Two in three people suffer from STRESS at work

… so how can you beat it?

Sounds helpful enough, doesn’t it?

Keep reading …

Alright then, now that you have handed me this four page free Scientology newspaper after work, I might as well. For I am, of course, one of the two in three people who suffer from STRESS at work. To help me realise this, you have helpfully printed the word STRESS in a massive red font that looks like it’s cracking up. Along with pictures of people who are supposed to look STRESSed. There’s a man with his head in his hands, below we find a woman waving her arms at a man and she looks like she is shouting. Again, man burying face in hands.

What causes you to lose confidence? Why can’t you believe in yourself? What causes unhappy relationships? Where do unwanted emotions come from? Anger? Jealousy? Guilt? Fear? And last but not least, the semi-medical question: What causes unexplained illness and pain?

Yes, why! Dammit! Why why why? Can you help me, Mr Hubbard? Can you, can you can you? Pretty please.

(a friend actually urged me to put the paper down at this point, because he was worried about subliminal messages and fumes oozing from the print. I think they’ll have to do better than red and black ink in Times New Roman laced with pictures of people in powersuits for that).

Oh look! It’s called DIANETICS. There is a cure! A cure! A fucking CURE! For, it says here, there is a single source of all your problems … it’s called the reactive mind – the hidden part of your mind that stores all painful experiences, then uses them against you.

Hey ho, yes, people are volatile little things. Bash them on the head with a stick, they react. Show them a picture of a lamb being led to slaughter, they well up. Or is that just their petty little reactive minds talking?

To rid oneself of such creepy little things, one must embrace the analytical mind. So when someone next bashes you on the head with a stick, you’ll leave them to it. And the next lamb coming your way, you’ll merely view as lambchops. With dill.

Turn the page, pictures of happy people will appear. They’re laughing, they’re drinking coffee and they chat on the phone. Gosh, isn’t it lovely? And all because they have emptied their brains of anything remotely emotional. Great stuff.

Somewhere halfway down the page, I am informed that we will not put you into a trance. No? What a shame, I had been looking forward to that bit. How can you delete my reactive mind without me being in a pleasant semi-awake state of eternal bliss? What are you going to do instead? Talk me round? Go on go on gowangowangowan, please, reactive mind, would you please leave?

Oh, halfway there, with all these celebrities advising me on how to swap my mind, how can I resist? A certain ‘Chick Corea’ (award winning jazz keyboardist) tells me that he no longer suffers from ‘inner conflict’ (heck if I was into Jazz I’d be in eternal turmoil as well, Jazz is just so ghastly), whilst the bassist from Mr Big (what the fuck?) managed to ‘come out of his shell’. Now I wish the latter had stayed well tucked into his shell, because then there would be one less soft rock power ballad outfit with poodle hair bothering me.

My favourite part is the ‘quick crossword’ on the back of the paper, where little inconspicuous nobrainers like ‘tavern, 3 letters’ and ‘also, 3 letters’ mingle freely with ‘L. __ Hubbard, author and humanitarian, 3 letters’ and … wait for it … ‘tax free bank account, 3 letters’. Not sure how to react to this one.

Can I have my flat back now, please?

I have a bad feeling what I am about to write is going to sound awfully horrible and bitchy. So I would like to point out that my flatmate’s mum is a reasonably sweet little old lady who means no harm and is probably mortified by the inconvenience she is causing. My flatmate is overall okay as well, as far as having a perfect stranger you have nothing in common with living in your flat goes.

Flatmate announced before Christmas that her mum was coming to visit. Parental visits shouldn’t be a problem and since my flatmate had to put up with my slightly nutty mother for five days, why not? Then came the catch. Her mother would be staying for seven weeks. That’s right, SEVEN weeks, as in: nearly two months. She would be sleeping on a specially bought futon in the lounge for that duration. Bye-bye lounge.

I think we’re currently in week three. Another month to go.

Any simple manoevre in the flat (like, trying to open the fridge or getting into the bathroom) has since turned into a merry game of ‘You go first!’ – ‘no! you go first!’ – ‘thank you thank you’ – ‘no problem’. I am reasonably polite and certainly polite to people’s parents. I am sure her mum reckons I’m quite a polite person. But … I am about to crack. I cannot deal with this any more. Even a simple task like trying to have my dinner in the lounge has turned into a major operation. During which flatmate and her mum exlaim ‘’no no! you must eat at the table! We clear our laptops away! No! no! please! Take a seat!’, when I was more than happy to eat on the sofa. By now I have taken to eating in my room. At my desk. It was too much to handle that sort of thing after work and whatnot. I am sure they have noticed my anti-social behaviour.

