Anarchy in the UK. Hopefully?

A few weeks ago, I was standing on Park Lane with the knight in muddy armour, waiting for a bus. Suddenly, a police convoy zoomed into view, surrounding a very swanky Bentley. The sirens were blazing and everyone who was assembled at our bus stop turned to look. Suddenly, the knight raised his right hand, made a downward thumb, and loudly shouted 'Boooo!' in the general direction of the vehicles. I giggled. 'Who are you booing at?' I asked. 'Whoever's in that car,' he replied.

I had heard of this general distrust of officials, and could argue it logically, but I hadn't witnessed it in a peer before, and it struck me. Today, there's a general sense of anarchy in London due, of course, to the forthcoming G20 talks. Obama has landed in Air Force 1, his $300,000 Cadillac is here, containing sachets of his own blood should there be an emergency; he has an entourage of 500 including a team of medics and chefs from the White House. Boots in Moorgate will be closed tomorrow, as well as who knows how many other distracting emporia. There are demonstrations aplenty afoot, against the war, against the handling of the financial crisis, against the situation with rights for foreign workers vs. British nationals and against the handling of climate change, among other issues. And here's me, working at a bank, for god's sake, being told to come to work in casual clothes so as not to look like a target. And all I want to do is stick my right hand out, make a downward thumb, and shout 'Boooo!' at myself.

It will all be over before long. But I hope the anarchist in myself won't be latent forever.

Rubbish mnemonics

OK, I don't think these are mnemonics exactly because I think mnemonics are made up to help you spell things, and these are things made up to help you remember other things more easily. But whatever they're called, they're rubbish. The first one is the American 'Spring forward, fall back' which is meant to help you remember the clocks situation. And the second is to help you differentiate between stalagtites and stalagmites - and it's something to do with pulling up your tights versus holding on with all your might. My problem with both of these mnonomics is that they are both shit. In that they are both fully flexible. I can spring back or forward. In theory, of course, depending on my hangover situation. And, as illustrated by the drunk man on the escalator the other night, it is equally possible to fall in both directions. So how, pray tell, is that supposed to help me remember which goes with which?

Similarly, as far as I have been aware up to this point, tights can be pulled both up and down, and while it is of course conceivable that one might hold on with all one's might, it is also surely an option to push up with all one's might. I will concede that it is not often that I am called upon to differentiate between a stalagtite and a salagmite, and really the only time I seem to come up against them is during school trips to Wooky Hole in Wiltshire, which I'm assuming won't be happening much for me any more, since I'm 31. But the spring forward, fall back thing is frustrating, not least because even if I remember which way round it goes, it still doesn't really help me work out what the hell is going on. I mean, if the clocks have gone forward, what does that mean? What would be really useful is a mnonomic to warn us which one is the rubbish one that means getting up an hour earlier than usual. This information is at my fingertips at the moment, because it's just happened. So, I can tell you that Spring is bad for fans of sleep, while Autumn is good. OK, it's not that catchy, but at least it tells you what you need to know.

While I'm ranting, what is this about? In a development that I noticed this morning, it appears that Gmail has left every single folder heading capitalised, except 'inbox'. Now, I'm as flexible and easy going as the next person (provided that next person is highly strung to the point of physical rupture), but why not have some consistency with the labels? All lower case, while being grammatically questionable, would at least have been more attractive. But surely I have more important things to be worrying about?

You'd think so, wouldn't you? Well, what's been happening. I've been in prime self-distraction mode so as to prevent myself from moping. Friday night I met up with Emily and we bought make-up and had a fun dinner. We bumped into an old school friend in Primark at about 8pm and were mocking our own tragic lifestyles whereby the friend hadn't been hounded by anyone at all to do anything social that evening, and I made her feel better by saying that my phone had only rung once that day, about 15 minutes earlier, and it was Emily trying to find me among the vest tops. Saturday was spent repainting my kitchen in Red Stallion 2, a colour I chose approx. 76% because I liked the colour and 24% because the name was persuasive. Sunday was our choir concert which went better than expected and I enjoyed the apres-sing drinks in Shepherd's Market so heartily that I got all the way to the bus stop before realising I'd left my handbag in the pub. Last night I went to see the world premiere (not sold out) of In Search of Beethoven with my dad at the Barbican. It was good but the director made all the talking heads look into the lens, which I found disconcerting. And, as a recent Tweet revealed, I learned conclusively that I don't really like Beethoven's music - with the exception of a few adagio movements. Still, it's good to know these things. Now I'm going to buy more self-help books and then I'm off for dinner with Justin. Could be worse.

