Minimum

Cowabunga and good evening.

Everyone has OLYMPICS FEVER, but I'm wearing an airtight hazmat sarong, so remain unaffected. I like the Olympics well enough, but I don't have it coursing through my ducts 'n' fibre. It might seep in later, but for now you can look elsewhere for national pride and podia.

Instead, I'd like to talk to you about Rhys Ikeling.
 
In the old days, people didn't like Rhys Ikeling. But now, Rhys Ikeling is a part of everyday life.

...and so on and so on.

"Rhys Ikeling" sounds like "recycling", so I was going to do some kind of thing about that.

Maybe you wouldn't realise what I was talking about, and I'd have said something about bins, and you would have been all like "CLASSIC!".

No-one can predict the possible pasts. For that you'd need a crystal-mirrorball, and those are expensive.

I'll probably write a hit web comedy about Rhys Ikeling in 2013. It will have lots of misunderstandings and references to popular culture from the nineties. I'll sell a lot of merchandise and then this blog post will become a fantastical curio for my many fans. That will probably happen.

I'm tired.

***

I'm not so tired!

Hey, how about this for a great comedy idea?

There's a character who is hard of hearing, so one of the other characters (Dan) will say "Let me offer you a piece of advice..." and the hard of hearing character (who's also called Dan, enabling future comedy), says "Thank you - I would like a piece of rice!".

Then Dan is all "What? No. I said "advice"." And Dan will be "Uh... yes, that's what I said: rice. I'm making a chilli con carne and I don't have much rice, so your piece of rice, whilst not totally making up for the shortfall, will certainly make the rice lack less noticeable.".

Then Dan will roll his eyes and hand over the rice that he was holding, and Dan (a girl one) will be "You're a good friend!" and they'll kiss, and then then deaf Dan will say "Who should defend?" and then the whole cast, crew and studio audience will nod and think that television is BACK.

It's a classic scenario, but with a modern twist.

I'm tired again.

***

I'm less tired. Here are some one-word reviews of films I've seen lately:

The Dark Knight Rises:

Decent

Basil the Great Mouse Detective:

Mouse

Paris, Texas:

Honesty

Amazing Spider-Man:

Decent

Don't Look Now:

Do

Blade:

Douchebags


Quantum of Solace:

Forgotten

Adventureland:

People

***

This blog post will fulfil my minimum requirements of eight Headscissors entries each month.

We shan't speak of the content drought of December 2010. I mean, I just did speak of it. But we won't speak of it again.

Unless you want to. I'm not your dad. (Yes, that includes you, Paul Junior. I didn't want to tell you like this, but you were named after your real dad: Paul "Junior" McGann).

Changing tack, I think my blog could help the illiterate. They should be read one of my finest entries (perhaps the one about polenta). Then, after their appetite has been whetted, told that they will be read no more. They will then be forced to learn to read, just so they can access this treasure trove of fascination and poorly-punctuated dialogue.

It's like a combination of carrot and stick. They're given a carrot, and then beaten on the mouth until they voluntarily eat more carrots.

The carrot and stick dichotomy is a false one anyway. What is a carrot, if not a delicious orange stick? What is a stick, if not a carrot inhibitor?

Same with the whole rod and child thing. I don't want either, thank you very much.

Changing tack, how about a space-saving alternative to fitting rooms? Customers in clothes shops can be stuck to the wall with a lurid adhesive, far away from the prying eyes of their fellow woman. Then, when they're finished, they can peel themselves off.

Changing tack.

Changing tack.

Do you see?

Changing-tack.

What about with a hyphen? What about with a hyphen?

Rhys Ikeling.

Changing tack.

Rice/advice.

Three strikes, Paul. Three strikes.

Three strikes, and your union will be taken seriously.

Everyone is praying for me to stop this. And who am I to argue with the prayers of prayers?

P

I've invented a new superhero. I do this quite often. I've built up quite the array of deep, complex, original characters.

