Harrowing

What with all my "tedious" navel-gazing (copyright A. Reader, 9 January 2011) and pontification on the subject of love and relationships, you'd be forgiven for expecting me to be a Full and Vocal Member of The Valentine's Haters Club. Actually, I kind of like it. I know, I know: it's horribly commercial, and yes, I know that Real Love happens 365 days a year, and I am fully aware that restaurants put their prices up just to cash in, and I know that the whole thing seems designed to make people who are alone feel much worse about themselves, increasing the sense single adults often have of being second class citizens.

But hey. At its loosest extremes, it's about telling people you love them, and I'm all for that. I just stretch the boundaries a bit, and send cards to my parents, and a few friends, and then yesterday Grania came to my office early in the morning and dropped off a small, red, heart-shaped helium balloon on a stick, so anyone who cared could see I was loved. I put it under my seat on the tube home so as not to be too unbearable, but I still enjoyed seeing it waggling along beside me as I went up the escalators. And I got a card from Astrid, and one from my dad, and then I got changed and wore a heart necklace and heart earrings and a vest-top with hearts on it, and three single girlfriends came over and I made a three course meal including heart-shaped lamb burgers, and we drank a lot of wine and I felt pretty happy, all things considered.

Doubtless, it's a good deal more fun to look down one's nose at those willing morons who allow themselves to be duped by Hallmark and Cafe Rouge into spending their hard-earned cash on cardboard and marked-up set menus; to tell oneself that one is a vastly superior specimin because one doesn't buy in to all that capitalist claptrap, because one refuses to let one's emotions be controlled by such a cynical and commercial endeavour. But I just can't do it. I'm a sucker for love.

Kate and I did the next section of the Capital Ring on Sunday, from Greenwood to South Kenton. It was grey, windy and drizzling, and by the time we reached Harrow, the only photo I'd taken was of a decomposing dead fox floating in the Grand Union Canal. I was boiling from the climb and my rucksack had created an attractive sweat patch on my back, meaning that I became absolutely freezing as soon as we sat down in the Blues cafe in Harrow for a bowl of tuna pasta. The room was slightly less frosty than the waitress, but more potent was the thudding fug of oppressive, eternal Sunday mid-afternoons that one can only understand if one has been to boarding school, where you're bored out of your tree with nothing to do and yet painfully aware of a conflicting sense that tomorrow morning is approaching at speed and that the ever-craved weekend will shortly be over for another five days. You're thrilled for the change in routine that is heralded by the arrival of your parents to take you 'out' for lunch, but then are cripplingly embarrassed by their every move and spend the longed-for, fantasized-over, hour-long pizza lunch fervently wishing that your mum was more glamorous and that your dad's voice wasn't so loud, desperate for them to stop asking stupid questions about such OBVIOUS stuff but then spitting with rage the moment the subject meandered even a millimeter from yourself. And then they tell you they love you and kiss you goodbye and you don't even want to be seen with them in case someone sees you together and finds another reason to think you're uncool, and then they get in the car and start the hour and a half drive back home, and you're left alone in the cold gloomy evening, filled with sadness and regret and self-loathing and homesickness and a physically painful feeling of loneliness.

Surrounding us in the cafe were many clusters of hopeful parents feeding their costly offspring, following in the footsteps of Winston Churchill and Baby Carrot, oops, soz, Benedict Cumberbatch in being educated at this esteemed establishment. The MILF next to us chatted to her penne-chokingly handsome teenage son about the upcoming BAFTAs and other hip things, and then casually paid for the meal with one of several crisp £50 notes and five one pound coins. On the table behind Kate, two slightly uncool brothers sat opposite their slightly uncool parents and discussed forthcoming sport fixtures over burgers, pizza and a chicken caesar salad. So much money, so many extraordinary facilities, so many privileged, forlorn boys walking outside in the drizzle wearing tailcoats and a mournful gaze. It was all just desperately sad.

