How much do I love November? Let me count the ways...

I love it when the clocks go back at the end of October.  I don't care about the extra hour - I could take or leave that actually, especially on a Sunday when time always ticks by excruciatingly slowly anyway.  No - I love the clocks going back because it signifies the onset of lovely November, which is without question my favourite month of the year.  The reasons for this are many and varied, and go as follows:

The beginning of shorter days  Yes, I know I'm probably a bit mad for liking darker and shorter days, but I really do.  I love it when the sky goes dark before 5pm; there's something irresistibly cosy about it, even if I'm out, or somewhere not-very-nice like someone else's dingy office.  If I am out, and I have to travel home on a dark evening, then even journeys on packed trains and buses feel stupidly cosy.  

Atmospheric weather... The weather in November is perfect.  Cold but not yet absolutely freezing; all the leaves are still a beautiful mix of golds and reds set off by moody greying skies.  Perfect for wrapping up in coats, scarves and gloves and taking long walks, then coming home, closing the curtains and putting the fire on.

...leading to atmospheric thinking  I'm sure I'm more creative in winter.  I certainly always feel compelled to write more, and for some reason I'm always the most happy with my wintry witterings than my summery splutterings (this blog post excluded, obviously!) 

Music makes more sense  The music I like tends to be at its most listenable in onset-winter.  This excludes Kylie, whom I just can't listen to when the days go short and dark (unless it's on a dance floor!) But it's in November that I start dusting off Scott Matthews, Ryan Adams, Laura Marling, Freddie Stevenson and Feist - admittedly that selection doesn't make for wild party-ness, but I'm sure my soul is richer for it.

(Many years ago, a friend introduced me to Ryan Adams' music.  I wasn't that enamoured at the time, but he fervently insisted that it wouldn't be long before the songs would ingrain themselves and I would end up thinking of Ryan as "the best singer-songwriter around".  It's a shame I don't see him any more, because I know he'd be pleased that I'm starting to think he was right).

It's the 'good part' of Christmas onsetting  Maybe it's because I'm not a parent, but I've usually lost all interest in Christmas by the time December comes round.  In November everything's still shiny and new and it's too early to be truly cynical - sparkly displays start going up and people excitedly talk about the plans they've made.  Then December comes and all the hard work starts and you realise it's all looming uncomfortably close; you actually DO have to spend an entire fortnight with the family and you start eating and drinking too much and people get you rubbish presents that prove how little they REALLY know you (always disappointing; never mind expense, actual thought really does count as far as I'm concerned), and you've heard all those crappy songs so many times your brain is starting to pickle itself in its own juices and...well, let's just say that in November Christmas is just a "nice idea".

If months were represented in colours, November would be a rich, velvety purple; soft and comfortable and full of character.  So I say...bring on the onset of winter!

A few stray (and utterly pointless) observations I've made this week

• I'm so very, very rubbish at spoken Russian.  So much so that I tend to leave my weekly lessons feeling a bit bad about how I must waste my teacher's time, and how she must laugh at me every time she closes her front door after I've gone.  This feeling was recently compounded by our doing sessions focusing on 'How to complain'.  Russian complaints really are quite terrifying; in the listening exercises we've been doing it seems a complaint is only a complaint if the absolute harshest of words are delivered in a staccato monotone reminiscent of steady machine gun fire.  I've tried explaining to my teacher that instructing me on how to say "Get me the manager - now!" is completely wasted, seeing as I'd never have the guts to say things like that in English, let alone in a foreign language and in a foreign country (besides which I'd have the added anxiety of what to say after the manager's been brought to me!)  But still she persists, in that formidable Russian spirit of hers.  It's quite admirable, really.  But then to be honest, even ordering half a kilo of butter sounds like a complaint when you're saying it in Russian.
• Some people find solace through food, or drink, art or talking; I find it in books and music.  But recently I've started listening to songs and storing them away in my head for possible future use, such as "I'd probably listen to that if I ever got divorced, or if someone close to me died suddenly", or "that's an uplifting one - I'll store it away for when I'm doing the washing-up".  I've also been, quite involuntarily, making mental lists of songs that would be featured not only at my own funeral, but at the funerals of specific people I know ("oooh, so-and-so would LOVE that one - I'll keep it in mind just in case I'm asked to provide the music as they're being lowered into the ground").  Though I haven't been mad enough to make actual suggestions.  Yet.
• Boringly and predictably, I've just bought a copy of Julian Barnes' 'The Sense of an Ending', in my annual "I must read the Booker winner!" resolution.  I usually alternate a Booker winner with a slightly less mentally taxing book in the name of general sanity, though as this one's only about 150 pages long I may not have that issue this time round.  Jeremy Kyle's autobiography may have to wait a bit longer to be read (incidentally the book I'm reading now, David Nobbs' 'It Had To Be You' is - as always with his books - just like sinking into a warm bath.  I don't know how he makes his characters so warm, likeable and real...even when they're people you really shouldn't have any time for.  But he does, and I admire him so much for it).
• I love Zumba.  I really, really do.  But when I'm at the front of the class and there's a mirror I'm reminded of just how un-Latin I look, plus I don't think its creators, based in Brazil, ever really considered how a Zumba class might look when being performed in a shabby community college in Essex on a rainy evening in October, by overly-white people wearing unflattering leggings.  Then again...that's probably exactly why I do love it so much.

