There's a mouse on my keyboard!

Bored. I actually had to ask the girl who's going to be my boss (when her boss leaves she is moving up and I will take her position) whether there will be enough work for me. She assured me there would, but at the moment I'm bored out of my tiny mind. I can't work out whether I should feel smug because I'm getting paid for doing next to nothing, or whether I should be annoyed because there are so many better things I could be doing with my time than trying to look busy in a stuffy office. Although, as anyone who knows me would testify, I would probably end up doing nothing and most probably sleeping. But I do it so well, it's a shame not to take advantage of one of my few real skills. I dream loads, too, and rarely want to wake up, no matter how weird the dream. I find I want to keep it going to find out stuff. Answers to life the universe and everything, I suppose. There is always the slim hope that, like on Nightmare on Elm Street, I can bring back stuff from my dreams. Like a big bag of money. That would be handy right about now.

I went to see Shark Tale last night with Boxylady and a couple of other lovely ladies. It was alright. Quite funny, but not in the same league as Shrek or Nemo. I'm looking forward to The Incredibles coming out. Apparently it's the best animation ever made. We'll see.

See? So bored that I can't think of anything to write. Idleness breeds laziness.

I've found a course I want to do, but it might be out of my league. I've emailed the course tutor to find out if my qualifications are good enough to get me on it, but I haven't heard back. It doesn't start til next March so I have plenty of time, but I'd like to know so I can start planning and reading etc. If I get in and if I pass my dad might finally be proud of me. His daughter, an MSc! Not some namby-pamby humanities degree, a proper Masters in science! Even if it is in Renewable Energy Sources and other such veggie rubbish. Pretty scary that I'm even considering committing to two years of anything. Not like me at all. Maybe I'm growing up. Har har.

I'm a little hard of thinking these days. I find that without my thinking cap I can't get anything done. However, I've left it under the bed and the dust bunnies have eaten it. So, I'll either have to eat them in order to consume the thinking-cap as well, or try and find a new one. I'm not sure what dire circumstances I'll have to put myself through in order to succeed on my quest, but neither dragon's fire nor witches breath will put me off. I do have a bit of a bunion though, so I might leave it til next week.

Snow

runner, I'm told.

Fizzy cola bottles. Remember them? Little bits of sugar-coated jelly in the rough shape of an old-fashioned coke bottle with a brown half and a glass-coloured half . Horribly bad for you, but totally addictive. And I've been eating them non-stop all day. Well, it's for charity! A pound for a bag of them and 60p goes to Childline. It's no wonder my skin is so pustulous at the moment. And you should see my face! Just can't stop eating rubbish at the moment. Partly boxylady's fault as she left a pile of chocolate the size of Mount Fuji at my place over the weekend. Cow. But then she and S also bought me some flowers, so I'm not really complaining. Very well brought up young ladies. I'm expecting a thank-you note any day now for my hospitality... Or a hospital note for my thankyous. No, that's not right. Getting jumbled up. Must be all the sugar.....wheeeeeee! Snow wonder I need a nap by the time I get home. Ahhhh... snow. I can't wait to get snowed in and not be able to get to work. Worse if I get snowed into work, though. Now that would be a nightmare.

Soul sister

When I feel a blog approaching, I get this feeling in my body (can't quite pinpoint where it originates yet, but I'm working on it. Somewhere under my ribcage, I think) of a (blue, weirdly) bubble of words, quite distinct and discrete, that splatters itself onto the keyboard quite forcefully in a lump of me-ness. Sounds gross, doesn't it? But it's a purge of whatever is blackening my soul at the time. Useful. Like a furball except I don't make those faces that cats do.