New one on me

I was on the Hammersmith & City Line last night, listening to my iPod. I didn't want to be listening to my iPod, but I'd had to put it on because the people opposite me were talking so loudly. I had the volume up to the max, but I was listening to Bon Iver, who's quite wafty, and he couldn't drown them out. I managed to focus on my book, though, and it was all OK. What was curious, was that the man received a phonecall, answered, and I quite clearly heard the lady who was phoning him say 'Hi, how are you?' She wasn't on loudspeaker. He just had his volume turned up so high that I could hear his incoming call. Actually, maybe he was a bit deaf and I'm mocking the afflicted. Oops. Apologies.

I had a lovely dinner at Tab and Ad's and then got home and had a bad phonecall. But it had to be done and things will be better as a result. Fingers crossed, anyway. I have high hopes for me.

Time wasting

Aw. Look at the little catcow. I could so have one of these. More hybrid animals can be seen here for as long as the link stays active.

Lost looking for meaning

I think it's probably completely normal to be a bit up and down. In fact, I know it is. But things do feel rather out of control at the moment. Which is zero fun. What was particularly perturbing was seeing several photos of me, taken at close range by a girl sitting directly on my left at a party last Friday night, where I appear to have no discernable jawline. My face is straight from my cheek to my neck, giving me the appearance of a few standard facial features (eyes, nose, mouth etc.) stuck on one massive jowl. A pasty Ms Potatohead, if you will. Then again, things could be worse: at least I don't have to worry about the economy. I was reading a gripping article this morning about the massive figures that are being bandied around, and found out that while a million seconds is the equivalent of 11.5 days, a trillion seconds would take us back 31,709 years to the time of the hunter-gatherers. I had no idea. I mean, why would I? But still. Puts things in perspective a bit.

Talking of ridiculous figures, I was struck by this application form for the East India Club on St. James' Square, which instructs the candidate to agree that, should the Club close while he is a member, he will "contribute to the assets of the Company... a sum not exceeding 12 and a half pence." Quite extraordinary. Rest assured that, even if the club would accept women as members, I am not currently considering applying. Should this change I will alert you.

What else can I tell you? My lip is still numb but sometimes it tingles. I am taking this as a good sign. My chin is still dead to me. Weep. I love my new hairbrush. St Tropez everyday bronzing moisturiser might be quite good. If the woman who sits near my office door cackles like that again I will throw my stapler at her head. The previous sentence constitutes an official written warning and any violent acts I carry out on her from this point on should be considered legally justified. I turned my heating off prematurely last week: it's back on now. The book club book is brilliant and exceptionally humbling. I would have lain down and died on day one. I'm now on the second section, which concerns logotherapy, and have been underlining frantically on the tube. I have discovered that I live firmly within an existentialist vacuum. Which is not good. Not sure how to clamber out. Does one climb out of a vacuum? Or merely pass through? God I'm tired. Hopefully I'll turn a couple more pages and nice Dr. Frankl will reveal my personalised way to meaning, although I don't think that's quite how it works. Sigh. I'm off to the gym shortly. I ran on Monday to the new Prodigy album and I think that the feisty BPM must have made me up my pace as I cut about four minutes off my normal time. Songs aren't much cop in the most part, sadly. I tell you who is good, though, and that's Pete(r) Doherty - his new solo album is great. And I heard the most heartbreaking song from Paul Weller's new album when I was in a shop in Spitalfields yesterday. Must remember to try and find that on iTunes.

Right, that's enough rambling for one Wednesday. I'm off to see babies this evening so must conserve my energy. Laters.

Space-filler

I have no news. Or, at least, nothing blogworthy. I had a lovely walk along the South Bank last night and then went home and roasted my first ever pork joint. Is it just me or does that sound like a repellent euphemism? If you found one, please ignore it: my meaning was literal. Making crackling crackle is harder than I thought but I'm pleased to say I kind of managed it. My favourite thing about today was falling asleep in the square opposite my work and waking up to find that two consecutive lunchbreaks in the March sun have resulted in a few freckles and rosy cheeks. I know it's unhealthy in the long term, but in the short term, having a bit of colour is so pleasant that I will take the consequences. Plus I think it's probably a bit late for me to start worrying about sun damage, given that I was practically a professional tanner in my teens. Ah well. Worse things have happened at sea. Innit.

