Temporary schizophrenia

Looking at photos of me taken last night at Justin's surprise 30th, you wouldn't guess the mess I'm in the rest of the time. What I find most frustrating is that one can oscillate between giddy happiness and distraught loss with such confusing frequency. I should probably be grateful for the ups, but instead I find that the downs which follow are worse because they contain an element of unwanted surprise and thus contrast so glaringly with the good moments.

Last night was great fun, involving sparklers, spilled drinks, old friends, fairy lights, cured meats, too much white wine, milk chocolate HobNobs, wigs, quiz questions and a celebrity chef. You'd have thought that today I would be basking in the glow of happy memories but instead I have been crying in front of the televised memorial for Diana, pleased to be over-emotional about something else for a change. The rest of my Friday thus far has been spent wallowing in self-pity, hangover and, as of a few minutes ago, self-loathing as I recently consumed a plate of cheese-covered tuna pasta that would have provided a helpful back-up option for Jesus if another five thousand had turned up.

Still, on the upside, at least no-one has thrown any mud at me since Wednesday night, so things could be worse.

Yeah, it's definitely mousse...

Just when I thought things couldn’t get much worse…

Last night, Sarah and I were enjoying a relaxing glass of Italian white wine on the terrace outside Riverside Studios. I sat with my back to the building and admired the epitome of tranquillity before me. The stark silhouette of Hammersmith Bridge was straight ahead, backlit by the setting sun whose reflection cast creamy white sparkles on the river’s glassy surface. Canada geese and ducks scavenged quietly on the muddy banks undisturbed by the occasional rowers that glided by. It was all rather magical.

Suddenly, we heard a noise of something hitting the canvas awning above our heads. On first listen, I thought it must have been the emissions of a bird overhead, but a few seconds later it happened again. Sarah jumped up and peered over the terrace railings. Thirty feet below us, standing on the riverbank, were three children, approximately eight years old, who were engaged in scooping up cupfuls of Thames sludge and catapulting them at those quaffing on the balcony above them.

Immediately I could envisage the hilarity of this situation for the three small perpetrators. Indeed, they thought it was possibly one of the funniest and most perfect ruses to have been discovered by humanity. That said, it was disgusting behaviour and Sarah, quite rightly, shouted down to reprimand them. It will come as no surprise to those readers familiar with unruly children that this admonishment was entirely ineffectual. In fact, it seemed to inspire them to attain more splendid goals: seconds later, three much larger dollops of greygreen slime shot over the railings and, with scientific accuracy, dipped under the awnings and thudded onto the wall and window, centimetres from my head.

I leapt up as if shot and examined my person. Fortunately, I had suffered no lasting damage although my coral red shawl looked as though it had been enjoying a day on the farm. Additionally, while on the bus home, I later discovered some crusty matter in my hair that I managed to persuade myself was mousse, a product I neither use nor possess.

If I was a good liberal I’d use this experience as the basis for a rant about the necessities of youth clubs and activity groups to distract potential mudslingers from this sort of antisocial behaviour which stems, undeniably, from boredom. But sometimes I don’t have the energy to be a good liberal. Sarah and I watched the tearaways work their way down the shoreline, all the while hurling clods of dark wet matter at unsuspecting pedestrians strolling along the path above their heads. Fortunately they didn’t return to our patch, perhaps swept away by a quickly rising tide. The bad liberal within me would not be devastated if this were the case.

Then this morning I found out I have to have an operation in November. Pah. A break up, a sludge attack and a dodgy cervix: I’m hoping that bad things really do come in threes and things are on the way up now. If not, I’m going to sue.

Tick - eternal pause - tock

More than once today I have looked at the clock and drawn a sharp breath of shock and confusion, so convinced was I that the time would be at least an hour or two later.

