The Joyful Raconteur

Cracking good time

2006-03-10T18:46:00.000Z

I've been seeing another man recently. Nothing sordid, you understand (although it does involve me stripping down to my bra, something that now adds an extra 10-15 mins to my morning ritual as I desperately try to source clean lingerie from my poorly-stocked underwear draw (those new pants were a long time ago)). This new man in my life is giving my life a new lease thanks to his amazing skills in the back and neck cracking department. Yes, that's right, he's an Osteopath, and he's a fucking miracle worker.

Years! Years now I've had back and neck pain, cracking my way through life with hypermobility and joints that pop in and out at will. I finally went to see an Osteo after stupidly doing the full Locust in my yoga class (see Nanette doing it here, second pic down on the right). Thing is, being hypermobile (there's no such thing as double jointed, but it's basically what it means) makes you great at yoga, but just because you can do something doesn't mean you should. It certainly helps with the back pain, but I know full well I shouldn't be doing things that involve my neck. That's what you get for taking your ego to your yoga class.

Anyway, I've been seeing my lovely Osteo, Michael, and suddenly I discover that I don't have to live my life with constant neck pain anymore! Turns out, I stand all wrong, hold my head all wrong - haven't read the manual for correct body usage. Fantastic, think I, I'll be fixed up in no time once I've learnt how to stand all over again. Oh the joy! The rapture!

But there's a catch.

In order to correct my posture I need to:

1. Pull my head and neck back so that it's in line with my spine. Head should be tilted down.

I pointed out that this gives me a double chin, makes me look like a chinless wonder, and obliges me to look down all the time. Michael scoffed at my vanity and told me to open my eyes wider to help with the looking down thing.

2. Tilt my pelvis upwards.

This makes me look like I'm perpetually trying to avoid having someone pinch my bottom.

3. Bend my knees.

My legs over-bend and lock too much. Now I have to bend my knees, which has the benefit of ridding me of bow-legs. Of course, now I look knock-kneed instead.

4. Cross my eyes and bloat my stomach out into a pot-belly.

I made that last one up, but I may as well - in for a penny in for a pound. After all, I'm now a chinless wonder with bug eyes and knock knees.

Question is, is it worth suffering the misery of constant neck pain if I have to live out my life actively making myself look worse? Truly, there is no god. Although, if there were, this is just the kind of "test of your faith" shit he'd pull.

Joan Baez at the Barbican

2006-03-09T14:44:00.000Z

Took Milway's parents to see Joan Baez at the Barbican yesterday evening. Well, I say that, in truth it was all just an elaborate ruse to hide the fact that we wanted to go to see her, but needed something to blame it all on if she turned out to be bum-clenchingly bad.

We have a habit of going to see performers where the average age of the audience is 60, which I don't mind in the least (some of my best friends are old people) so long as the act is good. When we saw Macca a few years back I went in with pretty low expectations, being fully prepared for Sir Thumbsaloft to make me feel embarrassed on his behalf within the first 5 seconds. Miraculously, despite the fact he played Band on the Run, I found the whole experience to be hugely exciting and could well understand what induced those young females back into the sixties to scream themselves into a bawling husk.

Old Joannie rocked my world almost as much, but the sedate surroundings of the Barbican made it feel slightly more like we were the polite audience at some BBC recording when compared to the shriek-friendly environs of Earls Court. It was a shame really - all the polite clappping and half-hearted nostalgic cheers when Joan said something vaguely protestish made it feel a bit like we were in a room full of ex-hippies who now own barn conversions in Surrey, a chocolate Lab and a Subaru. Which, of course, we were.

She sounded great for her age (clean living Joan gets the last laugh over her husky contemporaries) and the warbles of her voice didn't get wearing as they often do when you're listening on CD. When she wasn't plucking away masterfully on her guitar, or rousing her sleepy audience to laughter with some sharp gags, she was miming along to the songs with dramatic movements that made her look like she was on strings - or attempting to walk through treacle. A great gal and a great gig - and all over at the very civilised hour of 9.30.

I am still alive

2006-02-27T19:11:00.000Z

Just not doing such a great job of actually writing this blog. But who can blame me - blogging is a bit of a busman's holiday for me to be honest. Funnily enough, though, writing about crocheting is an entirely different matter, which is why this now exists.

Good Hooking

I hate it when my friends become successful

2005-09-02T15:13:00.000Z

So there I am, minding my own business, mooching about on the internet when I should be working, and what do I find? A certain lady named Laura Solon has gone and won the Perrier Award. Obviously, I'm a bit behind on this one, but bear with me. I knew a woman had won but I'd skim-read her name every time. It took till yesterday for me to realise that I went to primary school with this girl. In fact, not only did I go to primary school with her, I also entirely hero-worshipped her. It's nice to know I have good taste in school-girl crushes, but I really could have done without being reminded that at the age of 6 I wanted to be her. I've no idea if her show is any cop or not, but since I remember her as being hilarious, I'm guessing it is.

I did actually bump into her a few years back at a bum-crushingly embarrassing primary school reunion that my friend organised by accident (long story). She was quiet as a mouse and painfully thin, and I didn't pluck up the courage to speak to her.

As soon as I saw the news, I rang my friend (the one who organised the reunion by mistake) and caught up with her. She was on TV herself, in fact, last year. She was the only sane one in a show about Findhorn and she's still living there now, on the beach. While I laugh at the hippy dippy faery frollicking stuff that goes on there, I am actually rather jealous of her rural, idyllic existence. Which is why I took the opportunity to invite myself up there at the next available opportunity. Good old Laura Solon.

In case you haven't noticed

2005-07-26T15:56:00.000Z

I'm not very good at keeping this thing on the go. There's plenty of reasons for this, but really it just comes down to the fact that if I want to blog (sort of) anonymously I can't write about all the interesting things I get up to without someone catching up with me, but if I blog out in the open I can't write truthfully about all the things I get up to (ie I can't be rude in case I get caught in the act). So I'm left with blogging about dull things that are best left for a personal diary or blogging about professional things (and there are already plenty of journo bloggers writing (mainly dull and/or catty) blogs about blogging and other journo bloggers and RSS feed issues and the politics of outbound linking). Or I could blog only nice things (ie. lies) about how I met the editor of so-and-so magazine and wasn't she just super. I could steer clear of my own life and pick another topic to blog on (TV, film, Porn, etc etc) . But I already do enough topic blogging for my day job. So until I think of some way round this leetle problem, I will mainly be here, here or here, but very rarely here.

Thanks for that

2005-07-08T13:14:00.000Z

Well done to all the bombers. You made your point eloquently and persuasively. There's not a soul out there now who's not willing to listen to your views and opinions after this - because, after all, it's a tactic that's worked so well in the past, isn't it now. Yes, what better way to get what you want by attacking innocent people and causing mayhem and chaos? After all, the UK is renowned for buckling under pressure from terrorists and generally getting all hysterical about the threat of bombs. Yes, yes, we're not at all used to dealing with maniacal egoists who indulge in their violent tendencies under the guise of a righteous cause. We Brits can't help but go to pieces as soon as any violence occurs, and we're famed throughout the ages for wimping out at the slightest little thing. Yep, there's no doubt about it, we're going to take this one lying down and you terrorists have certainly shown us a thing or to. Well done you.

What Katie did next

2005-06-27T10:23:00.000Z

Christ! If I'm not marrying the execrable Billy Joel, I'm cycling naked down a road in America at the age of 83
Katie Lee, 83, decided a few years ago that the townsfolk of Jerome,
Ariz., needed a good laugh. So she rode her bicycle down the town's main street
wearing nothing but socks and a helmet.

She's got blisters on the soles of her feet

2005-06-22T10:39:00.000Z

Yes, it's that time again! Time to put on your flip flops and reacquaint your feet with agony as you discover ever more new and interesting places to develop great pustules and sores. After months of sensible shoe-wearing my softened feet have taken the summer footwear policy badly and now almost every inch of them is covered with a red welt, gaping wound or weeping sore. And you can guarantee that by the time everything's healed up and toughened up, it will be time to put my socks back and protect my toes from the cold. And then comes the peeling as my newly thick-skinned tootsies shed their protective layer of hide and revert back to their original soft leather finish. And so the circle of life goes on.

Sour Milk

2005-06-17T09:23:00.000Z

I wrote a very hasty post on Shiny yesterday about binary manicures (with a very weak gag in it, I admit). In doing so I apparently managed to offend nail varnish wearing men the world over. The blogger I've upset, Milk, emailed to ask "Are you saying it's wrong for males to wear nail varnish?" And pointed out that "claiming that certain aspects of life are out of bounds to either males or females is rather base sexism". What he failed to grasp, of course, is that I write for a site that's aimed at women and was merely distinguishing between the super-geek girls and those females who are just casual gadget admirers. That it had nothing to do with men at all was apparently too hard for Milk to compute (after all, isn't it always about men?).

Exhausted

2005-06-01T08:45:00.000Z

Dear beloved Sister 4, you know how you told us that there was a bit of loose plastic hitting the tyre on your car that "sounds like the exhaust's coming off". Well, that's the sound of your exhaust coming off and nothing to do with the innocent bit of loose plastic. How many days it had been slowly sounding its irregular death knell I'm not sure, but didn't it just have to pick the day that we'd borrowed the car and were bombing down the motorway, to finally drop its unwanted metal piping. Luckily, the nice AA Man arrived in 20 minutes and told us just to drive it home: "just keep the windows shut and stop if you feel sleepy".

