Unfit for serious discussion

Last night I went to the ICA and watched Iraq in Fragments, a feature-length film shot last year which shows life in Iraq from the viewpoint of a Sunni boy, some Shi'ite men and a Kurdish grandfather. I admit my attention did wander at times, and I was certainly distracted by the unopened packet of Wine Gums in my bag, but the film was undeniably a valuable insight into the situation in Iraq and I'm extremely glad I saw it. Yet, however much I'd love to comment further, however much I'd love to feel that I have something to add to the piles of material already available in the media about serious news issues, the truth is that I'm better at talking about what I know rather than spouting off half-baked opinions about other people's fragments.

Taking that into account, I would like to record that a) having struggled valiantly through Billy Blanks' Basic Tae-Bo Workout on Monday morning, my left shoulder is still in an irritating amount of gainless pain; b) I spilled a small drop of an oily substance onto my new tan boot yesterday while washing up, adding fuel to my already-raging anti-cleaning fire; c) I have just realised that my lap is actually around twice as wide as my laptop, a realisation that has sent me spiralling into the depths of desolation. The solution should be more Billy Blanks and/or Rodney Yee, but I fear it might be simpler to buy a larger laptop.

Cabin Fever Can Strike On Dry Land - Shock Report

There are several phases of boredom. The first is a mild, almost pleasant awareness that there's nothing to do - a vaguely confusing sensation of being lost which can be satisfying in its difference from the norm. The next few stages involve gradually increasing amounts of irritation which can often be solved by finding a minor distraction: a phonecall with a friend or a repeat of Mary Poppins on the TV. But over the course of the past week, when 90% of my time was spent at home, on my own, with only brief forays outside the house for the occasional tutoring spell or supermarket trip, I began to go out of my mind.

By 2pm yesterday, I'd reached previously unscaled peaks: an echelon of ennui identifiable by a newfound tendency to speak in a strange, crazed voice and giggle maniacally after almost every sentence. With no money to spend, and laziness sadly inherent in both of us, Simon and I were struggling to find something to fill our Sunday afternoon. We'd read the papers, lain around doing nothing for the larger portion of Saturday, and had had more than enough of the television. It is testament to quite how bored we both were that my suggestion of sorting out the books in my bedroom was such an appealing prospect for both of us.

With an enthusiasm that smacked of desperation, we trotted up two flights of stairs and threw ourselves into the task. Item 1: separate fiction from non-fiction. Item 2: sort fiction into read and unread. Unasked, Simon then subdivided fiction further into Normal Height and Smaller-Than-Average, and stacked the read fiction next to the wall, with my unread books at the front for easy access. No more will I be lost for a new tome - all the volumes are facing me, ready to go, taunting me with their uncreased spines and (in many cases) decade-old unenjoyed status.

Meanwhile, on the other side of my room, taking up six shelves and the carpet beneath, is my new non-fiction library, divided into reference, poetry and plays, self-help, modern psychology and philosophy, travel, history, politics, biography and autobiography, a shamefully extensive how-to-write-best-selling-novels section, cookery and a small 'Misc.' zone containing two books on being left-handed and an Ordnance Survey map of the Dorset coast.

The whole experience was largely satisfying - even for Simon whose latent (and not unattractive) OCD kicked in to previously unwitnessed levels. I was able to weed out dozens of books that I felt were unworthy to feature in my collection - and to accommodate my new fiction layout I was encouraged to discard several weighty stacks of old Smash Hits! magazines from the 1980s and 1990s, an emotional but unarguably sensible suggestion. To the untrained eye, my room probably looks no different, but to me, the difference is manifest.

Tolstoy wrote that boredom is 'the desire for desires'. If he's to be believed, I was bored because I wanted nothing - and thus, as soon as I realised that I desired an organised bookshelf, I was no longer bored. I'd have to argue with Leo though, for although I was truly, through-and-through bored yesterday, that didn't mean I had no desires. I desired a staggering amount. I desired a flat-stomach and thin thighs; I desired a million pounds. And I desired a miniature pony as a pet. But I didn't do a kickboxing video, write a commercially-driven novel or register my desire for a small horse with breeders online. I had desires - it was just easier to stay bored than pursue them. Perhaps boredom is the desire for desires that are more desirable than sitting still. And if that's the case, my future looks worryingly sedentary.