Why do I feel sorry for these young men? Because it's not about love. You can pay many thousands to send your son to Harrow, or Eton, or St. Mary's Whatever. They can grow up with like-minded friends on tap, an unrivalled circle of influence, guaranteeing them entry into society's highest echelons, a free ticket into advantage that never expires. They can wake up on a Sunday aged 14 and have a golf course at their disposal, a running track, swimming pools, tennis courts, squash courts, a judo room, an art school, theatres, photography and film facilities, music rooms, recording studios, computer labs, open fields, a farm, and wealthy parents to take them out for pizza. They can be educated by top teachers for five years and come out with top grades and places at top universities, where the grooming process can continue. They can have every head start it's possible to have. But they can never be normal. They can never un-go to boarding school. And although it was wonderful in so many ways, and although parents are only doing what they think is best, the fact is, it breeds difference and it's unfair. And - vitally - for every over-confident Churchill or Carrotbatch, there are men and women who were permanently scarred by the experience, who will never fully recover from feeling abandoned during those formative years.

I'm not blaming boarding school for the snake. I just... I just wish it didn't need to exist. I wish state education was so good that even the richest felt that private education was unnecessary. Some are more equal than others and I wish it weren't so. I just want us all to be friends. Underneath the confident tone of voice, I am, as an ex-boyfriend once told me, just a big bundle of love. I think he meant it as a compliment.

I'm also massively hormonal AGAIN, and hungover and needy, and all I want to do is eat dark chocolate with sea salt and then lie in a huge bed, enveloped in some strong arms, and sleep. What I do NOT want to do is schlep over to west London and have a FREAKING CHOIR PRACTICE.

Just Another Narcoleptic Exercise

Jettison Arbitrary Negative Emotions
Jump All Nefarious Emissions
Juicy Apparel Never Enhances
Jellyfish Are Not Erotic
Jousting Always Needs Equines
Jeroboams Are Never Enough
Jerusalem’s Armies Need Education
Jails Are Nasty Ends
Judges Amplify New Evidence
Jane Attempts Nebulous Ecstasy
Jog And Nearly Expire
Jeer At Naked Etonians
Jet Around Northern Europe
Jeopardise Animals Not Economies
Jaunts Across Nevada Exhaust
Juvenile Alcoholics Neck Ethanol
Japes Are Not Effortless
Jazzercise Addicts Need Executing
Journeys All Net Experiences
Jugular Attacks Need Experts
Jittery Adulterers Nibble Earlobes
Joking Aside, Now Experiment

SOMEONE GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO.

Filler

I have nothing to say. Sorry. But tonight I'm going on a date, and, given past form, I'm sure there'll be some new material tomorrow. In the meantime, here are some things you can do in the absence of LLFF:

1. Take a moment to appreciate the wonders of existence.
2. Be thankful that you are not five stone heavier than you are now.
3. Stare out of the window for a bit.
4. Eat some malt loaf.
5. If you've been to China, Vietnam and/or Cambodia, jot down some helpful bullet points for me to consider as I try to decide where I'm going.
6. Write my first award-winning novel/non-fiction work of unquestionable brilliance for me and send it to me as a Word document so that I can adapt it into my own unique style for submission to publishers and agents the world over.
7. Have a really good stretch.
8. Memorise the names and faces of everyone in the new cabinet for future pub quiz victory/dinner party smuggery.
9. Make my day: tell a friend about LLFF.
10. Drink some water. You know you should.
11. Write a thank-you letter. I'm sure there's one you owe.
12. Phone your mum and tell her you love her. If you don't have a mum, tell your dad. I don't mean tell your dad that you don't have a mum. I'm presuming he knows that. Tell him you love him, you fool. If you don't have a dad or a mum, then give yourself a big hug. Parents are amazing; not having them must suck. I high five you.
13. Do some pelvic floor exercises.
14. List three things about yourself that you think are amazing. Then bask in your own brilliance.
15. Love me always.

Shang, hi?

So I know the comments section at the bottom of each of these posts is often fairly barren. I have a few loyal people who have managed to sign up and say things in public, but the vast majority of my feedback comes from those who know me in Real Life, who seem happy to tell me in person, but not so happy to write it for the World To See. Either way, I bask like a lioness in the sun when people say nice things about LLFF - along with whiskers on kittens, it is one of my favourite things - and yesterday was a good day, when four or five different and highly respected friends contacted me to say how much they'd enjoyed my witterings, and how nice it was to see me sounding so perky.

