No title possible for such disconnected topics

The weekend was blissful thanks to good weather and nice people. It was also massively competitive, as I engaged in a round of Bingo Tunes on Friday evening, where the DJ played small excerpts of many familiar songs in fairly quick succession, and we had to cross them all off our cards [see above]. I had arrived late and knew full well that my chances of winning had taken a battering as a result. Furthermore, the prize was four pints of cocktails, which might have been a little too much, even for me, and I don't think takeaway was an option. But despite knowing that I couldn't win and that I didn't want the prize, I was unable to speak to anyone or even enter into a spot of dancing, as crossing the songs off my cards (I had three as I took my friends' on the understanding that I would be better at it than them) became my obsession. Recognising each track was not enough: I had to identify it within the first bar and a half, and have it crossed out before the vocals kicked in. Failure to do so would result in a spate of violent mental self-flaggelation, inspired by the scary posh monk in The Da Vinci Code. Eventually, someone else won the prize and I was able to relax, even managing to smile at the people near me, and it wasn't long before the dancing started in earnest and the alcohol I'd already consumed began to pour out from my forehead a la the pilot in Airplane. Stunning.

Less than twenty four hours later, my blood was up again as I was in west London for a charidee pub quiz, where our team trailed by around half a point for almost the entire evening. It was particularly infuriating because we did extremely well in an exceptionally tricky music intros round, with songs by Jurassic 5, the Stone Roses, Maximo Park, Foo Fighters, Catatonia and Portishead - not your average recognisable chart fodder. We didn't win but, having supplied several crucial and typically highbrow answers including the nationality of the chef in the Muppets and which of the seven dwarves wears glasses, I felt like I'd pulled my weight.

Sunday was unexpectedly glorious, and crowned by the news that, miracle of miracles, my parents' cat, Dennis, who escaped from a cat basket outside the cattery in the middle of nowhere back in October last year, had been found and taken to a vet's. I went back to my parents' after work last night to see him and he is mental, one moment being quite happy and just the same, and then suddenly hissing and growling in a fairly hilarious fashion. What's most disappointing is that, despite having six months to learn, he is still unable to speak English; I am desperate to find out where he's been all this time but he pointedly ignores my questioning.

The other morning, I got myself in quite a pickle. I had been having a shower and the bathroom got a little steamy, so on completion of my ablutions, I opened the window. This window faces out onto a communal walkway, and is near a communal stairwell. There is rarely anyone direcly outside my flat, but the stairwell is used quite frequently. I brushed my teeth, was applying my moisturiser, and then something very uncharacteristic occurred. I did a burp. Readers, I am as disgusted as you are. But there it is. And immediately, my surprise was flooded by panic, as I realised that, due to the open window, anyone walking downstairs, or indeed up, may have heard my repellent emission. The filing drawers of my mind slammed open and I could hear my cranial fingers leafing through my options. Within a time that I would estimate to be two seconds at most, I found my solution: blame.
"Urgh!" I exclaimed, disgustedly, and then followed that immediately with a deep bass "Sorry," the grunted apology of an invented male. Staggered at the speed, dishonesty and cunning of my solution, I had to accept that I am perhaps more dark and conniving than I may have admitted previously.

Now I am sitting at my desk, nursing a burned tongue after yet another wolfed lunchtime soup. I simply don't understand why EAT must heat their soup to boiling point like that. With the possible exception of McDonald's apple pies, I am aware of no other take-away foodstuff that requires the purchaser to sit and wait for 25 minutes before beginning the eating process. The whole point of take-away is that it's fast food. It should be ready for consumption. I don't want to plan ahead and buy my food at 11.45am, so that it's at a temperature less akin to lava by the time I am hungry. I shouldn't have to. You don't have to let sandwiches 'relax', or wait while sushi marinates. Things soup should be: 1) nicely hot. Things soup should not be: 1) still bubbling when I take the lid off back at my desk; 2) able to remove three layers of skin from the roof of my mouth just from the power of the steam emanating off the spoon; 3) capable of bonding a wobbly bit on the Flatiron building. Since today's chicken and garden vegetable broth is the last thing I am going to be able to savour for the next few days, thanks to the destruction of the majority of my tastebuds, it is fortunate that it was delicious.

