No meating in the meeting room please

One of my colleagues was late in today. Not just a bit late, but substantially late.

One of the very few blessings of this, is that I did not have to bear witness to the bacon sandwich routine. Every morning when he arrives, he goes to the cafeteria and gets a bacon sandwich and a coffee which he brings back to his desk. This is regardless of whether he turns up half an hour early or dead on time. This is, also, highly illegal.

My workplace has a policy that you are not allowed to eat hot food at your desk. The idea behind it is that cold food smells considerably less than hot food, although with my brief snack of chilli flavoured crisps I may have challenged that assertion. But it is a rule which I heartily endorse; particularly with the bacon sandwich.

The company provides us with a lunch break over which to have lunch; but if you want to have breakfast in the office rather than at home, you should get to the office early enough to do so without disrupting your work. Snacking at the desk - so long as you continue to work - is fine. If it were me, I would have an outright ban about eating your lunch at your desk, whether it be hot or cold. I have seen people do considerable damage to their desks, computers and other equipment with a few flicks of salad dressing. I have to say, I think our health and safety team would also approve of people not eating lunch at their desk. Not simply from a point of view of the body acquiring the germs and bacteria that have bred like wild-fire over the keyboard; nor from the notion that the remnants of lunch themselves turn into a breeding space for mould and nastiness; but mostly that it actually forces people to take a break from the eye-strain of the computer monitor.

The bacon roll does take the biscuit a bit though. The smell does permeate all the corners of the office, and it lingers a lot longer than my crisp smell. For some reason he refuses a proper plate as well, being satisfied instead with a flimsy napkin. As such his desk gets absolutely covered in crumbs; which get into the law books we all have to share. And then there is the tomato ketchup dripping out...

Don't get me wrong - I love a bacon sandwich. But I love them at home. Or in a cafe. Not at work. My colleague is not the worst offender either - there is someone on one of the other teams who throughout winter eats his soup at his desk. And I have seen people try to cope with jacket potatoes smothered in chilli whilst sat at their desk.

I do realise that it is, to a great degree, due to my circumstances. At the time of the bacon sandwich, I have already been without food for a good two to three hours since my breakfast at 6am. And as the late luncher on the team I don't go until 1pm or on some days 1:30pm, so the people snaffing away at noon are just as I am starting to get ravenous. So yes, there is a degree of envy to it. But mostly it is a matter of professionalism and courtesy.

We recently had to 're-establish' the company dress code after it became apparent that some people considered 'appropriate officewear' to include ripped jeans, scruffy t-shirts and even football tops. Considering we provide professional advice to our clients, this is utterly unacceptable. Now 'appropriate officewear' has been properly defined and - for the moment at least - people are sticking to it. I await to see when the first lapses occur and how they are dealt with.

And that is another problem. Whilst these policies are all within the staff handbook, they are not enforced. I will hold my hand up here - I should be the person enforcing the no-bacon-roll-at-the-desk-particularly-when-you-are-supposed-to-be-working-and-I-am-hungry policy against my colleague (actually an underling); but there are a number of problems with this.

Firstly, if I try to impose the letter of the law, there are so many examples of other people being let off, allowed exemption, actively disregarded, managed in absentia or blind-eyes being turned that it makes it seem unfair for me to be so strict. Secondly, and more majorly, my colleague is unmanageable. Again this is for two reasons, partly due to his natural nature and temperament; and secondly because the company as a whole never sought to manage him in the slightest until I was promoted from being level with him to being his senior. And that of itself is an uneviable position to be in, suddenly having to enforce rules which perhaps have never been enforced before.

Anyhow,  I have to pop to the loo to wipe this ketchup off my jeans...

Shopping around

You can tell it's payday.

For a start, I've already had my monthly delivery from Amazon. I have to stop buying books. I buy around 2 a month, yet read only one. But they joke at work that you can tell it's payday when I get my books delivered.

But, more importantly, I've done some of my restless shopping around. This is where I do a frequent check to make sure I'm getting the best deal on things I 'have' to have. Credit card rates; mobile phone packages; broadband etc. It's currently part of my nesting: getting everything nice and tidy.

This season it is my main utilities: electric and gas. I have been with the same supplier for quite a while, and I do regularly keep an eye out for a change in prices. I say change. For a hike in prices. One of the things I didn't really bear in mind is where my very own supplier hikes my prices, but hikes those on different tariffs by less, or releases a new tariff.

I buy online, and I have a dual-fuel account, so I maximise all my various discounts that I can get. But the recent scavange around revealed that my current utility tariff had be bettered by my own supplier.

It's not as simple as it all seems though. This new, cheaper tariff (I was going to call it 'better' but the quality of the gas and electric stay the same, as does the service) was only available for a limited time - until 30th September. So I would have to act quick.

Then there is the checking around. Now, there are various price comparison websites that will do this for you, but they don't necessarily tell you the whole truth. For example, if I switch to a tariff with a standing charge, the unit rate may very well be cheaper but overall the contract ends up costing me more. Or vice versa. And then each different supplier has different discounts that they apply which don't necessarily get factored in. This ends up with me sat with a number of bits of paper calculating my usage per quarter, and what this would cost under the various different tariffs, and what that adds up to annually, and then what discount can be taken off, and then doing everything exactly the same for the gas, and then all over again for each different supplier. For someone as anal as me it is very satisfying.

It's not easy though, if you're not so brainy or as enthusiastic to spend so long in some actually quite complicated calculations then I can understand why people don't change supplier as regularly as they should.

But then to throw a spanner into the entire works; when I contacted my supplier to change they said it would be no problem so long as I gave them my most recent meter readings; but was I aware they had just released some new tariffs which could make things even cheaper? I hadn't been aware. So off I went with another bit of paper...

Turns out it couldn't, that there very quickly expiring tariff was the best value, so I have signed up.

So what next... phone and broadband?

iDate v2.0

So, I've kept you on tenterhooks after Friday... how did the date go?!

Well, we met up at 8:30pm and talked continuously until we parted at 12:30 (well, aside from toilet and bar breaks, obviously), so that was a positive. And it was banal talk about television or anything like that; we talked politics, economics, psychology, sociology and such like. Really interesting (for me) conversation.

But, I don't know. There still is no direct desire, no desperate urge, no burning passion. And I was looking for it, trying to want him, trying to find something absolutely irresistable, trying to find him gorgeous. And he should be: he's certainly not unattractive, there's nothing immediate that I can put my finger on that is 'wrong' with him, no obvious flaw. The only slight annoyance was that on a couple of occasions, particularly towards the end of the evening when the beer had been given the opportunity to experiment, he kept gripping my leg between his knees, should it fall there. It almost felt a bit desperate, a bit clingy. And it wasn't as though I needed to be kept, as though I was clawing to get away: the conversation was scintilating enough by itself.

