The Desk Pillow

Why hasn't anyone invented the desk pillow yet? A fluffy confection of goose feather that fits neatly over your keyboard. It could include a rubber dribble resevoir to avoid any embarrassing dampness clogging up the 'f' and the 'g'. The base of your computer monitor would be adapted to have little concertina arms fitted to it. These would have boxing gloves on the ends. As your head lowered onto the keyboard one boxing glove would ping out to puff up the edges of the pillow, the other to pat you on the head while the computer murmured soothing 'there-there's . A special antenna would have to be fitted to the top of the monitor to react to a previously inserted microchip (situated in the position of your choosing about Major Paperclip's person) so that as he approached, the concertina arms would whisk the pillow away and re-arrange your head in the upright position. The screen would automatically show the latest comparative performance indicator spreadsheet, which would explain your bewildered expression to everyone present. You might need special add-on features, such as the velcro wrist band to fasten your hand to the mouse mat, so you are not rudely awakened by 'arm slip'. If anyone asks, you have the choice of wearing a pained expression and muttering 'RSI', or of wearing a secretive expression and starting a discussion on 'interesting hobbies'.

The Power of the Guinea Pig

I was heartened to see a very large banner hanging on a lamp-post outside a pet mega-market this morning. It featured a handsome close-up photograph of a guinea pig, doing what guinea-pigs do best - looking philosophical. He was obviously contemplating how contrary to the evidence of our senses, the belief in plurality and change is mistaken, and in particular that motion is nothing but an illusion.

You might wonder how I know that. It was all in the expression.

The far away look in the eyes.

Either that or he was just considering whether or not to eat the bouquet of daisies that the photographer had employed to keep him in place.

They eat guinea-pigs in Ecuador, so my friends, I think it's time to start the siege.

Serve de-skinned and fried in a light crumb coating.

NB: While writing this I came across a recipe for Rottweiler and sweet potato. Do Waitrose sell Rottweiler steaks yet?

Look Busy, Jesus is Coming

I was driving home and, having managed to bludgeon the window motor into life, both windows were open letting gusts of spring air rush around. I indulged in a little daydream, imagining the Skip was in fact a BMW Z5. My long, blonde hair was flowing out in the slipstream, my beauty dazzling male admirers who stopped to watch this amazing and obviously successful woman cruise down the street. They held the backs of their hands up to shield their eyes as, in slow motion, I smiled a diamond, sparkling smile from under my Ray Ban Wayfarers.

Then the lights changed.

As I drove I reflected on how it had been another heavy day at work, watching senior managers wrestle with paper planes in order to learn how to improve efficiency while building a Toyota Corolla. An initiative that I suspected had Major Paperclip written all over it. There had also been a minor skirmish over posters in the ecumenical chapel. 'My God!' the caller proclaimed, 'He pulled them all down'. I felt upset at having missed God doing his thing on our premises. Perhaps he really wanted to build a Toyota. They do last a long time.

Me, I'm happy in my Skip.

Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air

The thin, young man with the face so white it glowed like the moon sat cross legged on the filthy tiled floor of the stinking subway. He wore a jaunty hat on a head that sagged from trembling shoulders. His only possession, a thin jacket, scrunched up in front of him. He didn't even have the energy to beg.

A group of suits walked past, faces flushed from the excesses of the after work drink. As they walked they threw snide jeers at him - like stones at a medieval prisoner in the stocks. The limp soul didn't look up.

'Are you hungry?' I asked, stupidly. The pointy chin in the shadow of the hat moved up and down. I left something I'd just bought from a late opening supermarket. I looked back from the stairs. His face was turned towards me and I was getting a thumbs up from one fist. It was like a jolt of electricity, this connection with a stranger.

On the journey home I wondered what series of events would need to happen to lose touch so completely with the functioning world. And how many of us have been close to it at some point?

Sadder still was the realisation of the magnitude of the task facing this ashen faced lost soul to find his way back.