Sunday summary

There is a unique type of moment when I'm sitting amongst a large and intimidating group of people and I realise that, in a few seconds, I will put my hand in the air and ask a question. My heart - thankfully fairly unnoticeable and reliable at all other times - will seem to shift north around five inches, coming to a halt at the base of my neck. Lodged in its new position, it will start to contract and expand with terrifying force and velocity, giving me the sensation that an angry racehorse is trying to kick its way out of my body through my sternum. Simultaneously, the blood will rush through my ears, my face will redden and I will be unable to hear anything except the pounding hooves. The sensation is not pleasant but I will be powerless to resist the pull towards my question, for once the process has begun it will not cease until it has reached a satisfactory conclusion.

I went through just this involuntary cycle on Thursday night when I went to see Tony Benn speak in Bloomsbury. He really is incredibly inspiring and made me feel fairly small for doing so relatively little to change the existing status quo. He mentioned that he'd left Parliament to concentrate on politics and that he now spends his time campaigning for several issues about which he feels particularly passionate. I asked him which of these he felt was most important and he said, 'It has to be peace, doesn't it. Because without that, everything else shrinks into the background.'

On Friday I was disgruntled when my boss clarified that the amount he was giving me as a bonus was, in fact, in Euros, not Sterling, wiping a third off the figure I'd been expecting. But later I laughed when I realised that an hilarious and select group of items are supplied by 'mongers': cheese, fish, iron and doom. The English language really is fantastic.

On Saturday I decided that the price difference between B&Q and Homebase is entirely justified. Dad and I went to B&Q first to buy my paint and various other sundries. After standing for several minutes, unassisted, at the paint mixing desk, we were eventually startled when a tiny, young, male helper appeared in front of us with more gaps than teeth in his mouth. When we asked for a meagre 5 litres of paint, he informed us chirpily that our request was impossible as, due to a computer error, they didn't currently have any in-store. We drove to Homebase which, after the apocalyptic hell of B&Q, seemed like an oasis of order created by Capability Brown. Everything was serene and efficient, there was a surplus of paint, a helpful assistant with excellent dental work and a 10% off deal.

Last night I had a blast from the past, attending a dinner party in west London with a few schoolfriends and their boyfriends. One needs to be a fairly serious Trivial Pursuit fan to insist upon playing with the old board and the new questions, but I was in the company of fellow obsessives. The if-you-knock-the-piece-of-pie-out-of-the-holder-by-accident, you-lose-it-forever rule was invoked, as was a new (to me) condition, that, once all six pieces of pie have been collected, you 'parachute' straight to the middle for the final countdown. I loved the use of the term parachute. Once at the centre, we played the standard 654321 method, where in your first go, your team must answer all six questions on one card correctly to win the game. If this fails, at your next turn you must answer five correctly to win, then four, then then three until a victory is reached. We were playing girls against boys and I'm pleased to say that we won comprehensively in an extremely irritating fashion by eventually working out the answers after several minutes of intense and wide-ranging discussion. 'Was it Japan? No, no - South Korea. No, I'm sure it was Germany. Ooh, no, it was Spain, I remember we did it in Middle IV.'

Now I must go for a run to clear my head and thin my thighs, then to Hammersmith buy a bathroom sink and some taps, then to the flat, then back here for American Idol. And tomorrow, the painting begins. I'm genuinely not sure I can handle the excitement.

Let the games stop

In a recent post, I referred to the fact that, when the competitive streaks were handed out, I didn't get the standard ration. As is so often the case, on the winning front, I am a bit different. I really, really don't like competition. I hate losing a lot. But, unusually, I am also uncomfortable with winning, feeling an intense empathy for the inevitable losing side.