When we parted it was snog-free; we had a hug. And it wasn't disappointing. I didn't go in for more, only to be frustrated or embarrassed. I didn't want to, but not because I was repulsed. It just felt natural to just hug.

I have a third opportunity to make a decision on where this goes: there is a tentative date booked for Saturday night. It is tentative in case I decide against it or in case I get a better offer (I am out on Friday night so who knows where I will wake up). But after Saturday I really do need to make a decision because that is third date, and you have to make a decision on third date as to whether you are 'going with' because them's The Rules. It's not fair on anyone to carry on after that not knowing what is happening or where you are. It doesn't men you have to fall out: you can stay as friends and meet up as such, but it really should be decision time.

But at least I don't count it as a wasted Friday

The follies of Facebook

So, last week Facebook unveiled a number of changes, tweaks and introductions. Reaction has generally gone one of two ways: "I don't like it" or "I don't like the people who don't like it."

The human condition is such that people are more likely to voice distain, dissent or dissatsifaction than they are to compliment or rave; and that is very much what I expected when Facebook launched its new release. What did surprise me was the number of people who were moaning not about the changes but simply about the people moaning. One of the captions to an image that wormed its way around the internet was:

I'm appalled that the free service that I am in no way obligated to use keeps making changes that mildly inconvenience me.

Anyway, Facebook certainly could have handled things better:

Forced migration

In the past Facebook has introduced changes gradually by encouragement and volunteer. It has made them available, suggested people use them, and early adopters then encourage others to use them by peer pressure. Once a tipping point is achieved where substantially more people use the new format than the old, the old users are forced over. This inconveniences far fewer people, and the vocal dissent is substantially less. It is a method very greatly employed - see how Microsoft do not immediately force all users of a Windows system onto the most recent release (currently Windows 7). Instead they issue the new release and then start withdrawing support for the old systems, encouraging developers to only develop new programs for the newest system, and eventually people move over.

There are a couple of issues with drip-migration though. It does mean that you have to support a range of systems for a while, rather than one. And, of course, there is the cost - by offering an updated product you get to charge again; whereas if you forced this charge onto people they would immediately seek an alternative who did not operate such draconian and blatantly profiteering practices. And Facebook isn't an operating system which people install and have to update; it is in 'the cloud', and you direct to it. Whilst it would be possible to operate a number of different interfaces, it would be incredibly costly and complicated. So I do understand; I just think they could have better explained why it was that it was done. Human nature is such that people accept change much more readily when they are offered it, and react resistively when it is enforced.

The actual changes

Most of the changes are seen - certainly by techies - simply as a direct assault on rivals Google+ and Twitter. Take the new 'feed' in the top right-hand corner. Twitter by any other name. The 'friend list' has Google+ written all over it. And I would be very surprised if they actually succeed in providing anything valuable to people. Yes, one of the benefits of Google+ is that you can share your status only amongst those friends in any particular circle; but does Facebook (nay should Facebook) seek to do the same? There has long been the ability to hide statuses from certain individuals, or to customise who you share it with. And people are so established on Facebook that the friend list will require people to scour through hundreds of friends to ensure they are in the correct friend lists to fully facitilitate the functionality. It simply requires too much involvement. Yes, Facebook has tried to make it easier by automatically assigning lists and putting people in lists; but after seeing what it did with the facial recognition in photographs, I'm really not sure I would trust it.

But, aside from the tech-side; again - people don't like changes that are seen purely as an attempt to stiffle competition. Google+ and Twitter had different, innovative developments: let the strongest survive. And, moreover, they were not simply attacking Facebook - they were offering things differently. Twitter, for example, was a public forum where people regularly, briefly, aired their thoughts to the entire world, anonymously if they so sought. Facebook - with the new 'subscribe' option - seeks to do the same; but it risks alienating the people on their (the vast majority) who want to see occasional, specific statuses clearly witten for the benefit of their defined group of friends. Simply mashing together different components does not necessarily make a good fit - ask the chef who has thrown together a dozen or so ingredients from different recipes whether the meal was any better for it; or whether, in fact, the skeptical public saw a very scheming and calculated attempt to "do a Ramsey...with a bit of Blumenthal." One of the very keys to the success of Facebook is its simplicity and ease of use: you don't need a degree in software engineering to understand what is going on, and you don't need to sift through a clutter of applications to see what your brother thinks about X-Factor.

The presentation - the surprise

"Could do better."

There were a number of problems with the presentation of the changes; other than them simply being imposed upon people.

Firstly, Facebook has to realise that not all of their users are techies; and the majority of people will not have been aware of the F8 conference at all. Now, whilst this is practically the only method Facebook has to get the news of the changes into the media; it has to realise it already has a captive audience who are the direct subject of the changes anyway. They need to do more to flag up the changes to users before they impose them. With most of the recent raft, the only way you found out was by logging on and screeching "who the hell vomitted on my news feed?" At which point little annoying bubbles started popping up all over the place at once, flagging up the changes which if - like me - you were just popping on very very briefly, you did the best to dismiss as rapidly as possible and get back to finding out how your next-door-neighbour's cat's operation went; or whether your work colleague across the desk from you had enjoyed the egg-and-cress sandwich they uploaded a photo of. Now, they can do this properly and better - like I say, on previous occasions they have offered you to try out the new interface and switch between the two for a few weeks. And take the announcement of the Timeline - they haven't imposed this yet; they have announced it and given a look around, and if you go on the Facebook profile page there is a lovely little video explaining it. So people can find out about the change before it happens and then they have a few days or weeks to prepare their "I don't like these changes" statuses.

The presentation - the lie

It was presented as if the changes were an entire sea-change in the way Facebook operates. They aren't. Take Timeline for example - and this was supposed to be the 'major' announcement of the conference. Your profile already shows things in a timeline. All you need to do is scroll back far enough, or click-through enough pages of photos to get there. Timeline doesn't actually change what is out there at all, it just makes it easier/harder to find what you want to - depending on your point of view. I don't know what it will do - at the moment someone's info is really easy to find in a tab: you can find out pretty much their entire employment history if they are willing to tell you. If it gets mangled into a timeline you may only be able to find out who their previous employer was by knowing what date they started there. But, people like drip-change; imperceptible, unnoticeable change. Presenting it as an entirely new perspective is wrong, and is simply inflamatory. But then maybe that is a way to get the presentation out further than just tech media.