They’re also slowly taking over the flat. I lived in this flat for a year before my flatmate moved in. I never had a problem sharing cutlery and stuff with flatmates (as long as they don’t scorch my Ghostbusters plate or smash my Thundercats mug that is). But, new flatmate immediately divided up the kitchen. Two thirds of the storage place had to be hers, I got the remaining third. So I got a little trolley thing for the rest of my stuff. She started filling that up as well. We even use different washing up liquids and use either side of the sink for drying our dishes. Needless to say, I got the shitty, small side of the sink. The fridge is now divided into half. I never saw the point in that. I mean, I know what I bought and I know what I didn’t buy. And I have no intention of nabbing anyone’s food. Mind you, that doesn’t seem to matter now, because she has filled up my half of the fridge as well now. As well as the entire freezer. I have NO freezer space.

They have also taken to pile anything of mine that is anywhere in the kitchen onto my little trolley. Strangely, it’s okay for them to leave dirty pots on the hob, but if I do it, it goes onto my cutlery drawer. Today I found they stuck a sock into the cutlery drawer. Presumably a washing machine stray. But why chuck it into the cutlery drawer? I don’t understand.

Sometimes it feels like I am not really there at all. They take over the kitchen, they’ve taken over the lounge and keep moving my stuff around. I am 28 years old, I do not need my stuff moved around.

Then there is the weekends. Then it’s not just her mother and her, but also … her strange boyfriend (who always looks really angry and is not much fun to be around), her biochemist uni friends (three of them) and various other random people. They hog the lounge. They actually close the door to the lounge when they’re in there, which leaves me feeling somewhat out of place in my own home. I don’t mind flatmates having friends round, but do they have to behave like they own the place and I shouldn’t be there. When I live there, too?

Then there is the constant cooking. I don’t mind people cooking, but surely frying cabbage at 6am almost every day is a little odd? I have been waking up to the smell of that stuff for three weeks now, and I’m tiring of it pretty quickly. Yesterday they stewed an entire eel. I stupidly did some washing and left it in the hallway to dry. Half my wardrobe now smells strongly of eel. Eurgh.

Then there is the cleaning announcements. I have now cleaned the bathroom. Yeah, and? I cleaned it the week before, but did not make a big deal out of it. Plus, I actually cleaned the toilet, whilst you only clean the bits you like. They have also taken to washing stuff that is mine. Sorry, but why would you need to boilwash a handprinted sofa cover every week? I’m surprised the thing still has colour in it.

And if I leave anything lying around the lounge, it lands … in the cutlery drawer. Whilst my flatmate keeps two massive cardboard boxes full of assorted junk, half the contents of the Chinese supermarket and a load of other paraphernalia in the lounge on a permanent basis. And I’m too nice to say anything. Okay, maybe not too nice, but I really don’t want any hassle in my flat. I live there. I do not wish to live in a Cold War zone, thank you very much.

But, it’s beginning to really stress me out now. I cannot deal with all these people in the flat 24/7. And I’ll soon reach the point where I won’t be polite any more. Where I won’t just smile and nod and wait my turn in the kitchen/bathroom/lounge. Then I may snap at them. They won’t like it, I won’t like it either. Another four weeks of this.

The Indie Neurosis

"Neurotic", or affected by neurosis, has come to describe a person with any degree of depression or anxiety, depressed feelings, lack of emotions, low self-confidence, and/or emotional instability.

“Indie”: […]A do-it-yourself sensibility, which originated with punk in the 1970s, is often associated with indie, with people in the scene being involved in bands, labels, nights and zines. Indie often has an internationalist outlook, which stems from a sense of solidarity with other fans, bands and labels in other countries who share one's particular sensibilities; small indie labels will often distribute records for similar labels from abroad, and indie bands will often go on self-funded tours of other cities and countries, where those in the local indie scenes will invariably help organize gigs and often provide accommodation and other support. In addition, there is also a strong sense of camaraderie that emerges from a selflessness among indie bands and often results in collaborations and joint tours.

That’s what Wikipedia says. Wikipedia never lies.