Do you suppose that whenever you do something that your conscience objects to, which you feel is morally wrong, or at least dubious, that your soul contorts and twists out of shape? You start off with a pristine white ball of glowing purity and by the time you are ten or so, it is grubby and dented from wheedling extra sweeties from your mum or staying up later than you should. By the time you are twenty it is flattened and dark with sooty stains. Remember that promise you broke, that friend you let down? Surely at my advanced age my soul must be a twisted black thing hissing with rememberances of tramps ignored, dates stood up, harsh words, money still owed. If the world were filled with peace-loving tolerant, well-fed folk
would my soul carry less collateral damage? Is it my actions alone that cause the injury, or the comparison between my actions and those of others. Is morality therefore a relative thing? And relative to what? Who judges what we are measured against? And can you re-whiten your soul or do the stains remain forever?

Flat

Flat. Flat, flat, flat. Flat as a pancake, flat as an apartment, flat as a deflated balloon, flat as a three day old glass of coke. That's how I feel. Obviously my chestal area is as inflated as ever, but my soul has been crushed by the bleak and desolate numbness of existence. No, not crushed; that implies an excitement, simply worn down. Eroded by the insidious tedium of survival. The sheer ease of continuance, the lack of drama and adrenalin, the monotony of working, sleeping, eating, evacuating, abluting. Jeez. Where are the martinis? Where are the yachts? The dates, even? When did I become a middle-aged suburban housewife without the husband or kids? AM I settling down? If so, why? AM I actually disappearing up my own arsehole?

flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants

I've discovered that I'm quite good at initial, speedy thoughts, but if I try to explore them they disappear. As with so many things. So I write my blogs in about three minutes and then don't read them again until they're on my site (and often not at all). This means you get a lot of unadulterated crap with a smidgen of sense. I always wrote essays in the same way. Rush to get it all down on paper without checking facts or spelling and then just hand it in and hope for the best. I think it's indicative of my life. Spontaneity, some would call it. Lack of preparation is closer to the truth. I can't think of a useful application for it, except the flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants thinking used by advertising industries (blue-sky thinking, they call it). Designing something, maybe? As long as there was someone to tidy up and sort out the practical from the impractical. I tend to act first and think later (if at all). Hence the state of my finances, I suppose. Ah well, it makes life more exciting if you don't know whether you'll be a pauper or a king tomorrow.

Epiphany

Blimey, I've just realised it's 18 years since I was 18, which is a good age to consider yourself an adult. My mother died when I was that age and my life changed beyond recognition from that point. The point being that I didn't recognise it was changing, or rather, that I was changing. Some events have a Jesus-like effect on your life (ie Before the Event and After the Event). So what have I done since I've been an adult? Anything earth-changing? Nope. I've learned a bit about Classical Civilisation and Philosophy. A bit about straw-bale building, a bit about marketing, a lot about admin. I've seen a few countries and met a few people. I've had a series of small epiphanies. I'm told that some people wait their whole lives for a single epiphany and others get them in small doses. I fall into the latter category. However, it seems that whenever I stop and feel like I've just woken up, just become aware of the point, it slips away and I'm left wondering what I'm doing (usually staring into space in a demented fashion). Short-lived things, piphanies. Or perhaps it's my legendary memory at work again. Or sleeping, I should say. I'm sure I have a memory, I just can't remember where I left it. Eh? Bananas? Quarter to four

Blogging

t really is self-indulgent, this. You have to blog for yourself, but in the (slim) hope that somebody (anybody) will want to read what you have to say. Any why should they? They are presumably writing their own worlds and have no need of ramblings from yours to clutter and pollute what passes for their thought-processes. You might read somebody's blog and think it funny or quirky or interesting, but why should you want to continue to read it regularly. Surely their head candy is no sweeter then yours? Often a lot more sour.

On the other hand I adore reading my friends' blogs. One friend, who shall be known as qwerty-face - she has a propensity for falling asleep on the keyboard - writes intermittently but blindingly. The stream-of consciousness approach replicates her speech patterns exactly and her quirky sense of humour never fails to amuse. Another friend uses blogging as a way to clarify thoughts and express them honestly and creatively, a trait I admire tremendously. Yet another uses blogspot as an outlet for what is clearly life- rage. His ravings are furiously funny and his observations are sharp and witty.