Three days later...

On the left, please witness the wintry paradise that was our garden on Wednesday morning. It looked like that for, ooh, about twenty minutes. Then the sun came out and everything went back to normal. It's all very odd and I have a feeling that Mr Gore's film might be a bit too little too late.

On Wednesday night, six schoolfriends came over for our book club. Two of us stayed up talking until after 2am and I went to bed even later, having drunkenly (and correctly) decided that clearing up then and there would be better than leaving it to the morning - and then drunkenly (and misguidedly) played Tetris on my phone for a further length of time which I am not at liberty to disclose.

Thursday was yesterday, and that is about all I know for sure. Having the house to myself has been wonderful, but it should be admitted that I have regressed to a teenage imbecile while enjoying freedom. My bed has remained unmade, clothes have built up in unassailable mounds on the floor, I've been eating random concoctions from whatever I can find in the fridge rather than cooking proper meals and I've spent the vast majority of my waking hours in my pyjamas. Predictably, my hangover from Wednesday night did not ameliorate the situation yesterday and I achieved staggeringly little.

Today has been no better, starting when I narrowly missed the postman delivering a 'packet' that required a signature. It will now require me to go and collect it at an inconvenient hour tomorrow morning from the Mortlake Sorting Office. Now I must go and scavenge downstairs for some lunch. Beyond that it's a bit vague but I'll keep you posted with any major developments.

In Cold House

Having complained non-stop for the past week about how freakishly mild the weather has been for mid-January, a gripe propelled by an An-Inconvenient-Truth-inspired panic about global warming and drowning polar bears, it is with some hypocrisy that I must now moan about how insufferably cold it has suddenly become in the past 48 hours. The temperature has dropped to a point where I am unable to prevent audible and embarrassing brrrr noises escaping from my mouth when I walk outside - and although there is no external evidence to prove I have frostbite on my fingers after this afternoon's scooter ride to South Ken, I would argue vehemently with any medical professional who denied that I was exhibiting symptoms.

Although the heating at home is more than adequate, I was unable to warm up this evening, and resolved to have a piping hot bath the moment Celebrity Big Brother was over. Thus, at 10pm, I walked upstairs, turned on the taps, and continued up to my room to check my emails. Too many minutes later, I resurfaced from the internet vortex and realised with a shock that my bath could well be overflowing. I scampered gracelessly downstairs, dreading the sheet of water pouring over the edge - but what I found was, I eventually realised, far worse.

The bath had not run over and felt quite acceptable to the touch. I ripped off my clothes, stepped in and lay down. It was then that I realised my frostbitten fingers and icy, circulation-free feet had not given an accurate indication of the bath's temperature. Lukewarm would be a compliment. At best, it was tepid. The anticipation of warmth I had experienced moments before now evaporated entirely. I was cold, wet and covered in goosebumps. I became extremely nostalgic for the time when I'd been merely cold. The state of 'dryness' took on a previously unappreciated value. And although I'd been spared the clichéd hell of an overflow, I was now deep in the humiliating wastefulness that is a bath full of unwanted water - not only was I not hot, I was needlessly using up the earth's resources. I was cold and evil.

It had all been too much. Eventually the faithful boiler replenished its supplies but it was too little too late - I'd been defeated, unable to linger any longer. Now I'm back upstairs, flannel pyjamas and fleecy slippers positioned appropriately on my person, novelty Zippy-from-Rainbow hot water bottle clutched to my abdomen. I'm still cold, but at least I've learned an important life lesson: never sit down to read the Oscar Nominations online when I've got taps running. I blame Helen Mirren.