This morning I got a text from my friend S. S. thinks that Indie Neurosis appears to be a condition to be reckoned with. Sadly, she did not elaborate on this any further. But it got me thinking (oh no! there will be a diatribe!).

Firstly the Wikipedia definition of indie appears to be describing punk rather than indie. In the sense that I have not known the indie scene in the conventional sense to have a particularly international outlook. On the contrary, it seems cliquey and insular instead. Having booked bands from the US to play London with disastrous consequences, I really don’t see the international thing myself.

As for zines and DIY labels, well, zines seem to be dying out (thank you, internet …) and I can’t think of many labels that are truly DIY. There seems to be a connection to something bigger most of the time, whilst the DIY ones are dying a slow death because, sadly, they tend to ooze shitloads of money.

As for selflessness and camaraderie – not so sure about the selflessness, but there is some element of camaraderie, in that ‘I come to your gig if you bring twenty mates to mine’.

Still, all quite quaint and cliquey. So where does the neurosis kick in?

In secondary school, I suppose. If the music (and associated paraphernalia) you’re into doesn’t quite strike a chord with the mainstream, chances are you won’t have all that many friends. Music and scene-dom are big things when you’re 15. The few friends you have will soon help you ease into an ‘us vs. them’ mentality. Not necessarily a bad thing, but you may well find it’s suddenly ‘me and this seven inch single vs everyone else’ or ‘me and my fanzine vs the rest of the world’. And, let’s face it, there’s a lot of depressing indie records out there to help you on your way.

BUT!

I doubt very much the rise of depression in the indie community is anything to do with the music we listen to. I prefer to think that people who end up in the indie ghetto were a little strange to begin with. I mean, what sort of teen would actively shy away from the charts and the mainstream? Would actively shy away from those ghastly Chevignon and Replay! Jumpers (not sure what you UK people had at the time, but those brands were all the rage at my school)? I think that takes quite a bloodiminded attitude to start with. The pathological urge to be different (only that, let’s face it, if you’re stood with twenty people in exactly the same Oxfam outfits, you’re not that different. Beware the indie identikit, my friends). Or you were (like me) just a bit weird in the head in the first place. Like that woman in the Immodium advert, I woke up one morning. And I had a choice. Between Mark Owen and Damon Albarn. I chose wisely. I chose Blur.

And I suppose indie is more of a thinking person’s choice. A bit like those Guardian readers. If you’re thick as mud, you probably won’t like it. Sadly, with some level of intellect comes thinking. With thinking comes pondering. With pondering comes self-doubt. With self-doubt come the Manic Street Preachers (oh no!).

So you set off and make friends with other self-doubters. And end up with a whole bunch of people who’re not quite sure what to do with themselves either, unless it involves putting another seven inch on the record player and loosing themselves in a song. Which then leads to perpetual weirdness, fuelled by even more records. And having lots of records around will inevitably make you a little nerdy. And nerdiness leads to fast declining popularity levels within the rest of the world. Particularly, if you’re a girl, because girls aren’t meant to be nerdy.

Before I ramble on for too long ….

Indie Neurosis! People with existing neurotic tendencies that are then tripled by listening to records you really, really love.

Or maybe it doesn’t exist at all.

My Bloody Valentine (a blast from the past!)

Right, I wrote this one in 2002. I have little recollection of what was going on in my head at the time (just as well!) and this thing was first published on Drownedinsound.com . They have since done away with the Lifestyle section. Bastards.

I will add bits in bold if my views have changed over the past six years or if I feel I need to add anything. SIX YEARS! ARGH THIS ARTICLE IS SIX YEARS OLD! S.I.X. YEARS!!!!!!!!!!

My Bloody Valentine

Three Seasonal Thoughts.

Yes, it's that time of year again: HMV are flogging 'romantic' compilations that get you 20% off at Ann Summer's, Clinton Cards' reaching out for entirely new heights of tackiness and florists across the nation are greedily rubbing their hands together.

To this add Gregg’s bakery. A reliable source informs me that they have replaced pretty much all the bread and sausage rolls with horrid heartshaped lumps of gingerbread.

Valentine's Day. Coming to a High Street near you soon. What no one seems to notice is the fact that a large percentage of the population is somewhat single and not quite sure whom to get all these boxes of chocolate and flowers for. As for the singles, they usually come in two designs: There are those who chose to be single and those who didn't. The first group will hate Valentine's Day with a vengeance and call it 'sentimental bullshit for hypocrites' (an expression also applied on Mother's Day and Christmas).