You might remember The Human Lull, Ad Infinitum, Paul Instructon, The Khaki Dynamo and the ever-popular Bike Brigade. I'm more prolific than Stan Lee. I haven't managed to turn these into multimillion dollar franchises yet, but that's just because I'm not very good at drawing faces, henchmen, or attention to myself.

The basis is there, though. Upon this foundation, a mighty publishing empire shack may be erected. The shack will be built of ideas, carpeted in money and will contain an en suite bathroom of wonder.

And now a new legend can be added to my impressive pantheon: Ross Phosphorus.

As with the rest of my creations, I haven't really got any specific details to go along with a name. I think he's Scottish, and I think he's quite dour. The dullness of his personality will contrast with his powers, which involve a lot of glow-based attacks.

Apparently, phosphorus compounds are used in a lot of fertilisers. So he can do that too: grow things. Maybe he can grow himself. Though that may be diluting the concept.

His primary villain may or may not be the nefarious Professor Parasol (because of the whole 'blocking out light' thing).

I'm not saying he'll be the new Spider-Man. But there has to be a market there somewhere. It's just so fun to say Ross Phosphorus in a Scottish accent. Go on - try it.

You see?

Kids will be doing that all over the world. But not in Scotland, because they're no longer amused by their own accent. Also the character will be poorly researched and will only include the most obvious Scottish stereotypes (the wearing of onions, and cars).

As I said, I can't draw, but I've produced a decent mock-up. I think you'll get the idea:

 

I'm inspired already.

There are a lot of merchandising options, too. Kids like night-lights and torches and fertiliser. Parents love parasols.

The demographics are literally two.

I'll get working on the first issue. I think his origin will have something to do with phosphorus.

I can smell the money already. Mmm. (By the way, this blog post constitutes a trademark/copyright, so hands off!)

On another day, this post could be eighteen pages long, with a full outline of story arcs and supporting cast (hint: Phosphorusty The Robot).

But this isn't another day. This is this day. On this day, I have nothing more to give.

Red Mist

Let's talk about the keys thing.

At the end of my first year of university, I was depressed. I was generally depressed throughout most of that year, but that doesn't have any bearing on this story.

I'd just finished my first year exams. You'd think that it would be a time for jubilation, celebration and various Animal House-style horse murders. But I must have had some kind of adrenaline dump, and the moment the exams were out of the way I wanted to sit in a dark-infested tank and grind my teeth.

This didn't really have anything to do with how well the exams had gone. I didn't know how they'd gone. (It turned out they had gone just well enough to pass. It was pretty close though.) I suppose the problem was just the general anticlimax that happens after any significant milestone. If you yearn for something so much, hoping and praying and willing it towards you, that when it finally arrives, it hits you in the face at a thousand miles an hour and you need a lie down.

So I was having a lie down. It was the afternoon, and I'd closed my curtains. My room was in a halls of residence, and was on the ground floor, right near the building entrance. This was not ideal for a life of peaceful study. Luckily, a life of study, peaceful or otherwise, was never on the agenda.

There I was, seething in the dark, when I heard the voice of Rob. I haven't changed his name to protect his identity - it was Rob. He was a fellow PPE student, was from Newcastle, and probably had other characteristics that I've either forgotten or never knew. He had come to ask me if I wanted to join the rest of the PPEists for a celebratory night of drinking and consolatory amnesia.

He knocked on my open window and asked if I was coming out. A friendly invitation, you might think. This made me angry. I ignored him.

He persisted. "Come on!" he might have said. "What are you moping around for?" This made me angrier.

I just wanted to ignore the world, and the world was shouting through my window. In a Geordie accent. Rage filled my soul and bed.

Then it happened. My keys were on my windowsill for some reason. Rob playfully reached through and grabbed them, and threw them towards me in a playful gesture. That was the idea at least.

But the keys hit me right in the face. Hard. They were really heavy. In those days, I had loads of keys (one for every door in Britain), several metal loops, four keyrings in the shape of anvils, a granite Ten Commandments fob...