Inspired by 'Looking at Geese'...what makes me a writer

Recently I read A.L.Kennedy's latest novel, 'The Blue Book'.  I chose it partially for research reasons; my next, as-yet-unwritten novel will be based around the idea of psychic therapy, and partially because I enjoyed A.L.'s Guardian columns about her day-to-day life as a writer.

'The Blue Book' didn't disappoint.  I'm never quite sure what I'm looking for when I pick up a new book, but I do know that the writing I love the most 'feeds the soul' in some way.  Tolstoy is a master of literary soul-food, as are most Russian writers I've read (and one of the many reasons I wanted to learn the language).  And so 'The Blue Book', like the best of 'em in my opinion, wasn't a particularly easy read - but it was a deep and beautifully written one.  One that when I finished, made me feel as though I'd swam a little bit out of my depth and learned something valuable about human behaviour (all that for about £7.99, which for me marks it out as exceptionally good value as well!)

Out of general interest I had a look at A.L.'s website, on which there is a section entitled 'For Writers'.  Nestled in this section is some of the best advice for writers I've ever read, including a wonderful essay called 'Looking at Geese'.  'Looking at Geese', however, is more than just a few pieces of dull, hastily-written advice to "make a plan and stick to it", it's a reflective, unapologetically detailed reflection of Kennedy's writing-and-performing life.  I found it utterly mesmerising.  It made me want to replicate it; to dive straight into my own (marginally less successful!) writing journey.  And it'll probably go on for a while, and I'm not a famous or even halfway successful writer so I doubt it'll be of any interest to anybody except me.  But I'm going to do it anyway (so there...)

Older family members have told me that it was my Mum who was responsible for my "exceptional reading skill" as a small child, due to her immersive encouragement of it.  If that was the case then I'm grateful.  Well - I am now.  At the time, being good at reading singled me out.  Every day we'd have "reading time" in the school library, during which my classmates would get to pick from the entire library-worth of books, whereas I'd have to go on my own to a little table in the corner on which would be three or four 'advanced reading' books.  Nobody bothered explaining this to me at the time; for months I just thought I must be a bit backward, or that I was being punished for something.  It's typical even of my behaviour now that I didn't ask anyone about it!  Instead I'd just come home and scribble all my worries in my little diary.  I always did that; it was far easier than actually having to talk to anyone.

The first book I can ever remember making an impact on me is Enid Blyton's 'Wishing Chair Collection', which I read aged about seven.  My Dad had ordered me to go to sleep, so I finished it by torchlight under the covers, and when I woke up the next morning I thought I'd had a dream about reading a really wonderful book; one that had made me laugh and cry and desperate to read all over again.  I was disappointed that it had just been a dream.  But then I got up, and was elated when I saw the book right there on the floor, ready to be savoured all over again.  That was the first time I remember realising that words could have a real effect.  That realisation, even at seven, felt amazingly potent.  I decided then that I'd like my own words to have that sort of effect.  I read more and more and more; looking up new words I found in the dictionary and making long lists in the backs of my diaries, of the words I liked the sound and construction of, and words I thought 'sounded' all wrong and how I'd improve them.

