iPod idiocy and job update

In decades gone by, a sign of mental decrepitude was the sight of an absent-minded individual searching for the pair of spectacles they were already wearing. In a modern take on an age-old problem, I am now confronting a new embarrassment. As I sit on the tube or walk along the busy London streets, I am regularly plagued by a panicked conviction that my iPod has been stolen and have to pat my pockets frantically and search my cavernous bag until I find it. Given the metropolis' reputation for petty crime and white-wire targeting, such behaviour could perhaps be seen as sensible caution were it not for the fact that, during these frenzied searching sessions, my headphones are always sitting comfortably in my ears and beautiful music is wending its way down the wires into my mind. Looking for an iPod while wearing it and hearing its music: absurd when it happens the first time, worrying when it happens every few minutes.

In other news: I am employed.

I carried a watermelon

After another day of no job news and a protracted battle with the date field in an Excel spreadsheeet that a) almost drove me to douse my computer in nail varnish remover and set fire to it and b) was nearly responsible for the tragic and premature end of my relationship, I needed a break.

Fortunately, a suitable distraction had been in the pipeline since mid-September last year, when, with barely-concealed glee, three of us had booked our tickets for Dirty Dancing: The Musical. And last night, after a five month wait peppered with countdown emails bursting with excitement and key quotations, the long-awaited event was now imminent. In retrospect, the hastily-imbibed bottles of white wine at dinner were a virtual pre-requisite for the joyous pantomime we witnessed: as the disappointing Johnny-alike, complete with possible hairpiece, entered the stage for the first time wearing his terrible Raybans and tight black vest, the packed crowd obediently gasped and oohed on cue, while Robbie the-waiter-who-knocked-up-Penny received reliable boos and hisses from start to finish. I am unwilling to advocate alcohol as a necessity but I think it's fair to suggest that any sober audience members would possibly have struggled to get into the spirit of the night in quite the same way.

The acting was delightfully atrocious, exactly what was demanded from the kitsch production. Any Oscar-winning performances would have stuck out like a caveman with a laptop - it's a 'play' (and I use the term in its loosest sense) that cannot be taken seriously and anyone doing vocal warm-ups or spotted backstage getting into character would surely have been smothered to a premature death by other cast members.

There were awkward moments, especially the unexpected addition of an embarrassingly worthy Martin Luther King plot-element, which was accompanied by an agonisingly yowled rendition of We Will Overcome, but the audience waited patiently for these aberrations to pass and the deafening screams as Johnny announced that "Nobody puts Baby in a corner," were the distinctive calls of hen parties on a mission. That's not to say we were exempt from such lewd behaviour: the catcalls, whoops and guffaws that emerged from our area were as vigorous and involved as any in the auditorium - and I must admit that our little red plastic binoculars did not remain in their metal holster for long. Now there was fifty pence well spent.

Question Time

Today's preferred distraction technique is a site called Yahoo! Answers, where anyone can log in, post a random question and have it answered by the great and good Yahoo! users across the stratosphere. I got involved when I had a question about income tax brackets in the UK - and within minutes had received a brilliant link to a website that calculates how much you'll earn per month after tax, depending on your salary.

A week later I asked about the wafty music that accompanies the Odeon cinema ad - and a nice young man not only identified the music (a one minute track called Blue that was written specifically for Odeon by someone called Nick Ryan) but made an .mp3 from a recording and sent me the link. Über-helpful.

Yahoo! Answers uses a points system, whereby you lose five points for asking questions (as it is SELFISH) and gain two points for answering one. The ultimate accolade is for your answer to be awarded Best Answer by the question's asker. This happened to me a few days ago, when my answer to the question 'Is happiness a choice?' was chosen as Best Answer, and consequently Yahoo! rewarded me with ten extra points.

The burst of self-satisfaction that I had been recognised by the online community has led to a flurry of new answers. Just this afternoon, as I wait to hear back from the City job people, I have contributed a further ten responses, gaining me twenty points. I correctly identified Seal's 'Future Love Paradise' from its opening lyrics and was able to put Lizangel out of her misery - but unfortunately around thirty other Answerers were every bit as enthusiastic and I fear that my speedy response won't be speedy enough to win the prize. In retrospect, pasting the full lyrics into my answer directly (as both Ron and Second Class did in theirs) would have been more impressive than pasting in a link to a relevant site, but I'll put that down as a rookie error. I have also responded to 'Does it make you feel superior to American-bash?' and 'Fat, violent, ignorant: the stats are not looking good for the UK. How can we change this for the better?'.