The presentation - the shock

Again, it may simply have been a way to try to get front-page headlines to get the message to as many people as possible; but telling people that their entire life is going to be online pressed the panic button in any normal human. We are inherently private by nature; so exposing our nude avatars like this is bound to get many people scrabbling round for any respect, decency and those damned privacy settings. The thing is; it isn't going to be any more of your life than you are already putting online. Facebook has been incredibly successful in insipidly infecting our lives, breaking down that desire for privacy and quietly encouraging us to share everything from our lunch to the death of someone close. It hasn't done this by massive announcements and conferences and  front-page shock tactics: it has done it without even telling you. And this is the best way. Obviously not when they are changing anything to do with privacy - some clever dick will find out what has happened and before you know it you have a PR storm on your hands as you have to explain why your privacy policy is longer that US constitution.

But, to a great degree Facebook is damned if it does and damned if it doesn't. It has to continue to develop and innovate, and therefore it does have to change; and some of this is going to be a major release rather than the simple insipid, imperceptible drip-feed of changes and tweaks. Otherwise it risks getting left behind as a dinosaur of internet 2.0.

The old adage really is correct: you can't please all of the people, all of the time. Particularly when there are 600million of them.

Dating dilemma

I do run my life from one dilemma to the next.

So, last week I went on my iDate and somehow secured another date tonight, although I am slightly wary.

So, the logic behind it goes thus: we had an enjoyable time on our first date; why not have a second ... on a day when we don't have to be up for work in the morning, such as a Friday night. As such we would be able to drink more and stay out later (providing we have both let our mothers know what time we are going to be home). So why am I wary?

Well, firstly because I only have two nights per week where I don't have to be up early the next day. Do I really want to be sacrificing one of those evenings for a date? This weekend I already have plans for the Saturday night with one group of friends; but what if another group gets in contact? What if I'm tired and want to stay home and watch movies on my own? What if the date goes badly and I end up going home, alone, and wasting the night being forced to watch movies on my own because I couldn't make other plans?

And this is all before considering whether a second date is sensible in any event. I know full well that I am not appropriate dating-fodder. I know what will happen - once we have bonked I will get bored and irritated by him pretty quickly and end it. And this chap seems nice - too nice to do that (although that hasn't stopped me in the past where I have crushed quite a few lovely people in my apparent desire to avoid getting tied-down). But I am also not sure if he is 'nice enough'. There was no overwhelming desire to grab him, rip his clothes off and bugger him senseless. Maybe I should persist for a couple of reasons: he may be a 'grower'; and in any respect I need to get more experience dating people so they don't irritate me quite so easily. But then maybe I should also blow him off for a couple of reasons: the lack of desire and the risk of damage.

Anyhow, matters improved slightly last weekend when he sent me a message to say that he was unable to do Friday and could I meet on Sunday instead. This at least removed my concern as to sacrificing a weekend night (Sunday clearly being a school-night), albeit that it kind of defeated the object of having the date at a weekend to get drunk and stay out late. But it wasn't as though I would be doing anything else. Only it was: a family meal. My mother is back from France for a while. She hasn't argued with my dad (or at least she says she hasn't) she was just getting bored out there whilst they wait for the house to sell so came back. But that means it is one of the rarer occasions when there is almost the entire family available for a meal.

So, when he came back to me and said that his Friday had now been freed up and we could do Friday or Sunday it threw everything into a further quandry. I now had to make two decisions:

• whether I wanted a second date at all?
• If so, whether I was to kill a Friday night or a family meal for it?

In the end it got to Thursday night and no-one had presented me with any alternative plans for a Friday night so I thought "What the hell" and committed.

Let's just hope I don't wake up naked.

Bleugh

There are reasons not to drink on a school night.

To be honest, I was lucky to get to work on time today. I woke up five minutes before I was supposed to leave the house. It shows my absolute dedication to my work that I was able to catch my normal train. My alarms normally start going off at 5:45am and I eventually prise myself out of the bedsheets very soon after 6am. If I am being lazy it may be 6:10. So, you can understand my panic on waking to find the room silent - this means I have either woken up before the alarms, or after. And the amount of daylight in the room was telling.

I even know how it happened. The radio is set to news which is a dull, drone which is more that easy to sleep through. And I remember yesterday morning I caught the wrong button on my main alarm - I even thought to myself "I will have to remember to turn that back on tonight". And then I hadn't turned the volume back up on my mobile phone - it has to be on silent in the office, and I kept it on silent for reasons to be explained, though I did intend to turn the volume up later. But yes, it is a testament to me that I was able to ready and out in those five minutes. And yes, I actually do plan to leave the house at 6:38am.

Why 6:38? I have worked out that if I leave the house at that time, I arrive at the station at 7:00am for the 07:10 train. Now, technically I could leave two minutes later, but my OCD means that I would rather leave the house on a non-round number than eat into my 10 minute safety-buffer. Yes, I could leave at 06:35 to preserve both my OCD and the safety-buffer, but even getting up at 6am that doesn't seem to work (goodness only knows how if I can manage to ready and out in five minutes!) At 06:38 I can comfortably walk. At 0640 I have to run down the hill as far as the Hindu Temple. At 0643 I have to run as far as the Spaceship Co-op (though it hasn't actually been a Co-op for a number of years) and at 0645 I have to run as far as the play-park opposite the Duke of Cambridge.

Anyhow, back to how it happened. Not only was it down to the lack of interruption, but also due to the deepness of sleep. You see, not only did I go to bed considerably later than normal last night (it was around 1:15am by the time I got in, much later than my usual actual bedtime of around midnight which is, of itself, later than my always-missed-but-hoped-for bedtime of 11:15) but I had also been drinking.

I'm a good and kindly soul, and around once a month I do charity work of an evening answering calls on an advice and counselling phone line. I spend all day at work answering calls as a solicitor on a legal helpline so what do I decide to do in an evening? More of the same, obviously. But I do it with a friend, and our treat for being such good people is to go to the pub and do the pub quiz. And we did quite well with it last night, although we were pleased to see that the winners (who must clearly have cheated) only won a £15 drinks voucher which wasn't even enough for one drink each, and not the jackpot. But anyhow, that was the drinking, though I was by no means drunk.

Anyhow, when I got in from the pub my New Zealand friend rang for our weekly chat and we carried on chatting away for quite a long time, until it was so late I only had time for a very brief flit through the shower (I always bath or shower before I go to bed in case I don't have time in the morning. At last my logic repays me) before throwing myself into bed. Late. Honestly the people at work should be grateful I am in at all.
If any of you are interested, the Department of Transport today published the final Port Freight figures. That's right, the figures for all the freight that entered the UKs ports in 2010. They are available here . This is the kind of really gripping information which the government emails me as part of my job.
Now, where's the wine?

Terrible Tuesday

You know when you are having one of those days when it is probably better just to stay in bed?