Currently I am more in need of distractions than ever, thus it is massively frustrating that none seem forthcoming. I have fulfilled all my work obligations, within reason. I have replied to all my emails. I have completed all my completable admin. I have read everything of interest in today’s Guardian online. I have refreshed Facebook so frequently that it must be close to saturation. There is nothing more for me to do other than will my lunchtime Marks and Spencer microwavable paella (exact model not photographed) to digest more speedily so that I can head down to the gym to burn it back off.

Sometimes life seems laughably pointless – or perhaps it’s just mine.

Crossing the (bikini) line

I’m not sure whether there’s something tattooed on my inner thigh that says ‘Make ageist remarks please’ but, following my doctor’s comment about my career dead-end during a smear test, I have now been written off as over the hill while having my legs waxed.

Admittedly my beauty therapist appeared to be fresh out of kindergarten, but when I told her I had recently broken up with my boyfriend and was thus going to be spending the weekend having slumber parties with friends to distract me, she said, “Aw, that’s nice. I suppose sleepovers are fun no matter how old you are.” All at once, not only was I single but ancient and in agony as, with her novice depilating skills, my waxer-slash-toddler ripped the hairs out of my unanaesthetised flesh. It doesn’t get much more glamorous than that.

I would have retaliated with a beautifully-crafted and caustic remark concerning her limited intellect and questionable people skills but, feeling somewhat vulnerable while wearing only my underwear and holding my left leg in the air, I decided to hold my tongue as well. I later withheld my tip, tiny revenge for an imperceptible insult, but it made me feel better. Antique, alone - but refusing to endorse tactlessness in the young. At least I've still got my principles.

I've got mail

I've always slightly yearned to be one of those people whose deep inner contentment means they don't appear to need the outside world so much, who don't seem to care when they are contacted - who don't flinch when the phone rings, get a glimmer of excitement when the doorbell goes or a handwritten letter lands on the mat, whose hearts don't leap when they see a smattering of new messages in their email inbox.

Admittedly, I think I've managed to keep things in perspective slightly more than my parents, who leap up as though electrocuted when their landline jingles and answer it with alacrity whether it coincides with their first mouthful of dinner or goes off an hour after they've gone to sleep. Unlike them, I can manage to resist my mobile when it goes at an inconvenient moment - but I won't pretend that, deep down, I am not still quietly pleased that someone wants to get in touch with me - and I doubt that will ever change. I would even venture to hope that it's a pretty natural reaction.

What may be less normal, however, is my irritating habit of getting excited when I receive an email that I sent myself miliseconds earlier. If, for example, I find something of interest online at home, I will write myself an email reminder to look at the link the next day. As I press 'Send', I know for certain that, through the wonders of modern technology, my account will now show that I have a new message, and that it will be from me. But sure as eggs is eggs, when I see the new, bold line in my inbox, my heart flutters like a that of a romantic American teenager in the month before prom - and sinks like a Mafia victim in the Hudson when I confirm that the sender is myself. No matter how much I prepare myself for that inevitable instant of disappointment, it still hits. And then, immediately afterwards, hits the not-unfamiliar sensation that I am, despite my plethora of unarguable virtues and immense talents, sometimes a bit of a moron. But I know you love me nonetheless and that makes it all bearable.

Common people

Judged by its inhabitants alone, Clapham is certainly my least favourite place in London, probably the world. Just five minutes within its boundaries is enough to drag me from a relatively stable optimism about humanity into the pits of despair.

Where else is there such a restricted socio-economic dynamic within one of the planet's major capitals? As I rumbled through Clapham Common on the 35 bus this morning, on either side of the road there was a seemingly-infinite sea of identical 20-35 year olds nursing their Pinot Grigio hangovers in the Sunday sun. Dressed in a uniform of cropped jeans, brand new vintage-look T-shirts and designer sunglasses, they sprawled with their Innocent smoothies, Starbucks frappacinos and pots of red pepper humous, reading the colour supplements and planning into which of the identity-free bars they would waft later. There wasn't an elderly person in sight. It was as though Club 18-30 had commandeered this area of the city and filled it with as many vapid, personality-free, middle class humans as possible. Got an opinion? Keep well back. Vote in the last election? Sorry, not for you. Sporting clothes that reveal the merest hint of individuality? Stay away.