The irony is, I spent this morning in tears at my desk, the snake coiled round my feet.

I went on that date on Sunday night, and when I got home we texted briefly. He said I was amazing and mentioned 'next time'. Then we texted a bit yesterday morning, but the speed of his responses sounded the Gong of Warning. It became clear that he wasn't that keen. And the annoying thing was, I hadn't been that keen either. I mean, he was really really funny. But I guess the sexual chemistry I felt could have had more to do with wine than I'd admitted previously. And he is as laid back as it's possible to be - to the point where, given a choice between two date venues, he genuinely doesn't care which one we go to, which is all fine and dandy, especially because I do obviously have an opinion so then we just get to do what I want and everyone's happy, right? Except that is a recipe for unmitigated disaster in relationship terms. I of all people need a leader, not a follower. I dunno. I didn't think he was perfect, sure, but I certainly didn't think he was perfectly awful, either. And he'd been so persuasive about how much he'd liked me, really ladling on the compliments, and then... poof!

GASP. Maybe the magician has made him vanish.

That is surely it.

But anyway, for whever reason, he's stopped texting me, and he's still on the dating website checking in regularly, so he's a) still alive and b) surfing around for other options. And, I mean, obviously that is fair enough, in that I am doing it too, and have a date coming up this Thursday. But still. It's this gaping chasm between a) my friends, who always say "I don't understand why you haven't been snapped up," and b) boys I fancy, who always say, "I don't want to see you ever again."

And so then I sit here and think - hmmm. That's the first date I've been on since my confidence took a beating in late February. And now I feel like shit again. Why do I keep on dating if it keeps giving my confidence a beating? And then I think: well, because I want, ultimately, to be in a relationship - because love is the best feeling on earth and, like pretty much everyone I know, I'd love to experience it. And then I think: well, that's fine, but we all know you can't look for love, and maybe you're just not occupied enough in the rest of your life and you're hoping too hard for love and coming across as desperate. And then I'm like: but hang on, how could I do any more? I'm basically so Ms Extra Curricular that I annoy myself with my smuggery, what with choir last night and uke tomorrow and late night museum tickets on Friday and Capital Ring on Sunday and god knows what else lined up for the coming months. But then we all know that merely being busy doesn't mean you're happy. But then what else could I do to make myself more happy and satisfied with my existence? I have wonderful friends and family. I'm deeply fortunate to be pretty much fit and healthy (snake excepted). I love my hometown. What else can I do? Maybe it's time for a break... I could go away for a bit. Change of scene. Writing opportunity... I've been talking about that for months. Maybe I should finally put my money where my mouth is and actually book something. But then... could doing that jeopardise my job? What if I go away and then whoever is covering for me ends up being better at my job than I am (e.g. by not spending all day writing blog entries) and they don't want me back? But then my job could end suddenly anyway. It certainly won't last forever: I need to confront what will happen when I leave. I should line up other options. Maybe if I went away for a couple of months, I could write while I was away and then I could start putting a safety net in place for Life After This Job. But then I read that and laugh, and think, for goodness' sake, moron, who ever heard of using writing as a safety net? Writing is about as safe as Gaza. Don't risk your security. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Don't you forget about me. But then... security is so... stable. I'm 32, with no kids, no relationship, an affordable mortgage and some savings. Why not go away? Go to China for two months, explore, have some adventures, come back and see what happens? And then I'm like: that's freaking terrifying. I hate rocking the boat, it feels grim. I'm a control freak. I like controlled fun: medium sized waves and lifejackets, not tsunamis and kayaks. But then... maybe the medium waves and the lifejacket is a bit boring. Maybe I'm feeling stifled. And then I was, like, ooh, my boss has just walked in, and before I knew it I was asking him about a sabbatical, and he said that it definitely could be doable, and now it looks like I'm going to China for eight weeks in September and October this year. All because some moronic short boy from Hull didn't text me back.

Madness.

Out of steam

I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TODAY. I just doodled this on the back of an envelope. I think it means I AM BORED. When is my next holiday?