And yet it started so well: I got up not just in time but substantially early. It was to be my first Tuesday back jogging after the summer hiatus because of three- and four-day weeks making it difficult to jog and transport shopping around.

Not only was I up early enough to do the jogging, but I was up so early that I could put the washing out as well.

Now, I should have known it was going to be a bad day. It was, after all a Tuesday. But I was all optimistic. So off I trotted to the train station.

Now, getting the early train isn't great. Not only do I not see the faces I recognise, but there are, for some inexplicable reason fewer train fitties. I don't know why. And it's a shame because I made the effort with my hottest looking shorts and everything.

So, already facing a very long day at work - arriving at the office a good 40 minutes earlier than normal so I could shower - it was also the busiest day at work in a long time. With one member of the team off, it increased the work on the remaining two of us and it appeared - though I actually don't think it was true - that my other colleague was shirking as much work as possible.

Then I didn't get to have my lunch. We had a "webinar" (a web-seminar, though in reality it was more of a webture, a web-lecture) over lunch and then generally were too busy. And I am also making my point to my colleague that I actually do work considerably harder than anyone else on the team.

So it got to the end of an exhausting day and I went off to get changed into my shorts, only to emerge from the office into rain which - although already substantial - deteriorated (or improved, if you are considering the performance from the rain's point of view) even further so that I was saturated by the time I got to the train station.

To find the train was running late.

Late enough to miss my connection.

And again, no train fitties

I did eventually get back. To find the washing dripping happily away on the line.

And with lots of other little niggles that is how the night went on - jobs that should have taken a few moments ended up taking half-an-hour, like fixing the magnetic catches on the bathroom cupboard which refused to attach, and then refused to catch. Eventually - around 10:30 - I gave up and decided that I was just going to iron a few shirts and then head to bed.

Which is when I decided to reach for the soleplate of the iron instead of the handle. Awesome.

Fish-and-Chip-Friday

So, I was tidying in the fridge last night and found I had three open jars of tartar sauce.

This might not seem so random as it first occurs. I hav been going through a nesting process recently, tidying and decluttering. One of the aspects of that is that I am trying to reduce the amount of food I have in the house. Usually, you see, I have a spare of everything - it stops me, for example, running out of rice because even if I finish the bag, I know there is always a spare in.

But, living on my own, this can often mean that things hang around for quite a while before getting used. It often also means that I end up with ridiculous numbers of jars, bottle and packets kicking around. For example, pickles. I had a jar of tomato chutney, a jar of apple chutney, a jar of sweet pickle and a jar of piccalilli. Sauces: tomato ketchup, brown sauce, barbeque, bombay, curry, 'hot' and soy. Ridiculous. So I have decided to start using these up. Which is where I found the tartar sauces. Clearly the jars have all become huddled in amongst the other jars and I have not seen them and opened new ones. This is ridiculous. However the most recent one was a home-made tartar sauce. And very nice it is too. But I can understand how I didn't find the others and decided to make some up: I haven't had my usual fish and chips in many, many weeks.

Friday night is Fish-and-Chip-Friday. It has been since I started university. It's my treat to end the week. But as I haven't been at home for so many Friday nights I haven't had it until this week; hence how the tartar sauces got pushed to the back.

Of course, there is a distinct irony in the idea behind fish and chips being a lazy way to start the weekend, cooked for me by someone else, and yet I use a home-made tartar sauce.

Anyhow, this week provided a dilemma: where to purchase the fish and chips from?

When I first moved into my house I used Salt-And-Vinegar. It is located very conveniently at the bottom of my road and I walk past it on my way home. Then the jolly Greek chap and his mother sold the business. And it went downhill from there.

First they stopped doing the mini-fish, so it cost me more. Then the portion sizes shrank. So I stopped going there.

I changed to go to Pappa's. Pappas was slightly closer to the train station - a little further from home - but they did a meal special, and the quality was good enough. Then the usual serving girl left and one of the owners started serving on a Friday night. If I didn't specifically ask for the special, I didn't get the special, and it would cost twice as much. Which was annoying. Then one night I went in and asked for "fish, chips and mushy peas, please" and got given a large fish, a large portion of chips and large peas at a cost well over £7. This was very annoying, particularly as I struggle to eat a mini-fish and small chips. So I stopped going there.

I went back to Salt-And-Vinegar which had changed hands again. The woman behind the counter there was lovely and I never had to specify that it was the special I wanted - she knew me, she knew my order. But she wasn't a fish and chip fryer. The first thing she did on buying the fish and chip shop was introduce 'curry Thursday'. Under the hotlamp with the fishcakes and battered jumbo sausage appeared samosas and bhajis. She didn't want a fish and chip shop, she wanted an Indian takeaway, and was trying to do it on the sly. Now that wouldn't have been too bad had she known how to cook fish and chips. The first week I went the fish had clearly been under the hotlamp for a while. It was dry and rubbery and the batter was crunchy. The next week the fish was nice but the chips hadn't been fried long enough and were still crunchy in the middle. Then it was the mushy peas - they were cold and crunchy and hadn't been left long enough to heat through. And then finally the chips were overcooked and crunchy on the outside. So I stopped going there.

At around the same time as I was developing my dissatisfaction with Salt-And-Vinegar the local newspaper ran a competition to find the best fish and chip shop around. One of the finalists was Georgio's Plaice. Do you see what Georgio did there with the name? Well, I was sold on the name alone.

It was a little further away, and a slightly different route home but the first time I turned up the queue was out of the door. the fryer was churning over vast quantities of fish, chips, sausage, everything - this was a very popular shop. And the staff were nice too. And so I was happy there. The only problem being that I had to carry my Georgio's Plaice fish and chips past the Salt-and-Vinegar shop. And the bag was very proudly emblazened with "Georgio's fish and chips" so it wasn't as though I could pretend it was something much less embarrassing like porn or drugs.

But then I had my forced leave from local fish and chips. Well, fish and chips generally - I didn't replace local fish and chips with Mancunian fish and chips or London fish and chips. Actually, London fish and chips don't exist properly. And by the time I came back, Salt-And-Vinegar had changed hands again. So I tried it out this Friday. It's not exactly a defection from Georgio's Plaice - I only went because I was being lazy and to give it a try. But it was actually quite good, if you ignore the fact that the owner serving behind the counter took five minutes to do anything. But the fish was cooked nicely, the chips perfect, and the mushy peas mushy.

Which leaves me with a huge dilemma as to what to do this Friday: where to buy my fish and chips, and which tartar sauce to use up first.

Another accidental blow-job

It was supposed to be a quiet weekend.