With 144 points, I thought I was doing well. Fool. When I clicked on the link to the Answers Leaderboard, everything changed. There at the top was Huggz, who has only been a member of the site since 10 September 2006, and yet has managed to answer 15,415 questions, with 52% of these being chosen as Best Answer, accruing a total of 138,748 points. Second on the list is Crystal, who is absurdly prolific but clearly not as helpful: she's answered a whopping 23,565 questions since 19 June 2006, almost ten thousand more than Huggz, but only 21% of these have been given the Best Answer accolade and her points score has taken a battering as a result. However, with a current total of 138,240, she's fast catching up with Huggz and their gripping battle for Yahoo! Answers Supremacy is nail-biting.

I see from the Leaderboard that Crystal has shot herself in the foot somewhat by greedily asking 98 questions herself, thus losing herself valuable points - whereas the more focussed Huggz has only weakened eight times. What, I wondered, did Huggz, who knows the answer to over 15 thousand questions, need to know? I clicked on his/her profile and discovered a recently-diagnosed diabetic with a fondness for skinny dogs and spiders:

Huggz' Eight Questions:

1. Sugar free christmas cake....?
2. How do i contact cutomer services at yahoo (UK)?
3. For type 2 diabetics on medication...?
4. Will you help end greyhound slaughter?
5. I have a Freeview box plugged into my TV.?
6. Does anyone know a web based spider forum, site or club?
7. Why are buttons on different sides for men and women?
8. Does anyone know where I can buy clown loaches at a reasonable price?
   

With a plotline like this, who needs Neighbours?

Stop the press

In a dramatic piece of breaking news, a link has been found between the over-sexualisation of females in the media and countless millions of insecure and unhappy girls. I'm sure I'm not alone in struggling to see how this is new knowledge.

For the past several centuries, certain types have been idealised and then idolised, from Cleopatra to Casanova, Grace Kelly to Kelly Brook (but, interestingly, not Henry Kelly). People’s self-images have always been affected by the portrayal of others – whether in novels, on TV, in films, advertisements or in the music industry. Primitive make-up used by beauty-seekers centuries ago led to skin poisoning and death. Victorian women squeezed into corsets so tight that they damaged their internal organs. And in the Fifties, female stars were regularly described by their measurements (34-24-34) – and ‘normal’ women whose figure didn’t conform to the Barbie girl ideal felt overweight and unhappy with themselves.

Of course, modern technologies have allowed far more unrealistic ideals to emerge – see this film for proof. But whether our beauty idols are genuinely fictional (e.g. Jessica Rabbit), or fictionally genuine in the sense that their beauty is not as it appears (e.g. every celebrity female), is strangely irrelevant to most of us. Most of us are well aware of modern airbrushing techniques (see left for more evidence). We know celebrities put themselves under insane pressure to look good – and that it can involve impossible fitness and diet regimes, 24-hour make-up assistance or drastic surgery. But sadly, despite our own fulfilling lives, and our limited time and money resources, we often chastise ourselves for our inability to compete with these racehorses.

In the UK, most women desire to be thin, toned, tanned and facially beautiful. In Southern India, women should be plump and dark skinned, whereas in Northern India, they should be thin and pale skinned. The fact is, whatever the individual criteria set by your society, there will be criteria, and either you fit the bill or you don’t.

My own childhood was utterly devoid of anything cool. At the boarding school I attended, fashion was a bizarre combination of comfort garments for the critically obese and ethnic skirts from Kensington Market. For several years, I rarely deviated from my unofficial uniform of a deeply unflattering men’s rugby shirt teamed with a long, shapeless skirt and a pair of elephantine Doc Marten loafers. My hair was long, straight and a non-shade of dark mouse for nearly a decade. I remained untouched by any glimmer of fashion sense until my twenties – and I would say that most of my friends were similarly unfussed.

Yet this lack of external pressure did not protect me from insecurities. There weren’t any teenage popstars to taunt me and I had little interest in boys at the time, but I was still painfully aware that I was on the porky side of slender. I felt overweight from around the age of seven, and was massively under-confident about my appearance until relatively recently – and shamefully, I expect a good deal of my current confidence has to do with being fancied by boys (even if it’s only one or two every few years).