(Somewhat unsurprisingly, I didn't have many friends!)

But somewhat ironically, if my words ever did achieve any sort of effect then it embarrassed the absolute hell out of me.  Once, my teacher decided to read out a story I'd written in our school assembly.  I was so mortified to be 'singled out' that I ran off and cried (what a bloody annoying child I must have been!).  Another time my English teacher raced across the school playground to tell me excitedly that a story I'd handed in was the most beautifully descriptive he'd ever read for a child of my age; that he'd re-read it so many times that he could probably recite it back to me.  Was I proud?  No!  A group of my classmates had overheard, and all I wanted was to sink right through the floor.

(I was often embarrassed in maths lessons too, but for completely different reasons...my maths teacher once told my Dad that I had the worst level of mental arithmetic in the entire school).

The only writing I continued to do throughout my teenage years and slightly beyond was in those diaries, although I was constantly coming up with little ideas for stories and novels.  I was just too lazy to get them written down properly, I suppose, plus the task always seemed a bit daunting.  I was scared of what might happen if I managed to lose myself in my writing, which seemed to me far too easy to make happen.  A lot of writers say they can't help not writing; that it's as natural for them as breathing, but for me it felt like an urge I was constantly doing my absolute best to suppress.

I still read, though.  And by now the words I was reading were serving as an education of sorts.  As I've said, I rarely actually talked to people.  If I wanted to know anything, I'd go to the library and read about it.  The library was a godsend, in those days before the iPod and iPhone had been invented!  And I think one of the reasons I want 'soul food' from the books I read now is because books have always been such a lifeline for me, and such a font-of-all-knowledge.  I feel a bit short-changed if I read something that's just supposed to be a bit of light entertainment.  If I want that I'll watch telly instead.

All the non-writing continued until I reached a 'quarter-life crisis' of sorts, in my mid-twenties.  I hated my job; my life seemed to be going nowhere.  Nothing interested me.  I decided to make an appointment with a careers coach, who asked me if there was anything I'd always wanted to do...what I wanted to be when I grew up.  Without even thinking about it, I said "writing".  I felt I must have sounded completely stupid and deluded, to think I could make a career out of something like that.  But the careers coach took me seriously, and suggested that if nothing else, I should join a writers' course of sorts to test my scribblings out; see what I thought.  So I did.

Luckily, the course I chose was fun and interesting, with a great teacher.  I also made a really good friend from it, so I'm doubly grateful.  And it did the job of making me finally realise that, once and for all, I definitely wanted to write!

But were my words any good?  The course yielded mixed reviews.  The very first piece I turned in, about a man-turned-woman and entitled 'The First Day' (a title provided by the teacher), was trashed by my course-mates.  Somewhat arrogantly, I wasn't quite convinced of its total rubbishness, so I joined a 'writing showcase' website on which I could post all my offerings to my heart's content.  It turned out to be an invaluable place to test out a few styles and gain some interesting feedback.  One of my stories even got selected for a collection of the site's subjectively-judged "best work".  That's the only accolade my writing has ever won so far; ironically and true to form it's also the piece I'm the most embarrassed about having written.

And so now I've got to the point where I've completed three drafts of my first novel, and now I've got to the point at which writing really is the only thing I want to do; the only thing that - pretentiously-sounding-enough - makes me feel completely at one with myself.  Slowly I'm worrying less and less about losing myself in writing; in fact I'm beginning to understand that I probably have to, to produce anything really worth reading.  And it doesn't matter if I get published or not.  Actually I'm lying - it does! - but it won't affect whether I will continue to write or not.

As A.L.Kennedy (to whom I have just written a rather poor tribute!) wrote: "I am a writer - because I'm made this way"

Train Etiquette

Last week I read an article in the paper, written by an 'ordinary' commuter.  It consisted of a detailed map of a typical train carriage, together with an explanation of the modus operandi he would use in order to a) get a seat in the mornings, and b) ensure no 'undesirables' would sit next to him.  The map in itself was a work of art, albeit a special work of art you might see at an "outsider art" exhibition.  Reading that, along with the intricate explanations accompanying it, you might be forgiven for thinking this man had tendencies bordering on the insane.

