I'm a legal alien

Faithful readers may remember previous trips I've taken into the depths of the countryside to visit my friend Nicole, she of storecupboard fame. What has surprised me is that my visits don't seem to become any more normal the more frequently I make them. In fact, gorgeous though our chats are, I feel less like a friend when I'm in her house and increasingly like a beloved yet curious Martian. She meets me at the station in a four wheel drive. Often, there are child seats in the back, dachshunds at my feet and a Labrador in the boot. On arrival at her home, there are squawks of excitement from her adorable brood who LOVE me because I always bring them a strong assortment of hairclips from London. There is a lot of kissing, giggling, hiding behind legs, cajoling, tickling and eventual clambering. Then we have dinner. This has been prepared in advance in gargantuan batches - dauphinoise potatoes, fish pie, stew, soup - all made and frozen like the truly organised thing she is. In London, I eat home cooked food, no joke, about once or twice a month. Breakfast is cereal at my desk, lunch is bought at Pret or similar, dinner is restaurant or more cereal. It's lovely: we're separated by pretty much everything but friendship.

Occasionally Nicole invites people over to dinner while I'm staying. This weekend I was privy to a few gems including someone describing their prospective new vehicular purchase as, "an Audi probably, nothing flashy, nothing like one of those small Mercedes... nasty hairdressers' cars." And I heard the following (male) response to the question "How are the kids?" which I SWEAR I have transcribed verbatim. You won't struggle to imagine the accent:
"Oh they're fine... Actually, I say they're fine... barely seen them... was out shooting all day, came back, they run towards you shouting Daddy, Daddy!, it's very sweet, and then they go to bed... Ideal!"

The man in question is absolutely charming, handsome and lovely, but freely admits we live on different planets. Weeks go by when he doesn't see anyone who's not white - and when it does happen, he always notices that he's a bit startled, like "Oh! A black man!" I told him that there are times when I'm the only white person on the bus and he looked a bit concerned.

He was also sweetly forthcoming about Muddy Matches, a dating website I discovered this weekend for country singletons: a photo on the homepage shows a man and a woman in matching tweed flatcaps, and if you don't want to post a photo of yourself you can upload a picture of your wellies. I expressed surprise to my dinner companion (married, four kids) about the website, suggesting that it would be of interest to my urban friends as a countryside curio. He was adamant that it's normal that like should be attracted to like, which is of course unarguable. He couldn't see what the problem was - and another dinner guest asked what was the difference between looking for someone who likes hunting on Muddy Matches and going onto Guardian Soulmates and looking for someone who likes going to gigs and the cinema. Gingerly, I suggested that there's a slight difference in accessibility between going shooting and going to the cinema, and that perhaps Muddy Matches and its ilk meant that the lack of demographic variety in the countryside probably wouldn't change any time soon. He happily agreed. In short, they know they're in a bubble, and they're very content there. And honestly, I don't have a problem with it, as long as they treat everyone else as equals.

Then I found out that, of the 12 people at dinner on Saturday night, two were Catholics and nine were on the Alpha course. And here I hit a slight wall. Now, I can totally understand someone wanting to live in the place they've grown up, particularly if they've had a happy childhood. I can easily see how unpleasant city life must seem if you're used to a village existence. And it's clear why the simplicity of village life lends itself to Christian evangelism - no Muslims or gays to mess with the 'logic'. But just because I understand it, doesn't mean I have to like it.

In my ideal world, there'd be no religion: I object on principle to any faith that promotes their path as the right one (which rules out pretty much all of them), as I believe this inevitably creates divisions and thus conflict among followers. I don't like the suggestion that there's one route that's better than any other - and for that reason, I'm annoyingly not able to be a humanist either. I just want us all to be good, kind, generous social citizens, respectful and tolerant of difference. I simply cannot see how that's compatible with evangelical Christian evening classes, which teach that homosexuals and non-followers are destined for hell. Anyway, since my faithlessness prevents me from crusading (as I'm not arrogant enough to think that my way would be better for you than the one you've chosen), this is one battle I'm certain to lose. In the meantime, I'll generously allow people of faith to do just as they please, so long as they're lovers, not fighters. Fighters can go jump.