Sure, since Britney donned the school uniform and started a new craze, the pressure on girls to emulate and conform – largely in order to win the interest of the opposite sex – has certainly entered a younger domain. Primark is selling thongs for young girls (since when has a primary school kid worried about VPL?) and last year I saw a nine-year-old wearing high heeled boots and a pair of jeans that said ‘SEXY’ on her ass. And don’t even get me started on the outrageous, whore-like Bratz dolls with their transvestite make-up and penchant for burlesque accessories.

The modern world is chock-full of reasons for young people to develop insecurities – only a fool would need the news to tell them that. The solution – as ever – lies in better education, improved facilities for young people, rock-solid family units and positive role models. But while we’re waiting for that nirvana, if a report can make a drop in the ocean, I’m all for it.

The Sound Of My Unemployed February

1. Mr. Hudson and the Library - Too Late Too Late
2. Tobias Froberg - See What We Do To Us
3. Camille - Ta Douleur
4. Scott Matthews – Eyes Wider Than Before
5. Take That – Shine
6. Bis – Action and Drama
7. Ryan Adams – My Winding Wheel
8. Ray LaMontagne – Can I Stay
9. Charlotte Gainsbourg - AF607105
10. The Clientele – We Could Walk Together
11. The Shins - Phantom Limb
12. Special AKA - What I Like The Most About You Is Your Girlfriend
13. The Doobie Brothers - What A Fool Believes
14. M. Ward – Duet For Guitars No.3

Denial - not just a river in Egypt etc. etc.

Regular readers will have noticed that this blog goes through sporadic phases where it will be updated frequently, and then enter a slightly stroppy stage when it petulantly remains unwritten. The logic behind this mercurial pattern is fairly unsurprising: I'm happy to write when I am happy, but reticent when I'm preoccupied and/or stressed.

At present, I'm in limbo - jobs are hovering inches above the proverbial table, I'm doggedly refusing to decide whether or not I want them until I know for sure that they will be offered to me, and I'm consequently inhabiting a strange state of not-knowing which is vague and unsettling - especially to one so reliant on structure, organisation and facts as I. The only practical solution, therefore, is denial. Consequently, I've blocked all thoughts of this situation out of my mind, instead spending inordinate amounts of time researching unrelated and unnecessary oddities online and reading whatever is close at hand in order to distract myself from my uncomfortable reality.

Anyone else constructing similar self-diversions could do worse than succumbing to Michel Gondry's new film, The Science of Sleep - Simon and I went to see it on Friday and it's barking mad in all the right ways. Charlotte Gainsbourg's bewitching English accent inspired me to buy her last album, 5.55, which is on as I type - she's singing about a plane crash and helping me forget my current career confusions. Hopefully the forthcoming new week will bring answers, but until then, I will drift along on this unfamiliar cloud where my future is in the control of virtual strangers, the past is distant and irrelevant, and the present is unpleasantly hazy. Suddenly the appeal of hallucinogenic drugs isn't so incomprehensible.

Children's publishers: you have my sympathies...

Tuesday night was a sleepless affair, involving much of the clichéd tossing and turning (if pushed, I'd say fractionally more of the latter). Having decided to learn to proof read for a job interview in just a couple of days, and my knowledge of the company in question being less than zero, there was a fair bit of pressure on the old mental furnace and frantic revision kept me awake through most of the twilight hours.

By lunchtime yesterday I was fairly insane with self-imposed and confusingly intense stress about a job I wasn't even sure I wanted. I had printed out copies of a children's book I wrote a year or two ago, a copy of an educational Shakespeare book I wrote around the same time and never did anything about - and stacked these alongside my portfolio, my MA dissertation, my café book and the book I'm actually reading (DC Confidential, book group friends - really enjoying it). I had preened and prepped myself into interview shape and enthusiastically set off for the far-flung reaches of Farringdon.

First impressions weren't great: the dilapidated building and disappointing reception area had me nostalgic for the relative swank of the City job I'd been for a fortnight ago. But then we walked downstairs through the storeroom stacked high with shelves full of beautiful, crisp, unsullied children's non-fiction books: encyclopaedia, dictionaries, books on dinosaurs and monsters and electricity and chess and how to play the guitar. It was heaven. The half-hour copy-editing test went surprisingly well - they were, in fact, extremely impressed that I knew my proofing symbols as they apparently don't use them in their offices - and the interview was cruising along nicely. But then they passed me the job description. The salary made me blanche - it was sub-Botanist. I tried to maintain my composure and show continued enthusiasm for the role, but my shock clearly showed as my interviewers laughingly assured me that, for publishing, this was a very reasonable offer. Pity the publishers - job satisfaction is a covetable thing, but it comes at a price, and if I ever want to move out of home, it's not one I can afford to pay.

