Flag fantastic... or just plain flagging?

So, are you fatigued with hearing about this summer already?

The Great British Summer.

Great Britain 2012.

The Summer of Sport

Etc. etc. etc.

Obviously with the country back in recession, the shops are doing all they can do to get us out buying; and they seem to have it easy this summer.

There is red, white and blue everywhere you look, and it's still only May.

Now, there is a lot going on this summer.

There is obviously the Queen's Diamond Jubilee – a four day weekend with (currently) predicted amazing weather.

Then there is the 'O' word. The Olympics.

And the Euros (though, inexplicably it seems, Britain doesn't seem to be hosting them - how remiss of EUFA) as well as the usual scattering of regular events.

And yes, we need it. Times are tough, we've had a few harsh winters, wash-out summers, a few years of austerity and generally not much to celebrate. So I can understand why they are pushing this summer: if we can't enjoy the summer when we have both a Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics on our doorstep, when can we?

The advertising is very canny though. It's all very coy. It's red, white and blue. It's summer. There's a lot of things that the advertising isn't.

It isn't focused on sport. Well, afterall, one of the main events is non-sporting. And you never want to alienate those people who are almost vociferous with their non-sportingness. I can recall a chain of pubs in a previous World Cup campaign actively advertising itself as a 'Football Free Zone.'

But it isn't focused on the Jubilee entirely either. Thus you can try to tickle both Royalist and Republican chin at the same time. You're probably not actually going to please those who are not nationalists, obviously, or those who think the use of red, white and blue everywhere is almost denigrating the Union flag. But you can never please all of the people all of the time.

But not focusing on a single, particular event of the summer allows the shops to have a co-ordinated advertising campaign covering the whole of the season; rather than spending lots on a Jubilee campaign, and the same again on an Olympics campaign. It's a Single-Spend-Summer or Common-Consolidated-Campaign.

And, of course, the Olympics are a funny one. The word Olympics and phrase London 2012 are protected: you can only use them if you have a licence to. So you see companies trying to get as close to the Olympics without actually associating with them.

Take the Subway sandwich chain. They have an advertising campaign where a number of athletes who will almost certainly be competing in the Olympics telling you what their Personal Best sandwiches are. Nice. No using the 'O' word. Aside from telling you what sport they are competing in, there isn't actually any mention directly of 'sport' or 'competing'.

It's good, but not quite good enough...

Sky has launched its “Britain deserves HD” campaign with massive billboards featuring a range of athletes undertaking their sporting endeavours, bedecked in red, white and blue and the tagline “Believe in Britain”.

They could almost be dressed in the official sportswear of TeamGB. But they're not. So very, very close; but certainly not close enough to breach the legislation.

The Summer of Sport is the phrase being used by those providers of services or products specifically targetted at sport who cannot use the O word, and allows them to remind people there is also the Euros football tournament as well. The Summer of Britain is used more generally where they do not want to specifically limit themselves to sport.

And this is where the Union flag really has come into its own: anyone can use it. It isn't protected or restricted in any way: just ask the BNP. But it allows the nation to unite; and – more particularly – it allows the retailers an very cheap marketing strategy which actually almost seems supported by or co-ordinated to everyone else's.

You're not worrying about blending into the crowd, you're actively using herd mentality.

The Union flag is getting splattered across everything and anything. I wandered round my local mini-super-market at the weekend, and they had put Union flag labels on anything that had been made in Britain. Weirdly this had been applied to feminine hygiene products and toilet paper as well as the beers and spirits that you may have been expecting them to promote. So it looks as though tampons seem to have some sort of connection to either the Jubilee or the Summer of sport.

Now, I'm a huge fan of the Union flag. My work mug is a giant, Union flag mug. One of the fountain pens I use has the Union flag on it, as does one of my keyrings and even my doormat.

So, is the ubiquity building a brand? Or is it dulling the senses? By applying it to everything, regardless as to how remotely connected it is to any of the celebrations, is it discrediting the campaign?

I don't think so, I think the ubiquity is enhancing the spirit. The flag - and nationality generally - is supposed to build pride, a collective, unifying identity, something around which we can build a community and something which has never defined a single commodity. If anything it is a shame that it is being exploited on such a temporal and commercial basis, and that the flags and colours are not used all the more outside of these events: if the crisps that I've bought with the flag on the packet are so eagerly British, why are they not so for the rest of the time?

But then that would affect our perception of the event – we would not get so caught up in the flurry of the Jubilee if we were being bombarded in a similar manner on a permanent basis. It's all about striking a happy medium – not overdoing it either temporally or continually. Know when it is enough that you have built the brand identity without becoming excessive in duration or reach.

Now, wrap me in bunting and throw me to the Rupublicans.

Sunday sex

There is something very illicit about a bonk on a Sunday night when you have work on a Monday.

There is something even more naughty about re-engaging in rumpy pumpy on a Monday morning before getting up to go to work.

And it is that very good feeling of being very wrong that is probably the only thing making me not as annoyed about it as I really want to be.

Because I am annoyed about it. For once I actually did not want to be having sex.

Oh well.

It all started off on Friday night...

My friend was up from London for the weekend, we went out on Friday night and I pulled this student. I had sacrificed my lovely new bedroom to my friend so was downstairs on the sofabed, with student.

And that should have been that.

My friend and I went out on Saturday night and I pulled this student. Deja vu. Only this time the second student didn't come back with me, we just swapped numbers.

Now, this complicates matters. Not because there were two students, but because there were two numbers.

And a temporary phone.

My smartphone had died itself a death whilst I was on holiday. At the time this was no great loss: when I go away, I get away. I get away from everything, I don't check my emails, don't update my social networks or even particularly keep in contact with people. I will send the occasional message back to me mam just to let her know that I'm alive, but that is all.

So, the phone wasn't an issue until I got home, when I ordered a new one. But that arrived damaged. So I am awaiting the return of the replacement. The seller unfortunately is pretty slow at dealing with this, and slow at responding to emails.

So in the meantime I'm on a very old phone which I stopped using when one of the buttons stopped working. This is a slight handicap. The main handicap though is that the default setting of this phone is to save numbers onto the phone rather than the SIM card, for some reason. It does, in fact, make it very difficult to save numbers onto the SIM card. So I don't save numbers.

