Month: October 2005

Thursday 27th.

Installed our super-duper new cordless digital phone (Panasonic, John Lewis), which we bought to replace the crap so-called “digital” phone with the constant buzzing noise and the hopeless sound quality (BT, Dixons, half an hour of wrangling to get a refund).

(Hmm, maybe we don’t need to go to quite this level of detail. Otherwise we’ll be here all week. They’ve got all my mother’s stuff to wade through as well, remember?)

Met an old friend for a meal at the Kean’s Head pub in the Lace Market. Catering to a polite, well-heeled older crowd (as evidenced by the music: The Stranglers’ greatest hits at a discreet volume level, oh how times change), the Kean’s Head was Nottingham’s first ever non-smoking pub.

For the benefit of certain establishments on St James’ Street who are currently making grandiose claims to the contrary (blackboards on the street, the full works), I’ll repeat that: the Kean’s Head was Nottingham’s first ever non-smoking pub. (And just round the corner on High Pavement, the Cock & Hoop was the second.)

Until last night, we hadn’t seen our old friend for nearly two years. We’re seeing her again this evening (early evening pint at The Gate in Brassington), and again on Sunday (picturesque autumnal hike twixt the mellowing and ripening hues of the Peak District National Language, hem-hem descriptive language that should go down well at the la-di-da “writers’ conference” next Thursday I’ll have that book deal now please). With us, it’s famine or feast. ‘Twas ever thus.

Wednesday 26th.

Woo, political comedy! To the Nottingham Playhouse, to see Rob Newman and Mark Thomas.

Now, I’m OK with political comedy so long as a) it reflects my own particular prejudices back at me and b) it actually remembers to be, you know, funny. The first is easily achieved, as there are in fact no successful right wing (or even Blair-ite) comedians that I can think of this side of Jim Davidson (or even Ben Elton), thus PROVING that MY LOT ARE BETTER CHEERS CHEERS HOORAY THE ANGELS ARE ON OUR SIDE. The second can be more of a hurdle, as evidenced by the dreary box-ticking orthodoxy of your Mark Steels and (sorry to say this) your Jeremy Hardys.

(We saw Hardy perform a particularly hang-dog, lugubrious set last year, which mostly consisted of him moping on about how depressed he was about the war in Iraq. Fine, but YOU’RE A COMEDIAN, that’s what it SAYS ON THE TIN, and we’ve come out to HAVE A GOOD LAUGH AND CHEER OURSELVES UP, blinkered dupes of the system that we are.)

Thomas and Newman succeeded on both scores, with Thomas (despite his best efforts) only managing to offend me twice: by making a cheap crack about the size of Charlotte Church’s arse, and by DARING to slag off, for NO VALID REASON WHATSOEVER, the daytime television GODDESS that is Auntie Lorraine “Hooray for Eurovision! I love The Gays!” Kelly. Scratch his right-on surface, and you’ll find that he’s really quite the unreconstructed Geezah underneath.

(My much-valued readers from overseas, are you following all of this OK? I’d provide explanatory links, but time is tight.)

Newman, on the other hand, was impeccable. Having chosen a diametrically opposite career path from his erstwhile comedy partner David Baddiel, he has turned his back on stadium-filling mega-stardom, and is now to be found delivering eloquent, erudite, well researched, factually rich salvos of brain-spinning polemic, as filtered through an arch, dandified, deceptively insouciant persona which charms as it impresses as it provokes. (Precis: European foreign policy towards the Middle East has consistently been all about controlling the oil supply, ever since the start of the First World War; but when the oil runs out, we’re all going to be seriously f**ked. Boom! Boom!)

Tuesday 25th.

Our fifth anniversary of moving into the cottage (and thus also of my last ever wild night down at Trade). Five years ago, I could never have predicted that what was intended merely as a weekend bolt-hole would eventually come to feel more like home than our place in central Nottingham. This is a massively welcome development, and all credit to the village itself for facilitating it; for there’s no doubt that we live in a special place. If this is middle age, then God knows what I was worrying about, as I careered recklessly (and frequently shirtlessly) through the extended mid-life crisis that chewed up most of my thirties.

To the cinema, to watch Wallace & Gromit: The Curse Of The Were-Rabbit. Wholly delightful, but you don’t need me to tell you that. So disarmingly charming and inventive, that not even the distinctly ragged, under-developed plot denouement could shift the big grins off our faces.

Monday 24th.