Add to those the people who just don’t care either way. And social imbeciles.

They will rant at every florist they come across and avoid card shops like the plague. The second group of singles, the ones who didn't want to be single in the first place, however, will, despite rather being dead than admitting to do so, pass the florist somewhat melancholic, imagining the possibilities of what is very unlikely to happen, because the Instant Boyfriend/Girlfriend is yet to be invented. One solution for this dilemma is the popular option of getting Valentine's card for your best friend, just so that you can indulge in picking a kitsch and painfully cheesy design (alternatively, there's always the option of pretending you do actually buy the card for a loved one. But that's just sad, so don't even think about it), and, who knows, your best friend might give you a card in return. Not a bad option at all. Only problem being that it's not the real thing and you damn well know that.

Ah I think I was still at uni in 2002. This all sounds awfully studenty. I haven’t actually tried any of those things. Valentine’s cards have little point to them as Christmas cards. More paper in the recycling box.

On a somewhat different note, there are also Valentine's Day obsessives. Obviously these people are a complete nuisance to the single-who-didn't-chose-to-be-single, for the Valentine obsessives are always the ones equipped with some sort of other half (they usually start recruiting around Christmas, just to make sure someone is going to be around in February), and that other half tends to be sickeningly like-minded. These people will spend Valentine's Day in crowded restaurants and cinemas. Nothing wrong with that. If only the Valentine obsessives would shut the fuck up and stop rambling on about just how wonderful this year was going to be. They're allowed to ramble at each other, it's just very unpleasant for their single friends to hear about it. So please keep that in mind, otherwise you might end up friendless by March.

On second thoughts, people like that had no friends in the first place!

Personally, I don't really care about Valentine's Day in the first place. It's grossly over-rated and most people don't make that much of a big deal of it (as a matter of fact, the only things I ever got for Valentine's Day was a green plastic egg cup from a then-boyfriend and a red rose from a then-best-friend), thank God for that. Still, from a commercial point of view, I'm all for banning Valentine's Day from our shelves and shops, because I personally wouldn't buy a heartshaped pillow or novelty picture frame for anyone, not even my worst enemy.

Oh dear, the green egg cup. This was about 12 years ago now and I still have no idea what was up with that egg cup or what happened to it.

And whilst you’re at it, why not do away with Christmas and Mother’s Day as well.

No Country For Old Men (another review!)

I don’t often leave the cinema thinking what the hell was that all about?!

There’s this guy who somehow finds large amounts of money (I think I was in the loo when that happens, so I can’t be sure how exactly that came about). Then there’s these people whose money it is. And because said money appears to be the proceeds of some drugs business or other, they don’t like this guy running off with it.

So they hire a hitman with a bowl hair cut who enjoys nothing better than randomly killing people with some kind of air canister. Or a big gun. At a push, he’s equally happy to throttle folk with a set of handcuffs. Sometimes he doesn’t kill people. That’s if they give the right answer in his bizarre coin tossing experiment.

So, yeah, man with money on the run. Hitman in pursuit. The latter is easy because the money was cunningly fitted with a tracker device, for which bowl haired hitman has a baby blue remote control tracker device tracker. Very handy.

Off they trundle and a rather frightening game of cat and mouse springs into action. And because this is Hicksville America, there’s a lot of staying in motels, doing things with coathangers and airconditiong shafts in motels and even more random bloodspill in motels.

A LOT of people are killed, but one cannot be certain why. They just seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’re shot in the head, they’re shot in the foot, they’re shot at close range, they’re even shot through shower curtains. Sometimes there is no indication of how they were shot and they just lie about the scenery dead and random. He even shot the dog.

And because the whole thing comes across as very anti-Hollywood, the halfbaked hero gets killed, too. So does the guy who was supposed to rescue him. They all wore cowboy boots. An important lesson is learnt here: do not wear cowboy boots, for it gets you killed.

And since he is the only survivor, I presume the Sheriff played some kind of important role in this. Film starts with Sheriff. Film ends with Sheriff (albeit retired by that point).

And I can’t even say if this was a good film or a bad film. Probably not a bad one at all (I have seen Good Will Hunting, half of Titanic and Epic Movie. Now those are bad films), if only I’d managed to follow the plot.