Oooh, I forgot philately

Some cool words. Say them with me:
Tincture
Slpeen
Tumeric
Panapoly
Pink
Pumpkin
Elephant/heffalump (both equally as good)
Tiddlywink
Hurtle

Isn't the English language fantastic? Although I once heard a middle aged man from the East End teaching his grandson how to pronounce Ambulance. Airm-ber-lunts, he kept repeating. And I hate seeing mis-spelled menus, or worse, books. We are an ignorant mob, no matter how many times we read Eats, Shoots and Leaves. I was asked how to spell pirouette the other day, and without writing it down I struggled personfully with the idea that it should have an H in it somewhere. And is it an aitch or a haitch? I'm an aitcher, personally. And what's with onvelope? Is it spelled with an O? So why pronounce it like that? The versatility and diversity of our language is a lesson for all those who would prevent cultural blending. It
really can work and you end up with something that can be cumbersome, can be messy, but can also be beautiful and evocative, educational and wonderous. Sadly, people aren't words and could be described as more complex than a Latin declension, so my argument falls down. Ah well, it was a nice excuse to celebrate our underrated tongue (and to use the word tongue)

Divine Wind

My newsagent chappie (the one who asked if I'd had a rough night yesterday)said how lovely it was this morning. Sadly I heard that correctly and didn't assume he was coming on to me. He said it with a shy grin and a slight blush to signify that he remembered the horror of the previous day's misunderstanding. And indeed, it has been a glorious bright, blustery day. Marred only by the knowledge that Euston is no longer operating a Thursday service due to the wrong kind of leaves on the line, in turn due to the high winds. Instead they will be running a Saturday service. I had no idea the type of anything was so vital to the continued service of so many things. For instance, while I was in Yorkshire at the weekend (yes, my tour has started, buy your tickets now) I passed a windfarm. Lots of sleek and majestic windmills (without the mills, so I'm not sure what to call them)standing proudly though incongruously in a field, keeping watch over the sheep, llamas and struggling walkers. The wind was howling around my ears as I asked my walking companion why they weren't operating in this gale. The wrong kind of wind, apparently. Well, whaddaya know. Even the wind gets it wrong sometimes. As the eskimos have twenty three words for snow (a myth apparently), so I shall develop forty seven words for wind and build a separate windmill for each one (note to self: might need a bigger
garden).

Fog

Fog. Scary stuff. Being a Londoner you might expect me to be familiar with proper soupy fogs (why always PEA soup?) but in reality London fogs don't happen any more. They were a product of their time, I think - all that industry and revolution. People are too lazy for fogs now, and anyway, the tube will protect them. So fogs are now the province of the provinces. And driving to our riding lesson the other evening after dark was quite hairy. My car, bless it, is lovely, but I had to replace a headlight bulb recently and never got round to re-aligning the headlights. So it is a bit wall-eyed. On top of that there is a loose connection somewhere so it is temperamental too and only shines full beam when it feels like it.
Occasionally you might get a flash of light illuminating a tree to your right but the road ahead remains a dark mystery, lit by the solitary lamp of my beleaguered vehicle.

I had only been down this particular country lane once before and that had been in daylight (with no fog), so it came as no surprise to me that we had difficulty finding the riding school. What surprised me was the fog. Really. Very thick in some places and misty in others, but all of it was enough to make me rue the day I ever picked up a James Herbert book. I love a misty morning and saw many of them when I was doing shift work, but a night-ride to hell is somewhat different. It was easy to imagine fingers of fog making their insidious way through the openings and vents in the car, reaching malignantly with their cold dampness, layering around our warm hearts and squeezing slowly...

With flashes of roadside visible from the corner of my eye whenever my wayward headlamp decided to join the party, my lone straight beam reflected off the dense fog. For once I felt justified in using my rear fog lamp. Since it was pitch dark, during the sparser patches I needed full beam. At one point my travelling companions both shouted in unison 'Roundabout!' as I'd been heading for it at full speed (thirty) without having seen the sign announcing its presence. I think we all needed a drink by the end of that journey. And as it turns out, the microclimate in which I live is well known for its fog. Fantastic. Lots more hair-raising adventures to look forward to. Watch this space.