Now, for the short period of time that I ought to have been using the phone, and the frequency with which I need to save numbers, it would have been a rare event that I needed to save one number, let alone two.

Anyhow, I am now in the position of having to guess which of the students is texting me.

So, I dispatched my friend off down to London late Sunday afternoon, by which point the Friday night student was already texting me trying to get me to go to the park for gin and lemonade. Normally I would have loved to, but the house needed sorting – the bedding needed changing from my friend, the sofabed needed de-bedding, the house needed a tidy and I had to sort my life out for work. Combine this with still being well behind schedule with the garden and – for once – gin comes second.

But he wasn't taking no for an answer.

Next thing I knew he was in the kitchen.

It scared the crap out of me – I came in the back door just as he drifted in the front door.

Now, in fairness I should have expected this. He had rung me a few times if he could come over, had asked where I lived. And, despite me repeatedly saying 'no' declared that he was coming over.

I don't normally actually say 'no'. I normally find a polite, tactful way of suggesting that it's not actually the most sensible course of action. So for me to actually put my foot down and say 'no', a good few times, shows how determined I was not to have sex.

Anyhow, we did end up bonking on Sunday night, clearly. What this should actually have meant is that I ought have gotten a better night sleep than expected: because he was over I went to be around 10pm, instead of after midnight as is turning out to be the norm. And even with bonking, the lights went out well before 11.

Add to the evening the fact that I didn't drink as much as I otherwise probably would have either both because of going to bed earlier, and not getting smashed in front of a shag; not just the quantity of sleep should have been better but also the quality.

And it possibly would have been, had the shag not started stomping around the bedroom at 00:39, grumbling about how hot it was and that he therefore couldn't sleep and probably ought to go home because he was disturbing me. My response was yes, he most definitely was disturbing me and he needed to make a decision one way or another: he either stayed, got back into bed and at least tried to sleep; or he rang for a taxi as soon as possible. I remember the time because I asked and got told “zero zero three nine.”

Well, he decided to stay and got back into bed and thrashed around for another half an hour or so before eventually dropping off.

Now, despite me giving strict instruction that it wasn't to happen again in the morning, and that when my alarm went off at 5:30am he was to get straight up and go; he didn't. He started on it again. I decided I might as well – firstly to get it over with and therefore get him gone as soon as possible, but also because of the illicitness of the bonking.

Eventually I got him out of the house – the sex took a little longer than was hoped but I still managed to get the early train.

And so on to the first five day week in and for a long while. With the Easter, the holiday, the early May bank holiday, an early finish on a Friday, and a sick day last week; and then with two bank holidays next week and three training courses on three consecutive weeks (they don't feel like work because they are more fun, they are out of the office and in London, and two of them are on Fridays) it's going to seem like a very long week. With little sleep. And with fingers still smelling of latex and lube, despite being washed many times.

And the best thing was that he called condoms Jonnies. I've not heard them called Jonnies in yonks.

Jonnies.

Putting more on than I seem to be taking off

This morning I got the washing out.

Doesn't sound a massive achievement, but it's a little achievement on the way to the end of the day.

That sounds as though I'm wishing away the day, which I suppose – it being a work day – I am.

But it was actually more of an achievement than it sounds, and not just because I want to feel that I have already achieved something today, meaning I know I will definitely have achieved something by the end of the day.

It was jogging day today. As discussed once a long time ago, this means getting the early train, so leaving the house considerably earlier even than normal. So to get up, leave the house earlier than normal, AND still have time to put the washing out actually is an achievement.

But this isn't the double achievement of getting the washing out AND jogging; this is a full-on triple rollover lottery win of an achievement: this is the first time in a very long time – possible since New Year – that my washing bin has been entirely empty.

Oh that feels good.

That's one list empty. Ticked off. All done.

Well, for now at least.

And this kind of reflects my life at the moment: ticking things off of one list merely means shifting the focus onto another list.

So that one has been completed; and the “Spare Room Job List” has pretty much been ticked-off too, having achieved ; Absolute Completion but in doing so I have now created a new list: the “Clothes Audit List” (pants and socks have already been ticked off this, but I'm not progressing any further with this until next week. Oh, and a second: “Project Move Lounge to Bedroom” list; of which I suppose the Clothes Audit List really is a sub-list as I can't progress with that list until I have done the clothes audit and can therefore remove some of the built in wardrobes.

So, in the meantime I can get back to concentrating on the Garden List. This has been very neglected of late, and as other lists have gotten short so this has just gotten longer. There are all the various different patches to weed – nothing new there except that I am behind schedule – plants that need planting out; and areas that are 'project areas': previously all work has been maintenance work, just keeping them as they are and stopping them from deteriorating, but now they actually need a full clear-out and planting up properly how I want them

The Garden List ought be smaller than normal: with having had my holiday right in the middle of sowing and setting season, I have decided not to undertake my vegetable growing on the usual scale, so they are not on the list.

Or at least not as many as normal.

Those that have been started – a few tomatoes is probably about it – are somewhat hindered by not being able to get into the greenhouse, because it is full of wood from a pallet. This was the pallet that the plaster came on but will be used to make a proper greenhouse staging. But that is just another project on the Major Project List. And a prerequisite of that is getting the greenhouse empty of other clutter.

That's another list.

And that's just outside.

My Personal Project List: the various things that I work on in my 'down-time' (if I ever get back to having such a thing) have not progressed at all whilst I have been concentrating on the spare room. If anything I have been adding 'contributions' which have actually just made each project bigger.

And whilst the washing may have been done, those items in the ironing and the sewing piles have increased. Tonight's list involves cleaning the kitchen and bathroom which does at least mean that the “Getting the House Ready for a Guest at the Weekend List” should be complete, as well as ticking a few more items off the “General House Cleanliness List” which also took a victory when the tablecloth and doormat were included in the final wash-loads.

And this is just the tangible stuff.

My “Things to Ebay” list has also been neglected and I am now looking at that. Most of the things on there are items that I am clearing out as part of Project Move Lounge to Bedroom.