Despite all the feelings of foreignness (and let's be clear: these people are happy, and I'm not - so who's losing out? I have no illusions), I did enjoy my 48 hours on Planet Rural, with the exception of a couple of altercations with Alice who is fascinated with the fact that my thighs are at least twice the girth of her mother's, and who suggested that I should cut bits off them "with scissors", her small fingers helpfully indicating the strips where I could start my self-mutilation. She and her younger sister also asked to see my bottom about seven hundred times. But it was truly ace to hang out with Nicole, great to walk in the crisp autumnal air, delicious to gorge on her incredible crumble and wonderful to be lain on by her three warm offspring while we watched Stuart Little. I came back to London yesterday evening, studied Take That performing together live on The X Factor results show, felt the familar teenage obsession levels bubble up again, noted Robbie's panicked eyes and refusal to talk to Dermot about the future, worried about Mark's visible need for Rob's presence, saw that Gary, Jay and Howard are still rightly suspicious, and then remained concerned about my own sanity for a bit before it was time to hit the city hay.

Meh of the same

I was hoping to give you a positive update that I now look back on Sunday and Monday and think, 'Wow, where did that come from? I feel AMAZING now! Look at me gambolling through this poppy field and playfully throwing handfuls of blossom at this attractive Boden-wearing stranger.' But in fact, I'm thinking, 'Wow, where did that come from? It couldn't be less logical, yet I am getting more and more sad with each passing hour and I don't understand why. And in the moments where I am not holding back tears, I am UNBELIEVABLY ANGRY at EVERYTHING. In short: a joy to be around.'

Something did make me laugh yesterday though. I had approximately the following conversation with my workmate, Chris.
J: God I'm grumpy. I hate being mental.
C: Yep. It must suck.
J: Maybe I'll die.
C: Don't die, I'll have to take time off for your funeral and I don't have any spare holiday days.
J: You'd definitely get compassionate leave for my funeral if you could pretend to be upset. I don't know how it would work though, because I want to be buried, not cremated, and apparently all the burial grounds in the UK are consecrated land, so basically, you have to have a religious ceremony in order to be buried. Which I don't want.
C: Just get cremated. We could scatter your ashes from the 5th floor.
J: No. I want to decompose slowly. Go back to the earth. Or I guess I could be buried at sea. Once I've donated my organs, you can do what you like with me.
C: [visibly shudders] Oooh no. That's one thing I could never do.
J: What, be buried at sea?
C: No, donate my organs. Yuck.
J: [aghast and pompous] Don't be ridiculous. You can't not donate your organs. That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard.
C: Maybe, but I'm not doing it. It freaks me out.
J: But you could potentially save, like, eight lives. I'm going to secretly register you on the online organ donation register and you won't know about it until you're dead.
C: [looks genuinely scared] Please don't do that.
J: [more pompous] What you need is someone close to you to desperately need an organ - then you'd see how important it is.
C: I have seen that. My cousin. But I'm still not doing it.
J: [Gobsmacked silence]
C: I tell you the other thing that freaks me out. Clock faces.
J: [proper shouty guffaw]
C: I'm serious. I'm OK with little ones but big ones terrify me.
J: What about digital ones?
C: No, it's just the big ones with hands. When I went to Prague, I had to be physically dragged up the clock tower because I was so scared.
J: And you call me mental?
C: You are mental.
J: I'm scared of failure and dying alone. You're scared of clocks and donating your organs AFTER YOU'RE DEAD. I think it is clear who is the weird one here.

He just sent me an email saying the following: "Just hit myself in the face with a phone receiver. As far as uncool ways to get a black eye go, that’s pretty high up there…"

Glad someone is making me laugh. And no, Mum, romance is not blossoming.

In other news, both mine and Chris' combined mentalness is put in the shade by some utter twunt of a priest in Florida, who is 'commemorating' 9/11 by burning 200 copies of the Qur'an. I hope his cassock goes up in flames and then he goes to purgatory and spends the rest of his life being shunned by 72 virgins. What. A. Dick.

Easy life

So I was thinking the other day on the tube about the life I would choose if I could be born anywhere at any time, and I didn't think about it for that long, but the conclusion I drew was that the best person to be ever would be a man living in rural Italy. Men obviously have it easier than women. And I chose rural Italy because I believe that people with a strong faith have it easier than atheists, and Catholicism is probably the easiest faith of all, in that it is clearly bonkers and you have to do so little except believe patently absurd things and apologise for any transgressions to a man sitting the other side of a partition. Everything that happens is the doing of someone else, whether it's the Pope or God or whatever, and about six days out of seven there are feast days when you get to eat lots of cake. What's not to like? Plus the weather is nice in southern Italy.