First the Worst

2005-05-24T18:53:00.000Z

Two competitions I always win (and wish I didn't):

Who's got the worst eyesight
Who's got the hairiest legs

Fair to Moderate

2005-05-20T15:19:00.000Z

I don't miss much about being a teenager - don't miss the insecurity, the feelings of isolation, the all-consuming lusts for revolting fellow teens I'd never spoken to, not even the comfy grunge uniform that required no breathing in or tottering about or matching accessories. But what I do miss is the certainty. The certainty that my views are the correct ones and that anyone who thinks differently is both a moron and beneath me. Don't like the same bands as me? Piss off, saddo. Think that TV show is cack? Keep walking. Read that author? Don't even bother. Basically, if you wanted to be in my gang you were going to have to tow the gang line.

Sadly, that kind of certainty didn't last long. I found myself hanging out with some dull humourless people just because they looked the part, and ignoring kindred spirits because they shopped at River Island and owned a Take That album. So I compromised: made friends with people without asking them to fill out a questionnaire first; listened to alternative viewpoints without blanching; discovered the joys of Back For Good.

But it's all gone too far now and I find myself constantly thwarted in my attempts to make broad generalisations or foster impotent rages. Every time I try to make a rule, for example: I despise all people who like Two Pints of Lager... , I go and meet someone I like who sincerely finds it funny. Granted, in that particular case I did strongly consider terminating the friendship, but since we were business partners it wasn't really practical. All 4X4 drivers who don't live off road are the spawn of the devil - except my sister. Anyone who doesn't like The Smiths should be shunned and pitied - except my good (misguided) friend. And it gets even worse than that, I know and like people who do the following: stand as a Tory parish counsellor; go foxhunting and shoot things; snort coke; vote UKIP and attempt to say outrageous things until I hastily change the subject (in my defence he's my neighbour and we all own the freehold, and he's really kind and helpful, and about 20 other excuses); shop at the Gap, Nike and Primark (and now I'm guilty of at least one of those as well - the self loathing just keeps getting fruitier); and enjoy saturday night television on ITV.

Now a lot of the time I don't even care when someone lets slip their terrible passion for shit music and shit television. But I suppose if I'm honest, I kind of like it this way. Sure, I love to have my little snobberies and discriminations, but you can be sure that as soon as I get one certainty on the go, someone comes along and foils my prejudice. And when I meet new people now who utter violent objections to particular foibles or disregard entire types simply for liking the wrong thing, I feel a bit taken aback and a little exasperated. The only trouble is, sneering condescension is a look that really suits me - I'm very good at disdain and sarcasm - but I just can't seem to get a good bit of acerbic wit on the go without some bastard blunting my sharp tongue.

Jenny Powell: Ambassador for Good Old Fashioned Values

2005-05-20T14:09:00.000Z

Just been watching a spot of Loose Women whilst eating my burp-tastic cheese, onion and cucumber sandwich. For those who actually have to go to work during the day, Loose Women is a strange kind of all-women panel show, during which various semi-famous women discuss the issues of the day, proferring their opinions in a manner intended to give the impression of ladies having a chitter chatter round the kitchen table over coffee. Today's show featured, amongst others, Jenny Powell as a guest opinionator. Well, what an odious hag she turned out to be. I knew she was thick thanks to Brass Eye, but thanks to Loose Women I now also know she's thick *and* bigoted. Among the various gems that the professional Grinning Gameshow Glamour Gal (stroke Wrestler) had to offer was the follwing information:

Her daughter plays with dinosaurs so she's far too manly and Jenny's worried about her ("why doesn't she want to play with dolls?")
Only men should be plumbers or mechanics and only women or gay men can be hairdressers.
Female sports presenters should shut up and start presenting home crafts shows. At one point she said "When I see them, I'm like 'yeah, alright love, stop pretending you know about football'".
Jenny Powell worked hard to get to where she is, so Rebecca Loos shouldn't keep showing people her tits (Jenny herself prefers to pose in disgusting bras)
Television presenters are "talented".

It was the last one that proved the final straw for me. I don't mind people making money out of saying things on television, but for god's sake don't try to tell me that your celebrity is any more valid or worthwhile than a woman who once wanked off a pig (insert the John Leslie punchline here). I'm not about to turn on the sisterhood by implying that when Jenny says she "worked hard" she really means "got a lot of bruises on my knees", but there's no way on this earth that Jenny has made a living out of any particular talent - other than a knack for gurning on cue and keeping her nails the same length. She's not witty, she's not intelligent, she's not even enthused with an irresistably contageous joie de vivre or a fiery passion. She's a fat, balding, narrow minded, over-opinionate, poorly educated, lager swilling fascist cunningly disguised in the body of a female celebrity wrestler. Or maybe I'm just losing perspective because I haven't left the flat for 2 days.

Stop Blogging

2005-05-13T13:13:00.000Z

Can all you people in my Bloglines subs please stop blogging for a day or two? Just cease and desist - I'd be much obliged. Just give me enough time to catch up on all my unread posts and you can spark up your computers again and type away. That's the trouble with Bloglines - all your unread feeds go dark and menacing and inform you that you have 23 unread posts still to check out. It's too much I tell yer - just stop typing so damn much you tap-happy lot. Start again on Tuesday, that should give me enough of a head start. Also, I'm now addicted to photoblogging, and am once again feeling grouchy at the mess this site is in. So I think I'm going to have to do a bit of a tidy up session soon. Get a bit of colour on the walls; put things away.

More blogs

2005-05-11T13:58:00.000Z

I've foolishly decided to set up some new blogs for a piece I'm writing which has meant I've spent far far too long fiddling about with settings and what not. You can see them here and here. The template for the blogger one is a bit wrong, but now I've done it I can't quite face just sticking a basic one back on there. The other option is to take out the blogger panel, but I want to keep it in for the article.

I can't quite believe how many people have already viewed my moblog pics and commented on them. They're all so friendly, it's amazing. I can see how it could get very addictive indeed.

Book Ends

2005-05-10T15:44:00.000Z

I wrote a post the other day to explain my long absence. Then Vanessa unplugged my wireless router just as I hit the publish button and my text vanished into the ether. I couldn't face the rewrite. I've been writing a book you see - nothing glamorous if you're wondering - and I had to pump out the copy at a rate of knots I'm unaccustomed to. Lady Muck has also been writing a book, but somehow she manages to post wittily 40 times a day to her blog. What can I say, I'm a slow writer. I think I may be in the wrong profession.

Anyway, I'll be back again soon - I've just got to laze in bed for a while to recover. From the book and from Vanessa. She's been living in our living room you see. Along with Tito. The flat was not designed for 4 adults and a cat, and it's been snug to say the least. But now she's off with her man to a flat down the road and I'll be all alone during the day again, forced to do my own washing up and tea making (ah the joys of grateful guests). It's typical really: she arrives during my busiest time of the year so far and then fucks off just as I'm ready to play. But since she's only 10 minutes walk away I shouldn't really complain - I just like to is all.

Four separate paragraphs

2005-04-18T14:35:00.000Z

Well since Chris was the undeniable victor of that little poll, I should probably have taken note and dialled him forthwith. Unfortunately, I'd already asked Simon and so it would have been rude not to have held out for him - even if he was off continent hopping somewhere in the outer reaches. So Simon won the day in the end. But since I'm partial to both of them, it was win-win for me either way. Plus, I still have Chris's mobile number so I'm sure I'll be texting him to tell him how much I love him when drunk one evening.

Vanessa is coming back tomorrow and I really couldn't be more excited. If only I didn't have to go on radio first thing tomorrow morning I could get rid of my Paula Radcliffe need-to-stop-for-a-poo stomach and get on with fully enjoying the excitement of her imminent return. It's going to be an interesting experience having her and Tito-chan bedding down in our living room. Not least because that cat of ours is going to hassle the hell out of all of us now Milway can't lock him in the living room at 5am every morning (yes, he really does get up to shut him out rather than just shutting him in every night. And yes, Milo does sleep on our bed. And yes we are disgusting human beings. Even I look down on us.)

I was at the Baftas last night. *Check me*. Nothing particularly exciting to report, partly because even with my contact lenses in I'm too blind to actually see faces very clearly and partly because even if I can see the faces I'm terrible at recognising them. Even good friends of mine go unnoticed if they change their hair or wear different clothes. The same goes for names. In fact, it's remembering people in general that I have trouble with. It's a form of brain damage as far as I can tell. Either that or I'm just too self-absorbed to take proper note of others. One thing I did learn, though, was that I have an unhealthy obsession with comedians and news readers. I was beside myself with pant wetting joy (Paula again) when I ended up walking just a step in front of Eddie Izzard. Other men who get me all excitable (not always for lusty reasons, but then who knows what thoughts cross my frankly rather warped mind) included: Michael Palin, John Sergeant, Jon Snow, James McAvoy and David Tennant (obviously got a thing for scots as well). David Tennant was accosted by another woman at my table who took the opportunity, after insisting she had to interview him for her magazine, of cuddling up to him for a photo and putting her leg right in between his so she could get a feel of his sporren. I was sitting right behind them while all this was going on, spitting with jealousy and hiding behind my hair like a lovestruck teenager. She was mighty pleased with herself - and rightly so.

Apparently, I'm supposed to be voting Lib Dem. It looks like I'll be voting for them anyway, however. Despite the vast throng of Guardian readers on the trains every morning at Crystal Palace, Bromley is chock full of Conservatives (and UKIP voters) and Labour haven't a hope of getting in. Not that I partically want them to get in. Or any of them for that matter. They're all a bunch of wankers and, eco-twerp that I am, I'd rather be voting Green. Notice how I'm partly supportive of UKIP's policies. Not sure what happened there.

Your expected outcome: Labour

Your actual outcome:

Labour -14
Conservative -43
	Liberal Democrat 74
	UK Independence Party 6
	Green 62

You should vote: Liberal Democrat

The LibDems take a strong stand against tax cuts and a strong one in favour of public services: they would make long-term residential care for the elderly free across the UK, and scrap university tuition fees. They are in favour of a ban on smoking in public places, but would relax laws on cannabis. They propose to change vehicle taxation to be based on usage rather than ownership.