What else? My new oven gloves have arrived. As has my second hand BT phone. And our new book club book. But I'm still stuck on this month's Prospect magazine. Seems to be becoming more of a chore than a pleasure although I'm always so smug when I've read it. I listened to a podcast today of an In Our Time about quantum mechanics, and vaguely learned about the difference between quantum physics and Newtonian physics. Something to do with a cat belonging to someone called Schroedinger or similar. I've got to go to the gym in 14 minutes and I'm dreading it - but I have a fun few evenings on the horizon and, other than continued numbness, all is well.

Comfortably numb

Breaking news from me is that the numbness is on the move. Yesterday (and for the previous several days) it was in the centre of my chin and lower lip, leaving me with normal sensory abilities on the corners of my mouth, but nothing in the middle. Now, with no sort of warning, it's shifted to the left. I now have full sensation back on the right side of my chin and lip, but nothing at all on the other side. I'm sure this is a good sign. And even if it stays like this, at least I'll be able to enjoy 1.5 lipped kisses in future. That's assuming, of course, that someone wants to kiss me again. Fingers crossed. Also, spring has sprung. It is blooming marvellous. I'm off to snooze in Finsbury Circus and eat home-made smoked mackerel pate and oat cakes. Woo hoo.

Weird weekend

I'm pretty sure it was something to do with the fact that I was worrying about collecting my parents' cat from the cattery first thing on Saturday morning, but I had the most extraordinary dream on Friday night. I was chatting with my mum and a few friends somewhere, it was mid-afternoon sometime, and then I suddenly remember that I had just had a baby, and that I had left it locked in a car, in its car seat, for the past six hours. Weirdly precise, as ever. So I rushed with my mum to the car, and found the baby absolutely screaming its head off, unsurprisingly, and I felt this absolute horror that I had missed this most formative of times with it. And I remembered from somewhere that skin-on-skin contact was especially vital, so I was frantically trying to strip off my dress and lay the baby on my chest. Then I woke up.

On Sunday morning, after another rubbish night's sleep, I got up at 5.45am to collect my parents from Heathrow. I had been flashed by a speeding camera for the first time in my life on Saturday (livid), and I knew I had plenty of time to make it to the airport, so I drove at or under the speed limit for the entire journey, and averaged 40mph on the motorway. It was quite a notable experience. Fun to annoy people, and be overtaken by huge lumbering trucks. But what I noticed most of all was that my concentration hit rock bottom. Travelling so slowly meant that I felt like I was in a tractor or similar, pottering along in an aimless, unhurried fashion. And instead of this making me feel more in control, I got so bored that I found myself staring out of the side window at the rising sun, drifting off into reveries and, frankly, not focussing. It was categorically far, far more dangerous than if I had been doing my customary high-speed cruising. I'm not suggesting that hitting a child at 90mph would be preferable to hitting it at 40. I'm just saying that I felt hilariously hypnotised by the slowness.

Normally when I pick up my parents, I meet them in the Departures drop-off point so that I a) don't have to get out of the car and b) don't have to spend money on the short-term car park. But an officious Heathrow employee moved me on so many times out of the drop-off zone that I gave up and pulled into the car park. This - combined with the fact that my parents must have deliberately ensured that their luggage was the last out of the plane, almost certainly because they were their usual three days early for the flight and it fell foul of the first on, last off disaster - meant that I had about 30 minutes to watch the people coming out of Arrivals. There were banners and whoops and squeals and tears, it was all very emotional. I did love the contrast I saw between one girl, who emerged through the doors and yelled 'Mum!', dropped her bags on the floor and ran about 50 yards to embrace her mother in loud hugs and affectionate gasps, leaving her boyfriend to pick up her luggage and struggle over to the reunion on his own - and the man who sauntered very quietly up to another guy standing next to me, and said oh-so-casually, 'Have you got the time, mate?' - that was the extent of his understated greeting to his friend, who turned, smiled and said, 'Alright, mate?' and the two of them shook hands and walked off. Both lovely, in their way.

And now it's Monday and the working day, at least, is nearly over. I'm afraid the black dog descended this morning, but I made it out of bed and into the office, and forced myself to the gym for a hit of endorphins. It wasn't quite enough to drag me back to normal but I'm definitely feeling better than I was. Far too much time spent alone and in bed over the past ten days. The sockets where the teeth went are still hurting, but much less so - the lack of sensation in my chin and lower lip is perturbing but apparently it can take weeks to come back. Really hope it does, would be sad to think I'd had my last two-lipped kiss. But hey, it was a nice one, so a least that's something.

Ummm. Actually. Help.