But there is also the digital media tidy-up. This is really one of my Personal Projects: a few years ago I noticed how disorganised the music on my computer was. I had certain songs on there twice because they were on two different albums, or had been titled differently for some reason, and the display names were inconsistent: some would display artist then track; some artist then album then track; some track number then title and then artist. So I undertook a massive overhaul and tidy-up which was Substantially Complete at the end of last year; however there are a few that have slipped through the net, so it just needs me to sit for a couple of hours and finally audit the library. And the video library has hardly been started yet.

And then there is all the media that I have heard or heard of and haven't gotten around to downloading (legitimately, obviously) yet. That list just seems to grow exponentially.

Even the list of things that I want to write about on this blog seems to multiply rather than diminish.

And it's not as though going to work offers any respite. I have been put onto so many different projects that I hardly have time to catch up on my own professional development: I have updates and periodicals that I have been intending to get around to reading for weeks now; but because I have taken on the challenge of undertaking another series of training presentations; writing a few more articles to publicise our service; reviewing the content of one of the websites as well as technical testing on two of the new product releases. Even at work things seem to be getting on top of me and I hardly have a moment to scratch my arse.

So, whilst things are getting ticked-off on one list; or a list is getting removed from the list of lists entirely; other lists are being added or added to. I sometimes wonder whether they actually balance out.

Still, at least I got the washing out.

Ex'd by text

My friend was complaining at the weekend that he'd been dumped.

That wasn't his main concern – he gets dumped pretty much every weekend because he jumps into relationships quicker than I can understand.

His main concern was that, of all the travesties in the world, he had been dumped by text.

The indignity.

His claim was that “the bastard couldn't even tell me to my face.”

Now, whilst I can understand that perspective, I don't agree with it.

Firstly the notion that we ought only dump people face-to-face is one which, though relatively recent, hasn't kept pace with technology.

Yes, it is surprisingly recent. It was only really with the invention of individual and mass transport that the 'personal separation' took any kind of courtesy. Previously, engagements had always been broken by letter. Well, by those that could write. That was the proper way to do it.

So, ending the relationship by text is a simple extrapolation of that, together with the development of the newer format of communication. Afterall, we arrange dates by text, why not undate by text?

But the main thrust of his argument was one of courtesy and honour: that his boyfriend of a couple of weeks was duty-bound to end it personally.

Again, I have problems with this.

Firstly, maybe if they had been dating for more than a couple of weeks I could have understood this proposition; but I don't that that moral obligation had been given any time to develop.

And even then, it isn't always correct. Quite frequently dumping by text is actually better: more decent and courteous.

How so?

Three ways.

Can I not stop with lists? Apparently not...

Firstly to minimise the damage to an evening. You are already sticking the knife in, the last thing you want to do is take more of a chunk than is necessary. So, rather than have someone block-book an evening, cancel all arrangements to make sure that they are yours for the entire evening, let them know straight out. The alternative is a coded text: "I need to see you for an hour but no more. And you may want some company after that."

That is a dump-text in all but words. Granted you cannot predict the circumstances in which the text will arrive, and it is quite possible that you will leave your ex blubbing and cursing you on a packed commuter train or in the middle of the cleaning-product aisle of the supermarket; but it's either that or know that you're going to make a scene in a restaurant or bar or some other similarly public place. “Darling would you pass me the popcorn, and make that the last thing you do as my boyfriend, thanks.”

The second reason, related to that, is that you are building them for a fall. Don't make this any more painful than you need; and arranging a meeting is going to seem enthusiastic, like another date, another step down the aisle, another concrete footing to the romance. And unless you are very careful about wording the invitation, you are only providing encouragement and fuel to the fire that will burn them. And if you are careful about the wording, they will probably read the hidden meaning into it again anyway.

And finally, timing. Is it really fair to keep them hanging on for another few days – a week perhaps – until you both have a vacancy in your diaries? You already know that you want to end it; why keep them hanging on? Surely it is more courteous to minimise the damage, let them think slightly less of the relationship (by about a week) and start rebuilding themselves that little bit earlier?

I have two good examples of why dumping by text is more appropriate.

Firstly, when I was at uni I started going out with someone. He was a nice enough lad, we started going out a week or two before he went home for the Christmas holidays and we kept in contact by text and phone. He made a special effort to come and see me for my birthday and to treat me to a meal.

But it was then that I decided – nice though he was – that we weren't right. But I didn't want to make a scene that weekend: he had gone to considerable effort to impress and it really would have been pissing on the baked vanilla cheesecake to do the dumping over that weekend.

And we had a nice weekend. And then he went home. It was my intention to 'do the right thing' when he came back for the new term in a week or two; but having already made the decision my attitude changed – albeit not consciously. I was obviously wary in any of the conversations of building his hopes, setting him up for the fall, providing too much encouragement, and he could tell. Eventually after a text from me with one-too-few 'x's he rang me and voiced his fears – that he was worried he was losing me. And all I could do was confirm it.

He was gracious about, but I couldn't help feeling that I had been keeping him hanging on for a week or so, him trying ever harder to engage my ever dwindling attention.

And for the second example, I tried for a few weeks to have the difficult, courteous conversation with my now ex, but he repeatedly put barriers in the way. No sooner had I managed to get him to a quiet spot, bring the conversation to a natural point, than he would bring up some other trauma in his life; some distraction or diversion from the matter in hand. I am pretty sure he knew the direction I wanted the conversation to go, and was rather sweetly trying to hang on to the last string of hope for as long as possible. And that meant that when it did happen, it happened in a way that neither of us really had control over.

We were out clubbing and someone made a pass at me. Initially I rebuffed the move; but ultimately it occurred to me that this was the opportunity I needed, even if it wasn't the one that I wanted. And so, rather than the courteous, polite, anticipated, crafted “It's not me, it's you” conversation; it all came clattering down with a cacophony of tears and shouting and general awkwardness from my friends (and, needless to say, my snog) who had to pay witness to this poor kid's life crashing down in front of his eyes.

If I hadn't thought that the polite conversation were the courteous option – if I had taken the balls and sent a text when I was certain – or at least almost certain – that he was home alone, I could have saved him such a public heartbreak, saved the awkward two weeks that I had been trying to manipulate the conversation, properly prepared him for what I wanted to say, rather than him stumble across me locked-lips with another man.

So yes, I say dump by text. And from my own point of view having been dumped by text, I would rather get a text in the privacy of my home, where I can quietly read it without having my every expression and reaction analysed by the dumper and anyone else around, where I can feel in control or at least have no-one else know if I lose control.