Take the test at Who Should You Vote For

Chris Packham Vs Simon King

2005-04-13T08:10:00.000Z

I have option of interviewing either Chris Packham or Simon King for a piece I'm doing. Since, as you may have noticed, I make fairly free with my fancies, I'm rather partial to both. Chris has the benefit of being a childhood hero of mine, while Simon's continued hair loss has only made him more appealing to me - it's probably in part due to that fabulous animal-watching whisper he does.

Which one would you pick?

Blair's handwriting analysed

2005-04-07T09:06:00.000Z

Lady Muck's had Blair's handwriting analysed:

Slight right slant: "Tony is a middle-of-the-roader, politically as well as logically. He weighs both sides of an issue, sits on the fence, and will decide when he has to. He won't go to the extreme on any issue."

Fantastic stuff.

(Air)Brush Strokes

2005-04-06T13:52:00.000Z

Could Karl Howmanreally have been so scared that he'd lose his lucrative Flash cleaning products gig that he's gone and had a face lift? He's certainly looking pretty strange in recent adverts. Presumably, you have to be sprightly looking if you're going to convice people to get scrubbing with your swiffers and the like. Either that or there was a terrible accident in the studios one day with a Limescale removing toilet cleaner and old Karl suffered 3rd degree burns to his face.

Jesus, I sound like a 3am Girl. But am I the only one to have noticed this? Or have I just missed out on the goss once again?

Email from Milway

2005-04-05T09:35:00.000Z

In lieu of me making the effort to write a proper post, here is a cut and paste of the email Milway sent me this morning.

"Sat on the train next to a girl our age reading the Express? She looked great and was all Topshoppy, but my fears were made
real when I read a text message she was writing. Went like this:

i'm late too. clothes rail fell on me three times this morning. one of
those days.

How on earth can a clothes rail fall on you three times??"

I should have been a boy

2005-04-04T07:18:00.000Z

Me on the train the other day, late for an evening do where the dress code was described as "glamorous": wearing a creased jumper and skankoid, holey trainers; £10 emergency-purchase kitten heeled flip flops stored in my £3 handbag ready for quick change on arrival;decidedly kinky hair (not in a good way); partially made up; moisturising my legs with Carmax: For Chapped Lips.

And to think I used to tut at the vulgar women doing their makeup on the trains when I moved to London. Now I might as well just turn up in my towel and get dressed in transit.

Heirs and Graces

2005-04-01T06:49:00.000Z

I was asleep yesterday and so entirely missed this hilarious story. Woke up this morning and thought it must be a very good April Fools. But it's true! My, did I chuckle.

Doctor What?

2005-03-27T09:41:00.000Z

Ah, I see that, as ever, when an apocalypse approaches, small piles of fire appear, scattered randomly about the streets. I'll certainly know what to look out for when the end of the world edges nearer. Or maybe, in fact, it's the small piles of fire that are trying to take over the planet, and are merely piggy backing onto another alien lifeform's attempt at seizing control. They certainly help to add to the general look and feel of an apocalypse - and, after all, it's important to get the aesthetics right or no one will take you seriously.

On another note, my father, on the verge of carking it for the past 15 years or so, has been through a fair few doctors in his time (I'm talking GPs not Timelords). Of that vast throng, one was called Doctor Watson; another Doctor Pepper (honestly). Now he just needs to seek out a Doctor Who for the full complement of famous doctors. Let's hope he lives long enough to find one. Speaking of which, my mother's buggered off on holiday without him again. Along with the other sisters, I've been asked to ring him regularly to check he's not dead. Poor old dad. We do tease him so. But when you've been banging on about how ill you are and how you don't think you've got long left. For 15 bloody years. You can't expect to get away without a bit of sarky comment from your exasperated daughters.

More on that blogging conference

2005-03-27T09:39:00.000Z

No, I'm not about to add my wise words of wisdom to those from Tom, Robert, Suw or Sabrina, mainly because they're doing just dandy without me, but also because I'm entirely too lazy to run one of those sorts of instructive, thoughtful weblogs filled with links, musing and comment.

I just wanted to moan about the journey up.

Aside from it being one of those days filled with strange coincidences (friend got on the same carriage as us, bumped into sister 4 at Kensington tube etc), it was also a day filled with BO. Just what in god's great name is wrong with the men on this planet? There's a teeny tiny bit of sunshine and suddenly every man on the carriage has armits that smell like rotting laundry (which reminds me, I really must empty the washing machine before I have to run the wash for a 3rd time. Who's idea was it to make life so tedious). It's entirely unforgivable. Men! Wash your armits, use deodrant and change your clothes every once in a while. That goes especially to you fat ones.

Having said that, there was a teenager of the female persuasion wandering round the garden centre ponking to high heaven yesterday. It's presumably an act of rebellion at being made to walk round a garden centre when she's trying to be aloof and misunderstood.

Blogging Convention thing

2005-03-25T10:37:00.000Z

Funny old day yesterday. I met up with a blogger, then went to a blogging , convention thing somewhere in the depths of Kensington. Tom Coates gave a very witty speech that caused me to develop a crush. After all the speeches were over (about 4 glute-paralysing hours later) I was all set to rush up and gush at him like an idiot. Only he made a beeline for the food tray and wine and then vanished without a trace. I can't say I'm not a little sad about that, but it obviously just wasn't meant to be. Still, I met all sorts of other interesting people and I'm sure, with time, I'll get over the devastating disappointment.

Whilst at the blogging thing, I learned something very important: bloggers never stop talking (especially if it's about blogging). Maybe it's too many hours spent alone in their rooms typing messages to the ether, but for an event that was supposed to be 5 minutes of chit chat from each blogger followed by a couple of Q&As and then on to the free booze, the fact that I was still sat listening to speeches what felt like 5 days later speaks volumes about the volumes bloggers speak.

I'm not dead

2005-03-22T08:45:00.000Z

I've been away a lot over the past couple of weeks - at other people's expense I'm delighted to add. Will be back with more hilarious and entertaining bird updates and smoking whinges just as soon as I catch up with all the stuff I omitted to do while I was away.

While I was off gallivanting, the lovely Vanesita went and got herself hitched, ditching her feminist values and opting to take Tito's surname, which no one in the UK will be able to pronounce properly. But before we eject her from the sisterhood forever, it's worth bearing in mind that she's having all kinds of fun with the authorities over there and taking his name has got to make life a bit easier for her. Plus, I don't think she was too enamoured of her father's surname anyway. No one knew how to pronounce that one either.

I wish I'd been there to see her tie the knot. She's been out with some crazy people in her time but none of them have been crazy enough to want to marry her until now. I'm now getting beside myself with excitement at her imminent return, planning all the crap I'm going to offload onto her as soon as she walks through my door. It's time for a spring clean and Mrs V is soon going to have a whole new load of material possessions to replace all the stuff that got nicked. I bet she can hardly wait...

Soldiering on

2005-03-09T17:38:00.000Z

I've got RSI. And my aren't I feeling sorry for myself about it. Therefore, I'm going to make this a self-indulgent post and you all have to humour me. All 10 of you. Yes, I am boring. I freely admit it.

So. The birds spotted by my twitching eyes so far (in my garden) are:

Greater Spotted Woodpecker (at least 2 - one young one old).
2 Nuthatches
2 Greenfinches
Goldcrests (finally got a glimpse of these today!)
Wrens (ditto!)
Long Tailed Tits

Plus the usual parade of
Blue Tits
Great Tits
Robins (2)
Magpies
Jays (2)
Starlings (started out at two, now bloody millions of the things. Let's face it, these are pikey birds).
Blackbirds (2) - hurray for their summery singing
Crows
I'm fairly sure I can hear a Song Thrush as well.
Plus other things I'm sure I'll remember later.

But NO sparrows. How can this be? Even the RSPB doesn't know where they've all gone to. Maybe SE London does't appeal to Cockneys. I'll shut up now.

But at least I'm not blogging about my cat again.

No Sense

2005-03-02T12:26:00.000Z

Bah, I'm such a div. I sat through the whole of Sxth Sense without twigging and was truly shocked when the truth was revealed. On returning to my student flat I encountered our resident gormless thicko. She LOVED Jim Davison and when she had the chance to fulfill a lifelong ambition of going on the Generation Game, used her short appearance to crow "oh Jimmy, Jimmy! in a stupid voice whilst clapping her hands repeatedly like a retarded seal. I couldn't have been more embarrassed on her behalf.

Anyway, I mentioned that I'd been to see the film and she said "oh, I thought it was crap - I guessed the twist straight away and couldn't enjoy it after that." The shame of being more witless than that simpering dumbo is almost more than I can bear all these years later.

King Librarian not fond of bloggers

2005-02-25T10:57:00.000Z

I was going to read the full article of this, but that first paragraph was enough to meet my intellectual needs.

Hello! We're cockneys!

2005-02-24T09:19:00.000Z

The Londonist is looking good these days. Lots of posts, interesting topics and great instant repsonses ("there's snow on Oxford St!"). But why slag off Jamie Oliver? So obvious, no? So he's spent the past few years being an irritant with a supermarket advertising deal, but if you can still muster up the hatred then you must be pretty sour spirited. Going for the whole fat lipped mockney with a lisp routine is just lazy - we've heard it all before. Yes, the sainsbury's light hearted cockney geezer episodes can leave me paralysed with mindless rage. (Although at least they're not as bad as the bum-clenchingly embarrassing Asda ad courtesy of Mrs Osbourne (not since Doctor Who have I had to hide my head under a pillow with such regularity)). But since I haven't recently inspired someone to learn to cook, attempted to campaign for better food in schools, or helped any badly educated losers to find their way again, I think I'll sit this one out. And for a bloke who so obviously struggled at school to have worked so hard to make it in life (and none of this "his dad owned a restaurant" bollocks - he did all the shithole 5am bread making routines same as everyone) you'd have to be an embittered old curmudgeon to work up proper hatred for him.