Major Paperclip

There was once a Major who was proud to be in charge of paperclips. His comrades carried M2 Brownings to kill as many people as possible, but he was proud to carry a heavy duty staple gun. He was smug that while his comrades murdered the opposition, innocent civilians and sometimes each other, he only killed time. Major Paperclip enjoyed reading office supplies catalogues, and running audits of stock. He noted his colleagues only read pornography and counting how many cigarettes they had left. He also noted that while they might invade countries, he only invaded other people's personal space.

One day, General Postit announced that paper cuts were required. Not little cuts, but HUGE cuts. He called Major Paperclip into his office, and pointed to a chart on the wall. The chart was bisected by a red line, plunging to the bottom right hand corner. General Postit stamped his foot, hammered the desk with a fat fist and shouted that DRASTIC reorganisation was required to save money. The General inhaled momentarily and then spat out the chaser, 'AND THERE MUST BE NO DROP IN EFFICIENCY'.

Other majors might have been overwhelmed by the size and complexity of the task. Not Major Paperclip. After many hundreds of hours of careful thought, he experienced a dawn of realisation in his early morning bath. The answer to all the organisation's problems would be to KEEP THE STATIONERY CUPBOARDS TIDY. He leapt out of the bath and ran out into the street shouting his excitement.

Major Paperclip organised meeting after meeting, with more and more complicated spreadsheets and more and more computerised presentations in sinister, darkened rooms. The meetings were so important they required that more and more of the highest grade officers attend. The higher the grade, the longer the meeting and the more numerous the officers, the happier Major Paperclip became. The meetings were like a virus, spreading through the building.

The next day in the office, wearing his smartest dress uniform, complete with sword, he held the highest tier meeting he could muster and dispatched every person present to their respective stationery cupboards to make sure they were well organised. He marched back and forth as senior officers hurriedly wrote 'biros' and 'staples - 26/6' on sticky labels and affixed them to the melamine shelving. He ran his fingers round the inside of his shiny Sam Browne and barked the occasional order about whether hole punches (being heavier than lever arch files) should be stowed lower or higher up.

While Major Paperclip was managing to keep so many staff busy checking treasury tags and C5 (window) envelope stock and General Postit admired his updated chart with the red line pointing back at the ceiling again, no one noticed the invaders approaching.

 Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is
purely coincidental.

Is it going to be a barbeque summer?

I went for a walk in the suburban paradise around Prefab Towers at lunchtime. Feeling fleet of foot, I decided to investigate the shop furthest away, which was whatever Woollies has morphed into. It was chock full of odd bits and pieces, a cheap imitation of what Woollies once was. Bike chains hanging next to sewing thread and chocolates. A little beyond the 'wardrobe systems' I was surprised to see what every shopper needs in a slightly dull lunchbreak. Cremation urns, in a stack. Woolworths never sold urns did they? Perhaps they were hidden in the vase section I never excavated properly.

I started to think about how they could work the 'buy one get one free' offers. They'd have to do what Tesco does and 'have one now, one later' (although that's only really helpful for the mass murderers among us). I felt dark thoughts creeping into my mind. Perhaps this part of suburbia is hiding the sort of middle class that barbeque unwanted members of their families, and then pop to Timmy Woolworth to get the urn. I bet the woman on the till knows a few things that might interest the police. Maybe the police should open an urn shop themselves - they could check out the shoppers who ask about the loyalty card scheme.

As I left I decided the positioning of the urns was wrong. They would attract more attention near the 'Happy 100th birthday' cards.

* * * * * *

NB: At secretarial college I sat next to a woman who actually lived next door to a man who had famously barbequed his wife in Richmond. She said they had wondered about the number of al fresco meals he was enjoying, and about the strange smell that lingered on afterwards.