Hard metal, hard in the face. Like getting punched by C3PO.

I totally flipped out. The post-exam depression, the invasion of my solace and the physical assault all added up. I lost, burned and buried my temper, and was out for blood. If he'd been in the room, I literally would have punched him.

But he was on the other side of the window. There was no way for me to hurt him physically. I could have tried throwing the keys back at him, but I would have lost the moral high ground and, more importantly, my keys.

In the end, the moral high ground was out the window, even if the keys weren't.

I swore at him, I insulted him. I was so desperate to hurt him like he'd hurt me that I tried every possible hurtful angle. But I didn't really know enough about him to be able to do that.

In the end, I resorted to insulting his dad by derisively referring to him as a miner.

I don't know if he was a miner. I think he might have been an old-school socialist. But why did I think that would be an effective insult? I like socialists and miners. I was just grasping at any hurtful straw I could find, but they were all made of soft plastic.

I think he just laughed.

It was scary though. If he hadn't been a white heterosexual male, would I have resorted to some kind of bigoted slur? Would I have insulted his country? Was I angry enough and impotent enough to resort to racism?

I really hope not. But at that moment, I was so angry that I might have used any weapon at my disposal.

I don't like to think that anger might make me stoop to such depths, but my rage was so visceral and overwhelming that rationality or compassion didn't come into it.

I don't tend to get angry about much, but when I do, you might want to stay away.

And, to recap, this anger came from a friend a) asking me if I was going to come out for a drink and then b) accidentally throwing some keys at my face. I don't think many courts would deem that sufficient provocation for anything beyond a polite rebuke.

I don't think the bad mood lasted too long. I'm sure Rob doesn't even remember this.

I've only been angry like that a couple of times since, and on neither occasion did I hurl any epithets at anyone.

I'm only human. I have a long fuse, but not an eternal one.

The moral of the story is:

DON'T TEST ME.

No, wait...

The moral of the story is:

If you're in a bad mood, don't leave keys on your windowsill.

It's a lesson worth learning.

My second year of university was much better. Though my rage issues might have manifested themselves in the Anger Monkey Chart I handed in that one time instead of doing an assignment.

I matured quickly, and continue to do so.

I don't have any problem with your dad being a miner.

Moorhens, Lesshens and Sameagainhens

Behind our building, there's a fairly shallow, fairly narrow, stream. Some moorhens have made a nest there. It's right next to the wooden footbridge that leads from the car park over to Sunnymead Meadow, so you can get a close-up look at the birds and their nest-making techniques.

(The above photo is of a generic moorhen. I don't have a camera or time to take pictures of moorhens)

They've done a great job. The nest looks luxurious. There are eggs in the nest, which I'm assuming belong to the moorhens. There's a whole lot of incubating going on.

But I'm worried. The nest is really close to the footpath. People walk their dogs over there. The eggs seem too exposed.

I don't know what kind of animal would eat moorhen eggs. I assume a fox or a cat would be put off by the water. But dogs love swimming and eating things. What about a child? A stupid, angry child might look at those eggs and think about smashing them, because that's the kind of thing that children do. They think the only way to understand something is by destroying it. I suppose they're right, which is why I'm always trying to "understand" kids' faces with the flat of my hand.

I'm worried about the eggs. I thought about protecting them. I could set up a guard tower like in a prison movie, and could pick off any would-be assailants with a sniper rifle. I'd have to work in three eight-hour shifts per day, with no break.

I'd vow to protect the eggs with my life. If I saw a dog or a child or an electro-eggmagnet approaching the nest, I'd shout "Oi! No!" before firing, just to prevent any nasty lawsuits.

I could build a perspex shield around the nest. Nine out of ten hundred eggs are killed by meteor fragments or falling champagne corks from a nearby baptism.

I don't want anything to happen to those eggs.

But I began to realise that, for all my human DNA and computers and handshake proficiency, the moorhens are better equipped to protect moorhen eggs than I am.