Absolutely sod all of interest happened on Monday. Work, telly, bed. Yes, let’s stop there.

(Oh, but I did call up my mother, in order to read her all of your lovely kind comments, which both stunned and delighted her. So thank you for that.)

Health Secretary Patricia Hewitt has defended the plans for a partial ban on smoking in public places in England.

Critics and health experts have said plans to exempt private clubs and non-food pubs from the ban are bad for health and will prove “unworkable”.

OK, full disclosure. As mentioned in a recent comments box, I am a living (still!) breathing (just!) example of that great oxymoron, the “social smoker”.

On average – and obviously this varies considerably, in both directions – I get through about 20 cigarettes a week. Most days, I don’t smoke at all. Roughly once a week, on a Wednesday or a Thursday evening, I’ll meet up with my going-out buddies in a city centre pub. As almost all of them are smokers (funny how we all stick together), and as K almost never joins us (we’ve always maintained slightly separate social lives, even if there is a large overlap), I will invariably join in and light up.

During these evenings, I will generally chuff my way through about one fag every 20-25 minutes. The later I stay out, the more frequent this gets. So we’re talking around 10-12 fags in a single night. I think of this as getting in touch with my inner laboratory beagle.

Other than that, I usually smoke three or four in the cottage on Friday nights: late on, after K has gone to bed, and before I’ve started to feel tired. It’s my little weekly treat. The cottage is well ventilated, so there’s virtually no residual stink on Saturday mornings.

I also smoke at gigs; we’re talking maybe four or five in the course of the evening. Well, one has to maintain one’s Rock and Roll credibility somehow. Goes with the territory, doesn’t it?

I never smoke during the daytime, and never feel the slightest urge; the thought of having to carry the residual taste in my mouth for the rest of the day is enough to put me right off the idea.

I never smoke without alcohol in front of me, except for a single cig when I’m walking down to the pub on my own.

If the majority of people I’m with are non-smokers, then I won’t smoke (unless I’m very drunk). I don’t smoke inside people’s houses, or in restaurants.

In summary, I bend with the wind. If the opportunity presents itself, and if there’s no-one around to express disapproval, then I’ll succumb to temptation. If I’m going to piss people off, then I’ll refrain.

Am I addicted? The word feels too extreme.

Do I have a habit? Yes, I do.

Do I enjoy smoking? Yes and no. There are conflicting feelings.

I like reaching into the packet, putting the fag in my mouth, lighting it, and taking the first drag. That’s the best bit.

I hate the effect that the first fag of the day has on my body: dizzy head, fractured brain, heartbeat up, clenched butt, sweaty feet. That’s the worst bit. But it goes away if you smoke a couple more.

I enjoy the feeling of participating in a shared ritual with other happy, smiling, carefree smokers. That’s when I like smoking most of all.

I also like the “private late night treat” feeling which I get on Fridays; but this is invariably accompanied by a little shudder of guilt and shame, which I can’t quite shrug off.

I hate climbing into bed next to K, and knowing that I haven’t got rid of the smell (even if I’ve just taken a shower), and having to turn away from him so as not to envelop him with my fumes. That’s when I feel the most ashamed.

I hate the stink on my fingers and clothes, and the taste in my mouth the next day.

Would I like to stop? I have stopped, several times. But as I’ve never been a daily smoker, I’ve never felt a particular danger in starting again. I always like to feel that I can take them or leave them. After all, I’m not a Smoker with a Capital S. Am I?

I’m avoiding the question. Would I like to stop? Yes, eventually. But it never feels like a matter of urgency. I only started smoking ten years ago, and there have been extended periods during that time when I’ve smoked less, or none at all. I’ve certainly never smoked more. Therefore, when considering the health risks, I like to think that I’m still inside the safety zone. If there’s a fixed lifetime quota for the number of fags that one can ingest without incurring any significant danger, then surely I’m well within it. Aren’t I?

So, what is this mystical lifetime quota? I have no idea.

Has anyone close to me ever suffered through a smoking-related disease? Not so far as I am aware.

Besides, I’m invincible.

OK, I’d like to stop. But, you see, I was rather counting on the government to force my hand for me. By removing the opportunity, they would have removed the temptation. They’ve done it in Ireland. They’re doing it in Scotland. I simply assumed that England and Wales wouldn’t be far behind. After all, this hasn’t exactly been the most liberal of governments in recent years, has it? Nanny state? Bring it on!