Jane and the City

Well, faithful reader, you will be relieved to learn that my integrity has, I believe, remained intact. At around 2.45pm yesterday, with 30 minutes to go before I needed to leave the house for my interview, I donned my Next suit and briefly enjoyed the strange sensation of looking like a grown up. But as I observed myself in the mirror, I felt fraudulent. I am not a wearer of business suits - even when 'teamed' with an unusual shirt that suggests that I may still be in possession of a personality. And moreover, interview for well-paid job or no, I didn't want to give the City gents the idea that I am the type of person to wear business suits. So I changed back into normal clothes and went along.

My pink coat definitely turned heads in the grey office building; things on the trading floor seemed predictably intense and galaxies away from the work environments I've experienced. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. The man I spoke to was nice and... well... we'll see what happens. I'm aware of a degree of vagueness in my account but on the off-chance they read this sort of thing I am trying to keep my nose clean - the need for complete confidentiality was stressed even at the first stage of the interview process. How terrifyingly adult.

Today I have been efficient, baking a cake and taking my cowboy boots to the cobblers (ooh, use of cobblers seems unexpectedly outdated - I'm experiencing a sudden tingling sensation akin to having accidentally said 'wireless' in front of someone I'm trying to impress. Do we not call them cobblers any more? Please advise...). I should probably be applying for further jobs but with two or three opportunities hanging in the balance, it's hard to gather the necessary momentum for interminable form-filling and CV adjusting. And on the off-chance I do find full-time employment in the near future I need to revel in this brief spell of home-making as much as I can. Bree Van De Camp eat your fictional heart out.

Uniform blues

I like to think that I am a diverse sort, familiar with classical and contemporary, fond of ancient and modern, wearer of vintage and new. If someone were to suggest that something unexpected and unusual were to happen to me in the future, I would probably believe them. But despite this conviction in the breadth of my own possibilities, this afternoon I am doing something that I am struggling to accept or admit: I am going for a job interview in the City.

Contradicting everything about which I am passionate, challenging all my long-held confusions and under-developed beliefs, London's business district is as far from my career aspirations as the Rentokill HQ. But, like most of its employees, I am not heading there for a rewarding role in an underfunded charity or kooky publishing house. Rather, I will be on the eastbound District Line headed towards an opportunity to earn larger amounts of money than I've ever been offered in the existence of my curriculum vitae.

The prospective pay packet is appealing, alluring as an opium high - but as I contemplate my single business suit, bought from Next by my mother in 1998 when I was going for my first job as a PR intern, horror washes over me - and not simply due to the glaringly dated cut of the skirt and dust that's gathered on the jacket's shoulders where they've been exposed to the air in my wardrobe. Any career that requires me to wear smart shoes, carry a sensible handbag and quash any outward sign of personality by forcing me into a quasi-uniform sends me into a panic that even sky-high salaries can't assuage. Still, I've got little else to do this afternoon and I figure I may as well go and see what's on offer. Plus at least I can make myself feel good about the fact that I can still fit into a skirt I last wore over a decade ago - although I'm not entirely sure that my porcine 19-year-old frame is something I should really be clamouring to maintain. See you on the other side.

Big Brother's Big Fracas

No part of me wishes to turn this blog into a topical news debate but my anger at the national media has driven me to comment here on the current furore over 'Celebrity' Big Brother. The treatment of Bollywood star, Shilpa, by Jade, Jo and Danielle is unacceptable. It is bullying in its rawest form, immature and cruel - and there is no doubt that they should know better. Furthermore, Shilpa is five thousand miles from home, in a strange country with strange people on a strange TV programme. Whatever she is doing, however rude or annoying she is being, they should appreciate that she is an outsider and should let it go.

However, claims in the press that Shilpa is an entirely innocent victim and the news that she is now favourite to win the show are also riling. There is not a shadow of a doubt that her behaviour has been inflammatory. Her conservative Indian upbringing and her huge success in the Indian film industry, where stars are worshipped as divinities and seen as a 'class apart', have given her the opinion that some people are better than others, and this is now emerging in her treatment of her fellow housemates. Both in the diary room and during arguments with Jade et al, she has revealed her conviction that she is superior to other contestants. She has told Jade she needs elocution lessons and told the show's cameras that she is pleased because her grasp of English is so much better than the others' in the house. Her apparent belief in her own superiority has, not surprisingly, caused resentment and irritation among the other housemates. This divide has not been helped by the soothing tones of Jermaine, who has regularly been spotted trying to calm Shilpa by crooning patronising statements such as, 'You can't mix class with no-class,' as if the other contestants are beneath contempt and beyond help. Instead of exacerbating the gulf, could he not be using his alleged wisdom and patience to create a bridge between the two groups as Cleo is doing?

