Jesus

So after Chris and I discussed my death yesterday, we walked to M&S, and started talking about poor David Cameron, whose dad had a stroke while on holiday in France and died yesterday afternoon. And Chris said, 'I've always feared that would be how my dad died.' And then a few minutes ago, less than 24 hours later, I had an email from Chris, the same Chris, who is meant to be out of the office on a day's holiday sorting out his finances. The email read, 'I'm in hospital. Dad's had a stroke.' I've just spoken to him, and apparently there's a fifty fifty chance that his young, healthy father will make it through the next two days. Fuck. Ing. Hell. Life is bloody terrifying.

Even I can't be self-obsessed after that. Love to you all. xx

Political impasse

I care about politics, I really do. I watch the news, I read the papers, check in online, keep up to date with the issues and sincerely and passionately believe in certain causes. But after another uninspiring party conference speech from a man trying to persuade us to let him dominate our lives, affect our bank balances, our health service, the education of our children and those who surround us – well, it’s enough to make me return to the old days, when things were simpler and I amused myself by timing myself to complete the Heat crossword and worried about whether my jeans were low-rise or merely hipster.

Admittedly, I have been reading a live feed of David Cameron’s conference speech this afternoon on the Guardian website, which probably wasn’t the most objective of arenas, but a) if people can’t sift through a bit of left- or right-wing bias in a newspaper, they need to wake up and smell the propaganda, and b) who needs objectivity in the current political climate? Let’s face it: there’s a fundamental dichotomy between what will win an election and what needs to happen in this country (and much of the Western world). Any policies that could improve anything will be massively unpopular. To impact upon anything, we need to plough money into several areas. Drench schools with cash, get the crème de la crème as teachers. But to raise more wonga, the government would have to a) deprive other areas that are currently receiving government funding or b) raise taxes. And no-one serious about winning an election can do either.

It’s a Catch 22 and both major parties have hit on the same non-solution – spend a similar amount of money as before in slightly different ways. It’s half-arsed, half-baked and it won’t work. Now it looks like we’re going to have to watch this bunch of yes-men spend millions of pounds of our tax cash fighting an election by telling us things will change – when they can’t. Pah. I’m already knee-deep in election languor and the date hasn’t even been set. And if they can’t keep my interest – someone who claims they genuinely care about politics – what hope have they in persuading the 40% of non-voters in Britain to walk to the polling station? Call this a democracy? What a joke. I’m going to conserve my energy for celeb spotting and important events that might actually affect me, like the launch of the delicious new DKNY perfume that Laura has informed me is called “Something mist or mist something.” I recommend you give it a sniff.

Five things

One: Extremist Islamic literature in east London libraries: should it be banned? Apparently in Tower Hamlets library there are eleven copies of a book written by Abu Hamza but far fewer works that represent a more moderate view. I was initially surprised that Newsnight even entertained the debate yesterday, since any hint of censorship is absolutely unacceptable in a democratic society - but I do accept that if libraries only contained Mein Kampf and other polemical literature, the world might be a very different place. So while the government can't (and shouldn't) stop certain books being present, should it enforce the presence of others? Certainly an issue that started my brain cogs whirring until I fell asleep halfway through the item.

Two: David Cameron's plans for voluntary summer activities for the UK's 16 year olds: military training, volunteer work with the aged, projects abroad. It all sounds quite good but I fear he hasn't thought it through yet, given that he has already admitted that no-one has worked out where the funding's going to come from. Props to Dazza Cazza for thinking of something that might actually make a difference to teenagers, it's a nice idea an' all, but I fear it will take more than shopping for grannies and doing assault courses to stop the spiralling lives of British young people.

Three: People in my office building, just like people outside, seem to fall into two camps: those with a brain and those who have used their brain so tragically rarely that it has disintegrated. This is illustrated with alarming regularity in our elevators. In a lift that is around five feet square, a person still in possession of an active brain will walk in, press the appropriate button to select their floor and stand to one side. Sadly it is the case that many of my colleagues fall into the disintegrated category, since they choose instead to walk into the lift, press the appropriate button and then turn to stand directly in front of the buttons. Even when one person has said 'Excuse me' in appropriately hushed tones, they don't move out of the way, preferring instead to lean awkwardly to one side for every single individual button pushing request. If they were short I would pick them up and move them to the lift's opposite corner but shamefully the perpetrators are normally fully grown adults who should know better. It is precisely this lack of self-awareness that leads to people texting in the middle of the stairs down to a tube station or standing alone on the left of the escalators when sixty others are on the right. I could be grateful that my brain has not yet begun to dissolve but I think, frustratingly, that those without one, like Winnie the Pooh, are in fact happier than the rest of us.

Four: That said, I can't claim that my brain is always in pristine condition. I certainly cursed its workings a few moments ago. I had been for a tough session in the gym, doing 400m sprints on the rowing machine and kicking the punchbag until my vision was affected. Returning to the changing room with my customary 'fell in a lake' look, I rifled through my bag to find my shower gel and towel. When I realised that the latter item was still in my office on the second floor, I exhaled a sigh of frustration and assessed my options. Going without a shower was out of the question. Showering and drying myself on my wet gym kit or dry work clothes didn't seem to work either. So I sank to a new low, took a deep breath for bravery, lifted the miscellaneous small towel hanging on a hook near my belongings and took it into the shower cubicle. I had no clue as to its owner but, having dried myself with it post-shower, I would say she probably had brown hair or possibly a long-haired chocolate-coloured pet. It was a dark moment but I'm now dressed, back at my desk and trying to block out the incident.

Five: Luciano Pavarotti
RIP.