Special K

I was quite excited driving The Skip this week. I had done 49,999 miles. I was on the M40 and had to keep staring at the digital read out to watch the mileometre change. I glanced up to wonder if I needed anything from the M&S outlet in the MOTO services, looked back and, blast, 50,000 was showing.

When I thought about it, I hadn't actually missed anything. It's not like it used to be, when whichever old banger we were driving hit 100,000 and you actually had the deep joy of watching the wheels with the numbers on roll round in unison. The last nought was always a bit slow, you wanted them to clunk down together, like a fruit machine hitting the jackpot, but that last one was always tricky. There was nothing remotely interesting about my digital read out changing, no lovely little wheely things whirring around. Why, when someone has kindly left the speedometre as a proper dial, can't we keep real numbers stamped on little wheels. Just think of the sense of acceleration you get with the speedometer needle swirling round. Think about the hint of blackberry and apple and faint expectation of custard you get looking at the pie chart quality of a real clock. (When anyone in my family ask for a portion of pie or tart, we always ask for '10 minutes', or 'quarter of an hour' on an especially hungry day). It just doesn't work in digital. Where is the food analogy with a digital clock? There is just the hint of GCSE maths with take-awaysies to base sixty. It's not the same.

Bring back dials, bring back real clocks that have a tick from a pendulum, bring back phones that jangle when they ring because they have a bell inside! Digital is dingy!

Going Down?

I'm in the lift, strange faces again. I was so absorbed in my new theory that I forgot to press '9' and then looked daft as I scrabbled for the button as the red dotted '8' swung by encased in upward 'v' signs. The suspect pair had a trolley and a couple of brown paper parcels with them. Props I expect. There's probably a wire basket Lucky Dip of office basics on the roof to help add credibility. Clipboards are popular, as well as the ubiquitous text book with the post-it tags. There must be a row of pegs holding variations on the council lanyard and ID card. I tried to look at one of the lift men's ID cards, but it was cunningly clipped to the edge of his trouser pocket, overlapping his groin. I didn't want to stare too hard in case my interest was misinterpreted.

I've been suspicious of lifts since watching a Saturday night thriller on TV aged about eleven. A woman and a psychotic killer were locked in an office block, and the whole film was based around how she was trying to avoid a grizzly death (by being garroted with a letter knife or similar) and spent hours going up and down in the lifts, hopping out at different floors to see where the madman's lift was. I think it's stayed with me past it's sell-by date.

I hope there's no letter knife in the Lucky Dip on the roof. I won't be responsible for my actions!

Can anyone show me the script please?

I work in a fourteen storey building, which must house a a finite number of employees. I've been working there over two years. How come every time I get in the lift there are people I've never seen before? In fact, when I use the kitchen on the ninth floor, if there is someone else squirting water from the boiler on a teabag, chances are I've not seen them before either. It's starting to worry me. Am I in a 'Truman Show' situation, where the actors are changing regularly? Should I try to break out through the skyline of my local suburbia, somewhere over Pound Mart and the non chain coffee shop that should be nice but isn't? Spookily, today someone was very friendly and spoke to me like they knew me - I could swear I hadn't seen them before. They took the stairs though.

Perhaps there's a crowd of people on the roof, just coming down one or two at a time in the lifts. If I don't get in, maybe they change on the ground floor and go up again until they are spotted. Come to think of it, the security guys in their office on the ground floor always look quite knowing. They're often on the phone too, perhaps they're sending a message to the group of bit-part extras on the roof.

I would take the stairs more often to avoid this conundrum. Trouble is, 252 stairs leaves me gasping for breath at the photocopier and my cappuccino has gone disappointingly tepid by the time I collapse, wheezing, at my desk. The (very good) coffee shop join me in some mild Health and Safety anarchy, and now super-heat my beverage to skin-grafting temperatures. Hopefully, as I get fitter, this won't be necessary. I'll be able to bound up the stairs three at a time, laughing joyfully as I biff the green button on the photocopier to wake it up on my way to my pod zone. I then biff the button on my computer which also takes a good ten minutes to come round. I take the opportunity to stare at the view of Canary Wharf in the distance, where my friend- who-did-better-than-me-at-school works. There must be loads of people in that building, I'll ask her if she recognises anyone in the lifts.