I wasn't sure of a good time to be born into this male's body near the sole of the boot. I think the technological era has probably made life more complicated, so I wanted to live before the dawn of computers, but then there were two world wars which weren't that great for Italy and I would certainly want to avoid any sort of fighting in armed conflict. So that was a bit tricky. And I wanted to avoid the mafia if possible. Again, not sure if that's an option. To be honest, the whole thing's a bit of a guess, given that, as far as I'm aware, I've never been male, Italian, religious or truly thick. Any improvements more than welcome.

Finer details aside, basically my idea is to go somewhere as hot and boring as possible, and be as thick and powerless as I can, so that anything bad that happens to me is not remotely attributable to myself. It's a long winded way of saying ignorance is bliss. Of course, bad shit happens to weak morons too, but I doubt they sit around saying, 'Fuck, I just got arthritis, I knew I should have taken more Omega 3s, I'm such a DICKHEAD,' whereas I would be flailing around hating myself and my disintegrating skeleton and shouldering around 97% of the blame for a condition that was about 2% preventable.

I do not currently have arthritis. It would just be nice to be utterly certain that my desires will change absolutely nothing about my reality. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure that we're all slaves to capitalism and I am pretty sure that any concept we have of free will is pretty much bollocks. I mean, sure, I think I'm doing what I want. But how did I decide what I wanted? Free will? Nah. I was socially conditioned, innit. We're all in thrall to The Man. But like a character in The Matrix, I still live under the illusion that I can control stuff. Clearly it's patently absurd, and I'd like to give it up. I'd like to accept, deep down, that I am as ineffective as I rationally fear I am. Life would be so much easier. I could be utterly flaccid and just go with the flooooooooooow mannnnnnn.

As it is, I spend my mental life in an imagined section of the Amazon where huge logs are carried along at speeds of over 70mph, and I am standing waist-deep, a large stick in my left hand helping me to stay upright, fighting against the current to go upriver. Dunno why. It's just the way it's always been. The idea of turning round and letting the water carry me with it is somewhat appealing, but I just can't do it. I'd feel like I was giving up. So I push on through the rapids, and sometimes I think 'Wow, this is an amazing challenge,' but most of the time it's quite hard work and I get very confused as other humans float past me on lilos, reading Heat magazine and having a whale of a time. And sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be a lot easier to be a thick Catholic man from pre-internet Italy.

Czeching Out

My eyes are stinging with tiredness but now is as bad a time to write as any. New Year's Eve was truly wonderful. We went to a restaurant we'd spied earlier, and had a delicious four course dinner including pizza underneath a gorgeous vaulted ceiling, chatting non-stop to the Hungarians at the table next to us and the stammering Germans opposite, and later to the enthusiastic Greeks at the table even further away. At 23:47 we rushed out into the Old Town Square, determined to see the Astrological Clock chime us in to the new decade, but there was no way we could muscle through the packed crowd, so we celebrated midnight opposite the Christmas tree, as thousands of impromptu fireworks were set off all around us, with scant regard for health or, indeed, safety. Nick got through his hatred of NYE by pretending he was reporting back for a local BBC News channel, asking everyone who would make eye contact with us where they were from, and what their hopes were for 2010.

After the big moment had quietened down somewhat, we returned to the restaurant for a final drink, and a lovely waitress chatted to us for ages and then revealed herself as the place's owner, saying we didn't have to pay for any of the extra drinks we'd had. Result. We gave her a fat tip. Then we wandered, headily, through the streets and over the Charles Bridge, photographing things and reveling in the fact that although everyone was undoubtedly drunk, no one was being aggressive, unfriendly or anti-socially loud. It was lovely.