Hi, it's me

Ooh, I'm all riled about those silly Americans who have made a series of TV ads highlighting the failures of the British NHS, in order to deter Obama's plans for a more supportive healthcare system across the pond. Sure, there are lots of people who have been let down or disappointed by the NHS. It's certainly not perfect. But count up the percentage of Brits who feel lucky to have the NHS, and compare that to the percentage of Americans who feel lucky to have their current insurance-based system, and I'm certain that the answer would be fairly conclusive.

And then there's all this kerfuffle about MPs expenses. It really is quite laughable what they have legally been allowed to get away with. The sad thing is, the entire saga is just confirming what everyone thought before: the whole system sucks. Voter disenfranchisement is in full force now, next to no-one has any faith that the marks they leave on their ballot paper will do any good, leaving the door wide open for lairy parties like the BNP to waft in at the European Elections next month - their supporters won't be put off by superficial scandals like this one. It's all so terribly disappointing and, for the life of me, I can't see what's going to change anything except a massive issue like a war to pull everyone off the sidelines and reengage them with their government. And, much as I want parliamentary reform, even I wouldn't advocate getting involved in any more military disputes. Thankfully I have the third week of my politics course tonight and we are discussing voter apathy, so maybe I'll be able to supply you with the answers tomorrow.

On a different note, I can tell you that currently annoying me most are people who leave voicemails that begin, 'Hi, it's me.' Growl. Obviously if I can recognise your voice, then saying 'It's me' isn't going to change anything. What is even worse, however, is 'Hi, it's only me,' which shows such an appalling and deep-seated lack of self-confidence that it actually makes me angry rather than sad. I think I have too much time on my hands.

Ummm.

I'm stuck. I'm almost lost for words - but it's not that dramatic. I just have nothing of interest to write. I've looked at the news and although the stories are important, I'm not fuming about any of them. Last night I tutored a small and adorable kid in English - that was fun but not much to write home about there. No major public transport incidents to report - although this morning I did sit next to a woman who coughed solidly for the entire thirty minute journey from Hammersmith to King's Cross. I wrapped my scarf around my face, turned my face away from her and tried to breathe shallowly to minimise inhalation but if I don't catch something I'll eat my hat, scarf and treasured striped Benetton wristwarmers. People like that should be quarantined/imprisoned on a more permanent basis. It's so unbelievably selfish - I was almost at the point where I felt the onset of hatred. But really, overall, nothing to report, nothing rantworthy, nothing of note. Maybe it's because I'm in a good mood - perhaps I'm only inspired by vitriol. That's certainly something to discuss in therapy...

Low ebb

It is no secret that I'm a fraction under-stimulated at work. But last night, when my parents asked me to write a letter for them during my inevitable downtime, I knew I'd reached new lows. In my heart of hearts, I hoped that today would throw up some kind of distraction and that I would be too busy to sink to this - but no. It's not even lunchtime and I have already had so little to do that the parental chore was unavoidable. I hope you, The Faithful, will feel my pain:

Tesco Customer Service
PO Box 73
Baird Avenue
Dryburgh Industrial Estate
Dundee
DD1 9NF

16 October 2007

Dear Sir / Madam,

Please find enclosed an empty packet of Tesco sultanas and the rock / pebble that my father found within it last night. Sadly he did not spot the offending pebble on its way to his mouth, but only became aware of its presence among the sultanas when he crunched down on it, very nearly breaking one or more of his teeth.

In your defence, the offending stone does very closely resemble a sultana in appearance – but rest assured, in texture and solidity, the two items are most certainly poles apart.

As you will understand, this was an unpleasant moment for my father and he is keen that your system of sultana collection is perhaps revisited so that this situation will be less likely to occur in future.

In the meantime, I’m sure you will understand if we are slightly reticent to purchase sultanas, or indeed any other dried fruit produce, from Tesco’s in the near future.

Kind regards...
Enc.

238 down, 762 to go...

Stephen King advises aspiring authors to churn out a bare minimum of 1000 words a day. He recommends doing the churning in the morning - Stephen's personal preferred timeslot is between 8-12. Sounds like a delightful plan and all well and good if you have a wealthy spouse, a bulging trust fund or enough money from your previous 35 books to support you. For the rest of us, it's more of a challenge to find a time when creativity, inspiration and availability coincide.