Natural teacher or natural pupil?

I taught my god-daughter to climb downstairs yesterday. She's been able to climb upstairs for a while now, but never got the hang of the downward motion (with which most of us are too familiar), which has meant that she has to be rescued (frequently) once she reaches the top of the stairs. She seems to want to be at the highest point at all times. So if you plonk her in the middle of a room she will inevitably head towards the nearest staircase, or failing that the nearest sofa, chair, table or whatever else she feels capable of scaling. And no matter how many times you bring her back to earth, she continues to yearn for the skies.

So she and I had reached the top of my long staircase and she was heading speedily up the last two steps on my landing. Then she turned around and requested a lift to the bottom again. Instead I offered to show her how to do it herself. All this was said in sign language, you understand since my god-daughter is not yet capable of understandable speech. Her Lexish is great but her English needs some work.

I put her on her bottom on the uppermost of the two steps, facing me. Then I lowered her legs to the step below and half-lifted her so that she was standing on the lower step. Then I suggested that she bend her knees. No matter how many times I exhorted her in my best ski-instructor voice to 'ben zee knees' she was happier tanding. So I lifted her to the lower step. She looked delighted to be travelling in this manner, but I wasn't satisfied with her accomplishments (perhaps I am ready for parenthood) and wanted her to be able to do it on her own. When I turned back after chatting with her mother (my best buddy) she was kneeling on the top step with her bottom facing the void below and waggling one leg precariously over the edge. She felt around with this leg for a while until she managed to find the step
below and she lowered herself gracefully onto it. Mission accomplished. And she had done it entirely on her own, in a manner designed by herself. I am so proud! (Slightly less proud of the dirt that she managed to cover herself in merely by crawling on my un-hoovered floors!)

Shallow

On a lighter note, the chap in the shop where I buy my breakfast flapjack every morning said to me this morning, 'You had a rough one?' which I took to mean that I was looking particularly (possibly even spectacularly) crap this morning so I must have been out on a bender the night before. I asked (archly) what he meant by that and did he really think I looked that bad. He blushed scarlet and stammered that he was referring to the foul weather - I had misheard the beginning of the sentence. He told me I looked lovely, as I always do and then his scarlet face notched up a shade and he muttered, have a nice day' as I scuttled out of the shop.

Deep

Moving on. I keep meaning to take control of my finances but it never seems to happen. I think I have an idea of what's in my account and then I go to check it and I'm dead wrong. I'm always optimistic, too, which means that I dread checking my account because I'm always disappointed. I should either check it more often or less often. Money is just wrong. I feel that somehow we are missing the point. Don't you? Our lives seem so pointless. Who cares if you have a 'good' job or a nice car. Or even a crappy car, come to that. The point of life should not be to earn money to go drinking or watching films or playing bingo. The point, surely, should be more profound? Bringing up children is a biological imperative that we should have surpassed by now. Art, poetry, literature. They all mean less than nothing. The human race seems to be shooting off in all directions except anything meaningful. Our evolution is purely physical. Why haven't we discovered how to use that vast portion of our brains that remains idle? We should be able to do all sorts of things by now that 'progress' has made redundant. Why learn how to teleport when we have cars and aircraft? Why learn telepathy when we have mobile phones glued to our ears? We MUST be on the brink of an epiphany. Something, some event, that shows us the way forward. How do we reach heaven? Why do we know so little about life after death? Is there such a thing as magic? And if so, what's the point of it? Perhaps a disaster on the scale of the meteor that killed the dinosaurs will focus our attention, bring us all together and make us WAKE UP!