As the train home departed Clapham Junction I noticed that the ages, tastes and races of the people surrounding me in the carriage were back to reflecting the normal variety that we are lucky to have around us in the rest of this splendid metropolis and I felt the claustrophobia ebbing away.

I won't claim that I don't own cropped jeans or enjoy the odd dip into a chickpea melange - but I hope I'll never opt out of diversity. This growing tendency towards mediocrity and love of similarity is weeding out original thought - once again, a situation created and cultivated by the nation's media and government for their own benefits. We're becoming a nation of lemmings and I find it depressing in the extreme. And if there's one thing I don't need, it's another complaint. I'd emigrate if I didn't think it was just as problematic everywhere else.

Under the influence

The news is rarely happy but today’s seems worse than normal with British soldiers killed by US unfriendly fire, tragic words from the family of the Liverpool teenager killed by a shot to the face by teenagers and more damning news about the health service and stroke patients. What I found most depressing on a personal level, however, were The Sun’s photos of Amy Winehouse.

After a late night row with her husband who is, apparently, a known junkie, the couple made up temporarily and went to the corner shop to buy cigarettes, where they were caught by a Sun photographer. The husband is shown with scratches and blood all over his face and Amy’s arms are covered in self-harm/suicide attempt scars and bandages. Most disturbingly, there are deep, fresh blood stains on her pink ballet shoes where, reveals the newspaper gleefully, she has been injecting herself with heroin between her toes. An alleged ‘pal’ of Amy’s claims in the article that she takes drugs this way ‘as it gets her high quicker’.

I don’t know who I’m more annoyed with: the singer or The Sun. As an ex-celeb obsessive, I know how much influence popstars can have on young people. Fortunately, my love of Howard from Take That only caused me to a) wear a red bandana on my wrist non-stop for three years because Howard had endorsed it as ‘cool’; b) start listening to Pink Floyd; and c) start supporting Manchester United. I also successfully completed my self-imposed challenge of writing the words ‘take’ and ‘that’ consecutively in every single one of my GCSEs. Similarly, my Michael Jackson phase inspired a hefty portion of my art coursework as I made alternative cassette covers and a collection box for all of the singles from his Dangerous album. Eventually, my interest in all things celebrity led me to pursue a career in pop journalism where I came across a whole lot more deranged young fans who were willing to travel the length and breadth of the country – and beyond – to see and scream in the direction of their idols.

I was fortunate in that the objects of my affection were, although unarguably stupid, pretty clean individuals (MJ's paedophilia aside...). There have always been worse role models and drugs are nothing new – but to my knowledge, no celebrity has ever been photographed with inter-toe blood stains caused by heroin injections. Had it happened in my day, I strongly doubt that I would have seen it as an endorsement of such behaviour – but I know with absolute certainty that there is a petrifying number of young, impressionable people with access to drugs and little motivation to stay off them who will find these pictures an inspiration and a justification rather than a warning.

Ms Winehouse is clearly a talented and respected musician but she is trying to ignore the responsibilities that come with that gift. As a role model she sucks. She is in turmoil and should remove herself from the public eye until she understands the weight of her influence and is better able to set an example. How idiotic – or drugged – does a celebrity have to be to leave their house wearing blood-stained shoes? She needs help and I could understand if many parents were very angered by her behaviour.

Meanwhile, The Sun has the largest readership of any newspaper in the UK and by printing these pictures and publicising her actions they are increasing the likelihood that this behaviour will be emulated – in spite of pathetically insincere urges for her to ‘Get help’ in their headlines. And don’t even get me started on their thinly veiled lesson in attaining a more effective heroin high. Celebrity and the media: two sides of the same tarnished coin. Suddenly I feel really old.

