Giving everyone else the finger

On Sunday night, in a fit of pointless pernicketyness, I decided I couldn't bear to look at the unfastened catch on the Boy Wonder's guitar case, so I did it up myself. Instead of moving it to a more accessible position, I went rogue and approached it left handed as it lay propped on a stool, the result being that I have what would have been a blood blister, had I not managed to actually puncture the skin, in the middle of the fingertip on my left middle finger. It's one of those injuries which, whilst hardly likely to be fatal, is a lot more painful than you would expect, largely because I am so used to not having a flap of bruised skin there that I just use that part of my finger willy nilly with nary a thought to the consequences.

Another unfortunate consequence is that in my efforts to avoid further damaging said finger, I am conducting all my daily business (that's not a euphemism - I am technically doing business!) with my middle finger cocked at a jaunty angle, giving the impression that I am flipping the world a rather feeble and half hearted bird, which of course is usually more of a mental state than a physical one. Combined with my icky ring finger on my right hand I vaguely resemble a broken marionette whose finger strings have become entangled, rendering both hands odd looking and marginally more useless than normal.

A Christmas challenge

The unseasonably hot end-of-September weather has seen my thoughts turn inexplicably to Christmas, and I have decided to issue myself a Christmas challenge: to embrace this year's festivities in the hope that I will actually recapture some of the magic that I used to feel as a child in the run up to the big day. That's not to say that I want in any way to take on the rigidly manic approach that my Mum has to the festive season, with an 800 piece Christmas themed dinner service and perfectly coordinated decorations which are displayed around their house in regimented order every year. But perhaps it wouldn't kill me to get out our tiny wooden Christmas tree before the 24th December, maybe even dust off the rest of our minuscule collection of decorations as well and consider doing the festive food shop in a less manic and world-hating way than has become my own personal Christmas tradition. It's a shame that the Boy Wonder and I don't really like any of the traditional festive fare such as mince pies and Christmas pudding which do admittedly make it smell like Christmas, but given that I won't be able to drink anyway, I might concede to the 'wasting' of some red wine by allowing him to mull some wine.

Giving myself the finger

For reasons best known to itself, the ring finger on my right hand (is it still called that even when there is no designated ring for it?) is in the throes of a rash and has been for around 8 months now. Despite accounting for less than 1% of my total skin tally (probably - I am buggered if I'm actually going to work it out) the 5cm x 1cm stretch of skin between fingernail and second knuckle is currently the focus of 99% of my angst. A part of my brain is constantly devoted to coming up with new ways to scratch this patch of skin, most of which involve going to town with inappropriately rough objects ranging from the ragged edge of the cuff of my sweatshirt to the dish scourer. Another part of my brain is on 24 hour alert for the feeling which indicates that I have undertaken an activity which has caused the cracked skin on said finger to open up and sting like hell requiring the application of some form of unguent cream to make normal life possible. Interestingly, it doesn't seem to matter what I use for this process as the overall effect is the same whether I root around for long enough to find the specially formulated cream designed specifically to treat topical eczema break outs of exactly this kind or just use the Skittles flavoured lip-smacker that I already have in my hand.

There is also a seething, resentful part of my brain that is always thinking about how peculiar it is to just have this one small patch of rebellious skin which seems impervious both to the marvels of modern medicine and to the violent anger which is constantly bubbling under the surface of my otherwise cool, calm and non scabby exterior. I know I should be grateful - there have been times in my life when both my legs have been covered in eczema from ankle to knee and I have been unable to sleep, walk or think straight for the torture of trying not to scratch. But that always responded well to the merest suggestion of high strength steroids, rather than steadfastly refusing to even countenance the idea of vague improvement despite my lavishing vast amounts of attention on it like my finger. Now I'm sitting here dabbing at what appears to be tears oozing out of my finger, and wondering whether it might be simpler just to have the damn thing amputated. Pretty sure one of the others would take over though - that's just the kind of bloody minded, bloody fingered thing that happens in the world of my skin.