What's the point in IT?

The IT training room at work feels a bit like being in prison. A high quality prison, but a prison all the same. All the tacky matching-but-cheap furnishings cloned from every IT suite across the universe (there's probably an alien somewhere, wrestling with computer concepts, sitting on the dual adjustable office chair) laid out so you can only stare at your monitor or the magnolia wall. It feels like you've been sent to the naughty corner. The single, small window is set high in the wall to avoid the wanton allure of the suburban paradise below distracting us from our task. I stood on tiptoe to open the window to try to alleviate the drone from the monitors and ceiling projector. A pneumatic drill started attacking some belligerent concrete outside. The window was closed. The air went dry. The room remained souless.

The wall screen bore the time in its curled up corner, cruelly accurate to the minute.

I gazed despondently out of the grey window at the grey sky.

'The anti-bird netting seems to be woven into interesting trapeziums' I thought desperately to myself. Just at that moment, an anarchic pigeon released two dollops of poo that splattered across the window pane.

It was OK, it was grey.

It matched.

Odd, Clever, Strange.

I was walking past the Tate Modern today, and thought I shouldn't walk past, I should go in and 'get me some culture'. For a huge place, I've only ever seen a few things that really grab me, and generally I find it rather disappointing. Today there was what looked like an outsized lorry container in the Turbine Hall. I wasn't sure I could be bothered to even go down the stairs to look at it. Then I saw a sign that showed you could walk into it from the other end, so, slightly intrigued, I went round. The container was open with the end dropped down making a broad ramp. It still looked too uninspiring to bother navigating the slight incline to get in. Just as I was about to turn away, a young girl went past saying, 'Wow, what an experience'. Confused, I wandered up the ramp and was drawn into the void. I walked further and further into the container and the darkness became increasingly thick, like soup. Faces came upon me suddenly, out of the apparent nowhere and people bumped against each other. It was disorientating, but mesmerising. It reminded me of seeing a swarm of bats one night in the park. I couldn't see them until they were right in my personal space, when they swooped away with a deft screw turn.

A cluster of pale faces marked the back wall of the container. Turning round, I could see the end of the Turbine Hall, in normal daylight.

Odd. Clever. Strange.

How much for a wing mirror?

I've had to rather traumatically give up my free parking pass at work. This means I have to find a spot in the streets around Prefab Towers. On Friday, I parked in quite a good place on a fairly wide main road. When I came back to the car, someone had smashed into the wing mirror and left it dangling by a solitary electric cable. It reminded me of two things: being seven years old with a tooth hanging by the last string of skin, dangling and twisting rather uncomfortably (I never was quite brave enough to yank it out, and went for days spitting a tooth out at people as I spoke) and how an eyeball might look after being snookered out of its orbit, hanging by the optic nerve.

I drove home gingerly, and most of today has been spent trying to sort out a replacement. The jolly man at the garage under the railway bridge said it would be £175. That's without the time to fit it and before he had screwed the number plate on properly (about time I had a gaffer-tape free car I thought).

£175!

For a mirror!

Blimey!

It spurred me on to test out Halford's customer service, which does those boring ads between Top Gear on the Dave channel. I had done my homework and found a universal mirror for £13.99 on the internet. I started to lose the will to live after giving my registration number three times over the phone to the Saturday chap in the local branch. To make it easy, I even gave him the catalogue number. He spent some time rummaging around in the attic and came back to say he had one. I hot footed it down to the shop, to find that what was behind the till was a towing mirror. I don't have a caravan, and obviously also didn't have a wing mirror to attach it to. The helpful chap went scurrying back into the attic. While I waited, I strolled up to the mirror display and found the one I wanted.

