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.

Michael Jackson lied: you ARE alone

Happy Christmas, one and all. Sorry I'm late. It's been a strange few days and I am now trying to help my parents use their three-year-old vinyl-to-mp3 USB turntable, unopened until today, but the software that came with it is so appalling that I challenge its designer to use it without wanting to drag the stylus over his own retina after a handful of seconds. As a sample of the aforementioned crapness, how's this: it installs a handy shortcut icon on your desktop but will double clicking it open the programme? No it will not. How about right clicking and selecting 'Open'? No. How to open the programme? It is impossible - unless you uninstall it and reinstall it from the CD-Rom. Then it works. Oh how handy. I am now listening to Judy Collins' Greatest Hits through the tinny bass-free computer speakers for approx. the sixth time as it has taken several attempts to know if we're recording successfully. My mum is doing sudoku on a sofa a few feet away and keeps absent-mindedly breaking into a tremulous warble before abandoning it, saying, 'Oh, this used to be one of my favourites.'

My latest attempt to record Side B started crackling wildly so I stopped the recording after forty minutes, only to find that there was no record of it on their PC. I have now given up, something I don't find easy but which must be done in order to preserve the functional state of my parents' laptop - the alternative is putting it on the floor and then repeatedly jumping up and down on it in my Fitflop boots until it admits, out loud, that it is at least six thousand times less user-friendly than a Mac.

Vinyl-ripping aside, I have now reached the long-longed-for stage of Winterval where my duties are over. On Christmas Eve the three of us went to the Albert Hall for a carol concert, where we were joined by two of my parents' friends who I've not met before. Seven people came for lunch on the Day Itself, making ten in total. Then yesterday we went to a pub on the river to meet another (much larger) family and then walked back to their house for lunch. It's all been lovely and festive and fun and there have been many laughs, particularly from my dad's ecstatic and near-constant use of his new Britain's Got Talent judges' buzzer, but there's always a sense of relief when all the socialising is over and you know you can don your jeans and your unflattering jumper and not be polite to anyone for the next hundred hours.

But every year, the euphoria fades after around nine minutes and I am soon left feeling listless, yet with a list of things to do and a hangover. This year's list includes a) teaching myself how to transfer vinyl to my parents' PC, a fairly bearable task that pales into heaven beside task b), teaching my parents how to transfer vinyl to their PC, which may as well be labelled Inevitable Armageddon. Since I haven't yet managed to complete stage a), I've been spared stage b), but still feel like I've let the side down. Countless others complaining about the shit software online won't console my parents, who've been gestating this project excitedly for a long time, desperately keen to ditch the records to create valuable storage space for their burgeoning collection of old bedside lamps, blankets and Eighties skiwear. I had also allocated these days to: writing, learning how to use my sewing machine, practicing my ukulele and clearing out my Gmail inbox - a selection of chores that wouldn't be misery-inducing, except that my parents are constantly boiling, fanning themselves dramatically and opening the back door to encourage a through draft, so today I have been wearing Rudolph socks, fur-lined boots, jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, cashmere jumper, scarf, beret and fleece, but have still been freezing since dawn and am unable to do anything except lie around under a blanket and moan gently. I mooted returning to my flat but I think my mother is disappointed. I'd be happy to stay longer except I don't really want to.

Like I say, it's been a strange few days. I love Christmas and on the surface, Winterval 2010 has been splendid, but recent changes within have meant that I'm definitely more aware than I used to be of my solitude - and by that I mean that separateness that exists whether you're with close friends in a crowded room or on your own in an empty flat, a fact that wouldn't be changed by the addition of a boyfriend, twins or a short-haired Dachshund. In the past, I've distracted myself with going out, planning future evenings out, chatting on the phone to people about times I've gone out in the past and times I am planning to go out in the future, writing about going out, fancying boys, or telling myself that I wouldn't be alone forever. Now something massive has shifted and I've accepted that my old denial wasn't getting me anywhere. In some ways, we're all on our own - married with babies or not - and I have to like it or lump it rather than search endlessly for distractions. Such a Copernican shift, intangible though it is, is proving a little tricky. Ideally, I'd learn how to see our psychological isolation as a good thing rather than as ultimate proof that life is a crock. Somehow I have to come to terms with it rather than feeling that I'm being massively negative and buzzkillish - but in this, I don't think I'm alone: I can't imagine that I'm the only person who views the fact of their own psychological solitude with a sense of shame, and the fact of others' with pity. Right now, it seems to me cruel that we are genetically social creatures, and that the furtherance of our species relies on us being physically and emotionally connected at the deepest level, but that, from the moment our existence begins to the moment it ends, we are the only people in our heads and will forever be the only person who lives our life. Hunter S. Thompson had sensible things to say on the subject (below) - I just hope I get there soonish. Maybe Christmas isn't the easiest time to learn:

"We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and - in spite of True Romance magazines - we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely - at least, not all the time - but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness."