The Glee Project

I have never watched an episode of Glee, and don't really have any desire to, but apparently not content with just one programme dedicated to jazz hands and lipstick, there is now a show called 'The Glee Project' being advertised relentlessly on Sky. From the outset I was annoyed because the first ad featured a woman proclaiming something unlikely about 'the phenomenom' of Glee, but the more recent version seems to be advertising a show which is essentially about making teenagers cry. For whatever crack-pot psychological reason the show's makers have constructed between themselves, this week's episode seems to be an exercise designed purely to make these kids break down for the cameras. I'm not saying that they don't deserve it (after all, anyone putting themselves in the firing line for this kind of show should be well aware of what they are letting themselves in for) but forcing a girl to stand at the bottom of an escalator wearing a sign saying 'Anorexic' seems to be a woefully poor way of dealing with a teenager's eating disorder, whether that be real or perceived.

Presumably the makers of the show will claim that the exercise will make the participants stronger (although how a fat person wearing a sign saying fat is in any way enlightening is beyond me - some of the contestants are quite obviously wearing their 'weaknesses' on their sleeves), but whether they have actually considered the fact that surely being able to sing and act is more important than any perceived benefits of taunting them with their own insecurities until they burst into tears is another matter. It does seem as though this task is not far short of confirming their beliefs that their perceptions of themselves are something to be ashamed of and for others to judge them upon - the perfect way to nurture youngsters through their difficult teenage years.

Chick fix

I just saw an advert for this show which is soon to be aired on Living TV. The trailer included tantalising shots of women about to confess their deepest, darkest secrets to one another interspersed with the same women sitting in front of mirrors, their hair full of curlers and a band of brush wielding, dress draping beauty professionals on hand to do the 'real' work.

It sounds to me like another depressingly shallow comment on how women just need a glass of wine and a new pair of shoes to overcome any hurdle in their lives. Even in the show's description, where you would at least have thought the makers might try to hide their contempt for women, they cannot help but suggest that psychological help and support from close friends is equally likely to be successful as shopping. I am assuming that the main purpose of the show is to get tantalising details of the women's sex lives, personal problems and emotional frailties and broadcast them to an eagerly waiting nation to pore over before trying to distract them from the fact that their personal relationships will inevitably suffer as a result of their revelations by giving them a 'new look'. I'm almost sure I won't be able to bring myself to watch this show, but I hope that at least the adverts get a little less obnoxious as the series continues.

Neighbours

Every so often (and particularly at the moment when the news seems to be awash with presenters trying to find ever more arbitrary things to say about the royal wedding and so keep banging on about street parties) I will hear something, usually on local radio about the tragedy of modern life that is represented by the fact that people tend not to know their neighbours.

Living down a short, dead-end lane, I am on at least 'hello-ing' terms with most of the people who live here and almost without fail they are not people I would choose to spend time with. We have our immediate neighbours - a lovely old lady who is no trouble and allows us the warm fuzzy feeling of occasionally helping her out and, in stark contrast the neighbours on the other side are alcohol-fuelled mental cases who have no idea about boundaries (either physical, personal or social) and consistently impinge on our enjoyment of our garden to the point where even taking items out to the bins can be a somewhat harrowing experience.

The rest of the neighbours fall into two categories - offensively mental and entertainingly mental making the nicknames we have for them surprisingly repetitive.

Eye patch man (deceased) - there wasn't really much to know about eye-patch man, but he had a dog, a slightly spooky run down house and, presumably, only one eye.

Crazy chicken lady (aka Loud Dog Woman) - She owns a large dog who seems to enjoy barking at everything that moves in the vicinity of their front window. She once came to our house to ask us if we had any theories on who might have been responsible for the removal of one of her chickens and its subsequent replacement with an almost identical, but apparently sub-standard, chicken.

Mystery car lady (we do actually know her real name now, but until we found it out, this was her nickname) - she used to own a small car which was perpetually full of crap including cushions, bags of mystery fruit and a selection of soft furnishings and cardboard boxes. When this car died, she purchased what appeared to be a brand new vehicle which remained intact for around two weeks after she took possession of it. Her car was then scraped down the entire driver's side by a van which became less noticeable when she started to refill the new car with another (or possibly the same) selection of crap which still resides in there to this day. We once helped her move a mattress, which turned out to be distressingly stained, from her house to her car, which involved the Boy Wonder dangling it out of a window whilst I tried to catch it below and then the two of us wrestling it into the non-spacious back of her vehicle.