And so, even though I’m a “social smoker”, I feel thoroughly let down and proper pissed off. My Tony, my Tony, why hast thou forsaken me?

As to the reasons for the fudge, my inner conspiracy theorist is juggling three possibilities.

1. New Labour is still in hock to the tobacco industry. Unlikely, in this day and age – Big Tobacco must surely have accepted its pariah status by now. Besides, it still has other, larger, less informed markets to conquer.

2. New Labour are scared of losing the tax revenue. Quite plausible. How else will they be able to balance the books, without the billions pouring in from the nation’s chuffers? When the Naional Lottery was introduced, lofty metropolitan commentators were quick to deem it a “tax on stupidity”. Wrong target, fellows.

3. New Labour are scared of alienating its lower income constituency. Christ, they’ve got to do something popular with the working classes, right? Plausible but silly, as the vast majority of middle class floating voters would appear to be passionately in favour of an outright ban in all enclosed public spaces.

And that’s the other bit that rankles with me. Have you noticed the sheer venom with which smokers are being denounced nowadays? Sure, they (OK OK, we) don’t have an even halfway plausible argument to call our own. Sure, we’re selfish, and we stink, and we make your clothes smell awful in the morning. But nevertheless, there’s a creeping edge to a lot of the recent debate which disturbs me. Self-righteousness is never a good look – and don’t give me that “it’s for your own good” claptrap, either. Society likes its easy scapegoats. Thin end of the wedge. There are worse crimes: alcohol-related violence, exhaust fumes… oh, but I’m not even going to go down that route.

Somewhere in the last decade – maybe even in the last five years – we’ve reached a tipping point. Thirty or forty years ago, the whole country smelt of cigarette smoke – so much so, that we barely even noticed it. (Besides, with the comparative levels of polluted air and questionable personal hygiene, perhaps the fag fug smokescreen was doing us all a favour, shielding us from even nastier smells.) Now, the air is clearing. As we lift our noses to the fresher, cleaner atmosphere, those few lingering traces of fag smoke suddenly strike us anew. What we barely used to notice, we now find intolerable.

And so, the hour has come.

But not just yet, it would seem.

Bugger. That only leaves me with will power and personal responsibility.

Basically, I’m f**ked, aren’t I?

I don’t think he meant it quite like this, though.

Mmm, cuddle. Doh, he’s getting up. Shit, it’s late. Erm, have I already brushed my teeth? Oo-er, going senile. Groan, last weekend’s suitcase needs emptying before the cleaner gets here. Bah, why do we always leave this till Wednesdays? Bollocks, he’s left the wet laundry to hang up. Grr, that’s the next ten minutes gone. OK OK, fair division of labour. Yeah, but it still feels good to whinge. Ho hum, can’t be arsed with the paper. Well, just a look at the cartoons then. Christ, I’m shallow. Eyup, cleaner’s at the door. Harumph, that was a cheeky remark. What, does she think we’re alcoholics? Yikes, it’s late. Ugh, can’t be bothered to take the stairs. Boo, lift’s full. Sigh, how many more floors? Yeesh, getting on at Floor 9 to travel to Floor 10? Wow, lazy or what? Oops, there might be something wrong with his legs. Ouch, I feel a bit guilty. Now, quick surf before I log on? No, stop! Ah, go on then. Eek, someone coming. Quick, alt tab! Right, workity workity work. Woo, personal e-mail! Hooray, remembered my dental appointment. (God, remember last time? Oh, the embarrassment.) Good, there’s the taxi. Poo, stinks a bit in here. Blimey, that was a quick journey. Um, should I tip? Nah, what is this, London? Hee hee, what a squeaky voice that receptionist has. Goodness, they’re actually running to schedule. Hah, that must be a first. Yay, clean bill of health! Whoops, bus ahead of me. Aargh, I’d better run. Damn, he’s shut the doors. Erm, if I flash him a watery smile? Yes, result! Right, better send that nagging text to K. Huh, what does he mean by that? Phew, Pret A Manger haven’t run out of sushi. Hey, I was here first! Mmm, great John Peel feature in Word magazine. F**k, it’s really late. Look, I always take the stairs after lunch. So, I deserve to take the lift for once. Boy, this is a tedious piece of work. Ooh,new Scott Adams blog! Ta, BW! Eureka, just thought of something to blog about. Bugger, that took longer than expected. Aaaaaand, hit Publish.