This morning started a little slowly and we missed the hotel breakfast so had a snack from the Christmas market, me feeling optimistic that the Nutella and crepe that surrounded my banana did not detract from its 'one of my five a day' status. Then we wandered over to the Jewish Quarter. Now, I know as well as you do that it is impossible and deeply stupid to generalise about an entire race, so I won't, but I will say that the Jewish section of Prague is the most badly organised and stressful area in the city by a country mile. Everything is numbered, but the numbers don't correlate to the buildings on the map they give you, and the numbers on the map don't correlate with the numbers on your ticket. Then there are long rooms full of displays of things, but you have no idea what the things are/mean, because the panel of information explaining their significance is behind the door through which everyone is walking. The Holocaust was, undeniably, absolutely horrific. The things those people went through, whether they survived or died, are beyond my powers of imagination - or, perhaps, I just don't want to have to think about them. And I totally buy the whole 'lest we forget' argument - we should be reminded, regularly, of the horrific elements of humanity's past, sometimes shockingly recent, so that we don't let such atrocities happen again, if possible. But, that said, it does seem to me that Judaism's PR is almost entirely negative. If it were me, I would focus on the Sho'ah, sure, but I would also talk about the wonderful things about my faith that make me proud. I'd like to hear a bit more about the positives. Maybe that's just me. The cemetery, the synagogues and the exhibitions were interesting, once we worked out what was going on, but the tourists were disrespectful and the highlight was probably the tiny menorah that Nick bought on a stall outside.

After the Jewish Quarter, we walked back over Charles Bridge and had yet another deep fried lunch before heading up to St. Nicholas' church, where we arrived at 15:48 and the last admission was at 15:45, so we grumpily went on to The Church of Our Lady Victorious, just down the road, where Nick had read about this little statue of Christ that was donated by a Spanish woman ages ago, and is thought to have magical powers and is one of the most sacred icons in Catholicism. We'd started calling it the Waxy Jesus, because it is made of wax. And so we went to see the Waxy Jesus, and sweet Mary mother of God, if it wasn't the most gloriously kitsch thing in the history of the world. There's this tiny, alabaster-pale doll, perched high on a wall, surrounded by ornate metalwork, wearing an elaborate white gown, and in front of it are people praying. Real people. And upstairs, in the museum, are glass cases full of all the Waxy Jesus' other outfits. For there are many. All donated by other countries. Gorgeous ruffled cuffs and collars on a gown sent from Columbia, a beautiful embroidered cape from Shanghai, a deep red get-up from Vietnam and a case full of white, lace undergarments to protect Waxy from damage, accompanied by a photo of three nuns helping him into a new costume. He changes every feast day. It was fantastic but simultaneously deeply worrying. Nick can't stop thinking about him.

Then we went back to St. Nicholas' church and bought tickets to a 5pm concert, and sat quietly in the back pew while a good flautist and a semi-good soprano and an excellent organist played a selection of hits old and new, and I admired the trompe d'oeuil ceiling and snoozed, and a woman sat down next to us and knocked my antique Czech metal paint pot onto the floor, and then we left fifteen minutes early because we had to go back to the river to see the wonderful New Year's Day fireworks, which were great, and then we thawed in a bar and I had a heated conversation about wine with an argumentative Frenchman who, it seemed, deliberately misunderstood my point. And then it was time for the JAZZBOAT, and we were sharing a table with a very cute couple, early-twenties, she was from Holland, he was from Hungary, they hadn't seen each other since early October and god they were so happy, it was quite moving. The jazz was good, the boat travelled, I kid you not, about half a mile before we stopped at a lock for ages, and then went on a little bit and turned around almost immediately, stopped at the lock again for ages, went back to our starting point and a fraction beyond and then turned round and docked, but it was fun anyway. And now I'm at Prague airport, having started writing this last night and then passing out. I loved Prague. The people were very friendly, the architecture was stunning, the history was fascinating and had a good spread of interesting incidents through the ages, the tourists were nice, the items for sale were excellent, especially in the area of miniature things - I am most excited about my tiny matches and my tiny glass snail - and the food was, while perhaps not the healthiest, definitely delicious. The ratio of couples to non-couples was approx. 93:1, so if you are feeling particularly sore about your unwed status I might suggest avoiding it, but other than that I have no complaints. That said, I've just seen a photo of Vegas on my computer and I slightly wish I was in the States, and I am so excited about getting back to my flat that I might weep. London, I'm coming home.

O Come, All Ye Unfaithful

The nights darken early, the shoppers are spending
On presents and mince pies, their waistlines expanding.
It's Advent again and the streets are a-heaving,
Full of shoppers seduced by PR people thieving.
"Buy this for your boyfriend," advertisements toll,
"and he just might not ditch you for Ms Cheryl Cole."

At last, it's arrived, the one time of year
When we don't have to spend every second in fear
Of intense global warming, it just isn't festive:
Waste goes with Christmas like cheese and digestive.
We swaddle our gifts in thick paper and ribbons
Not giving a thought to the extinction of gibbons.