But as a former regular London-bound commuter, I could understand his anxiety on both counts.  Travelling to work by train was an exhausting experience, not just because it's crowded and noisy, but because you're in a small, public space in which you're closely confined with other people, yet unable to control their behaviour.  Some people (I'm not saying me specifically, just some people...) can find that sort of thing quite stressful, on the whole.

Now, getting-a-seat-wise I was generally lucky.  Lucky enough that both of Southend's two stations are at the start of their respective lines, so I'd never have to stand.  The only problem that would ever arise would be on the occasions when someone got on just before me and chose 'my' seat.  I don't know why I had a favourite seat; I just did.  It's the same as when I go to the gym; I'm annoyed if someone's had the gall to use 'my' locker.  It must be one of many signs that I haven't got enough truly important stuff going on in my life.  But anyway...

...if anyone ever did sit in 'my' seat I'd shoot them a furious glare and then imagine something mildly unpleasant happening to them during their day, like stepping in a pile of dogs' mess or slipping on a empty crisp packet in front of someone they really wanted to impress (it makes me wonder if whenever things like that happen to me it's in payback for unknowingly taking someone's 'usual' train seat or gym locker...but if it actually was then I unknowingly do those things far more often than would be normal).  My 'favourite' seats are those ones right by the doors; in a bank of two that face the backs of the seats in front, which means you can't put your feet up.

People putting their feet up on the seats in front of them is my absolute worst 'train bugbear'.  Worse than music blaring from phones and iPods; worse than braying tones on mobiles asking what's for dinner or complaining about why Sharon from reception can't do Roger's filing on Wednesdays.  Why are there signs on trains telling people to "keep your feet off the seats"?  People who don't put their feet on the seats don't need them, and those who do just ignore them.

Once I was travelling by train to a meeting with a colleague I didn't know very well.  He sat down and immediately stretched his legs out onto the seat in front.  Without thinking, I slapped the leg closest to me and hissed "get your feet off those seats; people have got to sit on those later!" like an angry mother.  He laughed.  The people sitting on the adjacent seats laughed.  But I wasn't being funny.

I don't mind people sitting next to me on trains; I just wish I could control who I got.  If the doors opened, people got on and then stood in an obedient line while I decided who'd be the least offensive to my delicate sensibilities, that'd be great.  But that isn't what happens.  Usually I get the person who smells like last night's takeaway, or who's doing their make-up (once I got someone who took out a pair of tweezers and plucked their eyebrows on the train!), or who's intent on listening to music I hate through tinny headphones, or who just has to call everyone in their phone's address book lest they're left alone with their own thoughts for more than three seconds.  Or, on a really bad day, all four.

Derren Brown's tip for dissuading people from sitting next to you on the train is to grin at them inanely whilst invitingly patting the seat next to yours.  But that approach only works if you're a man.  If you're a woman trying that technique then the results can end up being quite scary.  Especially if you're coming home on the late Friday night train.  Especially if you live in Essex.  Definitely not recommended.

So there you go...proof that talking about public transport as a commuter can make you sound insane alarmingly quickly.  I may have misjudged that article...now I'm going to go back to it and see if I can pick up any genuine tips.

The youth of today...tsk

I had to wait in for the gas man today.  "We'll be there between eight and one" said the not-very-friendly person on the phone to whom the boiler problem had been reported (aside: why don't call centre people ever sound very friendly?  I used to be a call centre person; I wasn't very happy about it, I worked too-long shifts and I wasn't being paid much, but I felt it was part of my job to at least try to sound nice and helpful, which may have been why I didn't get many 'problem' customers.  But still...)

True to their word, the gas man was round at nine-thirty promptly (don't you just hate it when they turn up at twelve fifty-nine?).  He refused a cup of tea, which was a good thing - seeing as even while I was offering it I remembered there was, as usual, no milk in the house - and duly trudged over to the boiler.

Now we've had gas men round to fix things in the past, and they've all been of a similar ilk; late fortysomething/early fiftysomething, greying and a trifle huffy.  Today's man, though, was twenty (I know this because he told me) and full of the joys of spring.  Even when, as I suspected, the intermittent boiler problem failed to occur for a full fifteen minutes after he arrived; leaving him standing around while I fluttered about, frantically turning taps on and off and spluttering "the water'll go cold again in a minute!  It will - honestly!"   