A horse with no name

As if anyone needed it, here's proof that I'm not the fittest person in the universe. I can't sit on a horse without getting out of breath. Bad, eh? It seems to me that the reason people ride horses (or used to, before cars)was to get from A to B by expending the least amount of energy. It can't be more tiring to sit on a horse than to sit in a car, can it? Oh yes it can. For a start, you are expected to do all the work! The lazy bugger underneath you isn't actually doing anything. He stands around looking pretty and licking his toenails while you sit on top squeezing with your knees, rocking back and forth and ineffectually digging your heels into his ribs. Eventually you may resort to a 'stick' which I've always called a 'whip' but let's not quibble since it is as ineffectual as you are. Can you get the idle git to move? Or even look up? Of course not. So the riding teacher might throw some soil at the horse's hindquarters (they are not only indolent but ignorant too - they seem to be scared of soil - oooh, look out Eric, it's that ninja dirt again!) which will spur it to a slow walk with you perched uncomfortably on top waving your legs about in an effort to encourage your animal into a trot. Not very dignified, let me tell you. If you are vigorous enough to force your horse to trot, you will find your self being smacked very hard on your bottom by your sulky horse's saddle.
Several times. This is called rising trot and should be undertaken only by those with numb bottoms (of course your bottom will become numb within a brief period but it is much less painful to start out that way) and excellent balance. Your feet should remain in the stirrups during this exercise, but don't be alarmed if you find yourself footloose and rein-free at any stage; the horse will snicker at its freedom (and at your complete lack of control). It is important to remember to retain control of your bowels whilst fighting the gravitational pull of the muddy, manurey ground a looooong way below. With the horse snickering, sneezing, headbutting stray ninja soil particles and farting, you could be forgiven for wondering what you are doing perched on this dangerous wild animal. The answer is simple. Once you have managed even a micro-second of correct technique the beauty, grace and joy of riding becomes immediately apparent. It really is the ONLY way to travel.

Stuff

Feels like I haven't written a blog for aaaages. I've missed you, my public, my therapist, my conscience, my nemesis.

I just had a fabulous weekend. Which is nice. And I'm all fired up to look at a new career. And I'm in the middle of a good book. And I've definitely decided that the best pet in the world would be a turtle without its shell. All grey and wrinkly and vulnerable like a very small squashed elephant. You could knit little four-armed jumpers for it and keep it in your top pocket. I expect turtles are wise, so you could use it as a reference-pet. Don't ask Jeeves, ask your turtle. I'm not sure what the difference is between turtles and tortoises, but either would do. Just not the giant ones - unless you have very large pockets. Turtally cool pet.

My body is suffering. Again. Last weekend I went horse riding and the following day pulled a muscle in my back so I felt like a gang-raped camel. This weekend I went walking (proper walking, for hours and hours) on the moors in Yorkshire and (apart from sniffing very loudly for hours and thus scaring the local wildlife away, and then being bitten by a sheepdog) seem to have stretched every muscle in my legs by about three feet and then squished them back down to fit them back into my legs. Very uncomfortable but not actually painful. My return journey, from Yorkshire to
Buckinghamshire, was alternately hilarious and wretched. My right knee gets
stiff if I drive too long and it started to feel 'orrible so I found a position that didn't hurt, but that brought on cramp in my hip. So I squirmed about a bit more and found a position that didn't cause cramp or hurt my knee, but that brought on sciatica. I was driving at a very strange angle for the last hundred miles or so - I must have looked demented because I was giggling at the absurdity of it but also grimacing at the pain. And singing along (loudly) to Rod Stewart which also causes odd facial movements. So if you happened to be driving down the M1 at 7pm last night
and saw a manic babybadger hunched weirdly over a steering wheel, the chances are it was me. I'm sorry if I made you drive off the road.

Places to visit: CAT (Centre for Alternative Technology) in Wales (Not that I have, but I plan to. Honest.)

Places to avoid: Haworth (very bleak)

Books to read: Odd Thomas (Dean Koontz)
Angry White Pyjamas (Robert Twigger)

Music to avoid on the M1: Robbie Williams
Music to avoid anywhere else: Whale song (unless you are a whale)

Jackanory

Here's a short story I wrote a few (well, lots of) years ago. Hope you like sci-fi...