The mind boggles.

Let me check my diary …

I finally got round to purchasing a 2008 diary. No mean feat, these things are either vastly overpriced or they have a Formula 1 theme. I was pleased to locate a little red, inconspicuous-looking model for under two pounds.

And, I soon discovered that this is not just a diary. It is an essential font of all knowledge that I will not be able to live without. On second thoughts, no, I will be able to live without it. Sixty-Seven pages I ended up ripping out of the thing on the tube. SIXTY-SEVEN pages of random trivia.

• CALORIE COUNT

This informs me that an entire rainbow trout has less calories (only 100) than 4 oz of baked bass (weighing in at 287). And that Italian bread (whatever that is) appears to be healthier than a bran muffin (again, define bran muffin) or an entire croissant (as opposed to a broken one?). The dairy makers also unashamedly advertise Cheerios, for it is the only brand name mentioned in the calorie counter. The rest is generic bran flakes (bran. Again. What’s with the bran?) or ‘Rice,Quick-2/3 cup’.

• WEIGHTS AND MEASURES

A useful tool for metric girls. According to this, I am … 66.3 inches high. And no, I am not going to calculate this is feet/elbows/hands.

• QUOTES

We’ve covered the basic diary stuff now, on to value-added SUPERDIARY information. If you’re ever lost for words, this will come in useful.

The vote, I thought, means nothing to women. We should be armed. (Edna O’Brien)

Bats feel proud in the absence of birds. (Japanese proverb)

Well if I called the wrong number, why did you answer the phone? (James Thurber)

I used to be Snow White …but I drifted. (Mae West)

The problem is that many MPs never see the London that exists beyond the wine bars and brothels of Westminster. (Ken Livingstone).

As you can see, all useful stuff to bring up in conversation. And if you don’t want to … Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn. (George Bernard Shaw)

• PRIME MINISTERS

You need not be a disgrace at Trivial Pursuit ever again. This will come in so, so useful for pub quizzes and curious tourists as well. Cane ju tall mee whoo wez prame minista een ay-teen-oh-six? – Sure, let me just check my diary, That would be … Weeelleeeaaam Wyndhame Grenvil, feerst berron of Granville. Fantastic.

• GIFT AND ZODIAC INFORMATION

This lists anniversary gifts, but does not specify what they’re for. So if it’s the ninth anniversary of your dog’s dearth, be sure that someone receives ‘pottery’. Interestingly, eight year anniversaries require either ‘bronze’ or ‘electrical appliances’. A nice shiny bronze toaster it shall be. Or a sunbed, so the anniversary victim can bronze and be electrical – the best of both worlds.

And for the really dimwitted, there are helpful explanations of what the symbols for star signs should look like. Confusingly, Cancer is meant to be depicted as a Crab. And how would you depict the Virgin for Virgo without coming across as lecherous? And the Capricorn has been reduced to a humble goat.

• SOME GIFT IDEAS

Picture this. You’re on your way to your aunts birthday. You lack inspiration. You pull out your diary and … so many brilliant ideas. There are Travel gifts (umbrella! Suitcase! Briefcase! ‘best selling novel’!), Food gifts (chocolate! Liquors!), Office gifts (pen and pencil set! Calendar! Heck, how about a new diary!), Home gifts (potpourri! They should be shot for this. I don’t know anyone who actually enjoys looking at and sniffing potpourri), Special Occasion gifts (A hobby or sports item! Brooch! Pieces to augment or complete an existing collection!) … and … gifts for the sick. Like ‘an amusing book’. Yes, because someone with a fresh appendix wound really wants to laugh heartily. From the belly. And I’m not sure about the colouring book idea … what if someone lost their hand in a freak accident. So not a good present.

• FIRST AID/SAFETY IN THE HOME

Worryingly, this covers both animal and human bites in the same section. When did you last sustain a human bite that made you worried about Tetanus? It does explain the Heimlich Maneovre though: Strike up to 5 times with the heel of your hand between the shoulder blades. If this does not work, perform an abdominal thrust: stand behind them with your hands interlocked below the ribcage and pull sharply inwards and upwards up to 5 times. Call medical help if this does not work.