Back to the jolly man in the garage who obviously saw the word 'mug' written across my forehead, because an hour later he charged me £50 to fit it (and do the number plate). As I handed over my hard earned cash, he said I needed some gaffer tape to stop the rain getting in and stopping the window from working.

I tried to look concerned, but regular readers will know that the window hasn't worked for some time.

I was more annoyed that I still needed a roll of gaffer-tape in the glove compartment.

The Magic Carpet

When we are down, we look at the clouds. We see nothing else.

Storm clouds, dark clouds.

A deep depression.

Friends and family come together to shoulder our trouble on a magic carpet of love. Raising us up to better see the sky.

If we look at the clouds, the supporters silently shuffle round beneath us, turning the carpet so our face looks to the sunlight. We might turn our head away, not ready to see it yet.

Quietly, the carpet shuffles round again, trying to direct us to the light.

Sometimes the burden of holding the carpet up is immense. The supporters know they must not buckle under the weight of grief; yours or their own. They hold their breath. Heads down, arms across each other’s trusty shoulders, they side step around the black hole of despair, determined not to let you fall again.

The magnitude of the task is bolstered by love, by trust and by faith in you.

They want no gratitude, only to see your face turn to the light.

They know that somewhere, deep in your soul, you are aware of the ride.

Sport for the Lazy

There's something therapeutic about trying to bat the living daylights out of a shuttlecock. Every ounce of stress or anger from the day can be directed at the flimsy feathered thing that is cockroach-like in it's inability to be destroyed.

I'm now wondering whether there is something in the prefix or suffix 'cock' that makes it indestructable. Hmm, something to think about there.....

Snap out of it girl!

Sorry, where was I?

Oh yes, the shuttlecock. What is so wonderful is that, unlike a tennis ball, you don't have to run far to retrieve it. You can achieve pretty good shots with not that much effort, the racquet is nice and light and you also tend to play indoors so you don't get the sun in your eyes or the wind whisking the focus of your pent-up emotions away. Yes, badminton is a sport well suited to the lazy athlete. I also like cycling because it's exercise done sitting down, and swimming backstroke, because its as near to lying in bed as exercise gets. All that comfy water holding you up. Table tennis might have lighter bats, and those weedy balls, but they do tend to roll a long way away and lodge in tricky places under furniture. If you don't look where you are treading, there's an annoying crunch and you have to bring the game to a premature close (a useful device to employ if you are losing as a draw is the only sportsman-like option in this situation).

Running is by far too much like hard work, and runners always have bandaged knees or ankles, which proves it's not good for you. Rugby players spend as much time in casualty waiting for ear transplants as they do running around the pitch, and cricketers need armoured protection for their well, you know what*, which points to an obvious highly undesirable element in the game.

So, grab a lightweight racquet,swirl it around a few times so it makes a very satisfying whooshing noise in the air, and reduce your blood pressure instantly by thrashing a shuttlecock.

*like those puzzles, fill in the gap the word that makes two new words:
shuttle(_ _ _ _)roach

The Bell of Doom

My new job means a new desk in a huge, open plan office. This is a bit of a change of culture as previously I enjoyed a rather large cell all to myself. I now sit at a 'pod', and am currently feeling slightly inferior, as everyone else has lined their areas with box files and heaps of important looking, spiral bound documents. I quickly realised, like furniture shops have fake books on their shelving, the under-utilised employee needs fake box files. It leaves me in something of a quandry. Is it better to have a clear desk to look hyper-efficient, or does that create the illusion that you haven't got enough to do and must therefore be first on the latest redundancy list? Should I cover my desk in heaps of paperwork to look busy, but risk criticism for muddled working techniques? The other new thing about my work station is that it has a view. Yes, I'm on the ninth floor (feel a bit worried, I was on the first floor before and knew, if push came to shove, that I could dangle from the window sill and drop, Starsky and Hutch style, onto one of the vehicles in the car park. The police tended to park their vans under my window, so that would add to the dramatic effect). The view is a bit annoying, as being in an open plan office, I feel somewhat inhibited about gazing at it for too long for fear of finding another way onto that list.