Moral: beware of assigning “automatic writing” exercises to online diarists.
What’s that new buzzword? Tumblelog?

What do the following tunes have in common?

I apologise for the answer in advance. Look, it’s FRIDAY!

The last time I visited my mother in Cambridge, she showed me the completed project which she had been working on for the previous several months: a detailed account of her early life, from her birth in 1940 to her marriage in 1960. Drafted in longhand and then written up on an electric typewriter (no new-fangled technology for this old girl), the binder – complete with numerous pictorial inserts – runs to around 120 pages. Completed to a painstaking level of detail and accuracy, the whole enterprise must have taken her many, many hours.

Immediately, I found myself engrossed in her story: her childhood split between the Inner Temple in London and a Georgian Palladian villa on the outskirts of Weymouth, her appearance as an extra in Dirk Bogarde and Jack Warner’s The Blue Lamp, the sudden death of her mother (and the equally sudden appearance of her stepmother), her six months of study in Paris, and her fateful courtship with my father.

Although this was written merely as a family chronicle, to be passed on to myself and my sister, and although its level of detail will probably render it of interest only to a very select audience, it seems far too worthy an endeavour to waste on the two of us alone. Also, I feel rather anxious about the lack of any electronic backup copy of what is clearly such a unique and irreplacable labour of love. I’m therefore going to release my mother’s memoir in blog form, typing up maybe two or three pages a week, and illustrating it with her collection of family photos, illustrations and other sundry archive material.

Here it is, then: EAMS: Early Memories, complete with its introductory quote from T.S. Eliot.

By way of an appetite-whetter, here’s my mother’s account of the time she found herself modelling for Vogue, aged nine.

I haven’t told you about this before, have I? (*)

Gulp. Wibble. Fancy paying good money to hear me witter on about Troubled Diva! No, it will all be fine. Besides, it looks like I’m on first, so there will be plenty of time to forget all about me.

I’m thinking of including an “interactive” element to my presentation, which would involve me setting you lot some relevant questions/discussion points, and then opening up the comments box in front of the live audience. Apparently, they have the technology. On the other hand, there’s only so much that you can cram into twenty minutes or so.

I’m usually fairly good at ducking out of public speaking. However, on the rare occasions when I submit to the ordeal, it invariably turns out to be rewarding and fun. Rewarding and fun… rewarding and fun… must hang onto this as a mantra for the next fortnight…

(*) I know, I know, “award-winning”. Bless them for that!

Because it’s always good to spread the love. Call me Old School Slash Ancien Régime, but I used to like it when bloggers were more in the habit of linking to their favourite posts.

(Not you, Ben. You do it all the time, and it’s much appreciated.)

Tokyo Girl: Park people: Everyone’s a friend at midnight. Nicely turned piece of social observation, which steers you off in unexpected directions.

Boob Pencil: Activity Changes Consciousness. Clare’s back, and dispensing motivational wisdom. (I also liked her piece on challenging writer’s block, which links in nicely.)

Girl With A One-Track Mind: Numbers. A spot-on deconstruction of the “how many people have you slept with” conversation. (Word to the faint-hearted: it’s one of her less explicit pieces, so don’t go worrying about stumbling across lots of big scary wobbly dangly bits.)

Guyana-Gyal: Trick or Treat? Naughty Ramadan scam exposed! (“Ramadan scam”… there’s a song in there somewhere.)

Finally, a couple of 60-second snacks for the severely ADD:

A Beautiful Revolution: Horoscopes. This only works if you pick the same number that I did. I’m thinking of it now. Come on, concentrate.

Conditional Reality: Control Valve. From a curious blog by an American poet, which contains exactly 100 words per day. (Sheesh, remember when I tried to do that? Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.) This isn’t necessarily the best post on the site, but I have linked to it purely for the amusement of a long-standing reader, Sarah in Paris. Hello, Sarah in Paris! This one’s for you!

Oh, this is just sodding ridiculous. The flu symptoms are back with a vengeance, and the chesty wheezing won’t shift either. So I’m off work again, with a doctor’s appointment booked for Friday.

At mainly horizontal times like these, Sky Plus and the TCM channel are great comforts. Today’s viewing schedule has included:

• In This Our Life. Good Sis (Olivia de Havilland) versus Bad Sis (Bette Davis, whadda BITCH!)
• A Very Social Secretary. Bernard Hill does a cracking David Blunkett, in an expectation-exceeding satire which takes no prisoners.
• Mildred Pierce. La Crawford at the peak of her powers, with Ann Blyth as the Ungrateful Brat Daughter from Hell.