Actually, to a degree, it was. It is very close to the end of the month. The pay-month, obviously. I get paid on the 21st for some bizarre reason. Anyhow, with V Festival; Manchester and London this was going to be an expensive enough weekend without it being one of the 5-weekend months. We all know how it happens - there are 31 days in a month but only 28 days in a fourt-week; so sometimes you get paid on a Friday and have to go through five weekends before getting paid on a Monday.

Well, as a result; and as it was not the last weekend of the calendar month, I had no plans. First time in a very long while! Again, because I weirdly get paid on the 21st, I have money before most of my other friends who get paid on the 25th or the 28th, so have to wait until the last weekend of the month before we go out.

Anyhow, yes - no plans. The tentative tasklist involved doing some gardening on the Saturday (including chopping down a tree which went very well) and shopping on the Sunday for the DIY bits and bobs I have needed to get lots of little annoying jobs ticked off the list. And to that extent I achieved all I set out to. I actually did so marvellously arriving at my brother's perfectly in time, despite a rush around town on the Sunday with a Sunday bus service.

Except that I was trying to have a weekend with no sexual experiences. Knowing that I was not going out on either Friday or Saturday night, and that the only chance was Sunday night when, after the family meal, I was to pop to the pub for a quickie, this should have been more than possible. A quick pint, that is.
 
Let me take you back a few weeks to put it all in context...

A few weeks ago someone got in contact from a group of lads I used to associate with. I didn't fall out with anyone from the group, but all we really did was drink in the pub on a Monday night. I decided a year or so ago that I wanted:

1. to cut down the amount I drank;
2. that would also help save money;
3. that would also give me an extra evening per week to do 'stuff': gardening or DIY or such like.

So I stopped going to the Monday night pub group. But, I did have a lot of friends there still, and kept in touch on Facebook.

So, a few weeks ago one of that group messaged me on Facebook. He'd always been quite flirty with me  and his message basically said something like:

Hey not seen you in a while. Hope you're well. I'm single now so if you ever fancy me noshing on your willy do let me know.

For those of you not of the English persuasion, noshing is the same as gobbling. Any how, We entered into a brief conversation at the time, and a few other times that I've been on Facebook. Then I saw that it was his birthday this weekend so I sent him a message to say happy birthday, and he basically replied:

If you want to give me a good birthday present, let me nosh on your willy.

Well, it was only polite to oblige, wasn't it? It was his birthday after all.

The iDate

So, I went on a first date last night. With someone off of the internet.

Oooh....

Yes, I know. Internet dating. Well sort-of but not really. Not internet dating in the kind of "desperate so I'll put a profile on an internet dating website" sort of way, but in the "going on a date with someone you happen to have gotten chatting to online" kind of a way. I'm not desperate. Yet.

I'm not a huge fan of meeting people off of online for dates. There are often far too many unknowns, risks and just general nutters. Take their internet profile, for example.

Some put very little information on there, meaning you really have your work cut out asking questions to find out anything about them. Usually I don't even bother chatting to these people: if you're not going to give me an opener, why should I make the effort.

But then again, if they put too much information on the profile there is all the more to find fault with. They may like 99% of the same interests as me, but the fact that they once crochetted a teddybear makes them instantly a write-off. Or they just look too desperate. And that's if they are even telling the truth.

And that's even before looking at the photos. Some people don't put a face-shot on, preferring one of a holiday destination or their pet instead. Ugly people that is. Some people put on lovely photos. On the few occasions when I have actually met the people I got chatting to they have always failed to live up to expectations. One chap I met admitted the photos were "over a decade old". And yes, he had lied about his age too, and was surprised that I found him being of an entirely different generation an issue. He seemed to feel he was the wronged party because I was so 'prejudiced' that I wouldn't want to go out with someone fifteen years older than me. Had he put his proper age and photos on, then he wouldn't have wasted his time chatting to me and could, instead, have been chatting to someone my age who knew about his age and actually like that he was fifteen years older.

Oh, and then there are the very artistically shot photos. Black and white can hide a multitude of sins; the correct positionning of a pot-plant can hide an enormous nose; shadows can be used to disguise the prosthetic arm. I did once meet up with someone else who looked gorgeous in the photos; only to find he was actually twice the size - the only shot in which you could actually see his frame was apparently one of his twin brother. He certainly wasn't 'athletic' like it said on his profile. And he wonders why we never met up again.

And then, of course, there are the things that you can't tell from the profile. The mannerisms, irritations. The lisp.

One of the other reasons that I don't normally go on internet dates is that I enjoy going out and I figure - perhaps optimistically - that anyone suitable for me will also enjoy going out...to the same sort of places that I go out to.

Anyhow, despite all my reservations, I agreed to the date. And there were a few reservations - the photos online weren't great and people usually pick the best to go on the profile; he was a tech-geek; a couple of other bits and bobs. But, all in all, I did have a very enjoyable night. I did start out with a caveat though. This is essential when walking into the unknown. I already had my excuse: because of all the various extra things I had been doing during the evenings (including the work meal on Tuesday) I was very tired and could fall asleep any second.

However, the caveat was not needed and we were able to have a really pretty decent conversation, avoiding politics and religion, despite the pub being really noisy. I may be turning into an old man, but the music in the pub was at a ridiculous level to try and talk, which meant that all the other tables around were having to practically shout at each other just to be heard, making our conversation even more tricky. I don't know why people say you should never talk about politics or religion on a first date - on previous first dates I have and they have gone very well. But we chatted instead about work and the internet and various other bits and bobs.

I did, however, feel like a hostage at times. We were both at about the same level of our pint, with around 20% remaining, when he offered to get another one in. Lovely, I thought, and finished mine off. He then sat for TWENTY MINUTES sipping away at the dreggs of his pint before eventually getting up to get the next round in. And then he did exactly the same at the end of the night: despite keeping up with me for 80% of the pint; and despite me saying how late it was and how I had work in the morning; he still babysat the bloody thing for over a quarter of an hour before letting me go.

Still, there were a couple of bonuses: I found a couple of chocolates (goodness knows how old they were) and an umbrella condom in my coat pocket; and I found out that the students are back!

The accidental blow-job

"Oh gosh, is that my penis in your mouth?!"

Well, not quite that accidental.

Some time ago (I won't divulge how long ago for reasons of discretion...and I could get beaten up still if it is all too identifyable) I ended up staying out after work. I had been invited round to a friend's flat where a miniture party was occuring - my friend, and a romantically-involved couple. They were romantically involved with each other, not with my friend. That would just be weird. Anyhow, the premise of the occasion was that it was a Friday night, we were all a little bored with nothing much better to do; why not all be bored in the same room with copious amounts of wine?