Anyway, my latest fitness trend is to WALK UP THE STAIRS in the morning. There are 152 - consequently I arrive a bit of a wreck, knees a-tremble, but feeling quite smug. All that hard work means that when the tuck-trolley trundles into my pod zone and the tuck-chap rings his Bell of Doom, my resolve disolves and I observe (from that other being deep in my soul) one hand proffering 50p and the other reaching out to the rustic wicker basket that contains the chocolately items. If I want to make a cup of tea to go with my confectionery, I have to brave the communal kitchen with a set of rules I don't feel totally au fait with yet. I do know that one fridge belongs to the legal team and that I risk being arrested if I use their milk. The kitchen is mysteriously devoid of any utensils (is everyone on the ninth floor a kleptomaniac I wondered), so instead of stirring the tea, I just have to walk with a bit more bounce in my step to help it slop around to achieve perfect diffusion with the milk. This can go wrong and is not to be attempted while wearing anything white. On return to my desk I decided it might need to become the one that has helpful cutlery on it rather than bulging lever arch files with those annoying little Post-It page finders sticking out, inferring that the owner HAS READ EVERYTHING INSIDE.

The oddest thing about the kitchen though is that the fridges are confusingly intermingled with large, glass fronted computers. I can see this becoming a problem as the retirement age increases someone will eventually be caught trying to fit the milk between ranks of cables, sending the whole building into a pre-computer age winter. At least then I will be able to admire the view.

Sweet Dreams

I have purged the whole house of junk this week, and only have a couple of cupboards to go. One I noted, as I wrestled with the ironing board, is the kitchen cupboard. As I mentioned before, one leg got stuck on the folding shovel last time. Today, the ironing board snagged on a deer antler. I wondered for a brief moment if everyone has these things in their cupboards or is it just my kitchen that seems rather surreal. (As I write this, I am reminded of the party where a gatecrasher thought my kitchen was actually a club, so fabulous were the flashing disco lights and the fact that everyone was throwing their shapes while crunching across shards of broken wine glasses).

Anyway, as I am still enjoying a vinyl-fest from having discovered how to plug in the turntable, I blasted the basement with the Eurythmics as I tackled my mountain of ironing.

'Sweet dreams are made of this!', I yelled as the iron tried to straighten the crinkles in my favourite skirt. Oh, how I wish I could sing like Annie Lennox, I thought mournfully to myself. 'Purple Rain, Purple Rain' I sang as I swooshed over my purple top - seemed funny at the time, but maybe you had to be there.

The trouble with vinyl is the music finishes so quickly, twenty minutes is nothing before you have to fiddle around flipping the record over. What's worrying is that it seemed quite a long time back in the 1980s. Do we get ground rush as we get older? Do I want to be doing my ironing if the end of my life is approaching that fast? What should I be doing - fronting a rock band? Can I be Chrissie Hynde next time round please or maybe Annie - I'd enjoy being tall for a change.

Perhaps Annie Lennox does her ironing wishing she worked for the local council, shouting 'any apologies for absence before we tackle agenda item 1?'.

Maybe not, but how would she cope if she found herself in a kitchen emergency that required a folding shovel and a pair of deer antlers?

A Folding Shovel and a Survival Bag

I had an exciting journey to work in the snow on Wednesday. I enjoyed feeling slightly superior as I got into the Skip, which has '4x4' emblazoned on the side. The smile was wiped off my face as, at the first T junction, I applied the brakes and nothing happened. There was an ominous bang as I cruised into the car in front. The driver was very nice about it, and there was no apparent damage. My precious new number plate was hanging by a thread, but a couple of thumps with my fist seemed to do the trick. After sliding around at about 5 miles an hour, brakes juddering at intervals, I got within walking distance of Prefab Towers and skidded on foot into the office. I was 15 minutes late for my first day in a new job. Not a very good start, 'but at least I got there' said a kindly person offering therapy in the lift. That's one of the benefits of being on the ninth floor, you can meet new friends while the lift struggles to achieve escape velocity.