Right. I'm a bit worried now. It's been just over a week since my operation and I still can't feel my chin or my bottom lip. You could pierce it and I wouldn't notice. Additionally, I woke up in the middle of the night in tears because my painkillers had worn off. And I slept pretty much solidly from midnight last night until about 5pm today. What. The hell. Is going on? Are there any doctors reading? Is this weird? I know I should actually just phone someone and ask but I'm a bit scared.

Oh the shame...

And if my own lack of memory wasn't depressing enough, I just read this headline in The Guardian "Amazon could shrink by 85%" and panicked that my regular online supplier of books and other media was in financial difficulties. It wasn't until I read the word 'trees' in the subhead that I clicked that the story was about the forest, not the internet retailer. Erk.

End of the pretence

I may have fooled you, and from time to time, I may even have fooled myself. But sadly, the truth has come up with a pot of hot wax, poured it over my head and ripped it off without any regard for my desire to remain hairy of scalp. I have, I'm afraid, received yet more conclusive evidence that I am Officially Old. A few weeks ago, someone I respect told me quite firmly that I should read The End of the Affair by Graham Greene. Eager to please, I purchased a minty-green Penguin classic copy and began to plough through the pages. I found it exceptionally well-written and easy to read, melancholy and atmospheric and, overall, it is fair to say that I was thoroughly enjoying the experience (as much as is possible with such a profoundly depressing story). Around half way into the novel, I had a very feint sense that I may have seen a film of the book. A particular scene seemed slightly familiar, but I was certain that the pages either side were virgin territory, so I moved on quickly and thought no more of it.

Until a couple of days ago, that is, when I was lying on my sofa, feeling sorry for myself and staring absent-mindedly at the opposite wall, and my eyes alighted upon a particular book on my shelf. Immediately, I flushed with shame as I knew precisely what it was: my original Vintage Classic copy of The End of the Affair. Gingerly, I stood up, crossed the room and easily opened the slightly dog-eared cover. Tragically, there was no denying that it had been read, and by me - looking at some of the sentences and phrases I'd underlined, I was clearly in my Obsessed With Jonathan Coe's What A Carve Up! phase, which was around the time I was finishing at university. Yes, less than a decade ago, I'd read the book. Properly, from cover to cover. I'd made notes. I'd appreciated it. And then I had, almost entirely, forgotten it.

What was particularly curious for me was that there were two passages that I had highlighted as being particularly resonant in both copies. So from the late nineties to the late noughties, between my early twenties and my early thirties, the things that strike me as cool haven't changed much. I don't know if that's reassuring or depressing.

Either way, I have achieved a new milestone: I have read and digested an entire book without realising I had read it before. I am old. My memory sucks. But hey, on the upside, I don't need to buy any more reading matter - I can just start again on the stuff I've already got. It's greener and it'll save me money. Every penny counts and all that. Sigh.

No change

Ow. It still really freaking hurts. They said I'd be back at work on Monday, but when I woke up this morning, it was simply out of the question. I am exhausted, in pain and feel sick. On top of which, the idea of sandwiching myself on the Northern Line in rush hour fills me with fear. I am absolutely terrified of being elbowed in the jaw by a passenger who is not aware of the gaping mess within, and consequently I'm considering fashioning a human equivalent of those plastic cones they give dogs to stop them licking their stitches. I wonder if this is how agoraphobia begins.

The pain-nausea continuum

I know I must be really quite ill when a lovely young man offers to come over to see me during his lunchbreak, and I refuse. It's not that I am too tired to receive guests; it just feels as though someone has vacuumed all the energy out of me overnight. I lay in bed with my eyes shut until about 1pm, feeling sick and floppy and very, very sorry for myself: sick to the non-existent back teeth of being feeble and off-colour. I know it is the painkillers that are making me so shaky, but the idea of not taking them is inconceivable, as the little men in the lava boots are still jumping with alarming vigour, and a few of them have been given a new detail which seems to involve firing flaming arrows at my eardrum and then laughing loudly.

I have enough drugs to last me until early next week, although my antibiotics run out this Thursday and my intention is that I will be better by then. Not fully healed, of course, but certainly ready for a glass of white wine. It will have been ten full days since my last alcoholic beverage by then, and it is a terrifying fact that I cannot remember a time when I have been that long without booze. I'm afraid it is several years, perhaps over a decade. Hmmm. Maybe my sickness is actually due to alcohol withdrawal - some sort of hideous cold turkey, where the only remedy is intravenous sauvignon blanc. I admit that it seems a modicum unlikely, but if things don't improve soon, I may be forced to attempt unorthodox solutions.

