Struggling liberal

Sometimes it’s hard to be open-minded. This morning was one such time.

At approximately 07:46 I boarded the 209 bus, ready for the ten minute journey to Hammersmith. Things were going well when my favourite seat, behind the partition on the left so you can see the road ahead and near the back door for a speedy exit, was vacant. I sat down and absent-mindedly placed my spare bag on the aisle seat to my right. Then, like a good person, I conceded that someone might want to sit there and reprimanded the anti-social and selfish part of me that wanted the double seat to myself. I lifted my bags off the seat and put them at my feet.

At the next stop, an obese, unshaven gentleman in shabby, stained clothes boarded the bus. ‘Guaranteed he comes and sits next to me,’ I whined internally. But then I reprimanded myself again, this time for being so judgmental and prejudiced against someone who perhaps doesn’t have the money or the means to buy new clothes, or even wash his existing garments.

He sat next to me.

And he stank as though neither his clothes nor anything surrounding him had seen water, a bar of soap or a wet wipe in decades. Alcohol, stale cigarettes and several other miscellaneous odours assaulted my sensitive early-morning nostrils. With what I hoped was subtlety, I turned my head away to the left and looked out the window, simultaneously reprimanding myself for being so precious.

Then the coughing began. Great lumps of phlegm were forced out of his lungs and then snorted south once more in a fairly continual loop. Convinced I was going to contract lung cancer, and close to vomit point, I bemoaned my lack of paranoid-phase-Michael-Jackson­-face-mask and switched on my iPod to block out the noises.

‘Calm yourself,’ I mantraed. Sure, this man reeked. He was overweight, dirty and doing things with his nasal passages that would make the Queen retch in public. But I had no context. Perhaps he was desperately ill and in despair. Perhaps his wife had recently left him and, miserable, he’d sunk into a pit, possibly one containing raw sewage. I pleaded with myself not to be rude to a stranger, not to let my prejudices affect the way I treated another human being.

And for the rest of the journey, I succeeded.

Upon our arrival at Hammersmith, relieved my ordeal was over, I stood up, ready to make use of our speedy exit position by the doors. But my companion did not stand up, his vast knees blocking my path. I stood there patiently for about five seconds, when suddenly he snapped.

‘Don’t rush me!’ he barked at me in a surprisingly squeaky voice. His breath confirmed my suspicions that he’d begun his morning with a fair amount of alcohol. ‘I don’t want to get off yet!’ he spat.
‘Well,’ I said, willing myself to remain calm. ‘That’s not really my fault, is it?’
‘No, it’s NOT your fault!’ he squawked back. ‘It’s the BUS DRIVER’s fault.’ The questionable logic behind this statement, coupled with the fact that at least fifteen people had already poured off the bus and were striding towards the tube, as I rightfully should have been, pushed me over the brink. The full extent of my middle-class disgust bubbled over. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’
Visibly bursting with rage at my outrageous request, the (mad)man stroppily jerked his knees to one side, but as I squeezed past him he shouted, ‘Oh go on then, you silly bitch!’

As I stepped down onto the pavement, the whole world seemed to be staring at me, unsure of the story so far and perhaps trying to calculate who was at fault – the overweight man sitting down or the haughty-looking girl in the trench coat walking away at a fair speed. I hoped they would give me the benefit of the doubt – but then reprimanded myself for wanting people to take my side. He may have been offensive, both verbally and nasally, but who’s to say that he hadn’t been suffering far more than I ever have? Perhaps he needs more people on his side.

Like I say, it’s hard to be nice: this holier than thou act does not come naturally to me. And being verbally abused before 8am by a drunk, fat man in need of decongestant, detoxification and disinfectant isn’t the best start to anyone’s day. But although I was sorely tempted to stamp on his flabby foot or unleash a stream of hygiene advice laced with expletives, I didn’t retaliate and, for now at least, today’s liberal halo remains untarnished.

Rain:sun ratio unacceptable

Today I’m happy because I received some really good news via email. I can’t tell you what it is. I know that’s annoying but you’ll just have to trust me: it’s good news and I’m happy.