It's a humbling thought.

We like to think that we're at the top of the food chain. The top of the evolutionary ladder. The top of the genetic heap. And we are, sort-of.

But we have our specialisations, just like the animals. A moorhen wouldn't be able to surtitle an opera. And we can't protect eggs.

Moorhens know from experience (or genetics) what dangers are present. They'd know that dogs are no threat and that meteors are repelled by feathers, for example. They know how warm to keep the eggs. They know how big the nest should be. They know.

My wanting to protect the eggs is patronising. Humanity doesn't have a monopoly on know-how. There are areas where we're completely ignorant. In those cases, it's best to butt out and let birds be birds.

I hope the eggs are OK. I hope they hatch into little moorchicks. I hope those chicks go on to lead very rich and interesting lives, by moorhen standards.

It's just that I've realised I can't play moorgod. I'm just a man. A human man. I wouldn't want a moorhen looking after my baby. It might peck it.

You have to learn when to let go. Abdicating responsibility is sometimes the key to prolonged success. Uncertainty is a price worth paying. If you want to make a mooromelette, you've got to break a few vows.

Good old moorhens.

***

I have some more content, but I'm going to ration it. Tree tum mean, keep um Keane, or whatever that expression is.

I'm going to give you a sneak preview here, to force myself to actually write these later.

1) I came up with a joke, but took a long time getting the phrasing just right
2) I got hit in the face by keys, then insulted the culprit by saying his dad was a miner

Stay tuned.

Wow!

FOR ENGLAND!! *drops shield*

I'm trying out some new openings (as the actress playing a bishop said to herself! LOL!), so forgive the shield thing. I think it could be the new "hello".

It's tweet time again. I still haven't returned to the glory days of peak performance, where I'd throw out ten dozen quips before breakfast, but I've left it long enough to have accrued a reasonable crop.

I wrote some cutting things during Euro 2012 that I haven't repeated here, because nobody cares about that pointless tournament now. To revisit them would be like going to see the the film Phone Booth at the cinema twice.

What's left however, is content that remains relevant all year round. These will stand the test of time. You might be reading this in the future, and telling people that my tweet about apples is as true as it ever was.

If you are reading this in the future, thank you. May your snikeblomming continue unabated.

Let's do this. Let's do this RIGHT NOW.

Get ready for another edition of:

Evergreen Sloganeering

***

Sometimes I only remember to cover my mouth several seconds after I've finished yawning. 

***

There is no sound more degrading to the human spirit than an off-mic Mark Lawrenson chuckle.

***

95% of wows are undeserved. 

***

I'd really like there to be a suggestion box in the coffee shop, but there's no way of letting them know. 

***

You can take the seahorse out of the sea, but you can't take the sea out of the seahorse (or the horse). 

***

There's a long-running feud between people who spell feud "fued" and people who aren't pricks. 

***

In a brave attempt to stave off boredom, I've decided to become really angry. 

***

Just saw someone with a side-parting and became so enraged that I dug my fingernails into my palm. Through HIS palm. 

***

Just punched a watch for not laughing at my "won't give me the time of day" joke. An analog NOBODY.

***

Anger is more boring than boredom. I'm going to try a hybrid of distrust and lust. I call it distlust.

***

I can't help but feel your bra has an ulterior motive...  

***

Say mould, say mould. 

***

It's a bad sign when you find yourself shouting "YOU CAN'T ACT!!" at the TV and it isn't even on. 

***

Nod and say "Exactly. Exactly." to all graffiti. 

***

Every time Jamie Carragher is speaking, I have to dial down the "Scouse contrast" on my TV. 

***

Just had a very productive shower. I came up with an amazing rap song called "Elbowed in the Windpipe" (The title is also the main hook) 

***

Lyrics include: "You say that it's only an elbow / I say "Well, no / it hurts like fuckin' hell, bro!" ‪#elbowedinthewindpipe

***

Later: "You say it was accident, yes. / But if I was wearing a sharp necklace, I'd be neckless / So don't be reckless!" ‪#elbowedinthewindpipe

***

I'm going to make a lot of money. 