I was reminded of the snowy scenario when I went to get the ironing board out this morning. It caught on something in the bowels of the kitchen cupboard, which turned out to be the handy folding shovel I inherited from my father. It was in a bag that had followed us everywhere throughout my childhood in the boot of the car, and used to also contain tyre chains and a 'survival bag'. It even came on our summer holidays with the sister bag (goodness knows what was in that) making it difficult to fit all the holiday luggage in. Quite often the blue emergency bags would be stored in the passenger footwells which meant a 500 mile trip to Scotland would be made with our chins resting on our knees. My father once described how the 'survival bag' would save our lives if we were stranded in a snow drift. I tried to wear an expression of reassurance, but in truth I think I experienced one or two nightmares at the prospect of being zipped into a fluorescent green rubberised bag with my father while imprisoned in a Toyota Celica on the M1 somewhere near Newport Pagnell.

It all seemed quite far fetched in those days, not so now.

Easter's Come Early

I've just been to Tesco. I had to go - my vacuum cleaner has given up again, and the little independent vacuum cleaner and accessories shop I like to frequent was closed, 'for two weeks' it said on the helpful hand-written notice stuck to the metal shutters. I'm not a fastidious person, but two weeks without a vacuuming session, and there being a hole in the coal bucket (dear Liza), means my once cream carpet has gone a bit black round the grate. 'Big' Tesco (as locals like to call it) was the only place to go for replacements.

The first thing that hit me this time was the enthusiastic marketing of Easter bunnies and creme eggs, the 'season' being 1st Jan to 4th April (nothing much to do with the Paschal Full Moons then). I don't know about you, but I'm only just recovering from Christmas, and so was Tesco (cheap mistletoe-embellished cakes and whole walls built out of Pringles). The other thing I noticed about Big Tesco was the distribution of types of shoppers in the aisles. DIY equipment was wholly populated by men, the pharmacy area by old people, organics by corn braided shoppers in colourful coats. The only aisle that was empty was pet food. Twickenham dogs and cats must still be working their way through the left over turkey - not ready for the rabbit yet either.

While I was there, I was inexplicably overcome by the need to buy a new mop. I have trouble with mops. About once every five years I buy a new one, thinking it will revolutionise my life. I fell for the 'Vileda Supermop', I fell for the 'Wood Floor Mop System'. The problem with these is that you can never find the right replacement parts. I spent a dispropotionate amount of time considering the fixings of mop accessories, before succombing to the charms of the 'Tesco Sponge Mop', which looked simple to use even for me and, cleverly thinking ahead, purchased a replacement head at the same time. This should keep me going for about the next decade, floor mopping not being too high on my agenda.

I cruised home, strangely looking forward to some serious housework, and as I drove past the corporate concrete megolith that is the rugby stadium, I couldn't help wondering whether it might look better built out of unsold savoury snack tubes.

Wired

Phew. I've watched the whole of series one of 'The Wire'. I think I watched too much too soon as I now want to buy an orange sofa and call everyone 'Motherfucker'.

I'm a mother though, does that still work?

My son thinks not and waves his arms in distress every time I try to tell him dinner is ready.

I want to invest in the drug dealer look too; impossibly baggy jeans that show the waistband of my knickers (luckily Bridget Jones big ones work this style), a bicycle chain made of gold (I'll have to buy some Hammerite and cannibalise my old bike), a huge hoodie and some platform trainers. I will keep my middle two fingers permanently folded over, and randomly point to my groin with the remaining digits. I can also mumble about 'my stash' say 'yo' a lot and look furtive.

I think the neighbours are going to be a bit surprised.