Just tell me nice things whilst you're doing it.

And relax....

So, as you may recall from yesterday, I got the carpet in the guest bedroom, making Absolute Completion of that room. Well, the next thing to address was to actually move in.

Whilst this is technically the guest bedroom, it shall – for a few months/years – be substitute master bedroom. This is whilst I move all my living furniture up into the master bedroom whilst I decorate the main lounge; then clear out the master bedroom and decorate that. I can then make a decision as to which room I prefer.

But, in the meantime, I am in the guest bedroom and so need to move in. Yet again I had set myself a deadline for this.

I like deadlines in the same way as I like routines. They give you something to aim for, to achieve. Most of the deadlines I set are not critical but are either aesthetic or simply useful. Take the guest bedroom project: my latest deadline was to get all of the furniture in so that the room could be occupied by my friend who is visiting from London this weekend.

Of itself not a critical deadline: he could easily have stayed in a semi-complete room. So long as there was a bed in there, what did it really matter? But it mattered to me.

And again, this was a bit of a catch 22 deadline. Fine, get the furniture complete, move myself mostly in, but as I was to be doing the gentlemanly thing and giving up the room for him and I was to stay on the sofa-bed either in the living room or move it up to the master bedroom (where it needed to go in any event) all of my clothes would be in the guest bedroom. It is either that, or leave my clothes in the master bedroom and inconvenience myself with having to flit between the two when dressing.

So anyway, first task: bed.

All of the other furniture was to be new; however as previously discussed, the bed was a reasonably recent purchase anyway, and had been selected with the design of the spare room in mind, so needed carting over from the old room. Well, after a struggle (and minor bump to the head) I got it taken apart sufficiently that it would be moveable single-handedly.

This had to be complete on the day I started it. Well, it was that or kipping on the sofa-bed, which seemed pointless. And obviously there was my excitedness: I was to be spending the first night in my new bedroom! This would be the first time sleeping in there since I bought the house and slept in a roll of carpet.

There is a reason for that.

It was a Friday when I first bought the property. I was going out for a Friday night in town and was determined to stay in my new place for two reasons. Firstly, because IT WAS MY NEW HOME! This was the first home I had ever owned, so it would have been odd not to stay in it on the first night. Secondly it was considerably closer to town, and rather than get a twenty pound taxi back to my parents I could walk it. Obviously I hadn't had time to move any kit in, and the house was in a bit of a state, so I had to sleep in the middle of a roll of carpet for warmth.

So, anyhow, I knew that my first job post-carpet was to be the bed. I obviously celebrated my last night in my old bedroom by having someone stay over, the last time I would have to apologise for the condition of the bedroom (hopefully)

The remainder of the furniture I treat very much as a giant, fun, jigsaw puzzle and had no problems putting together. I had measured everything out so I got the perfect fit of wardrobes and drawers. It's still amazing how little space there is for clothes, even with a two-door wardrobe; a three-door wardrobe and a five-drawer chest of drawers. I am going to have to be ruthless with a clear-out and this may see the end of the lime-green-zip-up shirt.

But yes, that is the situation I am in at the moment: the room is built, decorated, furnished and generally looks amazing; but I am living between the two until I get the time to have a full clothes audit.

That is quite a daunting prospect actually. I don't even think when I came back from university or when I moved into the house in the first place that I had a full clothes audit. And since then I have purchased considerably more clothes than I have thrown out. I really am going to have to be devastatingly ruthless.

But that first Saturday night in bed was amazing. Absolutely unbelievable. It's odd: it felt like home. For the first time, pretty much ever really I felt like I had a home, a little oasis of calm amid the clutter.

The house has always felt like home to me in as much as when I see it after a holiday, or even just after a bad day at work, I relax and I feel 'at home'. But it has been a home of particular circumstance.

Like I say, when I take people home I have to apologise. I still will have to – they will still have to see the kitchen, the lounge, the hall, all in their state of undecor. And it has meant that I have been reluctant to hold parties, soirées or any such. And I still will be until I at least get the lounge complete.

But for once I have a room where I can hide myself away; relax properly; watch tv without looking at the wall behind and thinking 'that needs plastering'. I will be able to take people back and they will forget about the rest of the house and I won't have to be constantly explaining that the peeling walls are actually a quirk; that the various defects are all 'on the list'.

I think, for the very first time, I let my guard down and relaxed all the way. And this is despite knowing all the million-and-one jobs there are to do; despite knowing that the room still needs the clothes putting in, and a couple of millimetres shaving off the bottom of the door; and the window washing; and a wee dab of paint on the wall where the wardrobe rubbed against it (so, maybe not quite Absolute Completion, but is there ever really such a thing?)

I just lay back and smiled.

Pulling it together, pulling it off...

This weekend was a massive climax for me.

I got laid.

A good, deep, thick shag.

My first carpet.

Well, the first carpet I have had to order and arrange for the installation thereof.

This had become 'the deadline'. The biggest deadline since 'Absolute Completion' of the bathroom. Obviously, there was a delay between 'Substantial Completion' of the bathroom - where pretty much everything was done, save for some touching up and the bath panel. The bath panel was actually quite a substantial touch-up. But the bathroom got done, and now there aren't even any 'niggles'.

So, since recovering from the appendix in January, the major project has been the spare room.

The spare room was already started. When I didn't have the money to do the MASSIVE jobs in the bathroom: tiling the floor; and installing the shower cubicle; then I set to doing stuff in the spare room that could be done at no cost: chipping off the plaster. Then the bathroom got done and I could spend money.

For a bedroom there actually isn't that much you need to spend money on. It's not as though there is any apparatus in there particularly. To get the room to "move in" stage, it is simply a case of:

• Electrics. Sockets that is.
• Lighting
• Plastering
• Painting
• Woods: skirting, architrave, doors
• Carpet.

Looks simple when you only have 6 bullet points really.

But it's never that simple.

Shall we take each one at a time...

Electrics
This one looks nice and simple. How hard can it be to wire a socket? Well, it isn't. It's very easy. But how many do you want? Where do you want them? What colour? What style?

Colour? For sockets?

Yes.