Anyhow, it was all going very nicely, everyone was getting drunk and chatty and generally having a nice, relaxing, good-fun night. But then something happened with the couple.

Now, with the couple there is one half that I know very well and have done for a number of years ('the One Half'). The other half I knew before they got together, but not very well ('the Other Half'). The Other Half is notoriously moody. In fact it is a surprise they have ended up together at all. They really are so abrasive with each other, just trying to wind each other up. They are like chalk and a cheese-grater. How they have sustained themselves together for as long as they have (around a year) is anyone's guess. Presumably the sex must be fantastic.

Anyhow, a trip back in time as a slight interlude...

The Other Half spends quite a bit of time away because of work. Apparently he just expects the One Half to sit around doing very little. The One Half, naturally, becomes quite bored. We chat quite a bit and it ended up that I provided some entertainment. Purely innocent entertainment: a trip to the cinema on one occasion, and popping to the pub to do the pub quiz on another. In a spirit of openness the One Half disclosed this to the Other Half. I can understand why - if not, it would somehow slip out and seem all the more clandestine.

Unfortunately, the Other Half never quite took this entertaining on the innocent basis that it was intended. Well, that it was intended on my part. I do know that the One Half holds a bit of a torch for me. The flirting isn't implied or discrete, it is blatant. Unfortunately so it was on this particular occasion, which was slightly unfair on the Other Half. So the Other Half sat simmering - never having been entirely convinced by the innocent entertaining to then have the One Half so blatantly flirting right in front of his face; and then, the blue touch paper having simmered slowly, the firework exploded and the Other Half stormed off home.

Now, this is probably where the alarmbells should have started ringing. When one of the couple goes home but the other doesn't. The One Half stayed and carried on drinking with myself and the host. As the night wore on so I got sleepy and dozed off on one of the sofas. So too did the Other Half. Then the host went to his bed. Then I got up to go for a wee and went back to my sofa and dozed off. Then the Other Half got up and joined me on my sofa. Then the next thing I know my penis was being sucked.

Now, I could deny all responsibility. Afterall, I hadn't put it there in the first place, and I did very little about keeping it there. In fact, all I really am guilty of is laying back and letting it happen. Not saying no. And I know it was naughty, but whilst no-one else knows, no-one gets hurt.

And, at least it only happened the once. Well, recently. Pretty much the identical circumstances occurred a good few years ago as well.


You would think I would learn, wouldn't you?

Plastic fantastic

So, I'm tired today. More tired today than usual.

Last night was a work meal. I seem to have quite a few of these. I had lunch bought for me on the company credit card last week, and I'm supposed to be going to a work "meal and bingo" night next week. Yeah, "unfortunately" I'm already booked for that one.

I regard these things very much as a double-edged sword:

On the one hand (or side of the blade) they are good 'networking' tools; getting me to know people more senior in the company, looking committed like a 'team-player', and they are a free meal which saves me cooking.

On the other however they mean spending an evening with people I would not normally want to spend an evening with; risk getting drunk and embarrassing myself or harming my careers prospects by offending someone; and they are an entire night out of my schedule where I neither get any jobs done nor relax properly.

Next week I have done my damnedest to get out of anyway. It is more about 'socialising' and getting to know people in my team or other teams. These are people that I either:

• a) already know enough (or too much) about already; or 
• b) that I don't need to know; or 
• c) that I don't want to know; or
• d) that I don't want to know anything about me.

In a large part they are underlings to whom I will still have to appear superior. That or they will be superior to me but trying too damned hard to be cool and 'one of the team'. And failing. Failing badly and looking as though they are just there to keep an eye out for anyone who may misbehave. And, amongst the more sensible of the proles (and I regard myself as amongst the more sensible) this puts us on edge, meaning we are even less aminable to socialising, all the more awkward and resistive to the primary function of the evening.

And all this just for a free meal which won't be very good anyway. Last time it was a choice between chicken or scampi, and one free drink. I did have a few more drinks just to relax slightly, whilst still being very-much on guard; but the best moment of the night is getting to the train station and cracking open a few cans of lager on the train to really let my hair down.

Last night, as I say, was different. Last night was a celebratory meal. We have been working very hard over the last few months on a new product which has finally gone live to great acclaim and relief. And - to even greater relief - all of the more senior people involved in the project were otherwise engaged and unable to attend the meal. This left everyone on practically the same level - whilst I am quite senior, because of the nature of the project everyone was at around my level within the company.

I don't know who allowed one of us mere mortals to have the company credit card, but to whomever it was I can confirm that the scallops were delightful, the venison melted in the mouth, and the copious amounts of wine enjoyed by all complimented the entire meal perfectly. Perhaps the only downside was that the liquers at the end of the meal were not quite chilled enough and there was only one really attractive member of waiting staff.

I am actually one of the more fresh-faced in at work today. And I have to say, as it was a nice, small team of around a dozen - rather than the 50 who should be attending next week (well, 49!) - we all got to talk to each other. Knowing there were no managers there, or members of my direct team, actually meant that I 'enjoyed' the evening. Well, I got as close as I was ever going to. There were lots and lots of bottles of wine consumed, however - aside from accidentally laughing at a racist joke because of an unrelated reason (I'm not racist, I was giggling at something else) - I didn't make any work faux-pas.

It could have gone terribly, terribly wrong of course, and at the start of the evening I was slightly trepidated. The managers - who were invited - might actually have turned up. This would not necessarily have been fatal to the mood of the evening, but might have acted as a squally shower dampens slightly an otherwise pleasant walk. Also, the office-fitty who I really fancy might have turned up, and turned me into a gibbering wreck who has half a sniff of wine and blathers and flirts embarrassingly. But that didn't happen. It would have been quite nice if the office-fitty had turned up, but on a risk-analysis basis it's probably best this way. And finally, the married girl at work who fancies me and flirts outrageously with me could have been overpoweringly flirtatious and I could have ended up naked in the back of the car. But we each resisted. When she dropped me at the train station we did exchange numbers, but purely because the train was running late and she wanted to make sure that if it didn't turn up I had some means to get home (she did say that if there was a problem I could stay at hers - presumably in the bunk-bed above her 5 year-old son).

And, of course, it was a free meal. Well, for me - I would hate to see the company credit card bill.

Bag-a-job week

So, last night I managed to get sat down at the computer and start the search for a new job.

Again.

When I got made redundant around 3 years ago, I walked straight into my current job; but I have always seen it as a temporary measure. Since then I have - in spits and spurts - been looking for another job.

The problem is Catch-22:

In order to look for another job, I need the time to search and apply.

But I don't have that time because of how far away my current job is and the time I spend travelling to and from work.