Fired up about smoking

2005-02-23T20:02:00.000Z

This made me laugh a lot. I don't care if people smoke but I don't understand why they think it's acceptable to smoke around people who don't. Sister 2 smokes and she's always done it outside even in her own home. So maybe I was just brought up thinking that's what everyone did. Anyway, I'm not going to rant and rage because I know that way misery guts lies, but Benzaemon hit the nail on the head with this:

"the smoker will usually say `do you mind if I smoke?` to which I always reply `I`d prefer if you waited untill after we`ve eaten` to which they will then say `tell you what...I`ll just breathe away from you` to which I reply `Great! Thanks for the utterly superficial offer`. I only reply that in my head though."

Great Tits as far as the binoculars can see

2005-02-21T15:28:00.000Z

Bird watching continues apace in my fun-filled life. We put up some more bird feeders over the weekend and now there are: blue tits, pied wagtails, a woodpecker (although I can only hear it tapping and haven't spotted it yet), robins, sparrows and also Great Tits. Milway's already got some mileage out of the hilarious email I sent him telling him "there's some great tits on your nuts", but I'm taking the whole thing a step further in the next paragraph.

It started snowing while I was out putting a bowl of water on the shed for my new found bird friends. I walked back round to the front and heard a girl say "oh look (someone's name)! It's snowing!" I looked up across the road and there she was, leaning out of the window of her fourth floor flat, completely starkers. And rightly so - she had great tits.

Bloglines, Brooker and Banessa

2005-02-20T13:04:00.000Z

Despite having a Bloglines sub for quite a while, I've remained unmoved by its charms until now. Suddenly the bulb fizzled into life above my head and now I can see the light. I've had a spate of frenzied subscribing to my latest regular reads, so if idle curiousity takes hold of you, I'd recommend checking out my favourite blogs - I have superlative taste in these matters.

One blog I can't find the feed for is Lady Muck, a blogger supreme, who writes a lot about TV and film and is generally amusing. I expect everyone knew all about her ages ago, as I always suspected. She either already has her own column in one of those titles she writes for, or she's quite rightly expecting an offer any day now. Maybe she could go for Charlie Brooker's Guide column. I read the Screen Burn book the other day and hooted snotfully in public places in uncontrollable, uncontainable delight throughout. Now, however, with the advent of a comedy show that's only so-so (I'm watching it more out of loyalty than anything else), I find his columns that bit harder to read.

And don't I just sound like one of those pompous, bitchy bloggers who take delight in slating people for the slightest thing. The fact is, I'd give a virtually redundant part of my anatomy (a little toe, say, or one of my kidneys) to write as well as him.

Anyway, on to more important matters. Vanesita will be returning home soon. Hopefully to relearn the accepted views on fluffy bunny wunnies and poor animals kept in cages (they're for oohing and cooing over in the wild and buying in waxed paper wrappings from the local ethical famer's market, Vanessa. Honestly, you've turned positively heathan.) When I say "return home" of course, I mean home to me in London, in a nice flat round the corner from mine. Not home to bloody Keighley, or Canada, or Japan or any other foreign clime. It's time for Mrs Village of the Wolf (which is the new surname she'll be taking soon. Whatever happened to the rampant feminist I fell in love with?) to come back to my loving arms so we can take London by storm together. Once she's back and settled, and her sexy, swarthy, salsa dancing mucho macho husband has been taught how to recognise when he's being chatted up by a man (he's going to be in for a shock when discovers that straight men in Britain don't know how to swivel their hips), I've got big plans for us. This time next year we'll be supreme beings. Or, at the very least, out on a Friday night.

Blinded by the tat

2005-02-17T18:14:00.000Z

I found myself in London’s “up and coming” Balham the other day. Which, of course, means it’s a slumland with po-faced eating experiences. A prime example of this would be the newly arrived “Italeria” which offers the nauseating strapline: “Artistically Italian”. Makes me want to chew my own hand off and hurl the bloodied limb through their expansive windows.

Wandering along, I got sucked into one of those shops that specialises in selling crap. Novelty lights, Elvis mugs and plastic Hello Kitty wallets are all on offer within the cramped confines of the over-stocked store. I find these places alarmingly appealing. And judging by the countless other females all wandering zombie-like around the cases of tat, I’m not alone on this one. Maybe it’s the sheer volume of glossy plastic goodies, with images of Hollywood’s golden age and just the right number of Swarovski crystals littered about the place, that makes these trinkets seem like objets d’art. All together there, under the twinkling glow of complementary lighting, they look like items that could make your life that little bit more fulfilled. And when you buy them, they’re so beautifully wrapped in tissue paper and little baglet, that they feel mighty special.

Of course, once you get them home to view them in the cold light of day, the hazy, diamante-studded veil is lifted and you see your goods for what they are: cheap Chinese-made crap poorly masked with a painted Marilyn Monroe transfer.

What makes us hanker after these over-priced knicknacks just because they’ve got an ironic knitting pattern ironed onto the front of them? It’s as if the tinkling bell as you open the door administers an instant lobotomy, leaving you unable to have a rational response to instant bonsai kits, Betty Boop watches and heart-shaped frying pans. And just because those iconic film still birthday cards can’t be bought in Clintons, it doesn’t make them any less naff and irrelevant. And yet, armed with this knowledge, I still feel myself being slowly overcome by the Ayurvedic scented candles, fuzzy scatter cushions and pointless wood puzzles. I spend fortunes on gifts for people which, once wrapped, are revealed in all their worthless glory. Too many times I’ve only just resisted stooping to “accidentally” leaving the price tag on. But I’m getting better. I’m learning my lesson and becoming more immune to the fairy lit items laid before me.

I left with a game of “Spuddle” and a Yellow Submarine card. Which is an achievement of sorts. Small steps, eh, small steps.

Too good looking

2005-02-10T15:11:00.000Z

I'm having serious blog envy at the moment. It strikes me that far too many people have far too much knowledge of weblogging software - far more than is strictly decent to my mind. I'm fairly geeky. Why don't I have an innate understanding of coding and css stylesheets and other html-style thingamyjizmos? Really, must you flaunt your pretty little blogs about the place with such flagrant disregard for those of us still using stylistically-challenged blogger templates? I feel like a second class citizen. I have spent a fair few hours staring balefully at various downloadable blogging platforms, only to discover that they require all kinds of knowledge that I have neither the time nor the inclination to acquire. You're all busy people, right? When are you finding out about this stuff? WHEN? Tell me. I'm doing something wrong here. Problem is, as soon as I try to read up about this stuff, I can feel the stress levels rising, and within minutes I'm edging dangerously close to a pulmonary embolism. Just sticking in Haloscan required a full 4 hour lie down to recuperate. If only someone could just drop the secrets of the dark arts directly into my brain. Then I too would have a cute little blog to show off to the world. Either that or I need to get me a geek friend.

Real Ale for Real Men

2005-02-09T22:49:00.000Z

Such is the glamour of my life that I spent all afternoon at the Battersea Beer Festival, in what appeared to be a local town hall. Type of place you normally see school nativity plays performed. I went to the one in Olympia last year and it was fun - lots of boys and girls my age. This one was full of the usual CAMRA stereotypes. Beards aplenty - on the ladies as well as the gentlemen. Beer bellies, knitted jumpers, hygene issues and UKIP memberships galore. There really were some "characters" there. One old gentleman (looked like Captain Birdseye) fell and bloodied his face; a wobbling, greasy haired man appeared to be suffering from rickets; another, in yellow anorak wandered dementedly round and round; and a young man old enough to know better attempted to glide about the room, apparently believing himself to be a creature of the night. Foolishly, I dressed up for the event and felt not a little out of place (when you work at home any excursion into the outside world is an even in itself). Still, I got to drink nice beer all afternoon long and talk nonsense to friends - and it will be something to tell the grandchildren about as they nestle on my flabulous ale gut in 40 years' time. And the ladies' loos were beautifully clean. No one in them, you see.

Hello?

2005-02-09T22:41:00.000Z

There was me thinking I just posted an update on this blog. Evidentally I didn't. Either that or Blogger is trying to play with my mind and make me think I've gone mad. Who knows where those little lost posts go. Maybe they're with the children in that Chris Rea song. With god in paradise. Having their feet rubbed.

Yes I am drunk, in case you're wondering.

Belle of the balls

2005-01-30T20:39:00.000Z

Looks like everyone's favourite internet hooker has been getting a sound drubbing in her book reviews. I shouldn't think that will stop it becoming a big hit (unless, like me, you came to your senses when, on flicking through, you realised that you’re basically being asked to fork out good money for a weblog that’s not had the benefit of a proper edit and that’s already free to read online), but what interests me more is the question of her identity. Not that I'm bothered from a personal point of view if she turns out to be a small, ugly man with a snaggle tooth and an over-active imagination. I am interested from a work perspective, however. I actually interviewed BdJ for one of my first pieces for a glossy. It was before she got the book deal. In internet terms she'd been famous for ages, but in the real world I managed to beat (I think) everyone to it and I cling to that imagined glory with a really rather tragic amount of pride. Unfortunately, she got the book deal pretty much as soon as my interview was published, leaving my small, inoffensive piece looking a rather backward and redundant. Not least because I was so delighted that she'd agreed to let me interview her that I didn't take the trouble to ask her if she was a) real b) a man.

In my defence I was doing the piece for a women's magazine and the interview was prefaced by an explanation of what this newfangled "blogging" malarky business is all about. Going into the already-established online obsession about her true identity seemed a bit of a waste of time if the audience didn't even know what a weblog was. Plus, assumed she’d give a similarly ridiculous and nonsensical reply as she gave in her FAQ ("A bored journaliste could probably fake this blog but I'm not that clever"), which, quite frankly, seemed like a waste of time for all of us.