Granny lovin’

Evidently my blog is becoming morose and maudlin so I will do my best to perk things up around here.

Everyone seems to be gossiping about the new findings concerning elderly sex lives. Apparently there is still a perception that once people become grey and wrinkly, they are so unattractive, even to other grey and wrinkly people, that they no longer have any use for a sex stroll, let alone a drive.

But no – the BBC and other media agencies today covered a study from, I believe, Chicago, that proved through the wonders of statistics that grey and wrinkly people still enjoy a quick how’s your father every now and then – with 26% of those aged between 75 and 85 claiming to have had ‘sex with a partner’ at least once in the last year. And who knows what the figures may have been if the questioner had left out the ‘with a partner’ suffix? I can just picture fictional Albert, 81, absent-mindedly scratching his chest and saying, ‘Oh, with a partner you say? Oh dear, well, that takes my tally right down to just the once.’

I can’t deny that I gagged gently on my Pret tuna salad when I read that half of those surveyed up to age 75 reported having oral sex, but I think that’s just (cunni?)lingering immaturity. And it’s not all upbeat and orgiastic: around the same number of participants said that they had a ‘bothersome’ sexual problem, with fourteen percent of men using supplements or medicine to help erectile difficulties. Still, largely it means that, as long as you’ve got someone to have it with, sex is, on the whole, a lot more likely for grey and wrinkly people than we might have thought – and certainly more likely than we’d like to think about. Which is surely a good thing.

Back and blue

Feeling very miserable and unfun today and am unwilling to inflict such self-pity and negativity upon those I know and love or upon those I’ve never met.

I’m trying to be positive, really I am, but I feel as though someone is pushing down on me with a stack of encyclopaedia and other reference tomes. I am cold, bored, tired, isolated and fed up with life’s vissicitudes.

But to entertain you during my online almost-absence, here is photographic proof that some Americans have a sense of humour about the god thing:

Two days in the valley

I’ve had a strange weekend. Way too much to drink at Dom’s birthday party on Friday night – lots of white wine and my first B52 for many a year led to some embarrassing ironic dancing to dreadful house tunes in a club called either Dusk or Dust – sadly I’m not sure the irony was visible outside my brain.

Saturday was consequently hungover, exhausted and over-emotional. I went for lunch with a friend in Waterloo and spotted Kevin McCloud of Channel 4’s Grand Designs fame – he was filming upstairs in The Cut. My friend and I agreed about boys and bickered about religion and absolute truth. Saturday night was spent in deep self-pity. The predicted highlight was ITV’s Boybands: The Real Story which began at 21:40 – but I fell asleep at 21.43 and woke up much later having missed the whole programme, with my glasses still on and my Hollywood chewing gum still in my mouth. Nice.

Sunday was my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. Ten minutes before we had to leave for the venue, I was in my nightie in a cloud of negativity, wondering whether I’d be able to keep it together for the day – but the strength came from above or the side or below or somewhere and I made it through to 11pm without any outbursts. The speech I’d written went really well which was a relief. And my parents had a blast which is the main thing.

This morning, in a mirror image of Saturday, I was hungover, exhausted and over-emotional. I cried on public transport and in desperation had to use my Specsavers complimentary glasses cleaning cloth as a handkerchief which was quite a low point. But my friends have been lovely on email and I feel ready to face the evening: home, my mother’s lamb kebabs and an early night in front of Britain’s Next Top Model which I can watch without guilt for once as my friend Harry will be making an appearance. Swings and roundabouts, life is a rollercoaster, rough and smooth, time’s the greatest healer, this too shall pass, the only way is up etc. etc.

Giant Redwood shock

I have an earache today which is weird. But probably not as weird as the word ‘earache’. Like a second hand Scrabble set or Carol Vorderman after a big night out, it seems to be missing a few consonants.