It's my annual highlight, my favourite season
Be happy and kind or it's basically treason.
Each eve a new party, a new chance to kiss
Under poisonous berries, a sure sign that this
Is most likely not the best plan on the planet;
Mistletoe's deadly - we should probably ban it.

For gluttons like me it's a joyous occasion,
"Can I still get those jeans on?" is my only equation.
We gorge ourselves crazy on hot turkey dinner,
And the number one song by the X Factor winner.
Time spent with family is precious and rare,
I'm annually grateful it's not Albert Square.

Oh it's all just too perfect, I love all the lights
And the snuggling of couples in frost-laden nights.
We buy gifts to say to our loved ones, "I thank you,
I'll always support you, I will never blank you."
Presents and food, magic carols in the air,
What could be the cause of this splendid affair?

And here lies the rub, here I hit a glass ceiling.
I completely love Christmas, it's really appealing,
But I'm attending a party I shouldn't be at
Because I'm not a Christian, I can't wear that hat.
I'm just not a believer of this gobbledygook,
And I'm not friends with Rowan or Pope Ben on Facebook.

That Jesus was born two millennia ago
I'll agree that it happened, historically so.
That he lived and did great works, I reckon that's true,
"Do unto others as you'd like them to do to you"
It's a great rule of thumb, but as for the resurrection
I just can't see it happening, like a Hillary election.

I'm an atheist, see, I believe not in gods,
And I know Occam's razor would push me the odds,
But for most of the year I'm happily profane
Till the bells start a-jingling and the songs play again;
I can't resist joining each year's festive shimmy
But if Jesus is nice then I think he'll forgive me.

I hate all hypocrisy, really I do,
But Christmas is too good to keep just for you.
I could call it 'Winterval' but who would I fool?
It's Christmas I love and it's Christmas that's cool.
I don't buy the whole thing but this much is true
It's a magical time, I'll give you your due.

So for one day a year I jump on the bandwagon,
And a story as likely as Puff: Magic Dragon
Becomes glorious truth, both wondrous and humbling,
And we all celebrate our humanity's fumbling.
We're doing our best, equatorial and polar,
But still, Santa is trademarked by - yes - Coca Cola.

The Christmas machine is a cynical thing,
So let us reclaim it and mean what we sing:
'Tis truly the season for all to be jolly
So help those who need it, lend a stranger your brolly.
Don't let yourself be blinded by consumerist baloney
But Saint Nick, please remember, I'd still like a pony.

Spiritual guidance?

There are many things that are annoying about the fact that so many of my friends have selfishly found time to fall madly in love, get married and have babies. However, there are a couple of upsides. One: I get to buy tiny clothes. And two: following the birth of the aforementioned babies, they then, generally, decide to pick godparents. As a committed atheist, I know I will never be asked - and even if my godlessness didn't bother one of my less faithful friends, I would have to refuse, as I could never stand in a church and promise to lead the baby in question towards 'the light'. So it is with a fair degree of objectivity that I regard the godparent selection process - and I am continually surprised by the choices.

I guess my attitude would always be to choose someone who will be helpful to my children when I and that child's father are being complete pains-in-the-ass. Obviously my child will, at one point or another, think I am absolutely unbearable and it would be good if there were an adult or two knocking about to whom they could turn to for advice at times like these. They won't have any uncles or aunts on my side, since je suis une fille unique, so I guess some sort of mentor with a sense of humour would be cool. The Humanist website advises calling them 'special friends' but that sounds worrying. Anyway, this clearly isn't something I need to concern myself with just now. I was discussing it last night with Em and Grania and it logged in my mind as something I should note. And that's the beauty of LLFF, isn't it? You never know what random piece of useless drivel is going to pop into my head next.

What else is news? Hamburgers with feta rock, but possibly not as much as lamburgers (two bs?) with feta. Erich Fromm's The Art of Loving should be compulsory reading. This morning I retook the political compass test (which you can take here). On a scale where -10 is left, and +10 is right, I came out as -5. And on a scale where -10 is Libertarian and +10 is Authoritarian, I came out as -8. I was surprised by how Libertarian I was, in that I thought I was more of a socialist. But the left/right thing sounds about right. Challenging questions though. I stumbled over a couple - one was whether people who have seriously degenerative hereditable conditions should be allowed to reproduce. Writing that out now, my answer is 'yes', only because I imagine it would be exceptionally difficult to draw any sort of line, and to tell people they shouldn't reproduce is like telling them they shouldn't have been born. I am ashamed to admit I did find it tough though. I did the test with Laura afterwards and we were both in a similar area of the spectrum. The only UK political party that comes anywhere near our beliefs is the Green Party... Bring on the next general election.