In other news, my Valentine's flowers were delivered at 8pm last night, while I was out, and by the time I saw them this morning, they were dead, with nine of the eleven (eleven! I ask you...) heads pointing south by the time I got to them. I've got a new bunch now because I went back to the shop and complained - and Simon is having a feisty email row with the Head of Customer Services, Europe at Interflora. Undeniably a hassle, but so much more interesting than receiving the perfect bouquet first time round.

When only a Pilot V5 Finepoint will do...

It's a funny old world, isn't it. Eleven hours away in Los Angeles, Robbie Williams' publicist is fielding hundreds of calls regarding his client's decision to check into drug rehab again. In the Far East, the North Koreans have agreed to start the nuclear disarmament process. Up in Leeds, police are talking to three men in connection with the murder of a 2-year-old. So much is happening, lives are falling apart and being pieced back together again - and yet, here I am, still wearing pyjamas, still unemployed, still sitting in my beloved bedroom chair, studying a page of mysterious hieroglyphics with unusual seriousness. While the rest of the world is dealing with its issues, I am learning how to use proof-reading symbols for a job interview at a publishing house tomorrow.

There's something slightly humiliating about poring over a page of strange squiggles and lines - an echo of childhood multiplication-tables-induced panic. But learning the proofreading language in 48 hours is no mean feat and unless I want to be left with no job options other than the very-well-paid but fundamentally-un-me job at the City bank or a stint at TGI Friday's, right now I need to get on and do it. This being the case, it is strange that I am being mentally dragged towards the red pen section of my local stationers' in order to find the Ultimate Copy Editor's Writing Utensil. If only 'flawless procrastination skills' were a CV talking point...

Well done: you've reached 29.9% of your target!

With my breathlessly social, fun-packed existence, I'm sure it will be a struggle to believe that I ever partake in anything as humdrum as watching television. Yet in the past few weeks, I have somehow made room in my hectic schedule for a programme called, catchily, 'Did They Pay Off Their Mortgage In Two Years?'. Once past the uninspiring title, the show is actually fairly motivating, illustrating how people can free themselves from the burden of their mortgage by throwing themselves into a nightmareish two year battle of saving and increased earning.

But last week's episode was one of the most depressing pieces of television I've seen in months. The show's focus was a young family living in the north of England. The mother was unremarkable, with a dramatically fluctuating waistline which drew my sympathy. The small children seemed normal and happy. It was the father of this unit who aggravated me to red-faced frustration. Full of false promises and mediocre intentions, over two years he initiated ridiculous scheme after absurdly hopeless suggestion to contribute to his family's savings. Instead of staying at his regular job in a high street bank, he resigned and took an expensive course in Neuro-Linguistic Programming, planning to hold Give Up Smoking seminars. But inevitably, he failed to give any successful seminars, instead blowing more money on tragic error-packed leaflets and stands at trade fairs where he was reduced to giving brochures to babies in pushchairs. Meanwhile, his (still employed) wife's weight ballooned following a miscarriage and, with staggering insensitivity, the husband managed to blame this incident for the next six months of his layabout lifestyle, while she continued to work.

The real villain of the programme, however, was not the disappointing husband but the show's jovial presenter. Rene, pictured left, is a self-appointed financial 'guru'. He had clearly believed that it would be possible for the family to clear their £108,000-worth of mortgage and debts within two years. By the end of the experiment, they'd managed a paltry £32,000, well under a third of their target. But in the spirit of the age, the spineless presenter was unable to reprimand, instead summing up the couple's miserable efforts as 'brilliant' and saying they should be very proud of what they'd achieved. Sure, saving £32K over two years is no mean feat - but the programme wasn't about watching people put a bit aside, and it wasn't called 'Save Up Some Money Over The Course Of A Few Months'.

Fundamentally, they had failed spectacularly, but they weren't allowed to feel like failures - instead, the programme's goals had to be shifted to a place where mortgage repayments were no longer the focus: what was important that They Had Tried A Little Bit. In an embarrassing end-of-show summary, they desperately lapped up the presenter's patronising congratulations with pathetic gratitude. Worst of all was the possibility that others would have seen the same programme and been persuaded that there was anything worthy of praise in the family's meagre efforts. Tsk. Clearly my Thatcherite upbringing has worn off more than previously realised.