• STAIN REMOVAL

This eases us gently into the subject matter by how to remove blood stains. Via chewing gum, chocolate and perspiration, we finally arrive at … the urine stain! Presumably, by the time anyone gets to this stage, they’re likely to have collapsed in an alleyway, blind drunk and their diary is now in the possession of a teenager mugger. But just in case, one may treat with vinegar solution or, ‘if odour persists, sprinkle with baking soda’. Now you know.

There are also sections on how to grow your own herbs, gardening notes, a mileage chart (Zurich to Dukerque, 469), a wine chart, ‘entertainment’, the monarchy, useful web sites and …

• USEFUL TRAVEL TIPS

Never forget the risk of terrorism! There is a global risk if indiscriminate attacks! Even on those places frequented by foreigners! And remember, many terrorist attacks have been foiled by the vigilance of ordinary people.

And they all carried a little red diary.

Juno

This is touted as the latest indie feelgood movie. Only that it’s not all that indie, and I wouldn’t have thought of it as a feelgood movie either. How can being 16 and pregnant make anyone feel good?

But, that aside, Juno is a rather sweet little film. Yes, that kid’s knocked up, but at least she retains a sense of humour (sarcasm, I dare say) throughout and it almost feels like this whole pregnancy thing is taking a backseat in the storyline. And, thank God, the makers of this one left off the moral high ground (the possibilities on this one could have been endless: do not get pregnant! Abortions are murder! In fact, don’t sleep with anyone until you’re at least married! For you will love even an unwanted baby!) and took a fairly realistic stance (no, highschool kids do not want a living and breathing newborn in their life, yes, sometimes kids should be more careful, and yes, you can basically sell your child in America). And I thought the idea of calling the suburb where the adopters live St Clouds was marvellous, but you probably won’t pick up on that if you haven’t read The Cider House Rules by John Irving.

And that kid is so lo-fi she’s almost too cool for school. She’s got the Converse, the zip-up hoody, the cool T-shirts and a Bangs poster on the wall.

Anyhoo, on to the more interesting things. This is almost a music film. The girl is in a band. She has some interesting opinions on music (she even says the unthinkable: Sonic Youth are just noise! Yes, they mostly are! I am glad someone plucked up the courage to make this public statement. Sonic Youth may have the odd moment of clarity, but, overall, they are vastly overrated!), the guy who nearly adopts the kid toured with the Melvyns once and they even have a go at doing an impromptu cover of a Hole song. Bless. And there’s always a time and place for a Belle & Sebastian song! The rest of the soundtrack is pretty much laced with the Moldy Peaches and Kimya Dawson (I suppose Adam Green should have been on it as well, just to complete the set). Who would have thought it? Who would have thought this was ever going to happen. There you are, at your local Odeon and there’s two kids singing a Moldy Peaches song onscreen! Amazing! I almost wept with joy! (not so pleasant was the fact they used the same song for the birth scene. Odd choice!).

Next stop … a romantic comedy about an awkward comic collector meeting an even more awkward bassist of an indieband that doesn’t technically exist, all based around the works of Milky Wimpshake! Ha!

A Bloggy Blog

Just to prove that I do leave the house sometimes! And yes, today’s account thus far is a little boring, but I have no intention of writing these very often.

Got up at 8 (a lie-in for those who keep ponies!) and decided to brave the cold and cycle to the stables. And because this trip involves cycling down a very muddly bridleway, this involves cycling in wellies (took a bit of getting used to, but I am now fully competent in this discipline). And this marvellous cycling helmet fleece cover thing Sarah gave me. Yes, it looks like I have fleecy roadkill on my head, but … it has earflaps! It is warm! And I’ve never been one for vanity when it really is uncalled for (I never understood girls who save on the cloakroom and stagger around town in miniskirts and strappy tops at 3am in February. Aren’t you cold?). Said Hello to pony Alfie and his new donkey friend on the way, and was thinking, once again, how nice it would be to have a donkey, but dismissed this idea (again), because I can barely cope with the one pony.

Got to the yard to find pony in a mood. Don’t blame her, the poor thing isn’t allowed out in the field at the moment. She is, however, allowed half an hour in the dirtpaddock every day. Once I managed to get her in there, after being dragged across the carpark by an eagerly trotting pony (with her current ailment, she is NOT supposed to trot around, let alone on hard surfaces such as carparks. But since she is on industrial strength painkillers, she doesn’t see the point of this). Then I had a chat with my friend Helen while I mucked out. Helen is currently in pursuit of an interesting soil sample for her college class (Helen is in her fourties and in pursuit of a new career. She is technically an arborist but getting a bit old for climbing up trees for a living). Overall, Helen is ace, if slightly mad (but since I much prefer slightly mad people to sane people, that is okay!).