I leave the house at around 6:30 in the morning (it's actually usually a bit later because I have worked out if I jog half way to the station I get an extra 10 minutes in bed) and don't get in the house until around 7pm. When you live on your own, have to cook and clean for yourself as well as do the ironing, the gardening (it is enough just being albe to keep the garden in a decent state, let alone undertaking any major project), do any DIY and any other projects which make demands on your time; it's rare to get 5 minutes to sit on the sofa, let alone search around for another job.

Last night I managed to get the grass cut; the dinner cooked and eaten; packed-lunch sorted; and the bathroom cleaned in record time to afford myself half-an-hour to sit down and scour the job sites. The only problem was that the major site that I use went down. I ended up flitting over other sites (which is annoying because you have to register, and then confirm, and then upload your c.v., and then upload your covering letter, and then actually apply for the job you saw some ten minutes before) to apply for half-a-dozen jobs.

The other problem is that those half-a-dozen jobs ended up all being through agents with whom I am already registered. And many of them are so rude that I will have to chase them repeatedly only to be told that I didn't accurately match the criteria they have for the role but which they - in their infinite wisdom - decided they were not going to include in the on-line job specification.

I really do wish that more of the firms seeking the employees would actually use the job sites themselves rather than agencies: firstly it would be cheaper for the firms as they would not have to pay the recruiter fee; secondly they would be able more accurately to describe the vacancy and the candidates; and thirdly I would have some idea to whom I have actually applied so as not to submit half-a-dozen applications to various different agencies for what turns out is a single vacancy.

What I could really do with, is using the spare time that I have at work to search and submit applications for jobs; but according to the guys in IT that is seen as rather bad form and they have to report you to human resources.

To beard or not to beard, that is a question

So, I have started shaving again.

Over summer I let myself go. Well, I don't really but I do stop shaving, opting instead for designer stubble. Well, I say designer...

I'm not entirely sure which designer stubble is named for; or why it is 'designer' particularly. I presume that it just indicates some time, thought and effort has gone into keeping it neat, rather than just letting every go bushy.

I like to change my style every now and again, as anyone who has witnessed the bleach-blonde moments can attest. I get bored and need a change. So I go stubbley for a bit. A lot of it also comes down to laziness - being away for so many weekends makes it somewhat tricky to shave; so I either try and take a razor (not great to a music festival) and look smart, or I go stubbley. And the stubble does work - it looks good on me. Shaving at a festival is pretty-much impossible, but shaving at other people's houses is perfectly possible. The problem I have with it is that it makes a mess and takes a long time. I am not a fan of hogging other people's bathrooms for hours and hours whilst I preen and prune, so the stubble stays for summer.

You'd be surprised, but the stubble is not necessarily a low-maintenence option. In order to keep it 'designer' it needs to be trimmed every couple of days or so. This isn't just a quick buzz over. Firstly, only occasionally sporting stubble I find it difficult to justify buying specific stubble trimmers, so I use the ones I use for my head hair with the lowest possible guard on them. But they need to be charged up properly. Then there is the actually trimming which for some reason takes quite a bit longer than just an ordinary shave. But after that is a very messy clean-up: the trimmer throws the hair remnants all over the bathroom - all around the sink, all over the mirror, all over the windowsill and onto the floor. I certainly do not grow stubble to save time in the long run. Whilst it may only need trimming every couple of days it dioes take considerably longer.

The other problem with growing the stubble - or more particularly growing the stubble over summer - is that that patch of face doesn't get the same sun exposure so is slightly lighter than the rest of the face. It doesn't take long to resolve this, but for a few days it is noticeable. Maybe I should sunblock the rest of my face to ensure a consistent pastiness.

And, of course, there is the discomfort of stubble. As a grower, it does start to itch after a while. This is usually an indication that it is ripe for a trim, but there is a constant niggle. And it isn't just me that I need to think about either - whilst I am blessed with quite soft stubble, it still has a sandpapery effect on the people that I snog. Whilst I don't think it has actually deterred anyone from snogging me, there are a few who have been left red-faced, although purely round the mouth.

Anyhow, as well as wanting a change back to clean-shaven; I did need to shave to look particularly smart for something. This is something that I will go into in due course, just not quite yet. However, so as not to rip my face to shreds the first shave needed to be undertaken a few days prior, to let my skin settle down.This also allows the few spots which occur post-first-shave to subside. I presume they occur because a) the effect of scraping a blade or three across a face after a while untouched; and b) a few ingrown hairs. But by starting the shaving on the Monday I was able to ensure that I was looking perfect for Friday.

Well, as good as I was ever going to get.

Yes, but is it ART?

What does justify itself as 'art'?

Firstly, usual apologies about lack of posting on Tuesday and Wednesday. On Tuesday I found myself out at a meeting all day which prevented me doing any of my usual desk-based things. And then on Wednesday my colleagues were away so I was doing the work of three people.


Anyhow, I was listening to the Saturday Live podcast from the BBC yesterday evening whilst walking home. Every week they have a different guest-poet on who reads some poetry at various slots throughout the show. This week the chap wasn't particularly good. The poems seemed to have neither form nor function, on occasions just seeming as though he had randomly picked words out of the air and thrown them scattered onto a piece of paper.

You could see at times that he had tried to rhyme certain words together into couplets, but a lot of the rest didn't have any rhythm or format and just seemed plain clunky, exaggerated on the occasions when the rhymes were thrown in. Presumably this was some kind of 'quirky' way to poecise; but it just seemed messy and unnecessary. Especially when this device was used in every poem.

And the words didn't do anything either. They didn't tell a story or make you think or hold a debate or describe a mindscape; they left you wondering what they were actually trying to say. It was almost as though the auteur was attempting to show off and establish some sort of precocity purely by using words which would appear educated, intelligent or at the very least outside of the average listener's lexicon. It wasn't big and it wasn't clever.

I am by no means claiming authority over what is and is not poetry. I admit I do enjoy doing creating some of my own and I will also hold my hand up to being a somewhat traditionalist: it should either rhyme; or it should not. Trying to mix the two will simply confuse the listener - they will start looking out for rhymes where they are not and getting frustrated when words jar out of sync. But even poems that don't rhyme should have some form to them - the stanzas should be of similar lengths in terms of syllables; and pauses should be used as a technique - not necessarily to indicate a change of topic or a new sentence, but in a manner which doesn't thump them around unexpectedly.

Everyone got taught A-B-A-B and A-B-C-B rhyming poems at school. If they were the only rhyming styles allowed, poetry would be too prescriptive. Everything would sound the same, it would be boring, poets would not be able to expound upon their creativity. But at what point does something cease being poetry and become plain prose or - worse still - nonsense?

