a common or garden statue. It's a form of self-discipline that could make a strong man weep.

Such mind-sapping practices lie at the heart of eastern philosophy, increasingly popular in the materialist west, while materialism gains favour in the mystical east. You'll have heard of Zen, where one aims to clear the mind entirely, becoming not bovine but merely empty, thus allowing the universe to enter the heid. And what is the universe made up of, brothers and sisters? Exactly: nothing.

Arguably more wearisome is mindfulness meditation, where one does not worry about the future or dwell in the past, but becomes hyper-aware of the present. Thus, one merely notes that one is sitting down, that there is the monotonous drone of an electronic lawnmower nearby, that the temperature is adequate, that one's bottom is keen to blow a raspberry.

Uninspired enthusiasts may then go on to focus on their breathing. It comes in. It goes out. Ad, so to say, infinitum. In a sense, one might as well be dead, which in my view is an under-rated condition.

Ho, as it were, hum. But to return to the problem of this conference or colloquium (from the Latin colloqui, to converse). Already, it is attracting interest, which would seem to me a prima facie reason to cancel it.

A full examination of the programme reveals that additional topics for rumination include "Gasometers", "Diaries of ordinary people", and "Camping on motorway roundabouts".

Once, many years ago, I camped - and this is no word of a lie or untruth - outside a motorway service station at Knutsford, a town situated on the Cheshire Plain, nine miles north-west of Macclesfield. It was one of the most unsettling evenings of my admittedly uneventful life.

I can still recall, almost nasally, the smell of stale chips from a fast food outlet. I am welling up here. So, no, I will not be attending the Boredom Conference in so-called London. I bet it has a disco and everything.