What else is news? I had tacos for dinner last night. I seem to be alive. I have a busy weekend coming up, including the party for my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. I have my health. People seem to be obsessed with whether or not A Levels have become easier, which they patently have – end of discussion. And staggeringly, as I was brushing my teeth this morning at approximately 07:12, John Redwood said some things on Radio 4 with which I agreed. His words made me confront the possibility that – egad! – I might be compelled to vote Conservative at the next election.

I can’t believe I’ve just admitted that in writing. It’s really very unlikely, I promise. And it would be only as a reflection of the current political state in the UK – not as a reflection of my deeply-held beliefs in a fairer society for all. If none of the parties seem to be offering this, I may as well go for the one who’s going to save me money, no? It’s absolutely and undeniably selfish – but I have no faith in the Labour party and my ex-faves, the LibDems, simply aren’t up to scratch right now. Sorry Ming, you’d make a wonderful grandfather, but as leader of the LibDems I rate you as C for Could Do Better. Still, a lot can change between now and the next General Election. Hopefully an attractive alternative will present itself. But I can’t think that it would be wise to hold my breath.

Me as a Tory voter? Now that would be an anniversary present my father would really adore.

Just say ‘Yes’ – apparently

I’m still in no state to comment on my personal wellbeing. However, a story from a friend made me realise anew that things could be worse.

Her boyfriend, who is frequently loving and pleasant, has a habit of smoking illegal drugs for relaxation purposes. Unsurprisingly, my friend from work doesn’t find his habit quite so relaxing. In fact, it is a source of some considerable stress for her.

Recently, her boyfriend developed a nasty chest infection and yesterday, he reluctantly went for a check-up at the local medical clinic near his office. Predictably, the nurse asked him if he smoked. He said yes. She asked if he only smoked tobacco. He said no. After more examinations, her recommendation was (allegedly) as follows: ‘Try and cut down on the tobacco and just smoke the marijuana neat instead.’

Now, I’m not sure I believe my friend’s boyfriend’s account but he is swearing faithfully that this was her genuine advice, and really, it seems so implausible that it almost must be true. I struggle to think of something more annoying than having a boyfriend whose drug habit has been sanctioned by a trained nurse. Somehow I doubt he’ll be so reluctant to go to the medical centre in future.

What’s up with healthcare professionals at the moment? One minute they’re writing off your career dreams, the next they’re recommending illegal drugs. Soon they’ll be advocating kicking old ladies and drinking two litres of vodka before driving.

Not so chipper...

I’m a bit sad today but I have lots to look forward to and am, in almost every way, a very lucky young lady so I won’t complain. However, I will use it as an excuse not to write an acerbic, hilarious and cynical blog entry.

All being well, I’ll be back with more tomorrow. For now, you’ll have to content yourself with this beautiful picture called ‘Lapsana apogonoides’ – wish I’d taken it:

Some awe

I have recently discovered the work of Willard Wigan, a 50 year old artist from Birmingham. Describing himself as a micro-miniaturist, Wigan makes tiny artworks, so small that they are visible only when viewed under a microscope. The picture to the left is the cast of The Wizard of Oz in the eye of a needle. Each character in this montage is about three times smaller than this full stop. Wigan makes most of his artworks out of nylon, and then paints them using a hair taken from the head of a housefly. It sounds like something from the Queen Mab speech in Romeo & Juliet - but it's real and breath-taking.

Sadly, Wigan recently found his own work breath-taking at an inopportune moment - while putting a tiny Alice into her chair at the end of the Mad Hatter's tea party, he took a breath and inhaled her. The schadenfreude side of me was tickled a great deal by this story - but since I contined my research of Wigan's work, I have discoverd that he finds his work almost unbearable - the stillness he must attain, working 'in between heartbeats', is a tremendous pressure - and now I feel guilty for laughing.

His entire 40-year career can fit into a single matchbox but I find the patience and skill needed, the Heath Robinson-esque solutions he's found to working in such tiny ways, both inspiring and moving. A strange and unique contribution to British art - and certainly no less valuable than a shark in formaldehyde.