Thankfully it did, and the gas man got to work.  As he did so he took several calls on his mobile (including one from someone he'd been out with last night; his side of the call began with "I'm so not ready for work today, mate - had such a large one last night I don't know what I'm doing") before having to call a 'boiler specialist' (what a great job to have - seriously!) to check the problem due to the fact that he actually didn't know what he was doing.  While the boiler specialist had him on hold he told me a few things about himself; age, relationship and career status and his optimistic aspirations in life.  He was actually quite charming (though he didn't fix the boiler - that's happening next week, apparently).

And as I was talking to him I got that sinking feeling I get sometimes when I talk to members of the younger generation...that I just don't understand them.  Two things in particular baffle me: their music and their confidence.  The former because it's not aimed at me and as such I find it contemptible (I actually caught myself once saying to a young person something along the lines of "Madonna already did everything Lady Gaga's ever done...and better" before wanting to kill myself).  The latter because when I was twenty I had zero confidence, so I can't relate to twenty year-olds who do; twenty year-olds who are chatty and happy and all that.  I relate to outsider-mentality angst.  But youth-related angst seems to have completely disappeared these days.  Log on to Facebook and all you'll find from today's tweenagers will be a barrage of self-taken iPhone pics and "Like for a rate!" statuses.

Come the revolution I'll be cowering in the corner with my Madonna LPs while the youth of today are out conquering the world in meat dresses.  Still, the next Prime Minister has to come from this lot.  Just don't be surprised if their first order of business is to call the American president with something along the lines of "I'm so not ready for work today, mate - had such a large one last night I don't know what I'm doing".

Have Your Say Below!

One of my very guiltiest pleasures; one of the things I like best to do with a cup of coffee and a computer, is perusing the 'online comments and reviews' sections of newspapers, Trip Advisor, Amazon and the like.  All walks of life can be found there.  In fact it has been known for me to write entire short stories based on an outraged comment someone made about a sugar paste flower making kit, or on an embittered list of all the reasons why Jennifer Aniston shouldn't have worn a leather minidress to the premiere of her latest film (yes, that one did come from the Daily Mail).

People really will bang on about anything online.  I particularly love those Amazon or Trip Advisor reviews where the commenter is a) unreasonably angry and b) goes on in disproportionate detail about whatever it was that angered them, like a snotty receptionist or unreliable delivery times.  My eagerness to read these comments reminds me of a Charlie Brooker column I read once, in which he explained how obsessed he became in seeking out work by terrible journalists (in particular Joe Mott from The Sun).  If I'm reading something online and there's a 'Have Your Say!' bit underneath, I'll generally always read the comments.  Sometimes I won't even bother with the article.

It's also fun (read: mildly entertaining) to spot the same old comments that come up time and time again; apparently the best way to describe a good breakfast on Trip Advisor is to say "it sets you up for the day!" as though a rubber doorstop slathered in blackcurrant jam wouldn't do the same job.  When describing a mid-range hotel it's seemingly mandatory to say something like "it wasn't the Ritz, but then you get what you pay for".

Those same old comments appear time and time again because we're all quite a predictable bunch, really.  Nowhere is this more prevalent than on online dating profiles, another previous 'slight obsession' of mine (and a hypocritical one at that, seeing as I would never subject myself to that kind of online scrutiny, even if I'd been single for a hundred years.  Mind you, if I had been single for a hundred years then I doubt Match.com would be enough to save me anyway.  I wouldn't bother including a 'recent photo' either).  The most boring, and also the most ubiquitous, statement people put on their profiles was "I'm looking for someone I can cuddle up with on the sofa, with a bottle of wine and a DVD"  That's the apparent Holy Grail of relationships, right there.  Bit depressing really, isn't it?  Although I suppose it depends on the year and vineyard of the wine, and what DVD in particular.  But no-one ever goes on to mention those details.

No - what I'd really like to see on dating sites is a 'Have Your Say Below!' section under each profile, on which people who have previously gone on dates or had a long-term relationship with that person can comment on their experiences.  Or if you were short on time, maybe a little 'survey' bit where you could just tick whether you'd recommend them to a friend, whether you'd consider going out with them again and indicate if they were good value for money.  And of course there'd have to be a bit where you could 'Submit your own photos!' as well.

I'll suggest it to Match.com and see what happens.