Short shorts - he is, to the best of our knowledge, Portuguese and has a peculiar passion for Daisy Duke style cut-off jeans in which he parades up and down the lane. He has a small car which is possibly the most put upon vehicle in the world. It is at least 15 years old and as though the thrashing that it has obviously taken from being driven wasn't enough, it has also been subject to a variety of maintenance procedures which are of dubious safety. For example, we once returned home to find Short shorts lying underneath his car, which was propped up on a selection of wooden blocks and household items, hammering out a dent with a mallet and a lump of wood. He actually did a surprisingly good job of it, which in no way mitigated the fact that the engine has such serious problems that it cannot travel at speeds less than 30 mph without stalling repeatedly. 

TVR Twat - this guy sums up almost everything I hate about people in general. Our first contact was when we had to take in his cat - we didn't know it was his cat and assumed it was a stray because it was so thin and in such poor condition. When it became clear that he was spending most of his time at our house, and not wanting to jump to conclusions about a cat which might just be suffering from a thyroid problem or similar, I took him to the vet who confirmed that he was severely underweight, was suffering from neglect and had problems retracting his claws from spending so much time outside. After a couple of months during which he barely left the house, we discovered that TVR twat's family were his supposed owners - they reclaimed him for all of two weeks before he disappeared altogether leading us to hope that he found a nice old lady to spoil him and stayed put. TVR twat also, as his name suggests, owns a TVR which he obviously believes requires frequent and seemingly pointless maintenance and which he often just sits in and revs, loudly and annoyingly for hours on end, apparently oblivious to the fact that his neighbours may not wish to hear the gut wrenchingly bad noises which emanate from it. I have also witnessed him using incredibly poor judgement when it comes to roundabout lane discipline.

Crazy end neighbour - him and his whole family are just nuts. Our first encounter with them was shortly after we moved in when they left a note on our car telling us that the weight of our vehicle was cutting off his electricity and water. Knowing that this was bullshit, we continued to park on the public road outside his house, receiving several more notes which we ignored, until they decided that instead of using their ample drive, they would instead ensure that one of their cars is always blocking the parking spot. They also have what must be a genetic tendency towards playing loud music in their cars with the doors open. The whole family do this, including those who don't live there, meaning that every so often we are treated to incredibly loud renditions of appalling music being blasted out of their cars. Their children/grandchildren also don't see the problem with honking their horn by way of a farewell, regardless of the time of day or night. Crazy end neighbour and his wife also have an unnerving habit of talking to you about things that you cannot possibly know as though you are privy to the intimate details of their personal lives, which makes for some awkward situations when you're trying to work out what the hell they are talking about.

Crazy shouting child and family - we first came across crazy shouting child when he went through a phase of shouting loudly about things in the garden which we could hear from ours. Some of the conversations were bordering on the surreal, including one where he had a conversation with a boy called Charlie who we can only assume is fictitious, about a time when they had shouted over the fence at one another previously. When we were painting the outside of the house, he walked past with his parents, pausing only to shout at full volume 'Hello, man up a ladder!'. His mum just said 'We aren't very good at stealth approaches' and dragged him on past. Crazy shouting child's parents are also pretty odd - his Dad seems to experience almost as much social awkwardness as I do, and once stopped dead in the street and stared directly up into the sky to avoid making eye contact with me. His mum is perfectly pleasant, but once backed into a stationary vehicle and tried to claim she wasn't completely at fault because 'there wasn't normally a car parked there'. His brother seems quite shy and little bit geeky, but it has been fun watching his progression to teenagerdom as he wanders past our house to go to school events, hang out with his oddly be-hatted friends and generally mooch about as teenagers should.

So, when next I hear someone bemoaning the fact that nobody's having street parties because there is no neighbourhood spirit, I will send them a link to this post to perhaps explain why that is.