When I say inspiring, I should perhaps clarify that I don't mean that I might try this myself. Art is one of the few career areas I haven't considered in my 15 year quest to find a career. I haven't the patience, the creativity, the originality or the talent - and I feel no sense of sadness or loss about it. But this one man with his extraordinary conviction, his dedication and precision - that is inspiring, and as I sit here, wasting away beneath thankless administrative tasks, I wish anew that I had found a more lasting career goal and that I was now carving my way into a strange and wonderful niche of my own.

Most of the time I can stay focussed on the fact that my current job is funding a move into the London housing market and thus justifies my continued daily commute into town. But the true extent of my limited options hit home last Friday morning as I was in the hospital having an invasive internal check-up and the following conversation occurred:

Doctor: Are you OK?
Me: No, I hate this.
Nurse: Well, let's talk about something else. You off to work after this?
Me: Yes. Annoyingly.
Nurse: Oh, what do you do? Don't you like it?
Me: No - I work in the City - I'm trying to save up enough money to move out of home and then I'll do something else. I'm not sure what though.
[Doctor stifles laugh.]
Nurse: Well, there's no rush is there?
Me: Well, actually, I've just turned 30.
Doctor: Ha! It's a bit late now then, isn't it.

So, to add insult to internal exam, while my legs were in stirrups, a dedicated doctor, smugly contented with her life-saving vocation, dissected my remaining career possibilities and found me wanting. Not a highlight of my morning, I can assure you. I don't normally leave her room with a spring in my step, but on this occasion I shuffled out, blanketed with the unpleasant sense of another's genuine relief that she hadn't lived my life of confusion and missed opportunities. I comforted myself with the fact that my list of Most-Viewed Items In My Workplace does not include 'cervix'.

30 going on 75

I may still be in the prime of my life but my age is clearly having an effect. The other morning, after my shower, I smoothed moisturiser into my left leg, revelling in its new bristle-free status. I then winced as my hands jarred on a right calf that felt distinctly like Velcro. In my half-sleep I’d only shaved one leg. I couldn’t be certain but it didn’t seem like a look that would catch on, so I shuffled back to the shower and rectified the situation.

I am now regularly plagued by my latest paranoia: the onset of varicose veins. I have no idea how I can tell that they’re coming but by some sort of intuition I have been noticing a strange sensation behind my right knee and I’m not happy about it. There are no raised veins and I’m not a miniskirt wearer so it’s not a crisis, but the operation sounds singularly unfun: even more of an incentive to burn some fat and put less pressure on the beleaguered blue lines.

Additionally, I played badminton on Saturday and my left arm and lower back are still really stiff. I left a truly enjoyable party early on Friday night in order to save money. I wear high factor in the sun to ward off crows’ feet. Bed after midnight feels risky and irresponsible. Young people don’t seem to have any respect these days. And I only understand 14% of the features on my mobile phone.

Give me a couple more months and my age will be dominating every waking moment; before you know it I’ll be rambling on nostalgically about the Blitz, getting excited about a new dentures sealant and spending my evenings crocheting antimacassars in front of repeats of Antiques Roadshow. In a bid to cling on to my youth for a few more minutes, I’m off to rejuvenate at the gym.

Grinding woes

Would it be wrong to ask the rotund sandwich maker in the basement canteen at my workplace to adjust her salt and pepper grinding skills? I am concerned that it may be a case of teaching one’s grandmother to suck eggs, or perhaps teaching an old dog new tricks, although I’m not sure which of those labels she would find more offensive. Either way, it is an issue that I may have to confront, given that she almost ruined my eagerly-awaited lunch today with a prime case of disastrous seasoning mismanagement.