When the hysterical articles started to appear in the papers, I felt mildly irked for not taking the opportunity to do a bit of wild speculation myself. Eurotrash's determination that BdJ is in fact a man caused me to question again why I didn't question her more. Ignoring my natural, nigh-on moronic tendency to take everything people say at face value, the fact is her replies to my queries just seemed to ring true, even after I’d put on my cynical face. Rachel Cooke in the New Statesmen says that “[it’s her] lack of embellishment that finally convinces you of the authenticity of her strangely banal document” and that’s what made me think that her interview was real. When I sent her the questions I was expecting long sparklingly witty replies. What I got was straight and simple answers without embellishment or anecdote.

That’s not to say that she didn’t come across as rather nice (nicer, in fact, than she seems on her weblog), but she didn’t seem to be aware of the tricks of short glossy interviews – that is, that you wibble on for as long as possible in the knowledge that they’ll edit you down into a pithy and polished slice of humanity. The finished interview came out pretty well in the end, but the answers just weren’t quite clued up enough to be the work of a pro (journalist, that is). A male? Maybe. A fake? Quite possibly. A “bored journaliste”? No way. There’s a chance, of course, that she was being deliberately novice in order to flummox me, but I seriously doubt there’s a professional writer in the UK with a small enough ego. If there’s even one out there able to resist the urge to unleash the full force of their wit and creativity to the world when given a sniff of a chance, I’m an internet hooker.

Bird watching

2005-01-17T13:54:00.000Z

I've become a twitcher. Having moved my desk to the window and recently aquired some binoculars, I've found myself keeping abreast of the daily goings-on of the local birds when not peering through the windows of neighbouring houses. Today a large crow appeared to be devouring the bone marrow from a stripped human femur while a couple of magpies looked on in barely concealed jealousy. But before you make the mistake of thinking that Crystal Palace is blighted only by prolish carrion, I also witnessed a Woodpecker (lesser spotted I believe, although I may have made that up) tapping halfheartedly at the the tree in our garden before moving off to a more desirable location up the road in Dulwich.

Fidget Knickers

2005-01-16T20:56:00.000Z

Delighted to see this Saturday's Guardian Fit supplement thing confirmed my belief that standing up on the tube and pacing up and down whilst on the phone do actually constitute exercise as I suspected. I can't seem to find it online, but the list also gave me permission to feel smug if I tie my shoelaces, brush my teeth using an old fashioned manual toothbrush, and set my muscles to work on tin armed only with a tin opener and a sense of purpose. It also gave me leave to ignore the continual complaints from friends about my constant fidgeting and urged me to feel smug that I'm incapable of leaving the house without having to walk back to fetch something at least once. Turns out my scattered brain is actually keeping me fit.

Up The Duff

2005-01-13T09:04:00.000Z

Had my first yoga class of the year yesterday. My crazy Sri Lankan teacher told us that one of the advanced students (with teaching qualifications) is starting a pregnancy class in the next couple of weeks. "So if any of you are pregnant, or thinking of getting pregnant, I urge you to do it now. I'm encouraging you all to get pregnant." I told you I'd joined a cult.

Open the portcullis

2005-01-11T11:02:00.000Z

On boxing day we drove up to Lancashire to stay at favourite sister’s (number 4*) boyfriend’s parents’ castle. Yes, you did read that right. Our curly cat, Milo woke up towards the end of the car ride and started miaowing so I let him out and he fell asleep on my lap. On arrival we were shown to the guest wing (everything I say about the castle makes me titter – there was a guest wing!) which was freezing cold (despite the central heating) and rather ancient looking. Our bathroom was down a brightly tiled, sloping and winding corridor. It was larger than our bedroom at home, stone floored and slightly decaying. So far, so Gormenghast. I was in heaven. The drawing room had been especially heated for Christmas – normally they use the Justice Room as their living room (again I titter) - and it was bigger than our entire flat here. Milo was in his element, charging about the place, trying to get into every nook and cranny, jumping on the grand piano (much to the cat-disliking parents’ horror.) We didn’t have to dress for dinner, but took a meal at the large kitchen table instead. The next night was a dressier event, but still not quite the full dinner wear event they have on Christmas day (yet more tittering).

We didn’t actually end up having a bath the whole of the 2 and a bit days we were there. The first morning the heater wouldn’t come on in the bathroom and we decided it was too freezing in there. We used the massive sink in our bedroom to have a wash (amazing what you can achieve with a low sink). The next day, definitely in need of a wash, I decided just to run a hot bath and jump in regardless of the ice cold room. The tap spat out flies, followed by a brown liquid that wouldn’t clear. Lovely. Having been provided with our own bathroom and wing, we didn't quite feel able to request use of someone else's bathroom in their wing.

No matter, being grubby made it easier to pretend I was a lady from mediaeval times, since they never bothered with washing (and having felt the coldness of the stones in a castle I can understand why). Fed up as he is by excited visitors to his country pile, we eventually cajoled Boyfriend 4 into taking us on a tour of the grounds. They don’t own loads of land, but there was a walled garden so I could pretend to be in the Secret Garden, and a sundial, so I could pretend to be in Moondial and lots of Ivy covered walls and decaying fountains and structures so I could pretend I was in The Children of Green Knowe. Climbing up the keep that had been built in King Harold’s day, was entirely knackering but ultimately rewarding. How they ever did that in full armour is beyond me. I took the opportunity to recreate the “I fart in your general direction” scene from The Holy Grail.

We lived in a castle for 2 and a bit days and it didn’t cease being surreal the entire time.

*I have a lot of sisters. Numbering them is the only way. It's what we all do. I'm number 5 in case you're wondering.

There is life outside the internet after all

2005-01-05T18:47:00.000Z

After two weeks of almost complete internet silence, I’m finally back in the land of the virtual living. It’s been good to have a break. I missed it less than I thought I would.

Christmas was spent for the first time in years, with my parents who don’t bother with decorations or a tree, or crap films or any enthusiasm for anything at all. I spent the day reading a The Long Way Round book tie-in book, listening to the clock ticking. At least I awoke with that man of mine who outdid himself by presenting me with a Love Kylie Bra and Pants set and the afore-mentioned book. This year, presents had a bit of a wool theme, since I made the mistake of telling people that I didn’t have enough wool for the blanket I’m crocheting (and still will be crocheting when I’m actually old enough to be caught crocheting without shame). I now have more wool than I thought it possible for one person to own.

Christmas Eve evening was spent in our local pub seeing the same old faces, slightly fatter now that proper salaries afford more than just draw and booze. In our local inbred town they’re pretty much gingers to a man. And boy do I like the gingers! Possibly the only female in the whole of existence to ever have said that, but I just can’t help it. Probably something to do with watching endless re-runs of Anne of Green Gables and wanting to be her. I also wanted to have a silent and faithful Gilbert Blythe character to be secretly in love with me. Unfortunately, when I got one (with a beautiful long auburn mane) it turned out not to be as much fun as I’d thought. It turns out people have these pesky feelings that get in the way of my novel-inspired fantasies. I tried to treat his affections with respect, but it’s not easy when you’re a natural prick tease, you go to an all-girl school and you're fifteen. Turning up out of the blue every now and then, to see him visibly shaken by my arrival has been a guilty pleasure of mine for too long. Being an evil female is something that comes naturally to me, but I do still have a conscience and this time I texted a warning a few days in advance so the long-suffering one could get ready for my arrival. Apart from an almost involuntary “aw, your hair is so soft” accompanying the initial hug, all signs of besotted and unrequited love seemed to have passed. Who will admire me from afar now?! Resisting the urge to begin attempts to re-ensnare the hapless chap, I decided it was time to stop pretending to be Scarlet O’Hara and let my old not-flame get on with his life (and to stop inflating a mild affection into mindless, consuming adoration in my imagination.) Face it, girl, he’s over you.

Bless you

2004-12-21T16:49:00.000Z

It's that horrible time of year again when you sneeze and you're sure that something of note came out but you can't see where it landed, leaving you with an uneasy feeling that you're walking around with green snot in your hair. Ho ho ho.

Evil Woman Who Lives In The Basement: Part II

2004-12-21T11:39:00.000Z

Ten things about the Evil Woman Who Lives In The Basement:

The Evil Woman invited us down for herbal tea and health cakes when we moved in.
This turned out to be a ruse to trap us in her flat so she could moan about every slight noise we make in an apologetic and ingratiating voice. Be in no doubt, she is one of life’s victims and never forget it.
Evil Woman gives Reiki massages for a living, but has grown allergic to massage oils.
Evil Woman has insomnia and likes to sleep in till 8 every morning (good advert for the power of alternative therapy, no?). Our every slight movement wakes her up and although she only rents, she feels justified in telling us to get our floorboards soundproofed – going so far as to ask her friend to give us a quote for the work.
Evil Woman didn’t stroke my cat on meeting him for the first time – she Reikied him.
Evil Woman doesn’t have a television set and has that same superior attitude as every set-less householder.
What Evil Woman doesn’t appreciate (along with every other set-less householder) is that not having a TV does not make you more interesting or better-informed than TV watchers. Ladies and Gentlemen in Jane Austen’s day – say – suffered crippling and near-constant ennui (when “taking a turn” about the room was the highlight of your evening) and would have loved nothing better than to watch a double bill of Crime Scene Investigation.
Bereft of television, Evil Woman talks – honestly – NON-STOP all day (she must make a bomb doing Reiki because she works very little and is at home pretty much all the time). She speaks without pause or laughter. Although we can’t hear what she says, every word she utters is delivered with that same, pitiful, whining tone. Judging by experiences she’s telling her conversation partner (usually on the phone) how much better everything is in Poland.
We recently flooded Evil Woman’s flat by accident. She whipped herself up into a shaking, and shuddering hysteria and made it sound so bad that we pulled up our floor to check for permanent damage. Turned out it was just a couple of bucketfuls of water that looked worse than it was and dried out in no time. We now have bare floorboards. I went down to her flat to check the damage and there was none at all so we pulled our floor up for nothing. Once down there, she took the opportunity to shut me in and go through all the minute sounds she can hear from our flat and what times of the day we especially annoy her. She also let me know that we “are never in bed before twelve”.
Evil Woman is basically a decent human being, which makes me hate her even more. Milway calls her the Witchy Woman, which is about as rude as he gets about anyone.