So, you know, being at death’s door has its compensations. But, ah me, I have been sitting upright for far too long now. My couch beckons. I’ll buzz you if I need anything.

There’s one good thing you can say about this cold: it’s full of surprises. Up one day, down the next. Nearly better, just a few renegade sniffles left, then WALLOP, and you’re back in the zone. Dry cough, tickly cough, phlegmy cough, wheezy cough, chesty cough: there aren’t enough brands of Benilyn in the world to cover it. Also, it’s always worst at weekends, i.e. when you can’t even grant yourself the compensatory luxury of a Sick Day.

OK, so going to a Goldfrapp gig with Neil, drinking five pints of lager (of varying strengths), and prolonging the “catching up” session with Alan until 1:00 this morning was never exactly going to flush it out of my system. And, um, I might have had the odd cigarette or two along the way. Just to be sociable, like. But f**k it – if I’m going to be ill anyway, then I might as well imbue it with a sense of purpose.

The upside of this hideous affliction is that it gives me absolute carte blanche to make crap, rambling, semi-delirious blog posts… because at least I’m Making An Effort, and can therefore be granted immunity from criticism. After all, it’s the one immunity I have left to my name.

So I might eventually regret telling you this story. However, as I’m in no condition to judge its appropriateness, I shall plough on regardless.

But first, in best Ronnie Corbett fashion, a preliminary digression. Please feel free to cast me in Golfing Casual wear, hunched forward on a Parker Knoll, fiddling with my glasses.

We had a rather random Saturday night. The plan was for K and I, OldEngland, “Bob” and Mrs “Bob” to grab an early evening pint and a simple bite to eat, somewhere we hadn’t been before. OldEngland had been tipped off about a place which sounded perfect: tiny, traditional, great beer, simple home-cooked game pies and stuff, in the Good Pub Guide, etc etc.

About ten minutes into the drive, we finally got round to mentioning the name of the place to “Bob” and Mrs “Bob”. At which point, “Bob” let out an agonised gasp.

“We can’t go there! It’s officially the worst pub in the world! Everybody I know says so!”

“But it’s supposed to be traditional…”

“Well, yeah. Traditional as in basic, scruffy, dog-rough, inbred, hostile, intimidating…”

Luckily, I had an Emergency Plan B. So we ended up in Longnor instead.

Longnor is a small place, but with four pubs in close proximity, and a chip shop. God knows how they manage to sustain so many. Maybe they just like their beer in Longnor. We ruled out the Robinsons pub, and the rather forbidding looking place with the steamed-up windows, and headed for The Horseshoe at the far end of the main square. Oh, oh, oh! Best Pint Of Marston’s Pedigree, Ever! Seriously! It’s my favourite beer anyway, but this was just perfect.

Next, we crossed the square to the Crewe & Harpur Arms. (I’ve grabbed a screenswipe from the “virtual tour” section on this link, as it shows the exact very same table where we sat.) This has been recently taken over and refurbished, with a smart formal dining room, a large, cosy bar, and an uncommonly welcoming and hospitable landlord: fresh out of the RAF (as of two weeks ago), full of infectious enthusiasm, and with major aspirations for the place.

The food, my dears, was sublime. I knew we were onto a winner when I tasted the lettuce which came with the chicken liver starter: proper, fresh, just out of the ground stuff. (This has been my big gastronomic discovery of the summer: the simple joy of the freshly plucked lettuce. Who knew that they had so much flavour? Or, indeed, any flavour at all?)

As we dined, the landlord revealed that he was also a professional calligrapher, and was there anything that we’d like him to inscribe? Still chatting, while almost absent-mindedly whizzing his nib across a piece of folded-up cartridge paper on the bar, he knocked this up for us in scarcely less than a minute:

And then, by special request:

But this was not the end of his talents, oh no. After our meal, he hopped over to the adjoining piano, and led the whole bar in a rousing rendition of Dame Elton’s Your Song, followed by Let It Be and Bridge Over Troubled Water. Traditional sing-songs round the old Joanna, no less! We Peak District folk still know how to make our own entertainment! You can keep your new-fangled “jukeboxes” and “disc jockeys”. It was jolly. We’ll be back.