***

I'm having a bad hair day. Oh. No, sorry - not "hair". I meant " ".

***

I'm in the finals of the World Inconspicuous Dog-Walking Championship. Tough competition, but I've taken a slender lead.

***

I'm working on a shrug so intense that my shoulders will meet above my head.

***

I wrote a book on solipsism and had it signed by the author. 

***

*verbs* 

***

Humbloffee Pie. 

***

Spider-Man always wakes up a few seconds early, when his spider-sense warns him his alarm clock is about to go off.

***

I just pressed a keyboard key with my mouse. From now on, nothing will ever be the same. 

***

I'll give you my poisoned Calippo when you pry it from my cold, dead hands. 

***

FUNNY JOKE: What do you have to do to get a blue plaque? Play it some Elliott Smith. 

***

I mean, technically plaques don't have ears. But I've never claimed to be Mike Leigh. 

***

(BTW, I'm Mike Leigh) 

***

*exists* 

***

Every piece of advice contains a further implicit piece of advice recommending that you follow it. 

***

In space, no-one can tell if your applause is sarcastic. 

***

I just said "If that doesn't get me a retweet, nothing will!" to the guy who empties our recycling bins. Don't think he heard me... 

***

One of my favourite football expressions is describing a player performing "week in and week out". As though time needs further explanation. 

***

"I'm working on a new catchphrase" is my new catchphrase. 

***

Kang the Conqueror on his invisible floating cushion chair looks like the guy on the "Caution: Wet Floor" sign.

(I'm so, so bored) 

***

Before you go to sleep, I want you all to pray that Daniel Radcliffe is cast in the next Expendables film.

***

I just jumped for joy and 2Pac. 

***

Has anyone ever been accused of stalking the Stork King? If not, I may have invented a new animal crime. 

***

Just once, I'd like to say on the phone "Uh, sir? We've got a situation here..." Because situations are RIFE. 

***

Cloud, clown; crowd, crown.

***

Just phoned Facilities to ask if they'll install handsomeness-dampening filters in all office mirrors. I need to get some work done.

***

"Quick! All of you - into the bunker!" - Pressed-For-Time Bunker Salesman. 

***

Walking home, Lucy & I imagined fights between various rhyming celebrities. Liam Neeson beat Brendan Gleeson. Nick Nolte beat Basil Fawlty. 

***

The bout between Henry Winkler and Steven Pinkler was ruled a no contest due to the latter being fictional. 

[Paul/Editor's Note: @tomgreeves correctly pointed out that Basil Fawlty was also fictional. I hadn't spotted the flaw in my logic.]

***

Remember Pancake Day? WHAT WERE WE ALL THINKING?!

***

I can't wait to explain GIFs to my grandchildren. 

***

Get this! A tiger foetus is a "work-in-tigress"! (Like "work-in-progress"!!) ‪#smile‬ ‪#thursday

***

"THE PLANE IN SPAIN STAYS MAINLY ON THE WAYNE" would have been a great headline if John Wayne had been killed in a plane crash (in Spain). 

***

In the journal of Ruth, there's a kernel of truth. 

***

I hate it when people say "haitch" when selling you rabbit supplies. 

***

I left an apple on my desk over the weekend. It's still here, and now I'm worried that the office horse is dead. 

***

I've just learned a very important lesson about inflating lesson importance. 

***

I've been practising looking surprised, so that when I'm ACTUALLY surprised, I won't look too surprised. 

***

"No, I didn't say it had a blue plaque. I said it had a BLOOP LACK. Do you see any bloop around here? Exactly." ‪#estateagents 

***

I think there might be some kind of alphabetic conspiracy, because two 'o's are in cahoots. 

***

Overheard outside our flat just now: "Hey, do you remember that episode of Sliders?". We need to move to a different neighbourhood. 