Personally, my job is currently breaking previous records when it comes to resources drained. Due to complete under-stimulation, standing up to get a plastic cup of water has become a feat requiring staggering strength and resiliance. Refilling the printer is a task so insurmountable that it demands the mental equivalent of a six-man team, oxygen masks and, perhaps, some huskies. Thus I find myself having to write at a time when a) it appears that nothing funny or of note has happened to me for several lifetimes and b) even if it had, the energy and inspiration needed to remark upon it online seems as out of reach as the Man Booker.

Still, I force myself to try, create something mediocre at best on the questionable principle that something is better than nothing, and move on to the next part of my eternal day. Even thinking about bird nappies isn't cheering me up. Mondays suck.

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.

Growl

In the two months or so since I have been in my current job, I’ve probably been given around eight hours’ worth of work to do. One of the very few satisfying tasks I was assigned was to proof-read a document that would eventually be sent to thousands of company workers, informing them of radical changes to the business. I duly checked the pages for flaws, and identified several, including a grammatical error in the first line – a find which resulted in several consecutive moments of shaming self-congratulation and smuggery. I attempted to hide my glee as I returned the document back to its writer, anticipating praise and thanks.

Imagine my surprise and irritation, therefore, when this very afternoon, the finished document dropped into my inbox (and the inboxes of countless reams of other employees) complete with its original uncorrected errors and the same glaring syntax issue beaming out from the opening phrase.

It’s demoralising enough to have so little to do – but when what you do do is disregarded or lost, it’s really somewhat irksome. Still, the Bank Holiday beckons and I’m off to Suffolk on a hen weekend. All being well I’ll return in one piece next Tuesday.

Uninspired

What does it say about a person when they sang, as part of a choir, in a charity fundraising event the previous evening, performing such classical hits as Taverner’s The Lamb and Handel’s Zadok The Priest to an audience who had paid up to £65 for their tickets, and, between their own performances, listened to readings by the actors Edward Fox and Dame Diana Rigg and a short speech by the Lord Mayor of London, and heard other pieces played by an incredible 18-year-old harmonica player and a fantastic brass quintet – and yet they find themselves unable to think of a single interesting thing to say about the entire event?

I think it might say that the person is over-stimulated in the rest of her life and thus has impossibly high standards. I would refute this conclusion however, as I know the real truth about this person’s daytime existence and I can assure you that she is not over-stimulated.

Perhaps there’s just nothing funny to write about choir concerts. But that’s not true either because once this person was performing in a concert and during a particularly moving moment, a large and enthusiastic Springer Spaniel ran full pelt into the glass doors at the far end of the church behind the audience. That was definitely funny.

Perhaps there’s just nothing funny or interesting to write about this choir concert. That must be it.

Desperate Times

At 09:34 this morning I had finished all the work I could do for today. Since then I have been creating absurdly unnecessary jobs for myself in order to pass the time and pouncing on the phone when it rings so that I look as though I have a role, even though I am clearly superfluous and will be for as long as my boss is out of the office.

This afternoon I have stopped attempting to appear engaged with my work, since it must be obvious to all that I have none. Instead, in a brief moment of bravery, I strolled off the company intranet and onto eBay, to see if a second-hand coat I’ve been watching has spiralled out of affordability. Quickly, I fell into the lulling vortex that I so often experience when I’m on eBay – hours, possibly days, can go by while I scroll, as one possessed, through the world’s rejected clothing and accessories.

Today, however, I tangentised in a way that shocked even myself. Seeing that my coat-elect was still under £10, I absent-mindedly clicked on another of the seller’s items that attracted my attention. It was a few seconds too many before I realised what it was I was contemplating. All at once my self-awareness returned with a surge and I became aware that I was regarding a large selection of vintage wedding dresses.

As the bare and, I like to think, still youthful ring finger of my precious left hand will attest, I am not engaged. Nor am I in any hurry to become a fiancée. Clearly my boredom is plumbing new depths and forcing me to take refuge in embarrassing daydreaming that suggests a wholly-incorrect discontentedness with my current unwed status. I need distractions. The weekend begins in zero minus 91 minutes.