The following afternoon, while I was pruning the honeysuckle out on the street, and K was doing complicated “putting to bed” things with the lawn, a couple of familiar faces swung by on their afternoon constitutional. Pleasantries swiftly exchanged, the husband cut to the chase.

“Chaps, I’d like to ask you something. Do you actually find penises attractive? Or are they just, you know, a means to an end? Because I can’t see the appeal.”

(I can’t be 100% certain that he actually said “means to an end” – but if he didn’t, then he certainly should have done.)

Placing my secateurs and trug on the verge, and resting my hand lightly over K’s shoulder, I stood up straight and proud, and looked him in the eye. Man to man.

“That’s a simple question to answer, and I am happy to answer it. On behalf of us both, and indeed of our whole community, I can confirm that… yes, we LOVE cock.”

It was only at this point that the four of us glanced hurriedly round to check that there weren’t any children in earshot. (There weren’t.)

“I think it’s the fact that, if you get close enough to them, they change their whole shape. An outward visual manifestation of an inner state of desire. Most alluring. Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it? We’ve been trying to decide on next year’s tulips.”

I love village life, I do. You just don’t get the same quality of discourse on the streets of Nottingham.

Oh, bless those darling little newbies! My dear friend Alan – not knowing that I am far too important and influential a blogger to be bothered with such trifles – has decided to “tag” me with a meme thingy. To wit: he wants me to post a picture of my computer, and its immediate milieu.

Since it would appear to be Meme Week on Diva, and since I would hate to disoblige a friend (a real-life meatspace friend at that, not one of your namby-pamby Met You Once At A Blogmeet And Now We’re Like Sisters constructs), and since I’m still trying to will my blogging mojo back into life by any means at my disposal…

…here is an exhaustively annotated picture of the very place where a significant proportion of Troubled Diva is created, as snapped after I got home from work yesterday evening. (The annotations represent an attempt at Adding Value to what might otherwise be a deeply dull post. I do try and go the extra mile.)

1. Lovely Dell computer, as ordered online about 18 months ago. Easy to order, good on price, prompt delivery, doddle to install, no subsequent problems, happy customer, recommend them to anybody. K insisted that we splash out on the flat-screen monitor, and I’m glad he did; it’s vastly easier on the eye. (It’s also much better at displaying nice, bright, cheerful versions of my digital photos – unlike the machine I’m currently using, which has seen fit to render the above image in several shades of sludge. For optimum viewing results, please come round to my house and look at them on my computer etc etc.)

2. Not so lovely Dell printer/scanner/copier/fax – as ordered at the same time as the PC, in total ignorance of the Great Dell Ink Cartridge Scam. (Basically, no other makes of ink cartridge are compatible, so you have to keep ordering from Dell, at a hideously inflated price. Avoid avoid avoid.)

3. This is the very microphone which I use to record the Troubled Diva podcasts!

4. Brand new so-called “digital” phone, which K picked up at reduced price from Dixons on Monday. I know, I know. I wanted to warn him, but I was in a bit of a hyper-critical mood on Sunday (nasty touch of flu), and didn’t dare venture yet another negative opinion. So we’re currently lumbered with this absolute piece of shit: terrible reproduction quality, which makes it sound like you’re speaking from a padded cell, at the bottom of a well, while someone does the hoovering in the background. Digital my arse.

5. Horrible unaesthetic chair, reduced to clear in Office World about 6 or 7 years ago. Unergonomic in design, and it squeaks every time that you so much as twitch. Plus it’s grey, and so clashes with the entire room (and indeed the entire house).

6. Spare chair, for those Darling Let’s Surf The Web Together moments. (Consquently covered with random bits of paper for 90% of the time.) This was relegated from the sitting room, once its combination of wicker and curvy metal began to scream Early 1990s.

7. Jumbo spindle of blank CDs, ready for burning. If I’ve done you a CD in the last few months, then it will have been peeled off this spindle.

8. Sturdy beech-effect IKEA desk. (Yes, we do occasionally give house room to IKEA products. They’re particularly good on office stuff.) The drawers contain 95% crap which didn’t have a home elsewhere; I only ever open them to retrieve the digital camera, which lives in the middle drawer.

9. Exciting M15-approved electronic paper shredder, as purchased by K while he was still working from home. Because you can’t be too careful. (We’ve had someone go through our wheelie bin on a couple of occasions. Or maybe it was the local fox. Yes, the Park Estate has its own fox. It’s a wonder the residents have never taken up hunting. After all, it’s not as if they ever pass up a chance to be faux-gentry.)