Yay

Blimey, what a difference a day makes. I’ve been feeling a bit down this week. Directionless and stressed, prone to fits of anger or depression with no warning. However, I’m now in orbit. Yay! I just got a call from the estate agent who’s selling my flat in London to tell me he’s found a tennant who is prepared to pay full price despite knowing that they may only be there for a few months. So while I’m waiting for my flat to sell I still have an income from it. Hooray! And I had been ready to accept half price or less from a tennant due to the instabilty. I love my estate agent. Bet you don’t hear that very often! And all this just after I’ve spent horrific amounts of money on a new mobile phone which I didn’t REALLY need and a new watch I didn’t need at all! I am blessed by angels, I tell ya.

So anyway, what were we talking about? Body parts, that’s right. After skin, you have to admire ears. Yep, they are perfectly designed. They hold up your specs, they let you drape weird-shaped earpieces around them so you can chat on your mobile whilst driving, you can perforate and decorate them in all sorts of ways, they funnel sound down lovely curly corridors so it reaches your brain all relaxed and happy, they have comedy growth potential, they sprout fur so you can stay warm as you get older and your blood thins, they keep water out of your brain, they produce enough wax to polish your dining table once a month (ewww – I saw it on TV, I promise!), you can fold them up nice and small, you can tuck your hair behind them so it develops a nice kink in it. Superb. All that in one small package. Not to mention that they can make elephants fly (I been done seen ‘bout everything when I seed a elephant fly) Bully for ears, I say. ‘Ear, ‘ear!

Oops

Ooops. For someone who is both skint and trying to finance a new house I’m doing pretty well at spending what I don’t have. My mobile phone broke last night. The screen just went blue and stayed blue. Poor wee thing. So I flung it in a corner and went out to buy a new one today. A very cool one with all sorts of gizmos I’ll never learn how to use. And while I was there I bought a watch I’d had my eye on for a while. This may seem like impulse buying to the uninitiated, but trust me, it’s not. I’m allergic to any metal that contains traces of nickel, and most do. Which means that I can only buy watches that are entirely stainless steel or entirely titanium. Stainless steel is the cheaper option but they tend to let nickel creep in on the winders or the buckles if the strap is leather. So Titanium is the way forward. Seen many? No. That’s because there aren’t many. And the ones that do exist are horrifically expensive for a person who renews her watch every year or so. So if I see one I tend to snap it up. So what if my credit card is now smoking slightly? That’s what they’re for, isn’t it? To cheer you up when you’re feeling stressed. About money. Everything in nature is cyclical. Viciously so.

Handwriting n stuff

Handwriting seems to be a lost art these days. I was texting a mate about it today. Her computer was down at work and there was nothing she could do without it, so she was stumped. I suggested she write a blog, but she said ‘d’oh, my computer’s down – how can I write a blog?’. At my suggestion of practising her handwriting she snorted and said she doubted she even knew how any more. Now this is a sad indictment. I still have what used to be called a writer’s bump on my second finger which is being kept alive by shopping lists alone. Seems unfair that my hand should be blighted with so little cause. Although its beauty was marred early in my life during one of my parents’ dinner parties. While the guests were in the sitting room (we used to call it the drawing room but I’m told that’s too grand) I was in the kitchen doing handstands against the wall. Instead of having my whole hand flat against the floor I had just the fingers on the floor and the palms were vertical. This meant that when I fell over I managed to bruise my fingers so badly that they swelled and reddened like tomatoes on the vine. Only a lot quicker. Fast enough, in fact, for my blood-curdling screams to bring every guest running from the sitting room to catch the murderer. There was a gasp as I raised my right hand and proudly showed the huge purple knuckles to the crowd and turned my tear stained face to my parents. My knuckles have been swollen ever since.