Personally, I am of the opinion that, when offered ‘Salt and pepper?’, I can take that offer to mean ‘Would you like salt and pepper sprinkled liberally all over the contents of your lunchtime snack?’ Sadly, on this issue at least, the rotund sandwich maker and I have differing interpretations. For her, ‘Salt and pepper?’ means ‘Shall I put a large and deeply intensive sprinkling of black and white flavours on a microscopic fragment of your sandwich, leaving 94% of it unseasoned and 6% of it so over-seasoned as to render it inedible?’

Upon first witnessing said lady’s apparently insensitive and careless S&P distribution this afternoon, I soothed myself with the idea that my initial fears were caused by my own neuroses. What had in fact occurred, so I told myself, was that the seasoning had been applied evenly: my perception of its concentration on one area of my egg mayonnaise bap had been due to a freak optical distortion created by the sloping glass counter that separated me from the sandwich-creating area.

Sadly my attempts to give the rotund sandwich maker the benefit of the doubt were a waste of valuable brain time, for when I reached my sunny four square inches of the park across the road from my building, slotted myself between two other gently sweating office workers and commenced my nourishment, it quickly became apparent that my worst fears had materialised.

On this occasion, when asked, ‘Salt and pepper?’, I said, ‘Yes, please.’ In future, I may have to offer some further direction.

Needless to say, despite the misplaced flavouring, I somehow managed to consume the sandwich in its entirety, an act of bravery and derring-do that I am sure my readers will consider to be something rather special.

Disconnected ramblings from an elderly writer

I’ve been appalling about writing recently – and this time I can’t blame Facebook. Almost too much has happened of significance and now I’ve started to feel like when I did finally write something it would have to be momentous, epic and very, very time-consuming.

However, I’d rather get it all out of the way now – so here goes. I turned 30. I went to Bath with my friends for a wonderful day out. I had a party that involved a lot of silly costumes. Actually, that’s about it. There’s enough material there for reams of intricate detail, but when it’s boiled down to the essence, that’s really the sum of it. Fabric, chemistry and maths references in that last sentence: not so much a mixed metaphor as evidence of a truly unruly mind.

Now that I’m 30, am I different? Not massively. Although I’m still verging on massive. Sadly the dawn of a new decade didn’t herald a dramatic shift in my eating habits. They say that as you get older your appetite lessens but I have yet to see evidence of this phenomenon – and I can’t say that my parents seem to be following the trend either. An overweight future awaits. And the 'they' of 'they say' are clearly as accurate as the 'they' who say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. 'They' are clearly evil liars who want to bring down the world by predicting joyous future events and then laughing in glee at our shocked disappointment.

What else is news?
The sun is shining.
Awful things are in the papers.
Foot and mouth hasn’t spread.
I am obsessed with Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black.
(That’s a song, Dad.)
I loved Atonement by Ian McEwan.
Now I’m reading The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James.
It’s really good too.
I had a tuna salad for lunch.
Now I want a Twix.
I may or may not succumb.

Last night, Simon did a big burp. There followed this exchange:

Me: Urgh, that’s disgusting.
Simon: Well, you were whistling.

This retort from Simon surprised me somewhat, but he said it with a confidence that suggested that the rationale behind his statement should be self-evident. To Simon, on the Irritation Scale, whistling = burp. To me, whistling = friendly pat. We’re all different aren’t we?

I’m not trying to claim that I never burp, because I definitely do. But I wouldn’t excuse it on the basis that it was justified because some hapless bystander happened to be whistling. Quite besides the point that such ‘eye for an eye’ behaviour is clearly unworkable in society, you have to wonder what the world’s coming to when a tuneless release of air is deemed to be sufficient penalty for… a tuneless release of air. Oh. Maybe he’s got a point. Flaps.

News update: while writing this, I sacrificed the Twix idea and ate a (smaller and cheaper) Penguin. For my American readers, a Penguin is a tasty chocolate-covered biscuit snack. Not a flightless bird. I gave up eating them after Happy Feet.