Everybody must get stoned...

Yesterday was stressful. The date, 4 March, had been burned on my consciousness since Mr L'Atelier left for his holiday to the US and Canada over a fortnight ago - this was due to be the day of his return and it's not hyperbolic to say that for the final few days of the countdown, I was about as excited as any girl has ever been in the history of humanity. However, when the day itself dawned, something else sprung up onto the dashboard of my existence: my builder, henceforth absurdly nice, funny and reliable, went AWOL. At 10am, I was livid - it was Tuesday morning, my kitchen needed to be finished by the end of Wednesday so that the carpet could go down on Thursday, so that my sofa could arrive on Friday and so that I could move the rest of my stuff over the weekend. Were all bets off? Should I cancel the most precisely coordinated chain of events since the Beckham wedding? By lunchtime, I was hyperventilating with stress. By 2pm, two glasses of Sauvignon later, I was markedly calmer but still concerned. By 4pm, I had stopped caring about the kitchen and was starting to feel genuinely fearful that he might be dead. I sent him another slightly hysterical text message and crossed my fingers.

Finally, at 4.30pm, he made textual contact and informed me that he'd been doing rather a lot of vomiting. It was perfectly timed on his part - had he been in touch much earlier I would have been furious and possibly sent him a vitriolic and fractionally unsympathetic response, but at this late stage I wasn't being quite so selfish and was instead so relieved that he still had a pulse that I sent him a comforting message and forgot about it. But then - egad! Mr L'Atelier had been pushed to the back burner. Suddenly, the moment for which I had yearned had arrived. I preened, primped, put the finishing touches to his funpack and then headed over to his house for a romantic reunion. So when I found out that our first task was returning his hire car to the Avis depot, I had to readjust my mental picture somewhat. Still, we had a perfect night and this morning I'm giddy and happy and the proud owner of a beautiful new green iPod Nano for my future jogging adventures. Lucky me.

Today's big news was the result of Super Tuesday 2 across the pond - what with the hurly burly of my own life I had almost forgotten about the primaries and when I saw the result online this morning I gasped in shock. It's all too exciting. I did a test the other day on www.whoshouldyouvotefor.com and unsurprisingly I shouldn't want either Clinton or Obama to win the Democratic nomination - they're both far too right wing for my tastes - but it's a gripping contest and I am loving every second. What made me laugh was the assertion by an Israeli academic that Moses was stoned when he received the Ten Commandments. And by stoned, I mean the New Age definition, not the Biblical version meaning that people chucked rocks at him when he returned from Mount Sinai carrying the two tablets. Makes sense to me, and given the rest of the bizarre coincidences and hilariously arbitrary/accidental, grammatical/editorial errors/slips that have formed the basis of the world's Christian beliefs, this is just another nail in the coffin of my religious faith. Not that I have beef with Moses being a fan of hallucinogenic drugs, mind you - just that I'm glad I haven't altered my life's direction as a result.

Asparagus tips

Now, you know me - I'm not cruel. Well, not really. OK, I am. Sometimes. But never intentionally. However, just this once, I am going to say something that I am aware may be hurtful - yet I strongly believe that this information could be valuable for the greater good and thus its sharing is justified. It's nothing truly awful, just two small tips for any men out there who are trying to impress their ladyfriends. I am sure these pearls will be obvious to most readers but on the offchance that they strike you as novel, here they are:

First - brush your teeth. If there is a nationwide shortage of toothbrushes (and this is the only acceptable excuse), then chew some gum. Do not, I repeat, do not turn up with lunch breath. Just thinking about it makes me want to hurl.

Second - use your cutlery. I'm absolutely not implying that we need the same levels of etiquette expected at Buckingham Palace but eating an asparagus spear by stabbing it in the middle with your fork, lifting it vertically to your mouth and using your lips to bend it into two halves is unacceptable. Especially if the two halves still turn out to be far too long and you have to put down your fork and manually force the dangling section into the dark recesses of your putrid oral cavity.

That's it for now. On their own probably not deal-breakers, but in tandem a hard act to want to revisit.