Still haven't fathomed out what exactly was going on with those shagging window makers. I'm sure I heard her down there, which brings up the awful possibility of a threesome...

Home Alone

2004-12-17T17:58:00.000Z

There are many many good things about working from home. Take today, for example. It's pissing it down, it's dark, it's cold. I spent the morning cocooned in my bed, wearing pyjamas, working on my laptop. When the rain stopped I had a leisurely bathe, dressed, strolled up the hill to the Triangle, went to a cafe for lunch, wandered idly round some shops before wandering idly back down the hill. This afternoon, as I have no deadlines, I chatted on the phone, I played with the Ponker, I read about 10 new blogs, I fantasised about the imminent return of Vanesita, and IMed my sister.

Super, you might say, and you'd be right. It truly is a much better way to live. Unfortunately, it has its downsides. For example, on Tuesday I realised that I hadn't left the flat for three days. That evening Milway was at his Christmas bash and it dawned on me that I would be alone and STILL in the flat. Attempting to rectify this, I decided to go late night shopping. Just as the bus arrived to whisk me towards the delights of Bromley, I realised I'd left my wallet. By the time I got in again I decided to give it up as a bad lot. I am now totally ill-equipped to deal with life. I was dozy before, but now I'm even worse - permanently with my mind on some drivelling inner monologue rather than the matter at hand.

Which leads me to my next point. Note how my solution to being alone in the flat was to go shopping. Alone. There was a party I could have gone to, but oh no - I couldn't face it. Six months ago I was someone who hated being alone. Proud as I am of my new-found independence, I am slowly turning into someone who hates being in company. I am losing social skills. I no longer remember how to communicate. Ask me a question and I stare, mute, unsure of what to do. And I've lost sight of what's interesting. After 2 long, crappy years of job misery, I am suddenly leading a whole new, fabulous life, and yet out with friends last night, the most interesting thing I could think to talk about was the fact that I'd just bought some new slippers, and I was mighty pleased with them, but I think my sister might buy me a pair for Christmas as well, but that's ok because you can never have too many pairs of slippers - and my feet get so cold in the flat all day long that they're like iceblocks ha ha ha!

And once I finally crank myself up to speak again, I can't shut up! Blahdeblahdeblah! I haven't heard the sound of my own voice for so long that I become almost hysterical with the joy of it. The inner monologues become outer, and, on reaction with the air, split and multiply at an alarming rate until, before long, I'm weaving in and out of digression after digression, unable to remember where I started or where I'm going or where it all ends.

Evil Woman Who Lives In the Basement

2004-12-15T13:19:00.000Z

I can't decide if the Evil Woman Who Lives In The Basement (who I'm sure I'll tell you all about in long and arduous prose at some stage in the future) is crying...

or having sex.

ARGHGHGHGHGHHHHH! She's a blight on my existence.

Mistakes of youth

2004-12-13T18:21:00.000Z

Firstly, just to note: it is cold. My feet are cold. I am sat huddled over my laptop with a rug over my lap, desperately trying to convince the cat to come and lie on me so I can steal his warmth. This is not the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle I had imagined. I should be wearing nothing but a pair of men's underpants, manolos and a pensive frown - not a vest, two jumpers, bed socks and slippers (amongst other things of course - I'm not a crazy semi-naked cold person).

Album of the day on 6 Music today has been Pearl Jam's Best of Album. I might as well just come out and confess, but hear me out till the end before you abandon this blog altogether: I love Pearl Jam. There's no denying it. For years I tried to hide this huge error of my past. I was aware that liking PJ would not earn me the respect of fellow music fans and so I tried to delete it from my past and carry on with my life. But they wouldn’t go away. And over the past couple of years, I’ve come out to friends who didn’t know me when I wore a leather jacket and an armful of friendship bracelets. Some have mocked, some have agreed that they too like PJ, others have confessed the terrible secrets of their teenage kicks.

It’s only in recent months that I’ve decided it’s time to stop feeling ashamed. You can mock me, tell me time and time again that they were crap, naff, grumpy, unoriginal – whatever you fancy – but I just cannot hear it. All ability to listen with a critical ear has left me when it comes to that band. Why? Because when I was 14 they were the most important band in the world to me. I still shiver with excitement when I hear the beauteous Eddie Vedder’s deep voice, still know every yip, whoop and angst-ridden yeah, still harbour a secret desire to see them in concert and buy the new albums (I stopped at No Code). Still love the songs.

So, you can mock me all you like, and despise me for being a 14 year old unable to pick a truly great band as her defining musical influence, but I’m not going to shit on my memories any more. If I’d known then that in 10 years I’d be back-tracking and denying all knowledge and pretending I didn’t really spend hours in my room listening to the albums, watching Singles, staring at the posters, I’d be appalled. I’d despise me. And I can’t betray the younger me any more.

Because she’s much harder than me. And would kick my in the head with her DMs.

So fess up. What’s the shameful secret of your musical past that you still can’t bring yourself to hate? I promise not to tell. (Also, this girl is fantastic – she knits, she listens to Pearl Jam, she talks about herself in the third person, she's called her blog Purl Jam.)

Blogging about cats

2004-12-09T14:38:00.000Z

I know that people who blog about their cats are at the very bottom rung of the blogging hierarchy but I’m going to launch into a cat story anyway. I probably reveal volumes about myself when I tell you that not only do I spend all day talking to my cat, I also crochet whilst watching TV.

Anyway, on with the cat anecdote. I’ll make it a quick one. My cat, nick-named the Ponker after he suffered a prolonged bout of diarrhoea when we first got him (from here), is a dopey, chatty, food obsessive (qualities I can relate to). He is also a very clean cat who is always careful in using his litter tray. However, once he’s done a poo, and if he thinks you’re not looking, he’ll slyly wipe his bum on the carpet like a dog with worms. We know when he’s had a dump because he charges round the house letting out triumphant “prrp” noises, so we usually catch him before he gets the chance. Despite this, he did once manage to drag himself top-speed across the floor right in front of my appalled eyes, leaving a sweeping arc of brown in his wake.

The customer is always an arsehole

2004-12-04T18:46:00.000Z

There’re a couple of things in this world that get me so worked up, worked up beyond all proportion so that I could actually morph into an outraged middle Englander (or “dad” as he’s more affectionately known). The major one is my obsession with bad customer service. Sadly, within my peer group I’m not alone in this one. Errant male friend (gone travelling with errant female friend), Milway and I have all worked in enough crappy customer service jobs in our life for us to get really quite put out if we have a bad experience with someone being paid money to be polite to us. (Seriously, why do we put up with this shit? If you pay someone for a blow job you expect a blow job, pay someone for a nice meal in a restaurant you expect to be brought a nice meal by a nice waiter, pay for a taxi and you expect that person to drive you to your destination without moaning about it, taking you the wrong way and charging you the extra fare for their mistake).

So obsessed are we that whenever we meet up you can guarantee that we’ll all be swapping tales of self-righteous moral outrage within five minutes of seeing each other. And it’s not just that we share our tales of callous customer disservice, we also have to let each other know just how cool, calm and collected we were in dealing with the rude call centre worker/shop assistant/waiting staff. We’re all so bloody pompous with our “I don’t appreciate the way you’re speaking to me”s and our “please don’t interrupt me when I’m talking”s. Treating the customers like they’re morons is most likely the only thing that keeps them from dwelling on how much more they could have made of their lives/how much better they are than their crappy job now they’ve got a degree/how much more fun they could be having down the pub, and yet here we are speaking to them q.u.i.e.t.l.y and c.a.l.m.l.y like they’re small, angry children with ADD and a learning difficulty.

But do they deserve it? You bet your fucking backside they do. When I worked as a customer service helpline person for a part-baked bread company (ah, the memories! The glamour!) I spent the entire day taking calls from irate, inarticulate shop keepers bursting a blood vessel that their latest batch of bread rolls had turned up one roll short (who knew you could get so upset about flour-based foodstuffs) and I was never anything but charming and polite to them. We all know other people are fucking morons, but if you’re being paid to be nice to them, it’s the least you can do.

Which is why, bitch that I am, I just phoned a café manager on his mobile to complain about a member of his staff. I hope he sacks the useless foot-stamping, tantrum-throwing, pouting French brat.

Late developer

2004-11-28T15:39:00.000Z

I’ve become addicted to eBay. It was all Shoewawa’s fault with its lovely designer shoe round up. I bought some Patrick Cox shoes in a style that’s not really that fashionable or suitable winter wear. But I’ve been hankering after a pair in that style for most of my adult life, and the fact that they were designer only added to the joy. (Plus, every time I put them on I am reminded of Daisy’s job interview for Flaps magazine in Spaced:

Daisy: I like your shoes.
Fellow Interviewee: Thanks, they’re Patrick Cox’s.
Daisy: He’s got small feet for a man, hasn’t he?!
Later on..
Interviewer: Great shoes! Patrick Cox’s?
FI: Yes!
Daisy: You should really think about wearing your own shoes next time
(or something – I’m not quite that much of a geek that I know the whole thing by heart).