Do you want simple white? Stainless steel? Satin nickle? Brushed chrome? Polished chrome? Brass? Iridium black? Are the rockers to match or contrast?

So, you already need to have your colour scheme in mind for the whole room. Afterall, if you're having polished chrome handles on your doors, you don't want satin nickle sockets. And if you're having gilded cornices (for example) then you don't want a tacky white socket.

And where?

I already knew a lot about what I wanted for the room. From the start, I knew where the bed was going to be. This was dictated by the window and the door, although the door is potentially a slightly fluid consideration - in my room I know that there is a possibility that I will calve off a section in order to make a corridor and part of a third bedroom, should I wish to make a quick amendment before selling. So I know the door may move a bit, but even if it does I know the position of the bed will probably be one of two places.

So, I wanted a double socket either side of the bed. This is to plug in a bedside lamp, a clock or radio, and a mobile charger or (if I were poorly and staying in bed for the day) a laptop.

Then you don't want to wake up looking at a wardrobe. So at the opposite end of the room needs to be the - if a bedroom is to have one (thought it is much more refined without) - television. If the room has enough room, mounted on the wall with little surrounding; however almost certainly this will have to be placed on a chest of drawers; with the wardrobes as discretely as possible on the window wall.

So I needed a couple of double sockets down that end of the room, for the television, computer (no-one has a dvd player these days) trouser-press (yes, people still have them) and a spare - vacuum, maybe.

So, there we go. The colour of the sockets - distinctively 'mocha' (or brown as I like to call it) - was chosen to match the colour scheme I had planned since I started thinking of the room. And this was a major thing - yes, even when coming down to the sockets.

Since buying the house I have lived in one bedroom. When I first bought the house I slept in a single bed. Around 5 years ago I got a bonus at work and decided to buy a bed. A KING-SIZE bed. There wasn't really such a thing as a super-king at the time. But I was upgrading: I might as well go all the way. Ignore the fact that at least 4 of the 5 foot of bed have been untouched for the majority of time as I tend to occupy a tiny sliver of bed down one side.

But, this wasn't to be a disposable bed. So this bed needed to be kicking around for a while. And it was at that stage - five years before the room even really started - that the 'room' started to take shape.

Or rather colour.

The bed was a very nice, large, brown colour leather. Well, it was brown or black leather; or wood of some sort, or steel.

And the brown leather was more luxurious than a steel frame, all of which eventually work loose and wiggle and squeek. And the main problem I have with most luxurious wooden beds is that they have to be 'sleigh' beds in order to encompass a proper headboard. And that usually means they have a 'sleigh' bottom. Which is a problem when you are 6'4" and the standard double length bed is 6'3".

I have slept in beds with either steel or wooden slats protruding above the base of the bed and during the night one of my feet has slipped between the slats and whilst tossing (steady) during the night I have nearly broken an ankle. So I knew when buying the bed I couldn't have a 'sleigh' end or a slat end - I had to have a fully open end for my feet (and legs) to protrude out of, yet still wanted an integrated headboard - otherwise I could lose pillows down the gap.

Hence the brown leather bed ticked the boxes. There probably were wooden beds that may have ticked those boxes, but they were few and far between and probably more expensive.

Then, because I had a huge new bed I needed a new duvet, and new sheets and covers. And they had to match the brown of the bed leather. So I went with brown and cream. Or ivory and chocolate or whatever they were called. But I wanted something other than 'beige' colours, something to 'set it off' in the terms of those people that use those terms. And there's not much that goes with brown and cream, save for red - something which I'm sure interior designers call an autumnal selection.

But that was the colours selected, dictating the colours of the sockets. Iridium black couldn't work (and to be fair I think will date quite quickly); white was nasty; the silvers of nickles, chromes and steels could work, if I knew what else they were to match with; but then I found these lovely, amazing 'mocha' (or 'brown' as I like to call it) sockets, switches etc. which suited the long-since-selected colour scheme perfectly.

And that's just the sockets sorted.

Lighting

Well, where to start?

How many? What style? One rather dictates the other, but which one? Do I go for wall lights, in which case I probably need around 4? Or do I go for uplighters? Or downlighters? Or spots? Or a simple ceiling light? Or a pendant? OR a more lavish chandalier? Or a couple - one at either end of the room?

I'm quite take with spots I have to say. Simple, discrete, if one goes you still usually have quite a few others so you can see enough to replace it. Flush with the ceiling, so no weird shadows. And - when you're as tall as I am - no risk to your scalp.

But how many? In the bathroom I made a slight boob. I don't think I put quite enough in. No, that's not right. We're going with 'subtle'. I went for 'subtle' lighting. You can see perfectly well enough to shave on a dark winter morning, so they are fine.

But this was a bedroom, and quite a large bedroom at that. I wanted to be able to see what I was doing clearly, to dress appropriately in well-lighted conditions. Actually, that's probably a bad thing as now I have lost my "I was getting dressed in the dark" excuse for my fashion faux-pas's.

So I plumped for 10; but with the two above the bed being independently controllable so that I could either have the one above me on for reading; the one above the guest side on if my guest was reading (yeah, right, but I have to think about selling on the house) and then the eight 'main beam' lights for the rest of the room.

Only 10 didn't fit with the beams in the ceiling, so I had to either go with eight or twelve. So I went with twelve. Blinded by the lights.

And then switches. Obviously the two spots above the bed need to be controllable from the bed. The last thing you want is to be getting out of bed to turn them off. But the main light also needs to be controllable from the bed - you don't want to be stumbling round in the dark to get to bed because you forgot to turn the bed-spot on before turning the main beams off. So why not go the whole hog - make the two bed-spots controllable from the door too; afterall it would be so annoying to have to walk all the way over to either side of the bed before leaving the room when you realise that you've accidentally left the bed spots on.

Now, I'm rather proud of being able to say that I did all the electrics myself.

I'm a rather nervous chap when it comes to electrics, I have to say. And it's daft, because it is only 240v here in England. It's not going to kill me. But I still managed to do all the socket spurs; and all the lighting - even with the many switches and even more spots.

The nerves when I first flicked the switch... with a wooden spoon (just in case it was live)... were quite something. I actually, honestly, expected something to pop, or fuse, or smell of burning, or not work at all. But it was done.

And it's surprising how long the wiring can take.

