The Enemy Within

I spent the morning thinking about the Tories.

Because of this, I accidentally scowled at a smiling colleague. I know nothing about her politics, but imagine that she'd done nothing to deserve the scowl. And that's how they win. The Conservatives have taught us to hate each other. Even a hatred of hatred is twisted to their ends.

The colleague will probably find herself mistrustful of me from now on. And the poor. And all ethnic minorities.

The Trojan Scowl wins again. The unwitting liberal host spreads it like toxic disease butter.

We can only defeat the Tories with love. But you can't love the Tories, because they're all awful, awful people. Without exception.

That's how they win. I'm still scowling. And heaven help anyone caught in my eye-line.

***

Since turning thirty, I've found myself thinking more and more about drilling a hole in my head.

I don't just mean that I've been unhappy. I don't mean that my age has equipped me with a vague suicidal impulse. I don't mean that I want to end it all somehow.

It's specifically drilling a hole in my head. I don't want to die, but I do want to use an electric drill to bore a tunnel through my skull. I reckon it would feel satisfying to get through the bone and enter the soft interior. You know how satisfying it is to drill through something? It would be like that.

Does this impulse happen to everyone at my age? Is it just a phase that we go through? Is the head drill-desire a kind of secondary puberty - a bewildering change that nobody talks about due to modesty?

I've been thinking about it a lot.

I did think about it occasionally in my twenties, I admit. But with nothing like the current frequency. It's now at the stage where I think about visiting the B&Q website.

I haven't visited the B&Q website. But I've been thinking about it. I'm thinking about it now.

I've started to really get trepanning now. Before, I thought of it as a crazy medical anomaly; a technique borne of idiocy and superstition.

But now, it seems to make perfect sense. My head is clearly too full. There must be a build-up of some harmful fluid or gas. I need a valve to release all the angst. It would puff away like a steam train, reassuring and parochial, as long as I remembered to take off my hat.

It has to be an electric drill, though. I have no urge to use an old-fashioned manual one. Equally, I don't have any inclination to hammer a nail into my head. That would be stupid. It's the drilling I like.

I don't want to drill into any other part of my body, of course. A leg-drilling has nothing to offer. I think I just like the thought of the skull penetration. It would be like drilling into a coconut.

I don't want to drill into a coconut. I want to drill into my head. Let's make that clear.

For those of you over thirty, this is probably old news. You probably remember the drill-desire phase with a mixture of nostalgia and embarrassment. I'll probably be over this in a year or two, and will look back on this blog post with a smile on my face and an absorbent sponge finger lodged in my scalpwell.

It's all part of growing up.