On top of being happy, I am also a selection of the following adjectives: starving, overweight, overpaid, underworked, right (always), liberal, sweet-smelling, pessimistic, big-boned, short-sighted and astigmatic, punctual, reliable, immovable and kissable.

Most of the UK seems to be underwater. And with the reservoirs flooded, the tap water in many areas has been contaminated. Hundreds, maybe thousands of families are being left with no supply, having to rely on bottled water to bathe and hydrate themselves. It’s not good. Add this miserable picture to the fact that it’s 23 July and we still haven’t had even a suggestion of summer since our freakish Antiguan burst in April and suddenly, global warming is looking a lot closer and more annoying than we’d anticipated.

The Live Earth concerts on 7 July raised awareness of the little things we can all do to make a difference – washing clothes at ten degrees less, turning all appliances off rather than leaving them on standby etc. – but I find it hard to keep up the good work when all around me, Joe Public seems to be more wasteful than ever. There are few sights more disheartening than my office, where computers and lights are left on for weeks at a time, 90% of paper waste is not recycled and flights are taken frequently and without guilt. Or the skin-crawling moment each morning when I pass hoards of commuters picking up their free copy of Metro and boarding a train filled with countless discarded copies of the same paper – while a dejected Underground employee wearing a day-glo vest walks through the carriages, picking up hundreds of still-pristine Metro leftovers with his litter-picker and shoving them into his clear plastic bag along with the other rubbish. Why risk germ-perpetuation reading a stranger’s second-hand copy when the distribution bins are full of spotless new editions? The blatant waste is painful.

I’m not sure how things are going to change but I live near the Thames and assuming the rain continues, my home is at risk. Come on people – forget everyone else, this is about me now. Don’t make me shower under room temp Evian – even temporarily. Make sure my home isn’t flooded by dramatically altering your way of life immediately. If you must read Metro (and really, I advise against it – it’s a terrible right-wing rag enjoyed almost exclusively by illiterates), make sure you pick up a second hand copy. Wash your clothes in your bathwater. Read by candlelight instead of watching TV. Walk to work. Grow all your own food and make your own wine. And don’t fly anywhere ever again. If all of you do this, I’ll feel a lot less guilty about my holiday to Lanzarote in September. Let me know how you get on.

To gym, or not to gym...

Today I promised myself I would make it to the gym. I was actually almost nearly looking forward to it. But as the day has worn on, I’ve become more and more lethargic. London’s appalling July weather curbed my enthusiasm and left me feeling like eating stew and watching a romcom rather than doing sprints on the rowing machine.

An hour ago I started to accept that the gym might not happen. I then allowed myself to experience the glee of imagining I didn’t have to go. Immediately I felt the familiar rush of relief flooding through and, in a sign from the heavens, the sun burst through the clouds. Suddenly everything seemed bearable again. Even God didn’t want me to exercise. To celebrate, I bought and inhaled a Kit-Kat.

It’s frustrating to be so short-sighted and simultaneously so self-aware, to give in to unhealthy desires while steeped in the knowledge that my ultimate yearning is to have the toned body of a supermodel and the eating habits of a young bluetit.

In my experience, however, it is exceptionally hard to regret a chocolate-covered wafer. Let’s be honest: it’s hard to regret a chocolate-covered anything. Coat a nail file in Cadbury’s and I’ll eat it with relish. Smear Nutella on a duvet and I’ll tuck in. Sadly, there’s absolutely nothing petite about my appetite – and until I stop using tenuous excuses like ‘the weather’ to postpone trips to an (indoor) gym which is reached via internal corridors and requires no mingling with the elements whatsoever, I think my thighs will remain, like my appetite, disappointingly grande.

Q&A

These questions were emailed to me this morning by my friend from the office, Laura, while I sat at my desk mere feet away from the sender. It being 09:12, I had naturally already finished my day's work, so I answered them for her. Then I thought maybe I could get away with posting my responses online in lieu of a proper blog entry. Let's see if it works.