Meanwhile back in the paddock, pony Angel decided she now had enough of being in there, because there was a) tractors going past (she sees those every day, but likes to pick random ‘Today all farm machinery is LETHAL!’ days) and b) her friend walked past on his way to the field (so she got annoyed that she wasn’t allowed to join him). Cue more running around on hard ground (noooh!), cue angry huffling (take me out! Take me out!). Cue me caving in and bringing her back to the stable somewhat prematurely.

I also managed to soak best part of my jeans with the help of a leaky hosepipe. When you turn on water you do not expect a jet of icy water attacking you sideways! But, since I was going to get drenched later, anyway, hanging up a soaked haynet (ever tried this? These things are quite heavy, they’re dripping water and they’re very unwieldy when you’re trying to hang them on a hook that’s about 4ft above the floor, whilst trying to keep it up with your knee).

Then I dragged my soggy self back on the bike again and headed for home. Stopped on the way to say Hello to my friend Saskia’s pony who was stood by a hedge (more about this later). Next stop Post Office. An internet friend from back home had sent me some stuff for Angel which I have been arguing about with Parcelforce for weeks now. I was expecting a small packet containing a small bottle of colic drops for ponies. I was NOT expecting a massive parcel. I somehow managed to get it home by balancing it on the handlebar whilst pushing the bike. The whole contraption only fell over once, which is not bad going. On opening the parcel, my faith in humanity was restored once again. Dear Christina had packed it full of interesting wares! Like a pile of German horse magazines, a whole selection of homeopathic remedies (with handwritten instructions!), linseed, haypellets, some other stuff you can turn into a mash for sickly ponies and a lovely letter from her, too. I will have to return the favour! Amazingly, I opened up one of the magazine on a random page and … what should I find but a long article about a TV series I LOVED as a kid. It was set in Iceland and shown in about 1985 (a story about two brothers somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Iceland) and it was that series that made me obsessed about Iceland (I STILL haven’t been!!). The article was about how they filmed it and even had a little interview with one of the main characters (who is now grown up and an opera singer! How weird is that!). I had a massive crush on this then- child-actor when I was little and even wrote him a letter once! In English! Despite the fact I didn’t speak (let alone write!) any English in the mid-Eighties. He never replied, of course.

Ah now I forgot to mention what happened when I got home. Went upstairs to find my flatmate and a strange man (yet another!) staring at a map. ‘This is Pierre, my navigation teacher!’. You WHAT? ‘Hello Pierre, the navigation teacher!’. I still have no idea what this was about. Home tutoring in navigation? Huh? And where did this Pierre come from? Mind you, there’s so many strange comings and goings in my flat, I have stopped asking questions by now.

I then had a bath (reading LoveIt! Magazine, because I LOVE reading utter trash in the bath. Did you know that Nicky from Big Brother has now developed OCD?), some pasta, fixed an Aldi candle, cooked some Henna (I am wearing a clingfilm Henna turban on my head as I type this, by the way. Looks a bit like a sludgy space helmet) and stuck it on my head.

Then I got a text from my friend Saskia (who own aforementioned pony that was by the hedge!) informing me her pony had been bad and escaped through a hole in the fence and was finally found eating grass he really shouldn’t by the powerstation next to his field. Oops, baaaad pony. Hope it won’t make him sick.

Later on, I shall be going to the cinema to see Juno, because Barnet Odeon has it on a week early and I read the soundtrack is really good (Moldy Peaches! Kimya Dawson!). Reuben rather helpfully braved the automated ticket hotline. According to his text, this went along the following lines: bloody automated voice recognition. And jaunty voice ‘you wish to book nine tickets for alien 5 for mon-day the ninth-of-july 2000 and 11. To confirm, say ‘cabbages’. Sorry, I didn’t under-fivesecondgap-stand. Did you mean ‘mattress’? Say ‘nautical’to confirm.