I have had the same thoughts about art too. An artist may attempt to declare his squiggles as art and try selling them for millions, but what if there is very little distinction to that of my young nephew improving his dexterity by doodling on a pad? If I paint a mural on a wall I may describe it as art; but if I simply paint the wall can I claim the same?

Locally we have a contemporary art gallery. Occasionally it has pieces in it which are utterly phenomenal - they have a mysterious beauty that the artist has spent hours and days refining into brilliance. And then there is an egg placed on a candlestick.

I usually think that art has to have one of two elements. It must either look good; or it should be inventive. If it does both, amazing. It doesn't necessarily need any particular skill - Pollock's paintings for example draw the eye, entice for hours and were a world away from anything anyone had done before; and yet they are just paint squiggles. And I'm not counting Pollock's as art purely because they have been accepted as art - they have beauty and they have invention. But does it take artistic invention to put an egg on a candlestick? Does it have beauty? No.

I think sometimes modern artists are desperate to make a name for themselves by being controvertial and presenting things as art that are not and modern art critics are too desperate to make a name for themselves as critics by espousing this as distinctive, unique, art which challenges our perceptions and preconceptions. But it's not - it's just someone trying to call something art which isn't art because they think it will be easier and financially more beneficial than getting a job down at Tesco. It's just plain pretentious. And then they have the audacity to call anyone who challenges it or doesn't accept it as art as being a neanderthal, not embracing creativity or experimentation.

Perhaps therefore the art-snub should define what art is, rather than the art-snob. At least they seem to know what they do and don't like.

My first ever civil partnership

Well, not my own, but the first which I have attended. Been invited to, even.

I qualify that just in case you should imagine I am bombarded by a slew of invitations on a monthly which I find some way to decline, but no: I haven't had an invitation before. Although were I bombarded with such a slew I should find as many ways as possible out of them. And not just on the basis of cost. I am not good for weddings. The last one I went the couple are already divorced and she has turned lesbian after finding out he had hidden a drug problem for years and was bonking the girl next door.

But anyway, this wasn't even a proper civil partnership. This was a reaffirmation of vows and reception. The couple had actually had a proper legal wedding in Toronto a couple of weeks before.

They had been together for over six years. Weddings are the perfect reminder to a chap like me of just exactly how single I am and how jealous I am of people who can sustain actual, real relationships. This wedding wasn't as bad as some actually. Usually I am the only person (at least amongst my friends) without a romantic "plus1". People take pity on me, and have to rearrange a table to seat five or seven instead of the six at every other table. But on this occasion there were practically two full tables of single people. And the one who did have a boyfriend couldn't bring him as the boyfriend was holidaying abroad.

That's one of my best friends who has a strange relationship with his boyfriend. They have been together over five years now, live together and are the most hopelessly romantic if you see them together. But that is it: it is rare to see them together. They each have very seperate lives, seperate groups of friends, almost never go out on nights out together, and have only holidayed together once in the time I have known them. But maybe that's why they work and appreciate so gladly the time they do spend with each other.

One of the good things about being single at weddings is that you are normally excused the embarrassment of having to partake in the dancing. Instead you get left sat at a table on your own. Woo.

Anyhow, on this occasion there were lots of other single people there. You would almost think that I would get a bonk out of that. Somehow I failed. In fact, worse than failing I managed to witness the two of whom I had designs go off WITH EACH OTHER.

Oh well, it could be worse. Someone that I fancied at uni could always have come up to me and asked how we never got it on with each other at university whilst his boyfriend of around ten years chatted idly a few yards away.

Oh yes, that happened too.

Of moths and mischief

Apologies.

Yeah, I didn't post yesterday. I was very, very tired. Immediately before I dropped off to sleep, a moth started throwing itself against the ceiling. After a while I got up and - eventually - crushed the moth; injuring my thumb in the process. Then it took me another hour or so to settle (or so it seemed). And then I dreamt that I was being bombarded by a room-full of moths. I don't much mind moths if they're keep themselves to themselves; but when they are making a lot of noise or (even imaginatively) hurling themselves at me, there is only so much I will put up with. So I woke up thrashing around at the dreamscape moths. It wasn't a nightmare as such; more of a night-annoyance.

Then I had to get up early to put the washing out. Only for some reason the washing machine hadn't turned on, so it wasn't ready. I say for some reason, the 'on' button hadn't been pushed in. I could have sworn that I did push it in; but maybe a moth flew against the button during the night, popping it back out again.

Oh, and then the freezer decided to start defrosting.

So not a good day all in all. And then add to that that my sleep was rather disturbed anyway as I wasn't sure if I had made the right decision under a dilemma; and I wouldn't find out for a least a day (I actually still haven't yet).

The dilemma was one very much ruled by Murphy's Law. If it could go wrong, it would. Regardless of what decision I made, it would be the wrong one. It's an amalgum of a Hobson's Choice with a Morton's Fork stuck in for good measure. I might call it Basil's Law: regardless of what decision you actually make; it can only go wrong.

So the Hobson's Choice: do I do something or nothing? In true Morton's Fork style, neither option seemed to have any benefit. Either I do nothing and things carry on muddling along with a slightly discomforting feeling; or I do something.

The problem is, if I were to do something I might kick the hornets nest; stir things up a bit; rock the boat; muddy the waters; bait the bear; put the cat amongst the pigeons. What should be seen as offering up an olive branch as a gesture could - from a distance - be seen as waving a big stick in aggression. Should I, perhaps, let sleeping dogs lie? Should I, perhaps, abandon the use of such clichéd metaphors?

Let us take, for example, the ghost from the weekend. One of my friends suggested I should send a text saying something along the lines of "Hey, think I might have seen you on the train, are you in Manchester."

I have to say, I did very well to resist this - usually once such a seed has been placed in my head I run with it and convince myself that it is the most absolutely correct thing to do... right up until the moment I press send and then my body is filled with dread.

So, Morton's Fork in this circumstance:
Left Fork: I send the text and either get something back saying bugger off you stalkerish freak; or worse still I hear nothing and give even more body to the ghost.
Right Fork: I don't send the text and I never know if anything could have come from it.

As I say, I did nothing. Who's to know if I had sent the text and spend a wild, passionate, entire weekend in bed with the dishy doctor David? Sometimes it is better to just leave these things to the mists of mystery.

Anyhow, as regards the current dilemma I did pull the tail of the pig. I made the gesture. As I say, I still don't know how it has turned out. Hopefully it will be taken with good grace or even gratitude, in the pleasant and friendly spirit it was intended. If not you can probably expect to see me running around town through muddy water chased by a bear, a previously slumbersome dog, a cat and a lot of miffed pigeons, and a nests-worth of hornets.

Now, how do I shoe-horn the rocky boat into that?