I signed up to eBay about 4 years ago and this is the first thing I’ve ever bid on. (What’s the past participle of Bid? Should be Bad surely.) This year was also the first year I signed on for Instant Messenger so that I could waste the day more efficiently with Fellow Skivey Friend. Before that I dismissed it as something my niece uses for communicating with her school friends and miscellaneous paedos. (By the way, she assures me she doesn’t communicate with paedos in case there are any torch carrying tabloid readers ready to burn this blog down.) Sure enough, we’re never off the fucker and we may pretend to be using those smilies ironically, but I suspect we’re just kidding ourselves. ROTFLMFAO!!!!!!!!!!!

And now for the news…

2004-11-26T18:20:00.000Z

I was on TV the other day. I say that like it’s a perfectly natural thing for me to do, but my bowels, given half the chance, would beg to differ. It’s been a tenderly held ambition of mine to be interviewed about my fantastic band in which I explain my moving and inspirational lyrics to thousands of adoring fans. Unfortunately, it wasn’t about that, not least because I don’t actually have a fantastic band (or any other type of band for that matter). Instead it was about some no-story and I was there for a spot of punditry in my capacity as a so-called expert in my field.

This is utter bollocks, of course. It was fellow skivey friend who fobbed the gig off on me – he blew them out for a radio interview and The Auteurs concert. I was *this* close to turning them politely down with some hastily constructed excuse when they offered to send a car to collect me.

Send a car and I’ll overcome any fear.

The car arrived bang on time. Unfortunately that time was 45 minutes before I was due on – far too late to get me into central London through rush hour traffic on time (what the fuck do I know – I don’t even drive). Five minutes before I was due on air and we were still sat in Camberwell. Not good.

For some reason this failed to make me more nervous. That’s because, by this stage, I had sunk into a slightly drunken torpor, my brain’s way of protecting me from the whole hideous ordeal. Halfway there and my glee at being driven about in the back seat of a smart car like Ms Big Pants gave way to motion sickness and I honestly thought I was going to puke right there in front of the nice driver. Fortunately, a day of petulant bowels meant that there was nothing at all in my stomach even if I did decide to vomit. Instead, I lay there groaning gently, my head lolling back on the head-rest hoping nice driver wouldn’t notice.

On arrival (more than 15 minutes after I was due on) I was escorted down to the studio by an attractive, but slightly eccentric, posh young female. The studio was tucked away in the basement and I was disappointed to discover that news studios are not the hive of activity I’d imagined. Four unmanned cameras and one lady in a headset were the only witnesses to the newsreaders’ reports. The room was also entirely bare and rather small.

The news readers chatted to their earpieces every time they were off air and the female presenter checked her hair and makeup in a small mirror up until the very last second of every one of her links. When it came time for me to go on, the headset lady plonked me in a chair, stuck a mike on me and wandered off again without even a word of instruction about where to look or what not to do. The news reader man was very personable, though, and after instructing him not to ask me anything hard we were being counted back onto air.

Afterwards my sisters gave me a full review. My hair looked shiny and I didn’t fiddle with it too much. I said “you know” too much. My teeth looked very white – had I had them whitened? My joke was funny, but I was too nervous at the start. You couldn’t see my bra through my shirt. I don’t think they actually listened to a word I said (apart from the gag and the “you knows”) but I looked good, so that’s ok. It was all over in minutes and I soon found myself getting back into a car to be driven (this time by a surly driver, unhappy at having to go further than W1) all the way back home again.

Milway showed up soon afterwards bearing a Chinese Takeaway and a bottle of champagne. Unfortunately, because I was on so late, the video hadn’t caught my white teeth or my “you know”ing so I’ve yet to see my televisual debut. Full of Chilli Beef and champagne, and drained from the fast-diminishing adrenalin, I fell asleep on the sofa early (earlier than usual anyway – I’m incredibly prone to armchair napping) with some show about mutant lab mice humming away quietly on TV.

Wax lyrical

2004-11-24T08:27:00.000Z

Question: if I wax the line of dark hair on my stomach how do I know when to stop? I finally got round to whipping the fuzz off and I was left with a strip of baldness that suddenly made the rest of my stomach look rather hirsute. This stuff is only fine, downy hair, but contrasted with the bare patch it looks enough to whiz off and knit a jumper from. If I start waxing around the hairless bit I could keep going forever till I’ve got bald arms, bald chest and bald back. Then what will Milway have to grab hold of in the throws of passion?

Yoga is ruining my life

2004-11-22T15:46:00.000Z

Laziness being an integral feature of my character, I soon realised that if I wanted to stay skinny without breaking a long-standing commitment to feeding my face with curry, cashew nuts and crispy duck, I was going to have to do some exercise. Step forward yoga: the perfect lazy person’s fitness regime. No undignified jogging or humiliating aerobics routines for me thank you very much – I would be spending my evenings sedately stretching my way to a fitter, more toned body, all without breaking into a sweat. Blessed with hypermobility syndrome, those cracking joints would come in handy for popping limbs out into impressively painful-looking positions. All in all, a civilised and leisurely past time. Also, great potential for showing off drunkenly to friends.

Ah, how wrong I was. My first mistake was joining a class taught by a crazy vegan Sri Lankan who rises every morning at 2.30am to practise for 3 hours before going off to work. He teaches one, sometimes two classes every evening and then returns home for a plate of steamed vegetables and four hours’ sleep. His classes are moulded on the 80’s principle of “no pain, no gain” and he has never once said anything remotely “listen to your body”–like. My god! What was I thinking?

Unfortunately, by the time I realised what I’d let myself in for I was hooked. It turns out that I didn’t just join a yoga class, I joined a cult as well. There’s no point in me trying to escape now – I’ve been fully indoctrinated. I go to my teacher’s house for Sri Lankan curry, socialise with the other girls and boys, apologise profusely if I can’t make a class and turn down any clashing social engagements for fear of letting down teacher and the class.

This wasn’t meant to happen! I’m not sure how I’ll ever get away. Long after I’ve moved to the Home Counties to become an insufferably hypocritical pinko liberal with a barn conversion and a drawer full of knit-wear, I’ll still be hauling my aching bum muscles up to London for 25 rounds of sun salutations, a stack-full of asanas and a plate of vadai.

Ugly Sloanes

2004-11-19T18:16:00.000Z

Spent the day hanging out in Knightsbridge on Monday, pretending to have incredibly important business meetings and generally swanning about acting *fabulous*. The day was rounded off with a cream tea in a smart tea shop opposite Harrods accompanied by a fellow skivey friend. It was only on leaving that we realised that we were by far the commonest people in there.

The thing that gave it away? Every other person in the café had spectacularly failed to make an effort with their appearance. What is it with Sloane women? Why can’t they slap on a bit of makeup every now and then? They’re all covered in pearls, wearing their designer body warmers with penny loafers (and – vom – tights) and they can’t take the time to cover up their acne scars and brush their dirty-blond hair before they scrape it back into that fashion-defying French plait? Can’t they spend a bit of that trust fund on some cosmetics. I mean, go natural by all means, but at least take the time to moisturise. Makeup may well be vulgar, but a pallid complexion, spots and a scrunchie is not what I want to be staring at while I’m feeding my face with scones.

Meals on Wheels

2004-11-09T21:59:00.000Z

Al's grandfather got meals on wheels until he moved in with the Milway parents to grumble continually and generally cause grief (as every old person should). The tepid brick of stodge that arrived in its aluminium casing each day was exactly suited to grandfather’s dietary preferences: suet puddings, pies, peas, mash, gravy, fish in white sauces with green bits in – food entirely untainted by any foreign influence. For me, this food is novelty comfort food; for him, it’s the food he’s eaten his whole life. Nothing beyond bland has ever passed his lips, although as part of the RAF he travelled the world. This is a man who lived in India for a year without tasting a curry and expresses surprise each and every time he sees us tucking into pizza (there’s nothing wrong with his brain, he knows what a pizza is – it’s just his polite way of letting us know he doesn’t entirely approve of such stuff.)

So what food will we be delivered in our dotage? What foil boxes will we be sliding into the oven to reheat (or, more likely by then, what plastic Tupperware will we be popping in the microwave)? Thai Green Curry and sticky Jasmine Rice? Fajitas? Lamb Bhuna and a Naan Bread? Shredded Chilli Beef and Egg Fried Rice? Spicy Ramen? Pizza?

Let’s hope so.

Let’s hope we’re not being handed trays of Gammon and Pineapple, and if Bangers and Mash is on the menu, it’d better be bangers covered in honey and sweet potato mash. If not, the plastic boxes that I get delivered each day to my doorstep will not be courtesy of the Meals on Wheelers but the Ghurkha Cottage. Maybe I should look into getting that pension sorted…

Delete

2004-11-04T08:05:00.000Z

Spent a long time writing another breathtaking piece of literary genius last night only to have Blogger choke and go fut. I blame the Americans. It's not enough that the selfish sods vote that cretin back into the Whitehouse, but now they have to blog on about it all at the same time as well. Rest assured that my post was hilarious, thought provoking and just a little poignant. Yes, as always with me, it was about food.

Loss of my innocence

2004-10-29T08:26:00.000Z

If I wasn't so jaded and cynical from the past few years spent glued to the internet, I'd spare a thought for my lost innocence. Back at university forays into the web were irregular at best, and once there I had little idea of where to visit other than Amazon, the Beeb and free essay websites to plagiarise. Even at work I only ever skimmed the surface: type “cool websites” into Google and B3TA doesn’t pop up – that was a website someone had to tell you about. One new boss later and I was introduced to B3TA, Popbitch and various other sites on which I could while away the working day. Bored in my job, I became addicted to lurking on Popbitch, and dreamed that one day I too could be a shallow media whore with a perpetual sneer.

And, thus, I learned about Goatse, about nullos, about fat people in fairy costumes, and the cynicism grew and the propensity for being shocked lessened, and my innocence was lost. Mention a celebrity and I’d give you the bitchy gossip about them. Friends sending me forwards with the subject: “FW: fw: fw: RE: look at this!!!!!! It’s really COOL” were greeted with my new-found sneer and the messages binned instantly. New websites from friends who didn’t check the B3TA link board every five minutes were dismissed as “corn” (“I saw that 3 days ago, jesus”).