And I will not be able to attend Andy’s birthday do at Stay Beautiful, after all, because I have to be up early for pony duties tomorrow, because I shall venture down to Camberwell in the afternoon too visit a hospitalized friend. I was going to lend him an amusing book, but since he had his appendix removed recently and then had another operation, I figured it’s probably best to not have him laugh too much, as laughing is likely to cause the poor guy agony. Having had my amusing dad visit me after I had my appendix out, I know what I’m talking about. You do NOT want to be laughing with a gaping hole in your stomach. My dad was only trying to be helpful, of course. He did this to my mother as well and thought it would help things (well, me in that case!) along if he cracked lots of bad jokes when the poor woman was in labour. So I was basically born to the sound of some atrocious Knock!Knock! type jokes and an array of very bad puns … which would explains a few things about me.

Love Thy Neighbour

I have the good fortune to live above an Italian restaurant. The sort that has a large neonsign adorned with the colours of the Italian flag and a picture of a gondola. Very tasteful indeed. The interior is spruced up with random wooden wagonwheels and plastic flowers. The outside is now orange. I went outside one morning to find the front of the house I live in orange. Different, I suppose. They also put a rather large concrete pot with an olive tree in it outside my front door. It took us quite some time and musclestrenght to shift the thing, so it no longer blocked our door. My flatmate stuck a sign on it that said ‘If you move your fucking tree again, I will take an axe to it. I do mean that!!!.’ I removed the sign before the restaurant people saw it though, because I didn’t want to get embroiled in neighbourly warfare just yet.

Next stop, our rubbish bin. When we moved in we were instructed to leave it outside our front door. So we did. One Saturday morning I found the bin gone. I figured the bin men might have taken it round the back. Which they did, so I moved it back to the front door. Twenty minutes later, the bin was missing again. Somewhat startled, I came to the realization that maybe the people downstairs shifted it. This angered me, so I paid them a visit. The confused (but nasty!) waiter/owner person claimed innocence at first, but soon admitted that he ‘thought he knew where the bin may be’ (I had checked round the back, but couldn’t see said bin anywhere!). So we went round the back and he helpfully guided me to a spot behind one of those huge Council owned bins, where my bin had mysteriously been hurled. Upside down. Somehow he knew exactly where it was, but at the same time claimed he had no idea how it got there. Yeah right, dustbins like to travel alone and enjoy nothing better than leaping in awkward places on their own accord.

For peace and quiet’s sake, I agreed to now keep my bin round the back. This was after he claimed to have received a letter from the Council about how my bin should be round the back (I checked this with the Council a few days later, they’d never heard of the guy. Neither had they ever written to him). To this day I do not comprehend how a grown man and restaurant owner could resort to such childish tactics (hiding someone else’s dustbin, then denying this and then making up a white lie about the council). But, hey ho, I’m not going to argue with such a greasy tosspot.

Then, there is the music. It is loud and blaring at high volumes at all hours. It gets louder when the restaurant closes and they start cleaning up. Opera, Italian Cheese (if you’re not familiar with Zucherro or Eros Ramazotti, I urge you NOT to bother!), soft rock. You name it, they got it. To the point where visitors walking into my flat think I have the radio on continuously. It is particularly intriguing in the bathroom, as the sound appears to travel through pipes. We started closing the toilet lid, as this makes Pavarotti a little bit muffled.

After various negotiations about this failed, we ended up complaining to the Council. I wouldn’t normally ever complain to anyone about anything, and I’m by no means oversensitive to noise, but a 24/7 barrage of shit music was proving too much, even for me. The Council didn’t do anything, of course, other than advising us how we could take our own legal action. I don’t think so, somehow.

What gets me most is the sheer arrogance with which these people have just taken over. With their signs, their stupid olive trees, their rubbish music, their massive flowerpots outside our living room window and their stinking attitude. I had a bucket of water poured over my feet ‘accidentally’ once, when they were washing the floor outside MY door. I proceeded to have my revenge by listening to Killing In The Name Of very loudly at a restaurant peaktime. And I do hope some of their nouveau riche diners complained.

So today I got home to find they are now including James Blunt in their repertoire. James fucking Blunt. Whose name rhymes with …. At this moment in time, I am ready to kill someone ! It’s bad enough that James Blunt is even allowed to exist (I may sound snobbish here, but … for goodness sake, the man is an annoying whiney, posh little shit with really rubbish hair), but does he really have to sing out of my toilet?

So if you happen to come across a copy of the Barnet Times with the headline ‘local restauranteur slayed by irate neighbour’, make sure you come visit me in prison with some cake.