Last night's show contained a screaming match between Jade and Shilpa that was a few minutes in length but seemed to last for a decade. Vastly uncomfortable viewing such as this has meant ratings have shot up for the show which was previously being dubbed a failure by the media. As I watched, heart in mouth, as Jade's expletive-riddled rant was egged on by a giggling Jo and Danielle, it was not hard to predict the villification that the currently-oblivious three will receive on their exits from the house. Bullying is never, ever acceptable, and especially not this attack on someone so far from their own home and culture - but Shilpa is being held up as a blameless paragon by the press, and that representation is unfair. Yes, it is her culture that has caused her to see herself as superior - but still, it is understandable that Jade and co. would find that behaviour angering. I would estimate that the vast majority of the three million or so watching the programme will see the truth that both sides are guilty of creating this mess - but the remaining fifty million - and countless further millions in India - are forming half-baked opinions based only on the helpful digest provided by the nations' rabble-rousing news corps.

I was so stressed I had to watch the repeat of the Hendry/Stevens snooker until nearly 2am before I calmed down enough to go to sleep and am now simultaneously exhausted and outraged. Thankfully, both girls are up for eviction this week and soon the visual ordeal will be over. Until then, I will have to rely on Rodney to destress me.

Daily French Podcast Love

When I am not lusting after Rodney Yee or my actual boyfriend, I can often be found sitting in the world's most comfortable £10 armchair, headphones snaking into my ears, salivating unostentatiously over the clichéd vocal resonance of Louis, the 'native French speaker' who presents iTunes' best podcast for the intermediate French learner.

Whether he is explaining the order of multiple adjectives around the noun (which he charmingly pronounces 'noon') or slowly breaking down the sentences of a recent French radio broadcast to aid our chances at comprehension, Louis' patience and understanding are rare and wonderful to behold on an aural level.

It was, therefore, slightly disappointing when I logged on to the podcast's companion website this morning and unexpectedly happened across a photo of Louis himself. Light years from the Sacha Distel-alike I had imagined, my favourite Frenchman was wearing a sensible suit-jacket-and-light-polo-neck combo last seen in the pages of a C&A catalogue or sported by a smooth-talking villain on Murder, She Wrote. His face was also a let down - no drooping cigar or winning laughter lines, but rather thin lips and an ill-advised haircut.

Much as I hate to confront my own shallowness, it is undeniable that, since I saw the photograph, my enthusiasm for the daily French podcast has plummeted like a Shire horse down a mine shaft. And with the lunchtime episode of Neighbours already three minutes in, it's impossible to think of an optimistic conclusion. Apologies.

Stand in mountain pose, hands in Namaste...

Meet Rodney Yee, the new love of my life. In his eye-wateringly tight lycra, he may look like a bronzed man squeezed into a blue condom, but I can assure you that he is so much more besides. Since I returned from India in early November, getting fit has been in that unusual category of 'Urgent Priority' that is just an ant's breadth down from 'Urgent Priority That Will Actually Be Actioned'. Hence I have gained further pounds.

But Rodney is here, praise be to Mr and Mrs Yee. With his mesmerising voice, rippling form and unusual taste in background music, his DVD, Power Yoga: Total Body, is banishing my cellulite (even the 'clusters' that have worryingly begun to appear on my upper arm in a shock development) and causing my trousers to fit once again. True, my Downward Facing Dog needs some work, as does my Triangle Pose, but there's no rush. For now, I am revelling in the fact that my Standing Forward Bend has noticeably improved in a remarkably short time, and my Warrior Two is becoming almost a pleasure to hold. I concede that it will be some time before it is a pleasure to behold, but since there doesn't appear to be a queue of eager prospective spectators outside the door, I don't think I have much to worry about on that front.