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

Switch on, switch off

Possibly shouldn't be writing when something is so fresh, but within the last thirty seconds I finished watching a one-off BBC documentary, Between Life and Death, which was originally screened a few weeks ago. As the title suggests, the producers of Harry Hill's TV Burp don't need to be overly concerned about losing viewers - this was an hour-long film following three families as they dealt with their critically-ill loved ones, deciding whether or not to switch off the ventilator.

It was a fantastic programme, sensitively filmed, giving detailed yet somehow unobtrusive insights into terribly difficult conversations and heartbreaking decisions. The families were all admirably candid - brave, emotional and pragmatic. And, in under sixty minutes, my attitude to artificial respiration - whether or not I'd like to be kept alive while, for example, completely paralysed - changed utterly. It wasn't a 180 degree turn from one certainty to another: previously, I'd been firmly in the DNR camp and I am not now totally against it. But, having seen the happiness in one man's eyes as he watched his daughters, despite his total inability to move or speak, despite his complete conviction, pre-accident, that he would never want to be kept alive in such a state - well, it made me realise that, until it happens, you don't know. So I've gone from total certainty to total uncertainty. As far as impact goes, that's a pretty massive shift for one clear-thinker to make in a short space of time.

My friend, Marina, was heavily involved in the making of the programme, and thus in my volte-face. She spent weeks and weeks at a hospital specialising in neurology near Cambridge, meeting and interviewing many of the film's participants. Weekends, late nights, you name it, she was there. Through my near-constant tears, I was bursting with pride that she was involved in such an exceptional piece of television - her career is not the best-paid, it is unstable, unpredictable, insecure and frequently requires a time commitment that I would consider in breach of my human rights. But after months of effort, she is a key part of producing something that is profoundly important and influential. I am weakly envious - weakly, as I know I couldn't stick at what she does, envious because I see the satisfaction she gets from her work.

But then, I suppose one could - if one were supremely over-confident - one could argue that, on a smaller scale obviously, but maybe this blog is valuable too - at least, to my parents. It certainly gives me a pathetic amount of satisfaction and I'd feel bereft if it were taken from me. I get to mouth off about pretty much anything that tickles my fancy, I'm told that I make people laugh every now and then - and actually, hang on - I also have a reasonably well-paid job that allows me to surf the internet pretty much without cessation. Hmmm. Suddenly my set-up seems like quite a winning combination. Well whaddyaknow? Envy has gone. Pride remains. Everyone's a winner, baby. Well done, Marina. High five.

Children of the (Facebook) revolution

Warning to those of a sensitive nature, those in denial about the youth of today, or those likely to think that the behaviour of one or two teenagers equates to the behaviour and/or deepest desires of all young people, globally: clicking on the image to the left to embiggen it may seriously damage your health.

For all others: Oh. Emm. Gee. This is horrific and hilarious on so many levels. There is a full description of the scenario if you scroll down to below the scanned bit of paper, but to explain in brief: some girl ratted on her brother to their parents, and they grounded him. Desperate for revenge, he was going through her room and found a list she'd written of all the boys she knew and what she wanted to do with them. He posted the list on Facebook, and everyone in her school (and now millions of others) have seen it, singlehandedly making me thankful to be an only child. NOT THAT I HAVE EVER WRITTEN A LIST LIKE THIS and yes, the girl seems deeply unpleasant and in need of a bit of ego-crushing / life-lesson-learning, but wow. Not sure anyone deserves that intensity of humiliation when they're still at such a formative age. Could their relationship ever recover from this? Shudder. Laugh. Shudder.

I have just returned from a 40 minute run with Laura when I felt like someone had filled my lungs up with treacle. It was a lot harder than the 10k I did in 2008. It's so weird when that happens, isn't it? I ran along the Southbank for 45 mins on Monday and it was absolutely fine, then did 45 mins of cardio in the gym yesterday and quite enjoyed it, and then today I almost had a hernia on Southwark Bridge and had to stop outside M&S on Old Broad Street because I had a stitch. Sooooooooo cool. I am still in shock now. Yoga tomorrow, methinks.

Last night was a cultural highpoint. I went to see a modern reworking of Moliere's The Misanthrope on Panton Street and it was absolutely fantastic. I was totally prepared to hate it because it was a) in the West End and b) had celebrity cast members (Damian Lewis and Keira Knightley) but I was hooked from curtain up. The script, echoing the original, rhymed. Throughout. This was brilliant because it forced the audience to really, really listen - as a consequence, it was one of the quietest congregations I've ever enjoyed. It was also brilliant because it was massively clever - two hours of rhyming isn't easy, whatever the topic, but when it's also satirical, topical and believable, it's a huge technical and linguistic achievement. Most of the way through I sat there fuming that I hadn't done it first, but ten percent of the time I had to concede that it was way beyond my abilities. I got the jokes, sure, but I don't think I could have thought of them in the first place. Maybe in a few years... It's the first time I've ever left a play and bought the script in the foyer. In fact, the last time I bought anything in a foyer was the twin cassette of Starlight Express in the mid-eighties and I'm pretty sure my parents will have paid for that.