I was an internet snob.

When the realisation struck me I turned my sneer on myself and backed away slowly from the internet. I stopped reading the mailouts, didn’t laugh at the Chav website (one last sneer: haven’t I seen all this before?), stopped following the popbitchers to Liphook, to Holy Moly, to Bob pitch, to whatever new board they moved to in an effort to escape their lurking media wannabe groupies. And slowly – hopefully – the cynicism starts to peel away; some innocence returns (I could have lived my life quite happily without ever seeing Rotten.com). But I can’t shake that jaded feeling – can’t laugh at Taliban Reunited piss poor gags, can’t stand the bitter and lame attempts at humour on the chav site: I’ve seen it all before.

It's not my party

2004-10-14T17:34:00.000Z

During university, I always suffered the gnawing certainty that whichever hall party or club night I elected to attend for the evening it would always turn out to be: one sad loser in a cowboy hat and gingham shirt, dejectedly sipping cheap white wine out of a split plastic cup, three fucking balloons, and Now That's What I Call Party Music Vol. III on the sound system. No matter where I went I was always sure that there was a better party going on somewhere else that I didn't know about; there was a cooler club out there that I hadn't heard of ; that there were better people to hang out with than this ginger amphetamine-induced psychotic and her stoned humourless twat of a boyfriend.

Now I'm older I no longer attend hideous parties in a desperate bid to make better friends than the aforementioned nodding, gurning drug-addled personality vacuums that blighted my existence, and have embraced my misanthropy by finding a job that allows me to sit all day in my pyjamas with only my cat and my broadband internet connection for company. The only problem is that I now feel the same misgivings about whichever blogs I'm following or whichever websites I'm reading. No matter how long I spend going boss-eyed online, I always feel that there's other cooler, more popular blogs out there that everyone's commenting on and no one's told me about; that there's a whole load of forums that I should be hanging out on and adding my witty thoughts to; that there's an excellent online magazine that I could be religiously reading.

Either that or the internet is being run by one sad loser in a cowboy hat and gingham shirt.

Knicker drawer

2004-10-08T23:07:00.000Z

I've had a mass culling of my skanky pants. Thrown out all the chewed chewing-gum coloured ones and the holey threadbare ones (literally - a pair snapped on me the other day and it wasn't a thong; it had started life as a midi). A liberating experience (not quite on a par with bra burning, but hey). In place of the nasty knicks I have bought a job lot of UniQlo soft fluffy big pants. I'm immensely pleased with them. So much so that when it came to washing them all I found myself ironing them and folding them back up as they were when they came out of the packet (yes, I actually paid attention to how they'd been folded). I ironed my knickers. I have a constant pile of laundry the size of the butter mountain that I hide in the wardrobe when people come to visit and yet I ironed my pants. And then I folded them and lined them up neatly in my drawer.

I now have the pants drawer of a serial killer.

Eating Disorder

2004-10-06T15:51:00.000Z

Arriving in London a few years ago, I knew I'd arrived in a strange place indeed when I overheard one girl say to her friend, "fancy coming over for organic Chinese takeaway on Friday night?" Without even a flicker of self-consciousness or irony. Organic Chinese takeaway! Not even in my wildest flights of fancy had I imagined there might exist something as ludicrously poncey. That was then. I've since discovered that there are many many more poncey things available to London’s populace.

But perhaps most disgustingly, I have turned into the sort of person who would invite her friend over for organic Chinese takeway. Yes, I am one of those hideous food twats you meet in life - and the longer I stay here the worse I get. Organic delivery boxes, fair-trade, free-range, bird-friendly, non air-freighted, unrefined, unbleached, wholewheat, msg-free, corn fed, vine ripened, 100% pure squeezed, live, non-hydrogenated, low sodium, the list goes on and on. The hours of my life spent turning over packets of food to frown at the ingredients, weighing up the benefits of buying the organic backed beans over the low-salt, low-sugar baked beans. Agonising over whether it’s better to get fair-trade or organic; free-range or organic; air freighted organic or locally grown non-organic; choosing between a breakfast cereal I actually like and one that tastes of old dust and bird grit, but has the benefits of being low in sugar and salt.

The money I’ve wasted! I could actually afford to buy new clothes at if I just gave up poncing about like a twat in Waitrose. I certainly don’t have the income to match this food habit. With this sort of food, the less the put in it, the more you pay. And it keeps getting worse and worse: once there was concentrated orange juice, then there was 100% pure squeezed (turns out the rest of the civilised world knew about this years ago, but in my family we thought we were pretty impressive buying the concentrated juice that had the orangey bits put back in), then it was organic 100% pure squeezed, now – low and behold – it’s fair-trade organic 100% pure squeezed. Why must they do this to me? I saw it for the first time the other day, bit my bottom lip, shut my eyes and picked up a carton of the regular stuff (100% pure squeezed). I felt guilty for days – hell I still feel guilty, hence the desire to confess all here. But listen, they may be offering the workers a fair wage, but it would be nice if they offered the consumers a fair price at the same time. I can’t go on like this! How I long for the days when I could eat a No Frills fishfinger sandwich without choking on the knowledge that the cod is over-fished, the breadcrumbs are full of colourings and additives, the bread is filled with starch and the marg is full of hydrogenated fat.

But worst of all? When my sister suggested we go for a colonic irrigation the other day I got all excited and said, “yes! I’d love to go for one of those!” It was the first my conscious mind knew about it, I think that dead-eyed, sour-faced old cow off the TV who seems to spend her life poking about in other people’s shit must be sending out subliminal messages.

My only solace? I remain resolutely immune to all this bollocks about Gluten and Wheat… But it’s only a matter of time.

Going walkies

2004-10-03T16:06:00.000Z

As a teenager it never occurred to me that walking actually constituted exercise. In the holidays I regularly walked the half hour into town and half hour home a couple of times a day without even entertaining the notion that it might count as part of a fitness regime. Not that I was an especially sporty youth. Far from it. I was a B Team girl, which meant during sports practice I could stroll up and down the pitch or court as soon as I got even slightly out of breath.

Still, it may not have seemed a lot at the time, but now I look back at those school days with gaping awe at my level of physical fitness. Because now, in my more sedentary twenties, merely standing up can leave me feeling quite pleased with myself: “oh, I’ll stand up on the tube – that will give me a bit of exercise!”; “well, doing this washing up is at least giving my legs a bit of a work out!”

When I worked in an office, I could always be relied on to leave the flat too late to make the train, which meant power-trotting the entire way, charging up and down stairs in a state of mild panic. Now, working at home means that I can go for days and barely leave the house. Bum sores from sitting in my chair for too long are a constant hazard. But I try to get in a bit of a daily sweat on, nevertheless. I pace up and down whilst on the phone; pop to the cornershop for milk; wander up the hill to pay in some cheques, get some lunch in a café, or visit the Post Office. And when I actually go for a proper walk round the park – my god! - I feel positively saintly!

Who do you love? A mwah too far

2004-09-19T16:04:00.001Z

I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but at some point in the recent past, kissing emerged as an acceptable way to greet people in the UK. While they may have been at it for an age on the Continent, over here our natural reticence and emotional frigidity spared us from having to lock our lips onto some stranger’s clammy cheek at every social gathering. But not any more. Now we’re expected to snog any Tom, Dick or Harry we may encounter, regardless of how physically attractive we may or may not find them.

If I don’t know someone well enough to want to give them a hug when I see them, I certainly don’t want to be kissing them. And it’s not even like the whole thing is some beautiful experience from start to finish: the ritual is embarrassing, awkward and, in the very worst cases, sloppy.

First, there’s the problem of trying to establish who you’re actually expected to kiss. Those times when you’re surrounded by friends plus one or two people you barely know, or have only just met, and you find yourself either awkwardly proffering a cheek to mwah, or just standing back and providing an apologetic half wave and a grimace. That’s bad enough, but in a working environment it’s even worse. Are you obliged to kiss work colleagues when saying goodbye in the pub on Friday night? What about those you deal with from other companies?

What’s the matter with an amicable arm pat or handshake? It’s not that I’m incapable of showing affection. Far from it, I enjoy a good kiss and a cuddle with my favourite people. There’s nothing like a good grope among close friends to bring you all together. No, my issue is with kissing a person without first knowing his/her provenance. The person could have come from anywhere, for god’s sake. Who’s to say you won’t be kissing them one night only to see them on Crimewatch the next? And you can guarantee that the one time I decide to take the plunge and pucker up to bid farewell to the entire room, I’ll find myself lunging towards some emotionally retarded wet fish who’ll stiffen like a board and leave me feeling foolish and ashamed.

More poo puns than are strictly necessary

2004-09-12T11:20:00.000Z

I’ve developed a phobia of the ticket barriers on the tube. All it took was one temperamental Travelcard that left me in a Russian Roulette situation every day and I’m a quivering wreck. Too many times I walked into those unopening doors, smacking my hips, injuring my pride and, worst of all, upsetting the fragile balance of the daily commute.

Now, although all Travelcards since have been in rude health, I hesitate till the last minute and then rush through in stricken panic. Teeth a grimace and hands flapping, looking for all the world like Gromit’s Wallace. I know that everyone despises me and my hesitant ways. I despise me too. There’s nothing worse than a flapping commuter.

Lucky, then, that I no longer have to suffer the trials of the trains during rush hour. The constipated stations desperately trying to excrete their passengers packed in too tight. There’s still room in this metaphor for me to shoe horn in some bad puns about London’s citizens lacking the necessary moral fibre to effect a good clear out to its tubes, but poo has become too much of a faecal point of this post, and it’s perhaps best to keep the crap gags (in both senses of the word) down at the start.