To start with, you sit down with a piece of paper, work out what lights you want, where you want them, and where you want your switches. Then you get lots of coloured pens and draw the various different cables: main ring, lighting circuit, switch cable, link cable etc. That of itself can take an evening, before you even think about touching the cable cutters, strippers or tiny little screwdrivers.

Anyhow, the electrics and lighting having been done, it's then onto...

Plastering

It surprised me when I was ready for this, to the extent that I nearly ended up with some 'dead-time'. Because plasterers have a lead time of a couple of weeks whilst they finish their other jobs off. Despite the light wiring taking so long, it still crept up on me quickly. Particularly as there are a surprising number of plasterers who don't return calls or turn up to give quotes.

It also surprised me how much a plasterer costs. I had my three quotes (eventually) and one of them was 'mates rates'. But even then, just the cost of the raw materials was expensive.

And then there was scheduling. I had managed to get myself organised so that dead-time was limited, but then you have to factor in that it either has to take place at weekends, or else take some time off work. And for a two-day job, it would either have to take two weekends (because no-one works on a Sunday) or a day off as well. Fortunately my dad is retired and was willing to offer his services so it could get started on the Saturday, and finished off on the Monday.

Painting

Again, timing was key here. Fresh plaster needs to be left for at least a week to properly dry out; so during that week I had to buy the paint.

Basic colours had already been chosen, as previously discussed: cream, red and brown. Only that's obviously far too simply.

White ceiling. Obviously. No-one has a coloured ceiling. That was easy.

But brown is never just brown, nor is cream cream or red red. I had to scan through around two dozen different creams; and the same numbers of brown and red. So I've ended up with something called 'Liquor', 'Cocoa Bean' and 'Kings Red'.

But then do you go with matt? Or satin? Or gloss?

And, of course, timing was critical: I had to get the main coats on before going on holiday: my dad had kindly offered to do the skirting board whilst I was on holiday, and the room needed to be painted beforehand. I was on a very timescale. I had only just over a week, which needed two coats of paint on top of the base water-coat. When painting on top of new plaster the first coat needs watering-down considerably so that the plaster takes the paint. So, I needed to get three coats on the walls and the ceiling, in the small amount of time I had of an evening after work, in a week. But I managed it somehow.

And that was just the basic layer. I had intentions right from the very first thoughts of the room, way back when buying the bed linen in the electrics paragraph. I knew that I wanted red and brown stripes. Random stripes, a bit like a barcode. But that was decided years ago. So when I returned from holiday these had to be done. And quickly - I ordered my carpet the weekend following my return, and had to have the stripes done by then; which involved two coats for each of red and brown; and then a final whip round 'touching up' any last bits.

But, again, I managed that.

Woodwork

This isn't of itself a massive undertaking; and was made a lot easier by my dad dealing with this aspect whilst I was away. The skirting and doors were pre-determined by the same in the bathroom (indeed, the door had long since been done by myself a good two or three years prior when there was an offer on them).

Carpet

Ah finally! Aside from furniture, this is the finishing touch. Once this is done, the room is complete. It is a room that I could sell.

So, the carpet had to match the colours in there: red, brown or cream. Or Kings Red, Cocoa Bean and Liquor as is more appropriate. And then there is timing too: you have to order when the sale is on. And I did, which was what put the pressure on the stripe painting.

But this was the first time I had ever bought a carpet. What do you go for? When you first walk in, the showroom is daunting. There are many many many stands with piles and piles of samples on them.

What do you want it made of? There are man-made fibres, but I was put off these for two reasons: static, and staining. They generally show the dirt up a little more. They are more durable, for use in places of high foot-fall; but despite my various weekend shenanigans my bedroom really isn't falling into that category. 80/20 wool is generally regarded as the softer, easier standard. So that cut down the number of stands by well over half: well, down to four in fact.

The four stands actually contained pretty much the same colours, just in four different qualities. So I simply went for the stand on the best offer and had a feel - it felt good enough for me.

Despite the room being very well lit, I wanted a nice, light colour. The closest to Liquor. I'm not a fan of reds or browns for carpets: they make a room look a lot smaller and a lot darker. So, having chosen the quality of carpet it was simply a case of selecting the closest colour. Which isn't as easy as you would think. But I just had to go for it and accept it.

And it actually looks perfect. I was so happy on Saturday, rolling around like a child in an astoundingly empty room, with just the carpet under my feet!

Amazeballs.

Pride before a fall

I went round to my friend's over the weekend and he was moaning about being single.

Again.

But he came out with an odd phrase whilst ranting about other people who shag around: "it's just gay". He seems to think that he falls outside or short of a standard definition of being gay because he isn't promiscuous.

Now, this is coming from the chap who, at least according to his Facebook feed, goes on more dates than I have hot dinners. But he was bemoaning that that was all he does: date. However, I'm not too sure he was bemoaning or considering himself falling short. I couldn't tell from his tone whether he was actually proud of the fact he hadn't had sex for a year, that he was 'better than gay'. He had a marvelous way of either disparraging both himself and gays; or priding both.

But the main thrust of his argument was that gays get it, a LOT, with a LOT of people - mostly different ones. And I don't think it's just his opinion. There are a number of people who seem to think the gays shag around. It's a reputation and i'm not too sure how it has been gained.

The reason i'm not sure how it has been gained? Because I don't think they do bonk all over the place. Yes, there are quite a few gays that I know who seem to be with a different chap every week. But then there are quite a few straights who do the same. And in much the same way as gays seem to live their romantic lives at high-speed, going from single to head-over-heels in love and back to single within a month, so there are a lot of straight people who do the same, just apparently under the radar.

And I don't think it is because the gays scream louder when they have had sex or are in love or when they have been dumped either, because again I have many straight friends who do exactly the same. One of my straight friends last night posted on Facebook about why he couldn't wait to see his gorgeous gorgeous girl. That will be the lass he's been seeing for two weeks and whom he got with within a couple of weeks of being dumped by his previous girl of around a month who he was convinced was 'the one'. This morning the posts were about his heart being broken.