Celebrate St. George's Day - or ELSE!

This morning I looked out of the window and noticed a tall, ramrod man with a combover and a gait like that of Allo Allo's Herr Flick, pushing a leaflet through the letterbox.  After performing this task, he jogged back up the pathway as if mortally afraid of the information he'd just imparted.  I watched him as he attacked a few more houses, to which his approach was the same; a tentative shuffle up to the letterbox, quickly shoving through a piece of white paper, then jogging back again.

I went to collect the leaflet, which was a propaganda piece introducing a new political party (I won't name it here out of general fairness) which featured a picture of a young couple with gaffa tape stuck over their mouths.  "NO VOICE!" spluttered the leaflet ominously.

"The Establishment HATE the English - we are despised and forgotton" it continued.  Which I must admit isn't a good start, really - I mean if you're going to complain all about how the English are hated in their own country and how you're going to save us all then surely it would be good to tell us about it in articulate sentences without any spelling mistakes?

The leaflet then rambled on about what its party would do once elected.  "Abolish political correctness!" "Leave the European Union!" "No illegal immigrants!" "Council-funded St. George's Day celebrations!"  


Like most people with a working brain, I'm happy to listen to any argument that has fact and reason to back it up.  I might even be prepared to change my views on the back of an intelligent argument made by somebody who knows what they're talking about.  But "Abolish political correctness!" isn't one of them.  In fact there was no definition of what "political correctness" even meant, just an assumption that we've all read enough copies of the Daily Mail to know it's all "gone mad" and must be stopped at all costs.

Out of morbid curiosity I looked at the party's website, predictably decorated in red and white; and presumably unaware of the utter irony that it's political parties like these that go a long way towards 'normal' people feeling a bit embarrassed about displaying an England flag anywhere, lest people think they're a) a football hooligan, b) a member of the BNP, or c) a white van driver.

Yet determined to be fair, I decided to have a look at the full manifesto they'd posted on their website, just to see if lurking behind all the nationalist screeching, this new party really did have some ideas or arguments worth listening to.  "We will abolish all political correctness in all its forms" went the first chapter, again with no actual definition of what they meant.  It made me angry, that somebody had written that and considered it a valid policy statement.  Not just because it's vague and unworkable, but also because "political correctness", for all its faults, at least has its roots in genuine compassion and consideration regarding how we treat each-other.  It's like the Richard Littlejohn vendetta against what he calls "'elf and safety"...not perfect by any means, but its very existence shows a basic concern for people's welfare.  Isn't that a good thing; don't these things confirm in some small way the fact that we're not barbarians?  I don't want to live in a world where "political correctness" is abolished, thanks.  Next.

I'm always intrigued by people who go on about "celebrating St. George's Day" and how not enough people do it.  Such people always carry on as though we've been banned from celebrating it, when we're all free to celebrate it as much as we want.  It's just...in reality the reason is far more likely to be that it's not much fun.  "People in England celebrate St. Patrick's Day more than they do St. George's Day!" the website shrills.  Well of course they do.  Because the St. Patrick's Day celebration amounts to no more than wearing a silly hat, singing and getting drunk.  Not sitting in a dusty room being forced to sing the National Anthem and getting offered weak tea by someone with a curtain rod (Made in England (TM)) stuck up their backside.

(I always think of the irony in being asked to celebrate St. George anyway - a saint reportedly born in Syria and who had never even been to England as far as we know).

But that's the thing with all these nationalist-styled political parties.  There's no humility; no sense of humour or genuine humanity in anything they spout on about.  And for the most part they don't even know what it is they're actually trying to defend.  Reading on, the manifesto promised to provide a definition of what 'English' really meant, for the edification of its readers.  This enlightening definition read as follows:

"The English can be defined in the same way that other nations are defined"


Thanks for that.  See you at the ballot box.

Seeing the world in soft-focus

Recently I've been thinking about getting contact lenses.  Shameful as it is to admit, the reason is for pure vanity's sake.  I've worn glasses since I was fourteen, but (and this is important) sporadically - when I've felt like it.  I never really felt as though I needed them.  But a recent trip to the opticians confirmed that I am at the age and stage when I should be wearing them all the time.  A "non-beglassed" version of me should no longer exist (except for sleeping, of course.  I'm not mad).

