Kernels Actually

It being Advent, I've ordered rather a large number of things online over the past few days. Most of them I had planned carefully in advance - but this evening, as I sat on my own in front of programmes about repellent teenagers and their worse parents, I ordered something rather odd. Bitter apricot kernels, to be precise. Apparently there is a tribe in, I believe, South America, that have apricot kernels (something that are not in Western diets much these days) as a staple part of their daily intake - and they never get cancer. So I've ordered a big bag off the internet, and I'm going to eat twelve a day. Kernels, that is - not big bags. In fact, if anyone sees me eating more than twelve, they should stop me, because they contain a small amount of cyanide.

My favourite bit about the entire ordering process was the site's inspired name: kernelpower.co.uk. I'm not sure the website's creator was intending to make subliminial references to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and their UK number one hit of July 1990, Turtle Power, by Partners in Kryme, but that's exactly what I thought of the moment I saw the web address. And is that such a bad thing? Sure, anti-cancer products aren't usually branded alongside cult-turned-mainstream comic adaptations, but who's to say it isn't a genius marketing ploy? Frankly, it may well have increased her click-to-purchase ratios. Speaking only for myself, I think the site name had approximately 76% influence on my decision to spend - the remaining 24% was to do with the allegedly life-saving properties of her products. I award zero percent to the site's design, which was, frankly, laughable.

I've just finished watching Love Actually on iTV. I think it is a very bad film, the movie equivalent of a Pepperoni Feast, but this is definitely the third, and possibly the fourth time I have watched it. There's nothing intrinsically wrong or evil about unoriginal, unchallenging, unprovoking films - it's just deeply disappointing for me when I like them. Heck, I even got goosebumps towards the end. Will my cultural hypocrisy never end? Don't answer that.

Gossip from Ramsay Street

At approximately 1.51pm this afternoon I was watching Neighbours. Good old Max Hoyland was on screen, talking awkwardly (for a number of reasons) to his wife, Steph. Fairly eager to escape an uncomfortable conversation, he employed a device known to us all - the distraction technique. Pretending to need to get away so that one can attend to an urgent matter is a time-honoured classic. We've all said we have to hang up the phone because our bath's about to overflow, our cat has just brought in a squirrel or we've got Paul Daniels popping round for a quick magic lesson. But in all my time, I've never heard anyone use the technique with as much bravura as Max this afternoon. His chosen parting comment?
"Well, that compost isn't going to water itself."

I kid you not. Sometimes I wonder if the whole thing isn't just made up for our entertainment.

Today's questions

1. Why do I want to have cellulite? I know I must want to have cellulite because I never do the one thing guaranteed to help get rid of it: exercise. I have Rodney Yee's Power Yoga DVD sitting in front of me. He is arched in a perfect cobra on the front cover, his muscly toned form a continual humiliating reminder of my own shapeless self. I am turning in to one big bingo wing.

2. Why do I want to remain unemployed? I know that I must want to remain unemployed because the job application I have been trying to complete since this morning stubbornly remains uncompleted, while I have, in the meantime, booked myself up over Christmas with tutoring a-plenty. This is good for my finances in the short-term, but, as I am continually reminding myself, provides little in the way of career progression, and nothing as far as pensions, holiday pay and maternity benefit go. Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm for this job application says more about the job itself than my desire to become employed.

3. Why do I want to remain exhausted? I know that I must want to remain exhausted because, despite being already truly shattered, I seem to be unable to resist filling my diary between now and Christmas with fun event after fun event. And yes, they are all fun, well spotted, so it's not all bad - but I need some down time too. And with all the tutoring I've got booked in (see above if your memory's that short), the next couple of weeks are going to be fairly mental. The 'burning the candle at both ends' metaphor might hold true as long as we're discussing a birthday cake candle that's on its third use and is down to its last few millimetres. That's not to say I'm not looking forward to the rest of Advent, no siree. I just could do with the help of a few power naps and pick-me-ups between now and the big day. It's a whole lotta hassle considering I don't do god. Still, what's life without some merry hypocrisy? Ho ho ho.

Beaker, Joy Of Man's Desiring

Last night I went to a drinks party held by a schoolfriend and her husband. They are a great couple and their new house is everything I'll never be able to afford. The party was a huge success and their beautiful living room was packed with merry Londoners celebrating the first evening of December in style. It wasn't all smooth running, sadly, as Simon and I were (albeit briefly) the victims of a very specific discomfort: that unique sense of panic experienced when you are the only members of a sizeable group who are wearing fancy dress. The invitation had stated that the dress code would be 'Nativity' and although we had not originally planned to make any effort, I had spoken to another friend during the day who had bought several elements for her and her husband's costumes, including an inflatable sheep and a rosette, and it became clear that we too should step up to the mark. I cobbled together a Mary outfit from a long blue dress and purple chiffon headscarf, and grabbed my beloved Beaker as a worthy substitute for the infant King. Simon wore my mother's green ethnic dressing gown over an Indian shirt, jeans and sandals, and completed his Joseph look with a long walking stick from the Lake District and a pair of terrifying sunglasses. Thus armed, we arrived at the house and walked confidently into a room filled with grown-ups and strangers, all of whom were dressed in a manner that could be described with many complimentary adjectives, none of them 'fancy'. Simon used the envy-inducing Roaring Log Fire complete with Enormous Wooden Mantlepiece as an excuse to remove the sarong from his head almost immediately, but I kept my head-dress on for a while longer, buoyed by our hostess' gargantuan plastic angel wings and white smock. Eventually some other characters recognisable from the synoptic stories arrived and I felt slightly less exposed.

Last night's event was also significant as it was the first time I have been to a party given by one of my peers where there has been a waitress. There is no doubt that her presence greatly assisted our hosts, but nonetheless, when the best I can do at my own gatherings is blindly panic that no one has had enough food or that my ice cream and butterscotch sauce dessert isn't classy enough, attending a house party where there's someone handing round smoked salmon and tiny quiches was a new experience. Initially, I must admit, I felt slightly uncomfortable, but after a seventh glass of champagne I found myself fully adapted and keen to secure the services of a similar assistant for any events I organise in future. All being well, I will find an extremely lucrative and socially worthwhile job in the next few days and will be able to employ permanent staff before the year is out.

Welcome note (flawed readers only need apply)

Those people who start each day with a tingle of excitement about forthcoming challenges are rare and exceptionally fortunate. Like many others, I have only been able to experience such objectivity as a tourist. Now that I’m back on home turf, I want to rekindle that same sense of naïve excitement at the quotidian, but despite several weeks away, London existence is already returning to its resolutely pedestrian self.

But with the persistence of an aroused teenage boy after one and a half Bacardi Breezers, I am determined to cling on to my foreigner’s perspective and seek out the nuggets that merit chronicling. Taking my lead from the baby bottle-nosed whale whose hunger took him miles from his natural habitat and eventually led to his death, I will throw caution to the wind and unearth the truffles of my life, mixing metaphors with gay abandon and making hay while gathering no broth.

Of course, occasionally, like the whale, I will meander into dangerous waters in search of sustenance – food either for thought or, more likely, for my inexorable appetite. But I will not reprimand myself with Opus Dei-esque self-abasement for I know I am not alone in allowing myself to be diverted off course by my desires – we all have much in common with our bottle-nosed friend. It is a shocking truth that there are some strange humans who never yearn for, say, a mini Babybel before dinner, who resist surrendering to unhealthy cravings of any sort. But let’s face it, I have little in common with such parts of our species, our segments in the Venn diagram of life do not overlap, and if such people find these lines irrelevant, the loss will be theirs alone.