***

I've never considered myself  

***

Not too many, but enough. That's just the tip of the comedy iceberg. If you'd like to see more of these kinds of things (if, for example, you've suffered a brain injury), you can follow me on Twitter here, or just click here for some more of these compilationy things.

Have a splendid today.

Development

This may be controversial, but I believe all Panamanians are liars.

Ask them. They'll say they are not liars, proving my point.

***

I don't know, man...

It's been a strange couple of decades for me. I just haven't had much stability. Moving from school (primary) to school (secondary), from college (sixth form) to college (Mansfield), living in a wide variety of different buildings, being a wide variety of different heights.

I can't tell you how many pairs of shoes I've owned since the 80s, but it must be over a dozen.

I should bring an end to this erratic lifestyle. I'm nearly thirty. It's time to settle down. I'll settle down at thirty.

No more frivolous age changes. No more increasing my age by a year on an annual basis. No more following the latest trends and fashions for incremental ageing. I need to make a choice and stick with it. Thirty will be where I lay my hat and build my house on a non-sand foundation. I'll stick my flag in the earth and move forward never more.

Unless I get bored. Which might happen. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But only once. Unless I get bored.

I don't know, man...

It's like the man says: "It's like the man says".

It would be different if I had a calling. Not better, but different.

Imagine if I'd always been obsessed with becoming a darkroom.

That would give me a goal to work towards. I'd spend time excavating my torso, installing one of those red light bulbs, considering ways to contain developing fluid without poisoning myself. That kind of project would make me excited to get up in the morning.

Would I develop photographs in myself, or would that duty fall on others? Would the prominence of digital photography make equipment more expensive and harder to come by? Would a life spent as a darkroom mean that I would have to stay relatively still, reducing the time I had for actual photography?

I wouldn't have been so aimless in my education and employment. I'd know exactly which courses to take (photography, human structural engineering, marketing). I could have done an internship at a photography studio, or gain experience in some other similar project (such as a woman who has decided to transform one of her legs into a greenhouse).

I'd know who I was. I'd know where I needed to be, and what steps should be taken to get there.

[Side note: I just spoke to Lucy about the possibility of becoming a darkroom. Her response: "It would be difficult. It is quite dark in the human body, but there isn't much room." Always the comedian, she is.]

You see these Olympic athletes, and they've known what they wanted to do since they were five years old, and have worked towards achieving that goal ever since. Direction. Discipline. Courage in the face of adversity.

There is no human darkroom Olympics, as far as I'm away, but the comparison is still apt.

But of course, there are drawbacks to having that kind of focus. You can lose sight of other options. You may be trapped within a narrow channel of purpose. What if you want to change your mind? What if you're two weeks away from the Olympic long jump finals and you realise you would rather jump shorter distances?

And, by the same token, my darkroom ambition could be similarly restrictive. I might decide half way through the process that I no longer want to be a darkroom. Someone could have almost finished wiring up the electrics in my rib cage, and I might decide that I'd rather be a professional skateboarder.

That would throw a spanner in the works.

Maybe I'm better of being vague and ephemeral. I can change my mind at any point. That freedom may leave me feeling aimless, but at least I have options.

I won't take any of those options, but I still have them. Not taking options is an option that's open to me.

And it doesn't mean I can never be a darkroom. Perhaps one day I will be. When I'm retired, I'll have all the time in the world for that kind of stuff.

I'll be respected when I'm old (after forty years of being thirty).

"Look," my grandchildren will say. "That's my granddad. The awesomest skateboarding darkroom who ever snikeblommed".

(The word "snikeblommed" is future slang, the meaning of which won't be known until Easter 2019.)

I don't know, man...

and there's nothing wrong with that.

Finger On The Pulse

July, right?

Man... oh man.

I haven't posted much this month, but it's been a madhouse down here. Totally mad. And a house? You bet. Totally, totally.

Shall I spill the beans now? Or shall I keep some of the beans? Shall I apportion the beans gradually? I don't want to shoot my wad in the foot, after all.