Middle-class guilt: the other side of the coin

A few years ago there was a spate of news coverage about how the British middle classes were much more likely to commit petty crimes than people from lower income backgrounds. Apparently the middle classes were sick of paying higher taxes with no appreciable improvement in their lifestyles, while those in the lower income bracket were perceived to be living on state benefits and contributing little to society. Consequently, the middle class bitterness gave rise to a new trend of retaliation via small thefts and the like – mediocre illegal acts that made them feel like they were redressing a supposed imbalance.

And despite my choice to document the above in the third person plural, there is an unarguable case to be made for first person singular. For, like Britney Spears, I’m not that innocent: I too have committed a few small misdemeanours and have, thankfully, escaped without punishment thus far. Like many others, I have driven over the speed limit. I have recorded copies of bought CDs and given them to friends. I have kept the duplicate set of books I was accidentally sent by a large corporation. And, perhaps more scandalously, I have travelled home on the train without a valid ticket for my whole journey.

Allow me to explain. My local bus stop, from whence I leave for work every morning, is in Zone 2. My local train station, which is in close proximity to the bus stop and which I use infrequently, is inexplicably in Zone 3. There are no ticket machines at the train station, no guards and no gates. And out of every hundred journeys one makes from that station into central London, a railway employee will check tickets on a maximum of four.

Now, I realise that the purpose of buying a ticket is not to have it checked; the purpose is to pay for the use of the train. Whether it is checked or not should be irrelevant. But when you’ve spent many tens of pounds buying tickets that were not validated, seen by a station official or even glanced at by a third party, the motivation to continue buying them wanes somewhat. When you take into account that I already have a valid travelcard for all journeys within Zones 1 and 2, and thus require an extra ticket only for the portion of the journey from the end of Zone 2 to my home stop, a stop which I feel should be in Zone 2 anyway since a bus driving to the same place would accept my travelcard as sufficient – well, it becomes almost impossible to contemplate the purchase of an extension ticket without burning up with rage and red-tape angst.

My own motivation for committing this middle-class crime is not because I feel frustrated by high taxes and the state of society. As what my father would call a ‘screaming Leftie’, I do not grumble about state benefits and I certainly do not feel as though I am owed anything by society. I realise the trains could not run if everyone behaved as I did and didn’t purchase a ticket – but yet, out of sheer frustration at the extant system, I persist in my petty theft.

Last night, however, may have been my crime swansong. Using my travelcard to board the train legitimately in central London, I took my preferred seat at the front of the front carriage and waited for us to depart. As we pulled away from the platform, I started in shock as a railway employee spoke in person over the tannoy and announced that he would be coming through the carriages to check tickets during the course of the journey. Despite this unprecedented occurrence, I remained calm and planned my story. If questioned, I had two options: a) claim that I had intended all along to disembark the train within Zone 2, get off at the next stop, buy an extension ticket and continue, legally, on my way; b) admit that I was planning on travelling to my intended stop, but claim that I had no idea that it was in Zone 3 and hope that they would believe me, choose not to fine me, and then issue an extension ticket there and then on the train. Ever inert, I chose the more static option b) and awaited my fate.

For the following 22 minutes, I lived in a state of manic anxiety, unable to read my book but refusing either to answer or use my mobile phone in case my conversation alerted my fellow passengers to my true address: this would seriously hinder any attempt I could make to pull a quantity of wool or other natural fibre over any part of the ticket inspectors’ anatomy. Eventually, we left the final Zone 2 station. I was now in Zone 3, only minutes from home but without a valid pass – and there was still no sign of the guard. My heart was timpani-loud and I could feel myself blushing at the imagined confrontation. Finally we pulled into my home station. I stood up and turned to see two uniformed guards making their way down the carriage. I knew they wouldn’t make it to me before I left the train – but the relief was thin. I had knowingly committed a crime, albeit small, and escaped – but the benefit was negligible while the stress was palpable and as I walked home I admitted that I had cut it fine for the last time.