When I got my first pair of glasses, the optician told me I was "long-sighted".  I was secretly pleased at the time.  Short-sightedness was redolent of old ladies with pairs of gold-rimmed lorgnettes dangling from their necks, who'd squint disarmingly at you as you spoke to them.  Long-sightedness, whereby you can see things in the distance better than you can up-close, felt like a sort of super-power!  Plus, at the time I felt my glasses might be good props to hide behind.  But not all the time.  It was interesting and handy to change between "glasses me" and "non-glasses me" whenever I felt like it.

Over the years, being long-sighted has cast a general haze of soft-focus over the world for me, which has been quite useful when I don't actually want to see things too clearly.  My own face in the mirror, for example.  And I know all this will work perfectly well with contact lenses as well as glasses.  I just suppose that now I really have to choose between a permanent "glasses me" and a "non-glasses me" then vanity will win out (as it tends to do) and I'll choose the latter.

I'll miss "glasses me" though.  It'll be strange, reading and writing without them, plus I was looking forward to perfecting my disapproving "over the top of the glasses" stare at people; something I've tried but generally just get laughed at.  That's how I know I'm not really old yet...once people start taking those stares of mine seriously then I'll really know I've turned into a crinkly old harridan.

So I guess in conclusion, glasses are more interesting than contact lenses.  But I'd have a bit of a job stylishly accessorising them with glittery Christmas party dresses, for example, and therefore they'll probably have to go.  How very disappointing.

In praise of the 'smiley face'

Last night I watched the latest episode in the (marvellous!) new series of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm', in which Larry admonishes his new girlfriend with something along the lines of "Stop texting smiley faces...it's like I'm having a conversation with a ten year-old"

I was immediately dismayed.  Because a) I like to think that Larry and I are kindred spirits in some sort of quirky, misanthropic way, and b) I use smiley faces all the time, in texts, e-mails and everything.  Almost as much as I like to smile in real life :)

And obviously, because I do it myself, I've never seen the use of smiley faces as annoying.  They just help to distinguish between a comment that's supposed to be funny or light-hearted, and one that isn't.  Because - hey - not everybody's as clever or funny as I am :D (see what I did there?  FYI that wasn't even a smiley face, that was a grinning face - reserved for the REALLY intended-to-be-face-smashingly-hilarious comments!).

I do draw the line though, you'll be pleased to hear.  The line is drawn neatly and precisely where the smiling stops and the "laughing out loud" begins.  I never, ever 'LOL'.  'LOL' conjures up a picture of a court jester jiggling the bells on his hat in a desperate attempt at being 'zany'...besides which 'LOL' just sounds deranged, particularly when people use it at the end of sentences that weren't even funny.  You can get into trouble with 'LOL' as well, like a distant friend of mine did when she added 'LOL' to the end of a message sent to her male boss, who thought it meant "lots of love".   There's no such confusion with a smiley; even if you added one to a sentence like "sorry to hear about your best friend dying" you could just say you were trying to add some brightness to a dark time (it's not an excuse I've tried, or would like to try, but still...it's an excuse!)

A particularly sarcastic friend once commented on how the use of smileys had been his saving grace on more than one occasion...he could get away with saying anything he liked, he said, as long as he put a little smiley face on the end of it.  There's something in that, especially speaking as somebody who has been described on more than one occasion as "quite a serious person".  I'm somebody who needs smileys if I want to keep my friends and general acquaintances.   Plus I only use Amish-style smileys; the bog-standard colon-and-a-bracket, not those awful animated ones you can download from the internet.  Which in my mind makes my use of them a little bit more justifiable, somehow.  

So in conclusion, I haven't quite been swept into the heaving maelstrom of message-smiliness.  I just dabble, that's all...so there's hope for me yet. 

But if I ever 'LOL', then I shall instruct somebody to shoot me immediately afterwards.

:)

'Empty orchestrations' and what they say about YOU!

I'm a big fan of karaoke.  Not doing it, you understand.  Never actually doing it.  But watching it - definitely.  I'm genuinely fascinated by karaoke, because in this sold-as-fun activity you get a fleeting, yet genuine, idea of what people think of themselves by the song they select and the way they sing it - even from the way they approach the mic.  It's "just a laugh" they all say, but of course it isn't really; in that rendition of 'My Heart Will Go On' you get a true glimpse of lives unlived; of what might have happened if only Simon Cowell had wandered in to your office, heard you singing along with the radio and offered you a £50-million recording contract on the spot.