A few years ago, I decided that, intellectually speaking, I was lacking: I did not know how to play chess. Shortly afterwards, Father Christmas rectified my lack of chess set and kindly supplied the Usborne guide to the basics. Like a good girl, I read the book from cover to cover several times before attempting a game but finally, after a few days' diligent study, I felt ready to commence my chess career.

And who better to play against than my boyfriend at the time, Henry, then an intelligent, political twentysomething who would guide me through the initial stages with the love and healthy firmness that I needed.

We set up the board. Already my heart was at MDMA-esque levels, fluttering in my throat and making it hard to concentrate. What if I beat my boyfriend? That would be awful, throwing too much open to question. And worse: what if I lost? The humiliation, the self-flagellation that would follow would be horrific. Even if I won, I would lose. The self-inflicted pressure throughout the game rendered it entirely unfun and, when I won, I felt the predicted guilt and confusion. I hate bad losers a lot but I detest bad winners. Even Henman's restrained fist shake makes me squirm. I refused to gloat. And, knowing how little I'd enjoyed myself, I haven't played chess since.

Beating my last ex, Simon, at badminton was always equally confusing. Something about an intrinsically unsporty girl beating a boy in a game involving a racquet made me feel ashamed and a bit wrong. These days I tend to steer clear of things that involve winning or losing - not because I don't have a competitive streak but rather because my competitive drive is so intense, my hatred of both winning and losing so fierce that, even as a spectator, it makes it difficult for me to enjoy any sort of game at all. And, consistent to the last, that includes pheasant.

Inheritance lax

Last night I stepped onto the Piccadilly Line train and saw that some nice traveller had purchased a bag or box of chicken wings, eaten them in transit, and kindly left a pile of greasy bones on the floor in the corner of the carriage. Charming. The diversity of London is the source of its magic and I am prepared to take the rough with the smooth – but this was pretty rough.

Today I am very excited about Nick Clegg. To counter that excitement, I am very nervous about Turkey and Iraq. On both counts, I’ll just have to wait and see.

I’m sure all individuals have wondered how it is possible that, given all their many differences, they are related to their parents. Despite fairly conclusive photographic evidence to the contrary, I myself wonder about my origins. My father doubted the facts of our relationship only last weekend, when I clarified that my lack of interest in the rugby World Cup final was not due to a specific problem with rugby but merely a mild disdain for all sporting events that presumably arises from the fact that I am not remotely competitive, finding losing deeply unfun and winning awkward and embarrassing. ‘How can you say such a thing?!’ he admonished with disbelief. ‘Life is about winning! You’ve got to kill to live! Living is killing!’ The irony of this oxymoron was lost on him. Oxymorons – they’re like buses. You don’t get one for ages and then two come along at once…

At the other end of the spectrum, one only need glance at our kitchen to question how my mother and I are connected. Where my CDs are alphabetised and sectioned with purpose-bought dividers, our kitchen is arranged in an hilarious chaos. We have two fridges – one large and one small, the latter inherited with the house. The small fridge, you might think, would perhaps be a good drinks fridge or similar themed area. But no. In the small fridge we have: lunch items such as cottage cheese and olives; lunch meats e.g. chorizo; current milk; orange juice with bits; eggs; lemons (but no other fruit); salad vegetables and catfood. In the large fridge, we have: other dairy such as yoghurt and cream; jams and condiments; smooth orange juice and other juices; spare milk; wine; sun-dried tomatoes; coffee; vegetables that aren’t salad vegetables eg. carrots; apples (but no other fruit) and meat that is not lunch meat e.g. chicken breasts. In my mother’s defence, she has stuck fairly rigidly to this crazy system since the two fridge dilemma arose and now the three of us can navigate between the areas with relative ease.

Wouldn’t it be great if you could pick which bits of your parents you inherited? I’d have my mum’s figure and hair circa 1967, my dad’s vocabulary and mental arithmetic skills, his dexterity and DIY talents, my mum’s c’est la vie attitude, her accepting nature which takes people as they are and my dad’s asbestos hands. In return, I’d gladly relinquish the rickety knees, varicose vein potential and the snoring. And I’d like to keep my own teeth.

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.