But no. I'll give everything to you now. You've been waiting so long. So, so long. So long for beans. You've dreamt about beans, and now your beandreams will come true. And then some! Am I right?

You've been living in the dark, occasionally eating the flesh of a smuggled coconut until the guards found out and put a crab in there instead.

That's a specific reference to the film Papillon, which I saw yesterday. It doesn't belong in the public sphere, but I thought I'd throw it out there. Private beans have become public. All cards on the table. I'm an open book. I'm a book about beans.

First off, there was that morning where I watched cooking tips on Youtube. This was the first one I saw:



And that is a slotted spoon.

I found it because I'm interested in slotted spoons (as anyone who follows me on Google+ knows [follows? is that the vernacular? is this square bracket/lowercase sentence format an appropriate one for this kind of discourse?]).

It's useful for people who don't know what a slotted spoon is, and aren't able to work it out.

This woman has similar guides for every aspect of kitchen life. Here she is on the subject of tongs:



And those are tongs.

She describes tongs as an "all-purpose utensil", so I've thrown away all of my steak knives.

Perhaps my favourite of these how-to videos is this one:



And that is how you soften butter.

That one is basically just "allow time to pass". Which is good advice, whether you're a novice chef or an experienced gastrophysicist.

There are more. I won't spoil the surprises, though (hint: ladle).

I'm glad that these videos are out there. I'm sure they've been useful to loads of people. And not just sarcastic bloggers.

I could have written several paragraphs of sarcasm on each of these, but I haven't. Because I respect people who want to help others. Sarcasm helps no-one. Tongs can pluck a struggling cookery student from the chip pan of failure.

So have some respect.

...

And that is sarcasm.

***

How d'ya like them beans? Delicious. Well, there's more where that came from. Beans are plentiful. Spill as many as you want. They will simply fall on the soil and grow more of themselves. I'm not an expert in "garden principles", but I'm reasonably sure that's close to the truth about beans.

Here are some more. Remove them from water with your slotted spoon and push them into yielding butter.

I went to the dentist on Friday.

I was registering for the first time (and only time, provided my records aren't wiped). On the registration form, one of the questions was "When did you last visit the dentist?". I answered truthfully: "2001".

I know that's a long time. I know I should have sorted things out before now. But I've been busy! You know how busy I've been, what with watching butter videos and so on.

My teeth just haven't seemed to be a priority. I've been too busy with manicures and manticores and panty gauze and all those other urgent rhyming things.

Before I wrote "2001", I thought about writing "9/11".

It's not true. My visit was after that terrible day, but I thought it might perplex the receptionist entering my details. They'd probably think I meant last year. But they'd wonder in the back of their mind if it truly was the fall of the towers that marked the end of my dental adventure.

Maybe my faith in humanity's ability to do the right thing was shaken. If such a horrific act had been committed on such a large scale, surely my tiny teeth were in jeopardy. I know that a fundamentalist terrorist destroying my teeth wouldn't have sent the same powerful message to the western world, but my teeth are as much a symbol of capitalism as the World Trade Center. They are, after all, made of enamel, of which all modern coins and credit cards are composed.

But you can't lie on a registration form. That's part of my code of honour.

Though thinking about it, I did describe myself as an eight-year-old wax woman. But that's vaguely true.

So, honest as the day is long, I went along to see the dentist, his assistant, the receptionist, and any objects that happened to be in my eye-line.

Luckily, my teeth were OK. I don't have to have anything done to them except a strange weekly ritual that involves a naked dentist apparently. God bless the NHS.

***

You must be positively bursting with beans! Have I got any more to spill to you?

Hmm..

Thinking...

No. I don't think so.

Oh, I trimmed my beard, and now my head is a different shape.

That must be a half-bean or so.

I hope you've enjoyed this hearty meal.

I'll try not to leave you eating millipedes with Steve McQueen for too long.

Routine beans keep the teeth and conscience clean.

I'm off to cover some tongs in Colgate and make my ancestors proud.

