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.

Beyonce's Dressage

We've just been watching the coverage of Beyonce at Glastonbury, and I was surprised at how much she and her backing dancers looked like they were doing some weird kind of human dressage. Perhaps it was the combination of impractical shoes and potentially crotch revealing leotards that made them wary of taking steps that were too large, but whatever their reasons the overall effect was pretty peculiar. I was, however, impressed at her knee sliding action which, contrary to my personal experience, didn't seem to end up in scabby blisters and bruised kneecaps.

Miller Band

We were just surprised by an old episode of Have I Got News for You (I'm assuming Wimbledon is to blame for no other reason than that it's been buggering up the Diagnosis Murder/Murder She Wrote slot all week) which made many references to the Milliband brothers. This re-ignited the fury I felt at the time about the lack of Steve Miller Band jokes in reference to the Labour party leadership election. Admittedly, there is the occasional half-hearted reference to their other brother Steve, and I wasn't expecting long built-up references to any of his lesser known songs, but I was disappointed that nobody took it any further, despite the fact that the world of politics is the perfect backdrop to a line about space cowboys and the pompatus of love.

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.

Weird dream crushes

Every so often I will wake from a dream with a guilty feeling that I have cheated on the Boy Wonder. Exciting though this may sound (or repellent, depending on your point of view) I should confess now that even in my dreams I am never actually unfaithful to the Boy Wonder, so the kind of romps that I enjoy with my dream crushes tend to be chastely affectionate hugs, chatting about subjects of mutual interest and the general feeling that I am important to someone. None of these are things that our relationship is lacking, but I assume that these dreams are the playing out of some kind of Freudian tomfoolery not least because the men involved are rarely age-appropriate but also because there is an element of revisiting the people who I idolised in childhood.

Last night's dream featured Hugh Laurie who filled a kind of avuncular role as the provider of a meal whilst we discussed books and shared innocent albeit slightly flirtatious hugs. Even as a child, I always like Hugh Laurie, probably because he was an adult who acted like a child, and his recent appearances on television combine my old affection for him with his current New Orleans connection. Either way, I awoke with a slightly guilty feeling of inappropriate behaviour tinged with a sudden urge to gaze at a picture of Hugh Laurie imagining that he was a friend of my parents who I would occasionally get to hug.

I'm assuming that the Boy Wonder wouldn't feel particularly threatened by this, not least because whenever his dreams feature real people they are always dead musicians who have come back to life to play guitar with him, which I suppose is along the same wish fulfilment lines as my desire to squeeze Hugh Laurie. If not though, I can rest assured that the fact he never reads this will protect him from the knowledge that his wife is a faithless weirdo who secretly wants to read books with popular comedians and then discuss them over a nice meal.

Inapropriate Helpfulness

Tonight, whilst watching the Boy Wonder play, a couple got up from the sofa near us and I noticed that the woman had left her jumper behind. I was about half a second away from snatching it up and chasing after her when I realised that they were just at the bar getting more drinks and I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't get to be the kind of helpful soul cliché that restores people's faith in humanity. This left me even more convinced that one of the main motivators for acts of kindness towards strangers (at least on my part) is the warm fuzzy feeling of helping your fellow humans.

In part, I suspect this was fuelled by last night's feel good opportunities: the Boy Wonder was playing at a venue in London which was only accessible by a road which had been blocked off due to roadworks. It became clear that prior to the roadworks it was possible to get through to somewhere else, so after watching a couple of people walk all the way down and then turn back when they realised they couldn't get through I started helpfully pointing out to people that they couldn't get anywhere. They were all grateful for the knowledge which allowed them to save a few seconds and not look like a pillock and I felt like a good Samaritan for helping them out. It didn't really matter that the time it took me to explain to them was around the same length of time it took most people to work it out for themselves, because instead of a neutral observer, I was a helpful contributor which I found satisfying.

Presumably most people who are motivated to help others gain at least some gratification from doing so, in which case can they really be considered truly altruistic acts? Is it still even vaguely altruistic if you start to feel vaguely resentful to people who turn out not to need your help when you were already prepared for the feeling of doing a good thing? I'm pretty sure that I'm not a terrible person, even that I am more helpful than most, but is it really appropriate to begin to have secretly resentful feelings for a girl who just left her cardy on a sofa when she went to get a drink?