Campanology

I don't own a bell.

I have electronic equipment that can simulate the sound of a bell, but it's not the same.

The last bastions of the analogue bell are the church, the bicycle, and the shop door. I don't own a church, a bike or a shop, so these are out.

I don't have an alarm clock. I use my phone. I know certain people who have old-fashioned, belled, alarm clocks. I envy them.

The closest I have is the small bell that used to live round the neck of Lucy's Lindt chocolate bunny. But she may well have thrown it away.

You can still buy bells of course. I'm sure there are a wide variety of bell stockists on the high street. But I just don't feel right about buying one. It would be like buying a paraffin lamp: a sign that my priorities are askew.

I don't want to seek out a bell. I just want one to already be in my possession. Bells used to be commonplace household items, like nutcrackers or mustard. A house is not a home without a bell or those other two examples.

Kids today - and yesterday, and the day before yesterday - don't even know what bells are.

"You know bells?"

"Whuh?"

"Bells?"

"Nuh."

"Metal things, with a dangly... thing, that make noise."

"Nuh. Doesn't ring a bell."

And you can shout "ah-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" in their face.

You've earned that victory by living a long time.

Maybe my priorities are askew. I shouldn't fight it. People with balanced lives and realistic goals are very dull people. I wouldn't feel human if I wasn't constantly crushed by the weight of innocuous events. If minor life-changes didn't force my hands to my head to the floor, I'd feel like I was only living at 60%.

That's why I feel sorry for adrenaline junkies. They have to seek out ridiculous (and expensive) dangers to satisfy their need. They have to try extreme sports and parachuting and bear-taunting. And even the most imminent of deaths will only raise their pulse slightly.

All I need to do is get a phone call, and I have two heart attacks. That's just the ringing (simulated bell). If I have to answer it, my whole body clenches to the size of a walnut. That's the kind of rush that money can't buy.

If I'm invited to a family barbecue, every cell in my body convulses. Fuck Alton Towers. It's nothing to me now.

The thrill-seekers must envy people like me. They've seeked (sought) so many thrills that they're all gone. They have to go further and further afield to get their kicks.

I don't seek thrills. Thrills seek me. In fact, they don't even need to seek me. They just bump into me in the street. I can't avoid them. Every time some engages me in conversation, I'm on a rocket-powered quad bike.

If you haven't lived in a state of constant terror, you haven't lived.

Proper priorities are shackles. I'm living my life one sob at a time.

I'm going to go and buy that bell after all! And will I make eye contact with the salesman? No. No, I won't.

But I'll flinch at the jingle-jangle of the door closing behind me.