I don't actually believe the proportions are any different. I know of many gay people who seem to be perpetually celebate; and there are those that have been in a relationship for years and years, a very happy relationship with no adultery or such like - as committed, if not more so, than some of the straight couples I know. I often wonder if gays try harder in relationships as a reaction to this flippant, promiscuous, transient - nay instantanious, gratuitous gratification - and superficial reputation. They have to try harder, achieve more to be considered as similar; purely because of the ignorance of the activities of the many (straights) and the paritisan, denigrated and therefore promoted (by the detractors) perception of the minority (gay). After all, if the gays are a minority, their supporters within the remainder will be fewer still (with them not having a vested interest) allowing that view to be deemed as a rebellious, renegade, dangerous diversion from the norm.

It just seems to be one of the tags that attach, probably quite wrongly, to gays. Perhaps it is because liberalisation is a pretty modern thing - there are still a lot of people around for whom homosexuality was illegal whilst they were growing up. And everyone knew homoism happened, it just happened behind closed doors. Maybe that increased the mystique about it amongst the straights and that because it was underworld and cloak-and-dagger that it must be seedy and promiscuous.

And maybe it was anti-liberal propaganda. We don't want to legalise it, because it will lead to a decline in morals, in the nuclear family, in relationships and society as a whole. They don't form proper loving bonds, they don't produce kids - give something back - they shag around and spread diseases.

Maybe the legalisation caused a boom. It didn't cause a boom in gays, but perhaps once they could 'come out' it turned out there were more of them than people actually expected. And the fact they weren't underground any more, that they were proud and LOUD and gloriously (nay garishly) draped in every colour of the rainbow so they couldn't be hidden, thrust them exaggeratedly into people's faces. There was no gradual tickle, it was a sudden thump in the face. Rather than just being ordinary people that happened to be gay, they were a very distinct, identifyable and seperate group, united under a banner to the exclusion of, and irritation of, 'normal' people who just didn't understand what the fuss was about. Fine, be gay, but don't scream and shout about it.

And this is so even for those who tried to be quiet, and subtle about it. Other people had forced it into people's faces, and they got smeared with the same skreechy-bumsexy brush, despite that they lived their life behind (albeit very stylish) curtains

And maybe the Pride movement has been counterproductive to that extent. So desperate were we to identify as a group that we have segregated ourselves. Straight people don't see the need to have a day to celebrate being straight, making babies and keeping the species alive; so why should the gays go marching around waving flags and blowing the bluddy whistles. And I have been out with lovely, tolerant "normal" straights who have been excluded when the group of us go to gay clubs. They have been singled-out, discriminated against embarrassed by their exclusion from the activities of the remainder of the group.

Yes, I know we have marches and parades to celebrate other hard-fought battles over discrimination, like on 11 November when we acknowledge the many, many people involved in the battles for our freedoms over the years. And yes, there is Armistice day, with its march, their symbol. But that is a moment for the whole nation. Pride parades sometimes seek to actively exclude straights as though their support would actually dilute the movement, distract from the cause.

Too often these days Pride parades are not seen as the courteous and proper acknowledgement of equality, democracy and liberality, but simple and excuse for people to get drunk and have a party. And shag around. They are loud, brash, garish events with an atmosphere of entertainment and enjoyment, rather than quiet reflection of achievement.

But is that necessarily wrong?

Yes, people dedicated their lives to the battle for equality, but maybe we should celebrate that achievement with a party rather than a solemn occasion remembering regret, remorse and repression. Just as a minute's silence seems to be getting slowly replaced with a minute's applause, perhaps we have been at the forefront of a change for better, for celebration rather than solemnity, optimism rather than pessimism. Rewarding rather than castigating. You can always guarantee the gays will turn anything into a party. And when the straights ask when their day is to celebrate being straight we should ask them when they won their battle.

It's an odd contradiction - we want equality, we want to blend in and be treated the same and not identified or distinguished; and yet we need a collective identity, a cause, a unifying - yet segregating - experience. One of most common conversations amongst gays - and questions that gays are asked - is "Are you out? When did you come out? How did you do it?" And yet there are a million and one different coming out stories, each one of them different in their own way to any other in its catastrophe, comedy, heartache or sheer boredom. But our individual experience is still expected to unify us, somehow: a shared conversation with a different ending every single time.

In the very recent battle for the legalisation of gay marriage, someone said:

"I don't want to be gay married, I want to be married. The fact that I am gay is neither here nor there - it is marriage the same for me as for any other. When I park my car I don't do gay parking; when I go for lunch I don't do gay lunch."

and there is a really very good argument to say that we shouldn't have such a distinction, that we shouldn't ourselves - as gays - be attaching the gay moniker to the cause. I know we do it with many other things: gay clubs, gay cinema etc. but we do those to advertise them to ourselves, to appeal to the gays rather than to disuade the straight, don't we? We do - mostly - let straights into gay clubs, so long as they don't directly affect the balance, risk the 'gay' tag, and they can subscribe to the gay lifestyle; just so long as they don't denounce they gays or denigrate either the name or the notion of gayity.

But we do need to campaign for "gay" marriage, because marriage between straights is legal, and yet between gays is not. So we should be arguing for the legalisation of "gay marriage" not because it is "gay marriage" but because it currently isn't marriage at all.

But then, what exactly is the difference between the current state of civil partnership and marriage? Actually, when you look at the legislation and the tax and the benefits, there is no difference at all. It is difference in name alone. A token distinction compromised for those rallying for the sanctity of heterosexual marriage. But it is this token distinction that has riled the homos: if it is different in name alone, why should it be different in name? Call a spade a spade - if it is a marriage, it is a marriage. After all, marriage has - for a long time - very distinctly not been about any religious union, but about a civil one. And then - once this current debate is over - truly then we can say it is not about gay marriage, because there is no distinction. It is just 'marriage'.

This has been helped in recent days by Barack Obama coming out to, and David Cameron reaffirming his commitment to gay marriage. One day, maybe, perhaps, the distinctions will be few - there will be no 'gay' marriage, no 'gay' clubs or 'gay' culture; because everyone will accept all distinctions. Maybe

On a minor aside, I did hear one commentator state that it was trending very highly in Twitter, showing general public desire - not just acceptance - of gay marriage. I will, one day, discuss both demographics, reference groups, and the fact that things can trend on Twitter with just a couple of dozen mentions.

For those of you that haven't seen gay parking it usually involves a wonky Smart car; and gay lunch involves vodka.