Were you named after anyone?
Not to my knowledge.

When was the last time you cried?
Friday night and it gave me my first ever nosebleed. God I'm attractive.

Do you like your handwriting?
Depends on the pen. But yes, mostly. Though I wish I wrote with my right hand.

What is your favourite lunch meat?
What is a lunch meat? Are there meats you're not allowed to eat except at lunch time? How awful. I hate to be restricted.

Do you have kids?
Not to my knowledge.

If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
How ridiculous. It would depend on which other person I was. If I was shy, demure and nervous, then probably not.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Never.

Do you still have your tonsils?
Yes - but not my adenoids.

Would you bungee jump?
Fo sho mo fo - but I'd rather parachute. Am quietly hoping my boyfriend will get me a parachute jump for my 30th. By quietly I mean I've already told him that's what I wanted and he's told me he can no longer get it for me because I've ruined any element of surprise.

What is your favourite cereal?
I couldn't possibly choose just one. Frosties is up there - as is any oaty crunch involving raisins.

Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
Depends how I feel about the shoes. If they are valuable or beloved and on their last laces, then yes. If they're irrelevant, then no.

Do you think you are strong?
In some ways: freakishly. In other ways: pathetic.

What is your favourite ice cream?
Controversially, I'm not really a big fan of ice cream. That's not to say, however, that I couldn't eat it in vast quantities.

What is the first thing you notice about people?
Confidence.

What is your least favourite thing about yourself?
Tendency towards pessemism, insecurity and fattening foodstuffs.

What colour pants and shoes are you wearing?
Did an American write this quiz? If so, black. If not, red, white and black.

What was the last thing you ate?
Healthy cereal with raisins, skimmed milk, orange juice, 12 bitter apricot kernels, 2 Zen tablets for anxiety, 1 P5P complex for healthy blood and skin and mind, 1 Omega 3 fish oil capsule for my brain, 1 multivitamin and 1 Agnus Castus pill for PMT symptoms.

What are you listening to right now?
One trader explaining something about Moscow to another trader.

Favourite smells?
Simon's aftershave - Molton Brown Black Pepper something that I bought him in New York. Garlic and onions frying. Freshly mown lawns. The musty smell in libraries and on the tube. Stale catfood. Maybe not that last one.

Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
An obsessive PA in Amsterdam, who at any given time is almost always the last person I talked to on the phone.

Favourite sports to watch?
I find it frustrating to watch any sport as I am constantly reminded about my own disappointing fitness levels and total absence of any competitive drive.

Favourite food?
Unanswerable due to insufficient space. Briefly: garlic bread, melted cheese, humous, chocolate, taramasalata, apple sauce, smoked mackerel pate.

Scary movies or happy endings?
Neither.

Last movie you watched?
Pan's Labyrinth.

What colour shirt are you wearing?
How presumptuous of the questioner to think I am definitely wearing a shirt. Although I am, unarguably, wearing a shirt. And it is red and white. (NB: despite both being red and white, I should clarify that my shirt doesn’t match my pants. That would be weird.)

Summer or winter?
What is this 'summer' of which you write? I am unfamiliar with that concept.

Hugs or kisses?
Depends on the person. From Simon: both. From a friend: hugs. From a manky old tramp and/or halitosis sufferer, neither.

Favourite dessert?
Again, so restrictive. I could eat Victoria sponge cakes or doughnuts competitively.

What is on your mouse pad?
My mouse. Idiot.

What did you watch on TV last night?
Twenty minutes of Victoria Beckham house-hunting.

The Rolling Stones or The Beatles?
Stones – I don’t like moss.

What is the farthest you've been from home?
Sydney.

Do you have a special talent?
I am laden with unique gifts.

Where were you born?
Wimbledon.

What book are you reading now?
Don't be absurd – even I can't multi-task that well. I'm not reading. I'm typing.