This wasn’t the first party of my parents’ that I have interrupted. When I was at boarding school I used to call my parents about twice a term to satisfy myself that they were missing me. On one occasion I rang (reverse charges of course – at that time my pocket money was 7p per week, all of which was spent on toffee logs and fruit salads in the tuck shop) to ask if I could get the school to buy me a new tennis racquet. My mother was in the middle of hosting a party and when the phone rang and a crackly voice asked if she would accept the charges she began to panic. As a far-flung family one always expects the worst from emergency phone calls. My reedy voice asking how she was did not have the calming effect I was hoping for and she screeched the obvious questions; ‘what’s it is? What’s wrong?’. I explained that I had seen a tennis racquet that I wanted and that it cost £9.00. Was it alright for me to order it from the school? With gritted teeth my mother explained that the reverse charge call had cost approximately twice the value of the tennis racquet. Yes, I could have the bloody thing, yes she and my father were fine, yes, she missed me and please could I get off the line now! Picture my little face as I hung up. Yess! I could get the new Slazenger! I would definitely beat Bow Wow now!

Skin

Isn’t skin great? It stops you from dissolving in the rain, it keeps you from leaking and leaving unslightly smears wherever you sit (or lean), as well as protecting your clothes. And it’s so clever; it stretches on your bendy bits, it heals when you make holes in it, it makes interesting wrinkles on your face (and other parts), it gets thicker when you use a particular part of it a lot, it adapts to your local environment and colours itself accordingly in sunlight, it blends seamlessly into your finger-and-toenails, it lets hair through it without losing waterproofness. People should make clothes from it. It truly is a great organ. Long live skin.

Rant

I started ranting in the pub last night. Not raving, cos that would involve too much foaming at the mouth, but a pretty good rant, nevertheless. I managed to surprise myself cos I’m not normally a person with very strong opinions, but the subject of store ‘club cards’ came up. Oh dear. I used to work in advertising and I’m fully aware of the insidious and evil effect that marketing has on us. The information that they (the Men in Black – proper conspiracy theory scary-type Them) have on us, as individuals is not only unnecessary but invasive and wrong. Why should they need to know that Mr x at 12 Nowhere Street prefers to floss his teeth and buy round lettuce instead of iceberg. They sell lists of this type of information to whomsoever they please because they managed to get our permission by deliberately confusing us (tick this box if you want us to sell your details when you would expect it to say tick this box if you DON’T want us to). Which means you will be bombarded with junk mail, spam, unwanted sales calls and ‘prize’ offers. And the most scary thing about this Big Brother control they have over us? It works. We do take them up on their offers of cheap this or free that. We buy the products they recommend, we eat where they tell us to, we wear what they tell us is IN. Bah, humbug. I’m never setting foot outside my house again. Thank god the tinfoil helmet works, at least.

Bangkok Frights

Every time I think of my time teaching English in Bangkok I squirm with embarrassment. Two events combined to make me wish I’d never set eyes on the place. Some of my students were monks and they invited me to their temple to have a look around and meet the children to whom they taught English on Sundays. When I turned up the classroom was stuffed to the brim with small brown faces aged between four and fifteen. Arrayed around the sides of the room were monks of every age and size, some clearly having travelled miles to come and see a genuine English English teacher. They all stood up and sang a welcome song (in Thai) and then another song in English. Thais love to sing, and they are quite good at it. The children all clapped in time and applauded themselves when they finally stopped singing. The head monk stood up and gestured that it was my turn to sing something in English for the children. Arrggh! Anyone who knows me will tell you that I can’t sing. I turned purple and shook my head, giggling hysterically. I insisted that I didn’t know any songs. I faked a heart attack.

Eventually I had to do it. The children patiently taught me the words to We Are the World and sat back down with expectant grins. The trauma still affects me to this day, and I wonder if any of the souls in that room will ever recover. It was pitiful. It actually brought tears to my eyes. A thin, warbling, tuneless voice lifting over the heads of the apalled audience. I faltered to a stop and had to run from the room in humiliation as four year old children looked on in pity. Needless to say I didn’t get the guided tour of the temple that was scheduled after the class. I was halfway to Kathmandu by then, having had facial surgery.