I used to have a theory that only people who were terrible at singing should ever do karaoke; that it should be unequivocally claimed by those who really enjoyed singing, but just weren't very good.  Because it's all entertainment at the end of the day, and nothing's more boring than listening to someone with an average voice doing karaoke.  Even the X-Factor producers know that much...or at least they did once.

One of the most fun karaoke-related evenings I've ever spent was on an American cruise from New York to the Bahamas.  There was a 'Karaoke Show!' in the cocktail bar, to which I went along (that evening also included an embarrassing incident whereby I made a very English comment about a cocktail named 'French Kiss'...that a very American barman completely misunderstood).  Americans doing karaoke have a different attitude to the English.  No pretend shyness; they just stride confidently up to the mic and then deliver stunningly good performances...and the message is crystal-clear - if you're no good, you shouldn't be doing it.

As fun as those self-satisfied performances were to watch, there was such a sanitised and serious air to it all that I wanted to inject some humour by grabbing the mic myself, hoping to recreate that lovely bit in 'My Best Friend's Wedding' when Cameron Diaz gets up and sings 'I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself' so badly that she ends up bringing the whole room along with her.  But life isn't like the movies (really?) and in reality I was too worried about getting booed off the stage in a shower of 'French Kiss'-es instead, so I didn't bother.

(The only time I've ever actually been caught out is when my sister got her own karaoke machine, then invited me and my husband round for dinner.  I was adamant that I was just going to watch and listen, but my sister wouldn't take no for an answer. "I'll do a duet with you" she said, and we did a rendition of 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' with me as Kiki Dee. Five seconds into the song all my karaoke-based reticence had completely disappeared, and no more than ten minutes later I was belting out 'Stand By Your Man' like my entire life was depending on it.  Meanwhile, my husband and brother-in-law had taken refuge outside in the garden).

Such a laugh!

Chatting about the weather - one of my most favouritest pastimes!

I hate that English conversational staple, The Weather.  It's so listless and anodyne as a subject for general discussion that there should be a blanket ban on its use.  Or it should be completely acceptable that if you were talking to someone, and they said something like "Hasn't it been hot recently!" you could just blow a raspberry right into their face before sloshing them in whatever drink you happened to be holding at the time.

But now I'm exaggerating.  And I'm also going to turn into a massive hypocrite by saying (clears throat)... hasn't it been hot recently!

The weather-obsessed media has been going mad of late, calling this an 'Indian Summer' (though to be technical a warm spell is only supposed to be termed an 'Indian Summer' if it happens in November or December) and the papers have all been begging us to 'Send in your photos!' as they always do when the sun's out or there's been a bit of snow.  What always strikes me is how unoriginal these photos are; they're mostly of badly made snowmen or people on the beach.  Why waste the opportunity to be a bit creative?  How about one of yourself in a bath of ice cubes (that might work for both weathers actually) or a quick snap of the face of person sitting next to you on the train...at the very moment you've been told about an hour-long delay due to "the tracks having melted in the extreme heat".  

Personally, I don't like this weather very much, though you wouldn't have known that on Saturday, when I was swanning along the Embankment in a sundress listening to Melody Gardot.  No - the reason I don't like this weather much is because it's so bland.  I can only deal with a few sunny days a year (which is probably a good thing considering!) because after those few days everything's just a bit more dull.  All everybody does is laze around in shorts and have barbecues.  Boring.  In winter you're forced to do more...even if it's just in an attempt to keep warm.  Winter weather has more offbeat character; plus you can appreciate a journey and its end far more if you've had to make it outside in bracing wind, rain or snow.  There's also something comforting and serene about putting the fire on and then looking out of the window on a freezing cold or rainy day, because everything's so much quieter and far less frantic.  People are frantic when hot weather comes to this country; so desperate are they to enjoy it before it goes again.

It's also a lot harder to get any work done when it's hot, precisely because it is "holiday" weather, encouraging the "lazing around in shorts" I just mentioned.  Not that I'm doing that now, of course.  I'm working extremely hard.