Now That's What I Call Pointless...

There is a cat that lives a few doors down from us. He is rather unusual and thus I have been unable to provide an accurate supporting illustration: suffice to say he looks somewhat like the feline on the left, but is not stuffed with kapok. His fur is sleek, thick, lustrous and a rich silver with black stripes: a miniature snow tiger pacing the streets of suburban London.

My father, always keen on anything that appears to be expensive or exclusive, immediately developed a fondness for this new creature, and can often be spotted engaging in lengthy monologues with him outside our house, monologues mostly consisting of my dad crooning "Aren't you beautiful?" to a mutely adoring audience of one. What the cat lacks in verbosity, however, he makes up for in gung ho confidence. He bounds up to greet total strangers with a fickle friendliness better suited to an under-fed labrador; he jumps over the fence into our garden and sits on the shed roof, looking into our house as if wondering what these strange people are doing on his land; he runs in through the front door if we hold it open too long and - my mother suspects - comes in through our cat door at night to snoop around.

So while my father - further won over by the cat's perceived 'gusto' and/or 'oomph' - continues to speak out in support of the striped cat, my mother and I have decided that he is a cocky nuisance who may, we hypothesize, even be terrorizing our own cats so that they are unable to feel rulers of their own roost.

Consequently, when I was walking down my road this morning and spotted the beast sitting squarely in the middle of the pavement waiting to be admired, I purposefully strode past without giving him a second glance. As I looked back at him (a fatal error in my attempt to persuade the cat that I hadn't noticed him, I now realise), I even allowed myself to think that he appeared somewhat put out and confused that a passer-by had failed to acknowledge his perfection.

However, as I let myself back in to the house, I had to concede that, in reality, my snub was perhaps a little pointless. At base, I was bullying a cat, employing juvenile psychological tactics usually only engaged in a primary school playground. Much as we might anthropomorphosise our pets, freezing them out through emotional warfare probably won't have much of an impact. Although my mother and I have persuaded ourselves otherwise, the cat in question probably doesn't have an ego any more than my own cats understand our logic when we tell them off for sharpening their claws on the sofa, but laugh when they sit in cardboard boxes. I grew out of dressing up our family pets in my dolls' bonnets and cardigans when I was four and my cat, George, wet the bed while 'sleeping' in my toy cot - but it seems that, even aged 29, valuable lessons about domestic animals are still mine for the taking.

2007: Let the job hunt begin...

Happy New Year and apologies to my loyal reader for the blog hiatus. I have been busy tutoring small children through their 8+ and 11+ Common Entrance examinations and avoiding the elephantine truth that I am looking for full time employment.

One of the principle distractions, other than work, over the festive period, was the fact that, towards the end of December, I received word about a new job as a Director's Assistant at a well-known London film production company. Although not what I'd expected to find interesting on my search for employment, the 'well-known' element was a definite attraction. I duly emailed the relevant person and made her aware of my existence; she replied and said she was away but would get in touch in early January. I spent the following three weeks planning what I would wear to my interview and doing mental dry-runs of my new commute.

Early January came and went and I heard nothing - so I emailed my contact to alert her to my continued existence. Still no reply. By this point I had butterflies in my stomach and had to admit that it was possible that the ship had sailed before the captain had even found out that I wanted a ticket. It wasn't the dread of rejection that was unbearable, but the frustration of not knowing. I was reminded of the times I have waited to hear from young men who have tickled my fancy in the past - not least my current love - an unpleasant sense that your happiness is being controlled by another. I wasn't sure my friend at the film company would appreciate being compared to a potential boyfriend, but still, if the shoe fits...

Finally I braved the phone and rang her - and, sure enough, her boss had filled the vacancy over Christmas. I kicked myself hard for not being pushy enough to contact the boss directly and then moved on.

Now I am emailing almost everyone I know to ask for full-time inspiration - sadly, it is not enough to sit here and muse. I need a regular salary, pensions, benefits, and office cameraderie as a matter of some urgency. Fortunately, tonight I am going to a pirate party and all this worry will slip away like a seal on a lubricated lilo.