The second event that left scars on my soul was an innocent foray into the world of red-light district masseurs. After class, my colleagues and I would often go to Patpong, the red light district of Bangkok, to unwind. Sounds saucy, but it was the only place you could sit and drink coffee, chat with the ladyboys, watch a free video and read the foreign papers. One day, bored, I asked for suggestions as to how to fill an hour, and my colleague suggested I try a Thai massage. There was a parlour a couple of doors down. I walked in to find a bar down one wall of a large dimly lit room. The other side of the room was a brightly-lit, glassed off display cabinet for whores. Draped provocatively on the bare-tile steps behind the glass, they wore a uniform of thong, heels and feather boa. A small elderly lady came out of a side door, looked me up and down and said, OK, you pick one. I ummed and erred and tried to explain that I wanted a massage ONLY and she impatiently repeated, Pick one. I asked her to pick one, so she chose a slightly older girl with a pock-marked face. The girl came out from behind the glass and gestured for me to follow her upstairs. I walked behind her swaying cheeks trying to keep my eyes on the rickety wooden steps. After several floors we finally reached a small landing with some closed wooden doors. We entered one and I found myself in a wooden cubicle whose walls didn’t reach the sagging ceiling. I could hear masculine groans coming from the neighbouring cubicles. There was just enough room for a large single bed, a bath and a shoe rack. The girl gestured for me to remove my clothes, which I shyly did, down to my underwear. Meanwhile she was running hot water into the bath. Impatiently, she asked me to strip off my underwear and get into the bath, which I did with growing embarrassment. She soaped me more thoroughly than I have ever been soaped, despite my protestations that I could do it perfectly well myself. I felt positively violated when I emerged, pink and flustered, for her to towel me dry. She made me lie on my front on the bed and tipped clouds of talcum powder over me. What followed was the most painful torture imaginable. She manipulated my limbs and digits to positions they were NOT meant to attain. Every joint was stretched to it’s limit and then just a little beyond. My body was popping like an eighties MTV video. Finally, she got me to lie on my back, put my legs over my head so they touched the wall behind me, and she sat on my thighs. My face was purple with exertion and embarrassment. Only a thong remained between me and the unthinkable. At this point the door opened. Perfect. It was one of her colleagues asking for some soap, but the minute she spotted this large, puce creature underneath her colleague she barked with laughter which was rapidly echoed by the one sitting on me. To the point where she actually fell off me and (thankfully) released me from this astonishing and humiliating position. I’ve never dressed so fast in my life. My perilous descent down those rickety stairs has never been equalled for speed and colour. However, once I had calmed down, I noticed that I felt much looser in my joints, so I would thoroughly recommend a Thai massage. If you have a strong constitution.

Yay! I’ve got Friday night in tonight and I can’t wait. There’s loads of housework to be done since my landlord is coming round at the crack of stupid-o-clock tomorrow but I expect I will just sit in front of the telly with a bar of chocolate and a pint of Baileys. Mmmm.

Last night T and N and I went to the local posh-nosh place. It was a thank-you to N for helping me clean my flat in London ages ago and a cheer-up to T for having a shit week. (And a treat for foodie me). It was a really good evening. T is clearly at home in posh environments and helped me feel more relaxed (and I suspect, N too). The Maitre’d was a trifle smarmy but not overly so, and the food…… the food! Everything was drizzled this and pan-fried that, veggies I’d never heard of and the oddest combination of foods. But it worked. I think I’ll have to go back. Lots. Despite the horrific cost.

I’m starting to feel the limitations of living in a small town. The choice of venue for evenings out is quite limited, the shops are too, even in the nearest large shopping centre. As an ex-Londoner, I’m used to being able to pop out to Camden Market, or Portobello, or any one of a number of different quirky places to get unusual presents for people. Now I’m stuck with high street chains,. Which is fine for clothes etc, but presents, in my opinion (never humble) should be more individual. Ah well, the up-sides outweigh the down. And maybe I’m not looking hard enough.

Bizarre joke;
Q: If you weigh a whale in a whale-weigh (think railway) station, where do you weigh a pie?
A: Somewhere over the rainbow. Sing it… somewhere over the rainbow, weigh a pie…

Nah, I didn’t really see how that worked either. Ah well.