Choice

Facebook – it's a killer, really it is. I'm now one of thirty million members worldwide. I've uploaded photos, I've created and joined groups and I've rekindled friendships that had extinguished decades ago. All good – but my loyal blog-reader(s) have felt the void, so I'm back with more self-obsessed ramblings for your enjoyment.

In my last proper post I was in Holland. The following week I went to New York and worked in the office over there. I stayed in a hotel that looked better than it was, in Midtown, and caught up with an old school friend face to face for the first time in years, which was fantastic. On my last night I took a tourist bus around Manhattan and a tiny portion of Brooklyn. I took a lot of photos, most of which served to fuel my conviction that, if I had the inclination, I could execute a dramatic career turn and become a professional photographer.

I've now been back in London for a month and work has become fairly routine – I'm finally over the shock of a nine-to-five. But that's not to imply that I'm remotely happy about it. Not a day goes by when I don't plan what I'd rather be doing. Current hot favourites include:

• Moving to Paris
• Moving to the South of France
• Moving to San Francisco
• Moving to New York
• Moving to the English countryside
• Moving to the Scottish Highlands

You may notice a pattern emerging. Moving is high on my agenda. Yet despite these urges, I am simultaneously planning to buy a house in London. This might be called 'denial'. Or: 'confusion'.

I am not only befuddled on a macro level – I am often badgered by more minor choices involving the use of my time. In the past week, I have considered:

• Training to be a Master of Wine
• Becoming a professional photographer (again)
• Going back into journalism
• Running a farm
• Home schooling my unborn children
• Taking French refresher evening classes
• Taking evening classes in pottery
• Learning to sew and becoming a dressmaker / maker of quilts
• Setting up an eBay business specialising in vintage clothing
• Setting up a vintage clothing emporium somewhere unlikely eg. a small village

Last year I read a fantastic book called The Paradox of Choice. Its fundamental lessons were that the more choices you have in life, the less happy you will be with the choices you make and the longer you take mulling over various options, the less happy you will be with the outcome. One crucial piece of advice was that, to guarantee maximum contentment, we must limit our options by selecting the two most likely or most preferred options from any list – and completely discarding and forgetting the others. Then we should choose from those two alone. But although it should be liberating, the process of discarding eight tenths of my possible life directions would pain me.

Even at this time of gargantuan government, political correctness and CCTV, in the developed world we live largely without traditional limitations, and the never-ending plethora of options we have today is a recipe for discontentment. The protagonist in the book I'm reading at the moment said he would rather the certainty of experiencing a car crash than the eternity, the lack of boundaries, of a mountaintop at midnight. I'm not saying I'd rather die than have choices – but I know what he's saying.

Yet even if we accept that they're hurting us, we are still addicted to the choices we have – if they were taken away we'd mourn them like a lost limb. The freedom to become a Master of Wine or a professional photographer is mine, and I would hate to be without it. And perish the thought I should be denied the right to go online and see what my four friends and 134 acquaintances are doing with each of their days' 24 hours.

Facebook is a window into the lives of others – it's a continual update of available options. Dave's going to play bingo next Thursday – why don't you join him? Alison's watching Desperate Housewives – switch it on too. Tabitha's had a baby – aren't you feeling broody at the moment? Maybe you should focus on getting married and starting a family. But Adam's in LA and he's just bumped into Robin Williams – wouldn't that be fun? Emily's in the Pyrenees and her goat has just had kids. Doug's in Paris and can see the Eiffel Tower. Louise is on holiday in Sardinia. Look at everyone else and compare and contrast – it doesn't take long before the mundanities of your own existence seem unfavourable when viewed alongside the highlights of others.

Too much introspection is traditionally thought to be a dangerous thing, and I'd agree that in my past it has proved to be unhealthy. But what is also clear is that too little navel-gazing can be equally hazardous – a life spent looking outwards to other people and other options isn't much of a life at all. Better to revel in one's own navel every so often and see the gems that reside within – and accept that a little bit of healthy self-obsession isn't be such a bad thing after all.

The reason I haven't posted for a month

Apologies.