And that is dentistry.

Pupa

I was about to launch into a story, but lost confidence in it. Yesterday's anecdote may have set the bar too high.

In short: late last night, I knocked some cereal down the back of the fridge and had to clean the whole area.

That summary is fine. I probably would have just inserted some unnecessary metaphors to pad it out.

It certainly seemed dramatic at the time.

Let's put it all behind us.

***

I wrote the above last week. The fridge incident is ancient history. I'd forgotten I even owned an area.

It's a different world now. And a different week. A different month, even. Everything is different.

We're over half way through the year, which seems ridiculous. The older you get, the faster you get (older). I've been writing in short sentences again. I thought I had slain that structural beast. I'll try to make this one quite long and, if it can possibly be arranged, a constituent of a lengthy paragraph which will convince me, you, and any people poking their heads over your shoulder, eyes forward, frantically scanning your screen, that I can write an epic novel set against the background of me not actually doing that.

Paragraphs can be a strain. Man was not meant to build so mighty a word-hut. It's like the Tower of Babel. I can't really remember what the moral of that story was, but I think it's something to do with words and tall things. I'm going to stay brusque.

Let''s get on board the dialogue train. As you may remember, I'm a master when it comes to putting words in the mouths of characters or inanimate objects that have mouths (e.g. plastic rivers etc).

Traffic Warden: Excuse me, madam.

Gloweria: Yes?

Traffic Warden: Are you aware that your child has expired?

Gloweria: What?

Traffic Warden: Your child, madam. It expired [*CHECKS WATCH*] eight minutes ago.

She checks the back seat and sees the warden is correct.

Gloweria: Oh. Yes, I'm sorry about that. I was just going to get some change.

Traffic Warden: Be that as it may...

Gloweria: Come on. Please. It was only eight minutes.

Traffic Warden: It doesn't matter how long it's been. It's expired.

Gloweria: But, eight minutes? He's still warm, for goodness sake!

Traffic Warden: There's no grey area here, madam. More of a pale blue. I'll have to write you a ticket.

Gloweria: You don't have to.

Traffic Warden: The law is the law.

Gloweria: [*FRUSTRATED SIGH*] The problem... with people like you... is that you have no compassion.

Traffic Warden: I'm not paid to have compassion, madam. I'm paid to ensure that any children who may be inside a vehicle are still within their allotted lifespan.

Gloweria: THIS IDEA IS GOING NOWHERE.

Traffic Warden: I agree. [*FRANCE*]

***

How do you know when you're jaded? I'm certainly jader than I was, but I'm curious to know when the process will be complete. It is always a gradual change? Or is it like a chipper caterpillar climbing into a chrysalis and emerging an entirely jaden butterfly?

Perhaps jadening is just part of life. It goes hand in hand with knowledge and experience. The jaded man (or woman) is a learned man (or likewise).

It should not be seen as cynicism, but as ripening. Each person is a reverse-banana, getting greener and harder as we get older. The facts have presented themselves; we are adapting.

Those people who do not become jaded remain yellow and soft. They bruise easily.

Jadening is strengthening. To be jaded is to be protected.

I think I was born partially jaded. In childhood photos, I look both suspicious and bored. I'm yawning in some of them. But the older you get, the easier it is to put on the green jacket.

Not the jealousy jacket. That's a different shade of green.

Nor is it the hemp-woven environmentalist jacket.

It is the jade jacket. It is comfortable and has many pockets. No-one can ever touch you if you wear the jade jacket. Even if you'd like them to. The zip sticks.

***

That's an extract from the blog post I'm writing at the moment. I'm not sure where it's going to go from there. I think I might follow it with three asterisks and a sentence explaining what it is.

July is already shaping up to be the best month ever. Two days in, and still no drunken sword-sharpening accidents. Not for me, anyway. I evade the blade as a matter of course. And avoid the bloid if things get hairy.

Yes. Yes. I will stop writing. Thank you. It seems so obvious now.