Achy breaky mouth

So yesterday, my anaesthetist called and asked how I was getting on. 'I feel sick,' I moaned. He said that was probably my pain-killers, and that if they were making me nauseous, I shouldn't take them. But I heard my nurse's advice ringing in my ears, that they have a cumulative effect, and that I should keep popping them consistently. In the end, I weighed up the nausea and the pain, fear of the former won out and I stayed off the Co-Dydramol.

Until 4am, when I woke up feeling like most of the left hand side of my jaw had been removed with an ice-cream scoop and that hundreds of tiny fat men in shoes made of lava were jumping up and down rhythmically on the excavation. Fear of nausea shrunk like a lambswool jumper in a boil wash and the pills were duly popped. Since then, it's been a fun cycle of pain and dread of imminent pain. Still, we knew it was going to happen at some point. And thankfully, I have several weeks' worth of American Idol saved up and a handsome nurse has just brought me season two of The Wire. It would be churlish to complain.

Alive - and 50% thicker?

Goodness. I think I am possibly a bit of a brave bunny. Went off to the hospital on my own early yesterday morning, and, shortly after arriving, got changed into a breezy gown and a delicious pair of thick, white DVT tights. It's fair to say I didn't look my best. Was desperate to take a self-portrait but surprisingly, my camera hadn't been on my packing list. Lesson learned, should there be next time...

Then I went and sat on a comfortable chair in a new waiting room with two other similarly-attired individuals, although they clearly had more petite feet than me and thus were able to wear the size medium throwaway slippers in cute turquoise, whereas I had to don the less attractive beige numbers for the pedally challenged. Obviously people with the larger foot don't like interesting colours. Hmmm. No time to get too caught up in high fashion, however, as I was then called up to the anaesthetist's room. Nice chat with his assistant who had worked in banking before retraining, aged 30. His advice: 'Don't go into nursing.' Needle in hand was fine and I was so stressed after the anticipation of it all that I think I went under before I'd even been given the meds.

Next thing I knew, I was in a new room and a nice lady was asking me if I was in pain. I think I nodded. I may have groaned. She gave me something and waited for five groggy minutes. She asked me if I was still in pain. I nodded again. She gave me more - the maximum allowed, apparently. It still hurt. I was wheeled into a cubicle. Expecting to sleep, I was surprised when I just lolled around in a daze as the painkillers slowly kicked in. I tried to start snoozing by playing an old favourite variation on counting sheep, my patented OCD Alphabet Categories Game. Post-wisdom-tooth-extraction, the subject was Things That Annoy Me. A: Alpha, B: Bad Drivers, C: Coriander, D: Dolly Mixture, E: Eels, F: Flatulence, G: God, H: Heart Attacks, I: Ignorance, J: Jihad, K: Klu Klux Clan, L... can't remember. Odd cookie, aren't I?

Then they brought me a cup of water with a straw, and a pot of vanilla ice cream. I surprised myself by rejecting the latter. The water crept down slowly. An hour or two later I was rescued by my knight in muddy armour, and ferried home. Then the nausea began. Horrible. Really horrible. I wasn't expecting it at all (stupidly in retrospect since it seems to be massively common) which made it worse. But on the upside, the numbness of the anaesthetic hadn't worn off, so the anticipated tooth pain was the least of my worries.

Now, 24 hours later, my situation is remarkably similar - my chin and cheek are numb and tingling, the hole left by the top tooth is nothing short of monstrous, the stitches in the bottom left gum are gruesome and trailing, the nausea is coming and going - it's all very exciting. I can eat with my head tilted to the right, like an inquisitive cocker spaniel, but it hurts to open my mouth wide, and what with the dead lip, drooling is alwyas a distinct possibility. I was feeling extremely sick after taking an antibiotic, two prescription painkillers, two nurofen and my happy pill having eaten only a mashed banana, so I guzzled a carton of Covent Garden chicken soup and followed it with some Ben & Jerry's. And sadly, I've been going through a Masterchef catch-up marathon this afternoon, so the anticipated weight-loss may have to be shelved.

But it's been a stunning day, the sun has been streaming through my Venetian blinds, my adorable holidaying parents sent me some gorgeous flowers, and it's impossible to complain when photographs like this exist:

Farewell, wisdom

Tomorrow I'm having an extraction. Well, up to four, to be precise. I don't know what will happen but I am fairly terrified. Still, at least it will put an end to a lengthy debate, and we will find out once and for all whether these gnashers really are the reason I'm so god-damned intelligent. See you on the other side.