I suppose it resonated because, in some ways, the play's central premise is so close to what I battle with a lot - whether one should be open-minded and forgiving of humanity's failings or rail against them and fight for the right to be different. In the same way that the planetary YouTube clip I posted the other night made me feel tiny, culture like that makes me feel pleasingly irrelevant: people have been worrying about this stuff since the 17th century and they'll be worrying about it long after I'm gone. I'll do my best, bumble along, and eventually I'll feed the worms. Nice.

It wasn't just the script that was wowing, though. Damian Lewis was good, as expected, but Keira was a revelation. I really like her and think she's absolutely gorgeous, so I'm possibly not the most objective viewer, but her portrayal of a whining American superstar was confident, utterly convincing and, at times, very moving. She gave me goosebumps and I send her props. Also, if she's reading, I'd really like that black dress from the final scene in my size. Any way you can help? Thanx.

After the play, I went home and watched Celebrity Big Brother, which sadly grinds to an end this weekend. Last night's episode was absolutely fantastic and I was grinning compulsively as Alex Reid was covered in spray tan. Brilliant entertainment, a blast of MSG escapism, and anyone who's snobbish about reality TV knows where they can shove their superiority complex. Byeeeeeee.

Misnomer

Wisdom teeth, it turns out, are thick as pigshit. If they're so intelligent, why do they half emerge and then get bored and stop, leaving me open to external forces of evil? Where is the Einstein IQ that causes a TOOTH to create a situation whereby I have to take antibiotics that make me spaced out and unable to cope with the most basic of tasks and, more extraordinarily, unable to consume alcohol?

For I, ladies and gentlemen of The Faithful, have just gone An Entire Weekend Without Wine. And my god, if it wasn't one of the most challenging experiences of my entire middle-class existence, up there with boycotting Primark on moral grounds (resounding fail) and tearing myself away from West London (belated success). First up was Friday night, when I had to learn and sing some tango music to accompany a bizarre version of a Midsummer Night's Dream in front of a room full of strangers, and a glass of white would have gone down extremely well. And then on Saturday, having been to an a capella singing workshop at the gorgeous King's Place, I rushed home to receive my parents and my aunt and uncle, who had brought three bottles of wine between them, and as I sipped my Britta-filtered Chateau Neuf du Tap (appalling, sorry), my four wonderful relatives enjoyed several glasses of Rioja and others. They were, as always, superlative company but it was odd being the sensible one. I'll tell you one thing for nothing - my dad is freaking hilarious. Literally very funny. Unrepeatable, so you'll have to take my word for it, but even sober, he had me in stitches.

Then it was Sunday, and I went up to Hoxton to meet Em, and we tried very hard to find a hipster venue for lunch, but there were hipsters lining up outside all the trendy places so we ended up walking down to Spitalfields and going to... wait for it... wait for it... so cutting edge I can hardly bear to tell you.... Strada. I had a Fiorentina. I know. Aren't you impressed by my risky culinary choice? It was delicious. But knock me over with a biro if it wouldn't have been massively improved by a fat glass of unoaked Chardonnay or similar.

And from Shoreditch to Waterloo, and a lovely meeting with an old friend, and a seat on a sofa opposite him in an armchair, as he drank a glass of white, and then another and another and another, while I had four or possibly five small bottles of sparkling Hildon and I was almost weak with desire for alcohol, while simultaneously proud of myself that I was able to endure the H20 experience without seeming too uptight. I just kept thinking of how grateful my skin would be for the detox, and how many calories I was sparing my thighs, but frankly, I'd rather be curvy and have booze than thin and perennially sober. This whole toothache thing is certainly not an experience I'm in any hurry to repeat. The drugs finish in two days and the celebration will be emotional.

My name is Jane and I am not an alcoholic, honestly. I just love wine and I love getting a bit tipsy. Judge me all you like, I am unrepentant.

TGIF. Not a new photo format.

Ooh goodness. I am one sleepy kitten. The antibiotics are definitely working their magic, but not quite as fast as I'd hoped. On the upside, I was only woken up once last night by the pain of my teeth. On the downside, I was still in an unfair bit of discomfort. I haven't slept through the night for about six days and I'm properly exhausted.