Other people and the unpleasantness of dealing with them

A couple of weeks ago we went to see Tony Joe White at the Jazz Cafe, which once again proved that it attracts one of the most appalling audiences of any venue I've ever been to. The support act they had 'chosen' was not only one of those rubbish whiny girls who sings in a pseudo sexy voice which bears no relation to their speaking voice and drone on endlessly about their feelings, but also actively bad, so once she had buggered off we went to find a suitable spot in the crowd. It was sold out, so there were loads of people there, and it was a bit of a crush but we found a spot which wasn't behind too many gargantuan specimens from which we could almost see the whole stage.

Unfortunately for us, we were also immersed in the 'crowd' meaning that we were forced to endure the unpleasant habits of those who share our taste in music. The first was a guy who was standing behind me, so closely behind me in fact that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck (which, due to the methods of my childhood optician gives me the creeps anyway) and almost every part of my body was being touched by his. As if that wasn't creepy enough, he then interrupted a conversation that the Boy Wonder and I were having to begin an annoying chat with the Boy Wonder about his previous experience of seeing Tony Joe White.

He actually apologised before interrupting, which demonstrated some understanding of the social convention of accosting a stranger, but when the Boy Wonder said that he wasn't surprised that he was a little late he started grilling him on every time he had been to see him and how late he was each time. The Boy Wonder gracefully extricated himself from the situation, but I was still left with this guy leaning on me, until after the second or third song the Leaning Man managed to hit me round the head whilst clapping and I asked him to move back.

He seemed strangely put out that I had asked him, despite the fact that it must have been obvious that I couldn't actually move properly with him basically standing where my shadow should have been. But, having removed one source of other people's hideousness, we were still subjected to downright horrific personalities of several hundred other people, from the 'I'm so crazy' guy behind us who couldn't shut up to the group of twats who found themselves completely incapable of just standing and enjoying a gig without constantly rearranging themselves.

Tony Joe White was awesome, but once again we were reminded that UK gigs seem to attract the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel in terms of other attendees. There are quite a few gigs coming up over the summer that I'm really looking forward to except for the fact that I suspect there will be other people at them, ruining them and making me cross, which in turn makes me feel like a fun-hating old crone which makes me even more cross. Is it really so much to ask that people get a drink, find a place to stand and then do so quietly and without moving too much for the whole gig? Or do we really have to go back to New Orleans to find a good crowd?

Knitting

Four days ago I took up knitting - I watched a video of a lady showing you how to do it, and I managed a fairly passable bit of knitting. I then knitted the next day and the day after, finding it at once compulsively enjoyable and incredibly satisfying and this morning I woke up with a constant pain in my right hand which seems to have developed as a combination of my extensive weekend knitting session and my tendency to sleep with my hand scrunched up under my chin.

I'm quite annoyed about this - not only was I enjoying my knitting, but I distinctly remember both my grandmothers knitting almost constantly well into their later years apparently without ever suffering.

Admittedly, they had both been knitting for years, so I obviously need to build up some stamina before I can even begin to compete on their expert level. In fact, my paternal grandmother lived in what appeared to my juvenile mind at least to be an entirely knitted house. She could knit almost anything, but mostly chose to use those skills to produce bizarrely coloured, excessively huge woollen extravaganzas which were apparently designed for children of much more unusual limb configurations than my brother and I.

So, although I am a mere beginner and clearly should expect some discomfort in the muscles that apparently I only use for knitting (presumably these were in a state of near atrophy until four days ago), I am a little aggrieved. What I thought would be a foray into the world of 'stitch and bitch' where people without grandchildren reclaim the art of knitting in a terribly trendy way has actually turned into a rather nubbly rectangle of knitting and a pain in my hand which makes me feel like I should be paying more attention to cod liver oil adverts and trying to include bran in my diet.

The social awkwardness of not liking cake

After several years of expressing the opinion that I'm an over-sensitive flower of a person who should just suck it up, the Boy Wonder has recently conceded that it is socially awkward not to like cake. I just don't like it, never have and probably never will. It's not as though it makes me want to throw up, but of all the ways to ingest an unhealthy number of calories that exist in the world, cake is a long way down my preferred list.