Salary Inequalities Spark Anti-Capitalist Moan

In much the way I was bursting to be serious and political after my night at the ICA cinema last week, I am similarly driven to write about grown-up topics today. A friend emailed me yesterday having read my salary complaints in my last blog entry, and reminded me that a salary of £24K for four days' work a week is not to be sniffed at. She is a botanist, went to university for five years, applied for a job which required a Master's or PhD to do it, has been in the job for nearly three years and is still, staggeringly, making less than £20K a year.

She is very philosophical about it, saying that she knew from an early age that if she wanted to be a botanist, she would never be wealthy, would always have to chase jobs and be willing to move countries as opportunities are unbelievably scarce. It is absolutely her choice and I don't feel personally guilty, but it does make me slightly sick that I am considering jobs that have salaries nearly double hers. All the roles I'm looking at require is a few brain cells, a nail file and an Oyster card, whereas what she does between nine and five requires a great deal of specialised knowledge and ultimately contributes to our greater understanding of the planet. As an end result that's slightly more beneficial than the consequences of the PA jobs I'm going for, which ultimately contribute little to humanity other than our understanding of PowerPoint shortcut keys and the BA online check-in facility.

Fundamentally, botany is still uncool - and unless my friend wants to turn into a celebrity botanist or team up with Carol Vorderman to write a trendy book about herbs, she's always going to be stuck in dusty academia, largely unrecognised, expected to feel grateful for the fact she's employed at all and certainly only scraping a living. Unless a job or industry is either fashionable or of obvious and immediate value for the majority, it won't be rewarded financially. And to that, I say: Pah.

Gains and Grievances

Today's achievements:

1. I successfully rewrote my CV for the PA/Executive Assistant arena - this involved deleting everything I believe to be impressive about my employment history and flagging up non-events such as typing words per minute and the fact that I can organise a meeting.
2. I finally completed my application for a writing job at the Red Cross that sounds gripping - unfortunately, having finished the online form after a substantial amount of time spent grappling with awful drop-down menus and reams of equal opportunities questions, I spotted the salary in the job description. I had got the idea from somewhere that the salary was around £28K. I was wrong. It is precisely the salary that one would expect from a fascinating job at a charity: a pittance.
3. I checked in at MacFixitForums where Apple geeks share info, and found that my post about slow running programs had been answered. I thus rebuilt Entourage, my email programme - and installed and ran OnyX, a deceptively small programme that rooted out all the space-filling rubble on my system and gave me an extra 1.5 Gb of available space. Very satisfying.
4. I sellotaped the spine of my borrowed copy of Duruflé's Requiem as it was falling to pieces.

Today's gripes:

1. People who are clearly at their desk and who are, in some small way, holding my future in their grasp, but who do not reply immediately to my emails. They should be culled.
2. Part-time job ads that use pro rata payment information: it's misleading and irritating. A new position that I thought sounded extremely appealing was advertised as four days a week, salary £30K pro rata. It all seemed lovely - but then I took a fifth of the salary off, to account for me working four days rather than five, and it emerged that the actual salary would be £24K - not an insubstantial difference. How annoying.
3. Cats that don't run down the stairs fast enough when I'm trying to reach the front door before the postman sprints gleefully away down the street clutching my undelivered package. Loitering on the staircase in front of me is not helpful - particularly when I am in a hurry. Of course, my frame is delicate and fragile, and I am well-known in my family for being fleet of foot, but even so, in a contest between my descending weight and a feline spine, I think we all know who would win.

With the day's achievements outweighing the gripes, I think I can afford myself a virtual high five - although high fiving oneself does smack of desperation and loneliness. Additionally, I must make sure I don't get too cocky - it's only lunchtime and there's still much potential for further events of both negative and positive persuasions. I'll put the high five on hold 'til the flower of Tuesday has unfurled a few more petals. Check back soon for more terrible metaphors and self-indulgent musing.

Ting, ting

Playing sport with a boyfriend has never been something I've found particularly relaxing. Tennis games with both exes have ended in near break-ups and, in one case, a violent outburst that involved both tears and racket throwing. So when Simon suggested an hour's badminton, I wasn't optimistic.