On top of teeth-induced tiredness, there was also the fact that I was all over-excited on Wednesday because it was the first night of my six-week ukulele beginners' course in Soho, so that probably wore me out. I can now play Wild Thing and Stand By Me like a pro. I've been told to practice for ten minutes a day every day and I missed yesterday; not the best start. I had a good excuse though: I had spent the day in Leicestershire, singing at a funeral with a few others. I didn't know the deceased, but from the eulogies it was clear that he had been a remarkable man. Blimey funerals are sad. Even though this guy was apparently 93 and had suffered with a long illness, meaning that his death was a bit of a release, the family obviously loved him deeply and almost everyone was in floods. My last grandparent died when I was 11, and I'd never known any of them particularly well. Watching this man's children and grandchildren unable to speak with grief at his loss left me a) crying and b) strangely envious of their relationship. I can't imagine what it would have been like to have had a close bond with someone nearly seventy years my senior. Even if they had not died when I was still a young girl, for purely geographical I don't think my relationship with my grandparents could have been very close, with one in Scotland and the other in the US. I hope that my kids, if I have them, are able to get to know their grandparents. Because they rock.

I don't know why the puppy is here. He just is. In Any Other Business, I'd just like to reiterate an earlier post and draw your attention to the check box next to Show Me You Love Me at the bottom of every blog post. I don't seem to be getting nearly enough ticks for my liking. I know from my Google Analytics stats that there are hundreds of you out there reading every week, but only about three of you comment, and hardly anyone ticks the box. Go on. If you've enjoyed something I've written, TICK IT. It takes less than a second and it makes me feel like I've had a pat on the head. I received an email this morning from a friend, who said that her friend (who I don't know) was talking to two other people (who I don't know either) about a wedding, and the two other people hadn't been to the wedding but said it sounded vaguely familiar, and it turned out that I'd been and they'd read about it on LLFF. Brilliant. I'm practically required reading. Meeting adjourned.

Happy holidays

This weekend has passed by in a bit of a blur, and I am inordinately glad that I do not have to return to work this side of 2008. I have managed to eat and drink a fair amount in the past few days and I now feel confident that my stomach will be fully limbered up by Tuesday, allowing for maximum gluttony while it is considered socially legitimate to eat until one is unable to do much except massage one's own intestine in the hope of facilitating digestion. Personally, I find that sitting at a slight left or right incline can inexplicably expedite this process, though I am sure that medical professionals would scoff at such pseudo-quackery.

Today was both enjoyable and efficient, one of the best day combinations currently on offer. I met up with Katherine in Hammersmith where we performed possibly the most adroit last minute Christmas shopping ever attempted, making it through Primark, Habitat, M&S and WH Smith's in just under two hours, followed by a delicious lunch and our reward of Pinot Grigio. My only minor hiccup had occurred in Smith's. I had selected my desired item in under a minute and then sped-walked to the queue, only to find it snaking through the magazine racks into the middle distance somewhere north of Lancaster. The till-workers seemed insufficient in number and, with the awaiting Katherine adding to my impatience, I made the decision to search out an alternative queue. I found the DVD tills at the same time as three other customers and although I made it clear I wanted us to unite in a 'first come, first served' fashion, a lady in a red coat decided to plump for the 'two tills, two queues' method - one which I detest. I detested it even more when the man in front of me revealed his haul with what I believe was a touch of vindictive glee - he was purchasing at least 37 DVDs, each of which required the well-meaning staff member to burrow into the filing cabinet behind him, find the correct disk and place it in the case before scanning it. I am not normally a queue-mover, on the whole preferring to stick these things out, but immediately I knew there was no competition and I reluctantly took my place behind the redcoat who was oozing sympathy like pus. She then realised that she had forgotten High School Musical 2 and rushed off to find it, bleating apologies with all the sincerity of a hairdresser with ADHD. Sadly the till-man wouldn't serve me in the interim so I sat there thinking about The Power of Now and hoping that steam wasn't actually coming out of my nostrils. Props go to Katherine for only phoning me once to ask politely how I was doing. I could easily have learned Cantonese while she'd been waiting for me, so her calm demeanour was impressive.

This evening I have been feeling very festive in new Primark lounge trousers (£4) and sheepskin slippers. Having derided our requests to play games, my father was unable to resist the clatter of the Boggle cubes and the three of us spent an animated 45 minutes playing a new version of the game, with added old age. This involved my mother reading out the list of words she'd found, around half of which were actually on the board. Of those that were valid, she would generally have written about three of them down more than once. When she realised her score was low, she would then pretend to be searching her piece of paper for more words, while frantically scanning the letters on the board to find last minute options. Dad, meanwhile, attempted to pass 'moppet' and 'doper' off as genuine words. And I won. Tomorrow I will wrap presents, go for a walk and peel many root vegetables. La vita é bella.

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.