Or maybe I'm just attaching more tags to the gay lifestyle...if there is 'a' gay lifestyle.

Swimming against the tide

So I'm back swimming again after the holiday. When you step on the weighing scales and realise how much you've put on with three weeks of enjoying, not exercising (though still not 'relaxing') and eating restaurant-sized portions daily.

Now, I'm not a far of exercising. I'm not a fatty. Not by any means. When you're on dating websites they have various build-types: skinny, slim, athletic, average, muscular, chunky, fat etc.

I assume.

I would say I was probably athletic.

And I middle along, varying in weight very little and concerned about it similarly. But I still feel a need to exercise out of healthiness and such. And I do feel better for it: having done my exercise whatever it is I have the endorphines and seratonin pumping round my body, and I can go to bed feeling tired but having done my bit.

And, of course, it means when I do enjoy myself I feel less guilty. Oh, and I can smile as I jog past the fat man stood at the bus-stop eating a pork pie.

But during the actual process it is a chore. Not just physically demanding, but time consuming. So whilst I am waiting for the endorphins to kick in, whilst I am noticing the aches, the chaffing, blisters the tweeks and niggles, I am also thinking about the million and one things that I could be doing back at home.

And when you consider that time at home is tight anyway, that means a lot of convincing to take an hour out. Of an evening I usually get home around 7pm, I then (during the summer) spend a couple of hours in the garden and then cooking which means I settle down to eat soon after 9pm. Then there is housework and DIY and projects to do before bath and bed. But I've already discussed this before...

So, take an extra hour out of this a couple of times a week, and it's a lot to factor in, so I have to really commit and make it as easy for myself as possible, and fit exercise into my existing routines. So, for example, on a Tuesday and Thursday I jog to and from work. This means that I'm doing the exercise without having to take any time out of my routine. And I'm doing it to actually get somewhere, rather than just to wear out another pair of trainers. It means I achieve a target - I get somewhere, rather than to a digital number.

But I hate jogging.

It's inefficient, it's tiring and it's impactful. Hence why I prefer swimming.

And, to be fair, they have made it as easy as possible for me to swim: the swimming pool is on my way home, so I don't have to make a diversion let alone a special trip out. Swimming 'feels' less knackering, I think due to the low-impact nature. And swimming does my arms as well as just my legs.

But I feel uncomfortable doing any sport. I'm a 'middler'. I'm no expert at sport. I always feel very sel-conscious. Am I going too slow? With jogging, for example, I can quite happily smile when I see other people in the street jogging along at the same speed as I am walking. But maybe I am the same?

With swimming I know I am towards the faster end of the spectrum, but even then maybe I am showing myself up as one of those dicks who is a professional swimmer, but still chooses to use general swim at the local swimming pool to show off.

There was someone like that this last week - despite the three other fastest people all using the fast lane with him, he had a word with the lifeguard trying to claim it for himself as he was faster; clearly forgetting that it was a public swimming baths, rather than a private gym, and therefore had to accommodate more than six people in a six-lane pool at any one time. I don't actually believe I was going any slower than him (and I was doing breast stroke, enough with the tittering at the use of 'breast' and 'stroke' please) but I still felt conscious as though his complaint was aimed at me.

And that's not all. What if I'm doing it wrong? Breast stroke (stop it!) I know I've got the hang of. But with front crawl I can't see what my arms are doing. There is someone there who does a weird amalgamation of crawl and breast; and another who brings his arms over his head as you'd expect, but then just slaps them straight down on the water. Maybe that is me? Maybe I am even worse?! I have visions of people on the other side of the pool being unable to swim because of the wake that I am creating.

And it's even worse with jogging. I'm sure that my legs are twisted so that I either have to running with my feet pointing out at an odd angle, or else my knees knock together. Or my feet slap down noisily.

And that's before we even start on the noises I make, gasping for breath doing either front crawl or jogging. And then with swimming there is the body image. I know I'm 'athletic' but there are people there who are skinnier, fitter, or more athletic than me. Yes there may be seventeen beached whales in the shallow end (why do people go for a 'general swim' then sit around at the shallow end wall gossiping away for 80% of the time?) but I always end up in the same lane as the person who is as skinny, as fast, and probably has a far better technique than me.

I know I should be comparing myself against the 90% who are fatter and slower than me; who go to the pool for half an hour and spend just a quarter of that time actually swimming (as opposed to me yesterday who swam 2.5km, that's just over 1.5miles) but I can't.

Anyhow, as I write this I am sat in a pub as, once again, CrossCountryTrains has meant that I miss my evening connection so have an hour to kill. And whilst I'm being all smug by having justified this lovely refreshing pint of lager; I can't help but be self-conscious about the smell of sweat emanating from me because of the jog from work to the station.

A tiny glimmer....

So, I'm back!

I will post about the trip away in due course, but for now it is enough that I am functioning.

And I have had to persevere. It has not been an easy day by any means.

Yesterday I arrived back from my round-the-world trip, today I was at work.

So, yes, there was the usual post-holiday come-down after doing the unpacking last night.

But I arrived back from a lovely sunny day in California where I got sunburned cycling over the Golden Gate Bridge to a cold, grey, drizzling Britain.

But that's not the worst of it.

Not only was the weather horrible, I got to the train station to find that industrial action meant my usual train was cancelled and I was therefore going to be just over an hour late for work. Considering as I had gone to considerable length to ensure my jetlag didn't cause me to oversleep and miss my train this was frustrating.

Add to this that my massive excitement tonight involves taking the washing machine apart as last night it started to make a terrible noise and cause a slight burning smell to permeate the house. But at least I managed to do one load of washing.

Not that it will dry, because of the rain.

And, of course, I have spent quite a bit on holiday so could do without spending any more on a washing machine, partucularly as I already have to buy a new phone because my current one - which has long been problematic - is currently only working because a wad of paper inserted into the cover is pressing the SIM card onto the contacts, a casualty of a slip from a rather small bed in a hostel in Hong Kong.

Still, there is a glimmer, faint though it is. It is only a four-day-week for me because the holiday encroached slightly, and there is a long weekend followed by another four-day-week next week because of a bank holiday.

And, of course, there is the joy of getting a new phone tomorrow.

Hopefully.