No News Does Not Equal Good News

Nor, however, does it necessarily equal bad news. In this particular case, no news means, oddly, no news.

I have started my job. I’ve been here over a fortnight. I am learning a lot of things. And although the process of learning anything is, in itself, stimulating and satisfying, once the learning has occurred, one is just left with the ability to do something new. This would be ideal if a particular ability challenged my brain or imbued me with self-satisfaction. But sadly, of the myriad new skills I have acquired, it is safe to say that the number of those which captivate me is precisely zero. In fact, it may be more accurate to say that nothing I have done here would be of any interest whatsoever to anyone at all. The jobs I have to carry out are so mundane in nature that when I have tried to enlighten well-meaning friends and family members about my day’s tasks, I have induced narcoleptic attacks in both listeners and speaker.

I am bored. I’m so bored I have taken to poring over my own junk mail. Each five minute chunk of today has been noted as I have been sitting at my desk. And unexpectedly, being paid very well to be bored neither disguises nor removes the unpleasantness of the experience. I am utterly unstimulated and it is making me hate myself.

That said, there is a chance that I may be given new responsibilities in a couple of weeks. This carrot is just enough to keep me with my feet under the desk for the time being. Those concerned acquaintances who have long worried about me during my freelance years, those who greeted my announcement of full-time employment with barely-concealed tears of relief and joy, will be terrified that I might ‘do something stupid’ and jack it all in – but they’ll just have to wait and see what happens. As will I. But for now, honestly, there’s no news.

It’s all about the money… for now

It was inevitable that some infectious commuter would spread some disgusting virus to me before long, with my immune system weakened by years of working from home and only rare interactions with the populace at large. The fact that my contraction of a sore throat and impending cold has been combined with the first Monday of my first full week in full-time employment seems a little harsh, however. It is mid-afternoon and I am flagging with the committed skills of a semaphore addict.

Office work is just as I remembered it, only now with less celebrities and more need for accuracy. I am still finding it hard to believe that this is my new life – not merely a brief jaunt into a strange netherworld – and that I will be here, doing this or something pretty similar, for the next few months, perhaps even for years. I’ve long longed for increased financial stability but now it’s been handed to me, the restrictive sensation of a predictable future is looming large. However, payday is in a week and a half and it is possible that my ability to cope with any monotony could increase slightly as a consequence.

Time Off: The Real Story

I was offered my new job on Friday 23rd February and was given to understand that, subject to a few forms being filled in and a few references being checked, I would start about 10 days later on Monday, the 5th March.

It is now Monday, the 5th March and I am not at work. As is always the case in these matters, things are never as simple as they should be - my contract was delayed and my frenetic employment history means that the necessary checks will probably take longer than expected. Towards the end of last week it was clear that I would not be starting for a little longer - probably not until Monday, the 12th March.

I am, therefore, in an odd hiatus period, where I am 99% employed, with nothing to do for a week. With the spectre of full-time employment looming large on the horizon, I should be blowing on the dying embers of my freedom, desperate to warm myself from their final seconds of existence. But to my surprise, I have lost the energy to lead a fulfilling life and am, flatly, bored out of my mind. I would far rather be working than sitting here for another nanosecond. Sure - London is oozing with things I should be doing to expand my mind or awaken my deadened senses: there are exhibitions to take in, films to see, lectures to attend - but I have neither the will nor the funds, nor even the feintest desire to leave the comfort of my reclining armchair and footstool arrangement.

I am just as aware as the next person that, come next week or next month, I will look back on these blank hours and barren days with putrid envy, spitting with rage at my own lethargy and horrified that I didn't spend my job-free time more fruitfully. But for now, the evidence is plain for all to see: I am here, at home, with no plans and no energy, and I see little likelihood of this situation altering until I'm allowed to start my job. It's all deeply unflattering and I do wonder why I'm choosing to advertise this disgusting torpor to the online community - it's almost certainly something to do with the fact that this is one activity I can carry out while remaining almost entirely inert.

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?

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.