10. Waste paper bin, which our cleaner never empties because it has scary modern technical stuff in it like discarded CDs, and she doesn’t like to tangle with such matters. Oh God, I’m blogging about our cleaner. Take me out and shoot me, before I morph into Polly Filler.

11. Terracotta mug, bought from IKEA in 1992 when we moved into the house, containing a freshly brewed cup of Twinings English Breakfast. Note the sad lack of Troubled Diva merchandising in the mug arena (and indeed in the mousemat arena). Because, believe it or not, I don’t actually own any of my own merchandise. Well, it seems a little masturbatory, don’t you think?

12. Painting, by Alicia Dubnyckyj, of the Little White Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas. Let’s look at it properly, shall we?

Bought (and blogged) in January 2003, this painting took on an added level of interest a year later, when the chapel in question was used by Britney Spears for her Whoops I’d Had A Few Too Many 24-hour marriage to “childhood sweetheart” Jason Alexander. Perhaps they have a commemorative plaque there now.

13. A bunch of recently digitised CDs. (The CD burner is out of sight, behind the nasty grey chair.) Top of the pile: a CDR of Jet Propelled Photographs by Daevid Allen’s University Of Errors, as copied by my mate Stereoboard, and consisting of latter-day space-prog covers of extremely early Soft Machine tunes. Yes, it’s a bit Niche even by my standards.

14. It’s very untidy of me to leave it lying around like that, but the iPod to USB connection cable is used so frequently, that there’s scarcely any point in tidying it away. Everyone’s allowed one area of the house where they can be a total slob, right?

15. The only bookshelves in the house, which run from floor to ceiling in this handily placed alcove. Unlike with music, we’re not great hoarders of books, unless they’re hardbacks or contain pretty pictures. Read ’em, pass ’em on, or bung ’em in a box for the charity shop. Anyway, just visible in this shot are: In The Fascist Bathroom by Greil Marcus, an original 1950’s collection of Ronald Searle‘s St Trinians cartoons, and a large number of signed and dedicated first editions of Dymbel’s Young Adult Fiction paperbacks.

Any further questions? And shall I “tag” someone this time round?

Yes, I shall. Peter, you’re It. Show us yer workings!

Cheaper and quicker than cognitive behavioural therapy: just stick your MP3 player on shuffle, and let it answer the following set questions, oracle style.

1. What do you think of me, Random Music Player?
Emily Snow – M. Craft.

I’m not sure how this got onto my iPod, but it turns out to be a wistful, mournful, slightly twee acoustic ditty concerning the impermanence of human relations.

“Where do we go, now all the late night bars have closed, and our friends have turned to shadows? People come and people go… blink of an eye… we’re all gonna die… so what are we waiting for tomorrow?”

Well gee, THIS is working. THANKS for that, iPod! Is there any point in continuing with this? Or with anything? Anything at all?

Also, I don’t take awfully kindly to being called Emily Snow. It makes me sound like some sort of coke-sniffing spinster, and I refute the comparison utterly.

Or perhaps this is some sort of “confrontational” therapy, deliberately designed to challenge and provoke? We shall see.

2. Will I have a happy life?
Six Days – DJ Shadow.

So does that mean that I can only expect six days of happiness in the rest of my miserable life, or that I’ve only got six days left on this benighted planet? F***ing hell, enough with the doom and gloom already! Where are we going with this?

“You could be sitting taking lunch, the news will hit you like a punch, it’s only Tuesday… tomorrow never comes until it’s too late.”

This is one miserable dirge. I scarcely dare continue.

3. What do my friends really think of me?
Childrens World – Maceo Parker.

Good grief, this sounds even more mournful and tragic than the DJ Shadow track, as a lone sax picks out a ragged, forlorn solo over softly descending organ chords and understated, bluesy guitar chops. For, like, over ten minutes. Maceo Parker is best known for his sizzling, ecstatically funky work with James Brown’s band… so what happened here?

I have visions of my friends all standing round and shaking their heads in sorrow, in a kind of what-went-wrong way. “He could have been someone… if only… he never really grew up though, did he…”

Towards the end, things reach a kind of frenzied crescendo of agonised wailing, with multiple horn solos all kicking off and singing their own disconnected songs of individual pain. Was it something I said?