We went to a birthday party a couple of weeks ago at the end of which was produced an incredible looking cake. Three layers, three types of filling/icing and a host of exquisite decorations made from two types of chocolate.  The sight of it left everyone entranced, but I had a sinking feeling which was only shaken when the chef realised that it contained nuts. I was relieved that I wouldn't have to eat any, and surprised that for once my nut allergy had actually helped me out a little.

Unfortunately, the moments when I am glad of my allergies are few and far between as I have often been confronted with a cake specially acquired to accommodate my dietary needs, making it even more impossible to refuse a slice. That night, after we had returned from the party, the Boy Wonder and I were talking about the incident and how he had been pleased on my behalf when the cake was revealed to be a potential killer, at which point (having apparently stored up some degree of resentment for his offhand treatment of my mental anguish over the cake situation) I triumphantly pounced on him and forced him to admit that his previous stance was only possible to maintain if you genuinely don't mind offending people.

It is a fairly hollow victory - although it will be nice to have someone to commiserate with when these cake-tastrophes occur, there is no way to avoid them cropping up occasionally (although not working in an office helps) and I have never managed to work out a way of handling them which is genuinely foolproof. Even claiming to be on a diet is inappropriately pious when someone has actually procured a cake for your birthday, so although it does occasionally work (admittedly only on people who have never seen me hoover up a family pack of crisps) there are some situations where you just have to eat some cake and try not to pull a face.

Boy Wonder - in charge of bedtime

For some reason, I have always been really bad at going to bed, perhaps because I always had a bedtime when I was living with my parents due to their inability to sleep if someone is so much as considering consciousness elsewhere in the house. When I first moved out, the fact that I lived in one room meant that my bed was my main piece of furniture so it wasn't so noticeable that I would often fall asleep on top of the covers having drifted off whilst intending to be otherwise occupied. Since living with the Boy Wonder, I would estimate that around 80% of the time we have 'headed up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire' has been at his suggestion - I will quite happily lie around on the sofa, even to the point of falling asleep rather than actually committing to going to bed.

It's not as though our bedtime routine is particularly gruelling - we have a fish and a rabbit to feed, one door to lock and some lights to switch off. We aren't exactly neat freaks, so it's not like we do anything in the way of cleaning or tidying, but for some reason the idea of choosing to go to bed is completely alien to me - despite being 30, I still feel like one of those kids on 'You've Been Framed' who ends up falling asleep in their spaghetti hoops in spite of their attempts to stave off the overwhelming tiredness. I'm not sure whether it's come about because the Boy Wonder generally has no problem going to sleep, whereas I used to spend hours in bed staring at the ceiling and wondering whether I would make it out alive in the event of a fire (one of the weirder fears I had a child after a not-particularly graphic safety lecture at school). I still have a propensity to let my imagination run wild whenever I can't sleep, which may be why the concept of going to bed fills me with a childish determination to stave it off for as long as possible.

Stupidly enough, this applies even when I'm really tired - I can spend all day planning an early night, wishing I was in bed and looking forward to a nap, but when it actually comes down to going to bed, I will still find ways to put it off. I used to be surprised at how my productivity levels increased at the most inappropriate times, namely when it was getting late and bedtime was looming, but as I become more aware of the fact that I have slight issues surrounding going to bed I realised that this is just another way to put off the inevitable.

I also really like being in bed - once the decision is made, the jobs are done and the wooden hill has been breached, I have no problem with actually going to bed - it's just the instigation of the process which I find unpalatable and when left on my own I just don't do it. I will either sleep on the sofa, start doing jobs in the bedroom so that the decision is never made or just stay awake until the whole thing becomes moot at some point the next day.

My worry is that at some point, should our mid-term future go to plan, I will be in charge of our children's bedtimes, which in some senses should be fine (I don't care if other people want to go to bed, I just don't want to myself) but I do worry that one of our kids might be like me and when they tell me that they don't want to I will feel like a huge hypocrite. Fingers crossed then that they will take after the Boy Wonder and will be thrilled at the idea of going to bed, when and wherever the urge may strike him, otherwise our kids are going to end up watching a lot of weird films of the kind that are shown at 4 in the morning and probably scar toddlers for life.