Last night, at dinner with his flatmate, Simon announced we were playing the following day. He accompanied this statement with a) an unbearably faux-casual back and forth flick of the wrist to indicate a forehand/backhand motion and b) a simultaneous verbal effect along the lines of ‘Ting, ting,’ to suggest the pleasing sound of shuttlecock on racket. I struggled not to call it off there and then. It seemed inevitable that our first foray into a room with a net would be traumatic.

Things didn't improve when we began this morning with an aimless argument that started with a dream I'd had in which my mother had died, and concluded with a heated discussion about Gordon Ramsay. Thus, as we strode onto court number one at Brentford Fountain Leisure Centre at 2.45pm, sporting an odd assortment of bad shorts and ancient trainers that indicated clearly to all surrounding players that we were not accustomed to being active, I was feeling extremely apprehensive. Simon was walking with a previously unwitnessed spring in his step and a maniacal grin that only increased my nervousness.

We started to play. Simon was as keen as I've ever seen him about anything, sprinting for unreachable points and laughing regularly and heartily. I felt like the Ice Queen. I was happy to hit back if the shuttlecock arrived within my dance space, but lurching after one was beyond me. Running is never an activity I feel comfortable with, but under certain circumstances, for instance putting some distance between oneself and an angry swan, I am prepared to accept that breaking into a trot might be necessary. Chasing after a plastic and feather ice cream cone in Brentford is not one of those circumstances. Every time I lunged for the shuttlecock I felt increasingly absurd.

After about twenty minutes, however, my pride kicked in. Simon was still bounding about like a drunken gazelle and his infectious enthusiasm began to rub off on me. Gradually, I began to care. At half time, I even removed my tracksuit top - a clear indication that I was becoming emotionally involved. By 3pm, we had hit a rally of 50 and even played a competitive game without splitting up. Full marks go to my partner whose endless positivity saved the day. But I take equal credit for turning up at all: with previous sporting nightmares still ringing in my metaphorical ears, mustering the optimism required to take part at all was no mean feat. But against all the odds, far from being a hellish experience, we’re now talking about a weekly slot and buying our own rackets. I'm slightly superstitious about this financial commitment given the pair of rollerblades, tennis racket and bag of karate sparring gear gathering dust in my wardrobe, but the eternal joy of purchasing items that suggest that one is fit and active may persuade me. Ebay here we come.

Not so fast...

As job hunts go, mine hasn't been too trying thus far, but I can't say that I'm enjoying the thrill of the chase just yet. I've applied for several jobs, about half of which sound genuinely interesting, and I believe that my submissions thus far have been fitting and persuasive. Covering letters, in particular, are my zenith. Yet my self-confidence has been somewhat shaken this afternoon as I have had to face facts: despite years of writing experience, I still have room to improve.

This morning I put together an email to a recruitment consultant, which was in reference to a job that I'd seen advertised online. The message, I believed, was practically perfect. While being both concise and understated, it clearly set out my skills and illustrated my many talents. I was presenting myself, I was certain, as one who is precise, calm, logical and a host of other positive characteristics. Having read it through, convinced of its beauty, and with a slight hint of that particular type of satisfaction that borders on smugness, I sent it to its electronic destination.

Instantly, I saw an error.

It is a curious law of modern life that, in the calm light of day, such mistakes are completely invisible to the naked eye, but at precisely the moment that it becomes too late to make any corrections, our glaring idiocy becomes starkly apparent. We send the email and suddenly, with an humiliating simultaneity, the obviousness of our own stupidity seems to grow in font size, dwarfing the rest of the words and forcing us to confront our pathetic deficiencies.

Today, my error was a repeated phrase within the same paragraph. And the phrase that I accidentally duplicated was, blush-inducingly, the claim that I am a 'fast learner'. Written two or three sentences apart, as it was, I can't imagine that it's a deal-breaker, but nonetheless I flushed with an immediate remorse. Yet, I'm far too old to cry over spilt milk: it was too late and I resolved to move on.

Sadly, my efforts to forget about the glitsch were slightly more effective than I'd have liked. This afternoon, I telephoned the intended recipient of my email to ensure it had been received. I was informed that the company had been having server problems and that I should send it again. With an efficiency that may, in hindsight, have smacked of desperation, I resent my morning's email intact. As the space-age sound effect informed me that it had been launched from the outbox, once again, I experienced that hot stab of embarrassment that I had just missed a one-off opportunity to make my earlier mistake disappear. It is with a smidgen of newly-acquired writing humility that I must admit that, perhaps, I'm not such a fast learner after all.

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.