4. What does my Significant Other think of me?
Od Yeshoma – Oi Va Voi.

Jeez, more lush downtempo lugubriousness. What’s UP with this iPod today? Where’s the DISCO, fer chrissakes?

Whatever it is that K thinks of me, he has chosen to express it in the form of a traditional Hebrew prayer. Well, we do pride ourselves on never doing Obvious and Slushy. Ah, here’s a translation.

“Still will be heard in the mountains of Judas, and in the streets of Jerusalem. A voice of laughter and a voice of joy, A voice of a groom and a voice of a bride.”

Well, I suppose that’s vaguely cheering, if a little obtuse. Or maybe he’s planning to elope with a nice Jewish girl, leaving me standing at the altar registrar’s table, sweating in my nice Paul Smith suit, nosegay already wilting in my clenched fist?

Moving swiftly on…

5. Do people secretly lust after me?
Yesterday – Matt Monro.

“Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be…” I swear I’m not making these up. Still, that would explain the lack of shitty sticks down NG1 last Friday.

6. How can I make myself happy?
We’ve Only Just Begun – The Carpenters.

“So many roads to choose. We start off walking and learn to run.”

Following many months of referrals, screenings and false starts, my first proper CBT session took place yesterday evening. Mountains to climb, streams to ford, etc etc. Nuff said.

“Talking it over, just the two of us. Working together, day to day.”

Someone inside that infernal machine is HAVING A LARF.

7. What should I do with my life?
A Rose Is Still A Rose – Aretha Franklin.

“Baby girl, you’re still a flower… darling, you hold the power.” This is WAY too Zen for a prosaic soul like me. Give me simple messages, dammit! And enough with the camp over-familiarities – a little professional distance would be appreciated, thank you.

8. Why must life be so full of pain?
Call Me – Feminnem.

“There were times when I really doubted, if after stormy weather always comes the sun. But now I can see the world from a different side, yeah…”

At last! It’s sunny, it’s bouncy, it’s breezy, it’s lively: it’s this year’s Eurovision entry from plucky little Bosnia & Herzegovina, sent to banish all sadness and fill my heart with gladness. For when a Eurovision song is playing, then nothing bad can happen to y…

“Fifty candles on the party cakes, for many years of happiness.”

Oh, just f**k off and DIE. I’M FORTY-THREE!

9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
When Poets Dreamed Of Angels – David Sylvian.

“She rises early from bed, runs to the mirror, the bruises inflicted in moments of fury. He kneels beside her once more, whispers a promise: next time I’ll break every bone in your body.”

OK, now you’re just scaring me. May I see your certificate?

10. Can you give me some advice?
Every Party Has A Winner And A Loser – Erlend Øye.

Save your platitudes for Blackpool, pal. Do I even look like David Cameron? (Who was described by Rory Bremner on this morning’s Today programme as a political iPod, curiously enough.)

11. What do you think happiness is?
Doop – Doop.

Now we’re singing from the same hymn sheet. Happiness is… an instrumental novelty number. Indeedy-doody-doo!

12. Do you have any advice to give over the next few hours/days?
Peach Trees – Rufus Wainwright.

“And I really do wish you were here next to me, cos I’m going to see James Dean. There I will be, under the peach trees with him.”

This must be some sort of tit-for-tat reprisal for the nice Jewish girl. Frankly, I think I’ve got the better deal.

13. Will I die happy?
Small Song – Lhasa De Sela.

“I made a small small song. I sang it all night long, all through the wind and rain, until the morning came. This song is my small song. I sang it all night long, and when the morning came, I had to start all over again. My song is so so small, I could get down and crawl, searching from wall to wall, and never see anything at all. How could you hate such a small song? If i was right, I would be wrong. Don’t be afraid, it’s just a small song.”

Oh, iPod. And I thought we were on the point of a breakthrough. Same time in a fortnight, is it? Yes, I’ve got cash. No, I’ll see myself out.

Moral: Man, that machine has more issues than I do. Perhaps this was the point all along.

Don’t worry: I shan’t be “tagging” anyone with this, as I believe common parlance now has it. What is this, the school playground?

(Yes, I take your point.)

Update (1): guyana-gyal suggests playing some Donna Summer and doing the answers again. An excellent suggestion. Here are the (very different) results.

Update (2): Meg of me(ish) dot org takes the meme, mutates it a bit, then does her own iTunes-on-shuffle splurge. (Yay, John Martyn’s cover of Glory Box!)

(via various places, including here and here)