None of this has anything at all to do with last night, of course. These pieces of advice are totally random, a propos of absolutely nothing, rien, nada and it's entirely coincidental that I went out to dinner at Latium, where they served the pork belly with asparagus. Honest guv'nor.

I have just seen online that the Archbishop of Canterbury says that the introduction of sharia law for British Muslims is inevitable. It's not often that my jaw actually drops, but it just did. Fortunately, along with my jaw, interest rates have also dropped so my mortgage payments will be about 30p cheaper each month. Increased religious segregation in Britain is apparently unavoidable but I can still afford to live here. High five!

A Few Lessons

Management-speak seems to find that the noun ‘lesson’ is inadequate and has replaced it with a new bastardisation of the verb ‘to learn’, as in ‘What learnings can we take from this meeting?’ It drives me mental and I have previously felt very superior to such office gimps – but then I caught myself almost titling this blog ‘A Few Learnings’ and then felt suicidal. How quickly it seeps in…

I’ve had an interesting few days and feel like I’m on a strange new path. In a good way. On Saturday I went to The Institute of Ideas’ third annual Battle of Ideas – a weekend of talks with a broadly liberal theme. Assuming you didn’t fork out £45 to attend, I’ll give you the choicest nuggets from each of the four talks I attended.

Talk 1 was ‘Demonising Parents’ about how mummy and daddy are on the receiving end of a lot of blame, from lunchbox contents to story time, and how crippling this can be. My favourite comment from this session was on a grammatical issue when one speaker pointed out that ‘parent’ is a noun. The verb form (ie. ‘parenting’) is a relatively recent development; the verb used to be ‘child-rearing’ and the speaker made the point that the focus has largely shifted from the child to the parent – a lexical example of how language echoes our culture. Gripping?

Talk 2 was Eat, Drink and Be Merry: Banned, all about how everything is too regulated and we’re victims of a nanny state who won’t let us smoke or have any fun. The arguments usually run that healthy, clean living types shouldn’t have to pay their taxes so that irresponsible libertines can go to the NHS to have their problems solved. But really, where do you draw the line between self-inflicted illness and the other? The ‘learning’ here was that, before any new legislation is passed, we need to ask ourselves, ‘Is this law worth the loss of freedom that will occur as a result?’ – the implicit answer being, of course, ‘No.’ What was interesting was looking throughout British history and seeing that there were clearly defined periods of libertinism versus periods of dramatic self-flagellation and we’re obviously firmly in one of the latter. Can’t wait for the tide to turn – hopefully I’ll still be able to walk.

Talk 3 was The Resurrection of Religion: Moving Beyond Secularism or Losing Faith in Politics? And weirdly, even though this is probably more my ‘area’, I slightly flagged at this point. I think the highlight for me was the discussion of faith schools – one speaker made the point that if one were to insert the word ‘politics’ in place of ‘faith’ and imagine an institution where one political leaning was espoused and all others were demonised at worst, barely tolerated at best and where certain texts were banned while others were held up as unassailably true – well, we’d never allow it. Religious followers on the panel held that religion and politics could not be equated but I’m not so sure… Ooh, the other gripping thing was that Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in blood transfusions – and don’t allow their children to have them. As a liberal atheist, that’s pretty hard to take – but should we step in or is it their right to make such decisions on the part of their children? Surely the latter – if only because legislating on such an issue would open a vast can of worms that could only end in Big Brother disaster.

Talk 4 was my favourite. Rethinking Immigration: The Unheard Debate covered a huge and persuasive area – kicking off with a statistic that surprised me: apparently only 3% of the world’s population live outside their birth country. One of the speakers put a convincing case for opening all borders and allowing totally free immigration worldwide, something that, in my ignorance, I’d never even considered before. They also argued comprehensively against using a points system to predict who will be a useful addition to a country, citing the examples that Barack Obama’s father was a goatherd and that Sergei Brin, the founder of Google, was a first generation migrant to the US from Russia.

As a bonus, I also caught the tail end of Age of the Metropolis: What is the Future of Cities? and heard this gem: ‘If you would dare to know, live in a city. If you would rather be known, but not know, live in a village.’ Brilliant.

I had planned to go to a triple bill of French films at Riverside Studios last night but felt so virtuous after Saturday’s knowledge-fest that I ended up watching a video of the X Factor and eating Skippy peanut butter off a knife. You win some, you lose some.

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.