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Thursday, 2 April 2009

Influence of the Radio

When I was a child I lived entirely in a dream world. I sort of drifted around half thinking I was at school and half thinking I lived at Mallory Towers and would be shortly playing a hilarious trick on Mamzelle.

I think my problem is that I get far too involved in what I read, listen to and watch. I am also probably slightly over stimulated and not in a good way. I normally read around 3 books at once (not literally at once, I normally have three on the go at the same time, not holding 3 books and reading a line of each in turn) so that leads to some terribly confusing dreams and day dreams. For example I am currently reading: “The Bolter” – an account of Lady Idina Sackville and her various marriages and love affairs in the 1920s; “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” – about Guernsey during the occupation and “One thing led to another” – about a woman who gets pregnant by her best friend even though they are not together. All diverting and interesting in their own way but when put together leads to some bizarre dreams and makes me believe that I am a pregnant 1920’s socialite living in the Nazi occupied Channel Islands. I like to drive like I am being chased by the Nazi’s whilst secretly being impressed that I, a woman, can drive a car in these days before suffrage.

I also constantly listen to radio 4. A habit I blame on my mother. I could sing the theme tune to “Pick of the Week” before I knew my nursery rhymes. A perfect Sunday morning means being back in time to listen to Desert Island Discs, followed by Just a Minute whilst leafing through the paper. I also leave radio 4 on all through the night so I must be absorbing some of it subliminally, not that I have a detailed knowledge of the shipping forecast or anything but I did wake up a couple of Sundays ago feeling utterly miserable and anxious. It took quite a while for me to realise that I was terribly worried about Shula and Alistair’s break in in the Archers. Now I know what that was I of course think that Alistair really has bought this on himself and maybe now he’ll appreciate the effect a gambling addiction can have on a family.

I have three radios in my house and only really 2 rooms. My two normal radios are supplemented by a floating rubber duck who lives in the bathroom and has a radio in it. You have to turn his head to turn him on and off. I nearly turned in to a prune last week listening to Melvyn Bragg discuss “The Wasteland” on “In Our Time”. A poem I have never read and so couldn’t really follow the discussion. And I didn’t really care either, no matter how dulcet Melvyn’s voice is.

There is a part of me that thinks an over active imagination is healthy and should be encouraged even if you look slightly odd coming out of a stupor to find that someone has asked you a question and you are busy having a row with a fictional character in your head. I went to see my niece at the weekend and was asked to play a game of “High School Musical”. It seemed to involve us asking each other what we were going to wear to the Prom. Well Evie told me what she was going to wear to the Prom and I laughed at her talking in an American accent.

In many ways she is my role model in life. She seems to spend most of her life in character and this normally comes complete with home made costume. She spent a lot of Christmas dressed as Mary and at one point was told by her mother “Evie, don’t do that, it’s naughty”. “I’m not Evie, I’m Mary”. “Well Mary, don’t do that, it’s naughty”. “How dare you tell Mary off, she’s the mother of God”. Which seemed to me to be an incredibly useful get out clause.

However my niece is 5. I am not. Perhaps it is time to turn the radio off.


I got told off by a policeman on the way to work the other day. I was sat in traffic with a police car next to me when suddenly he put his siren on for a quick blast. I looked over and he started stretching his seat belt about. I assumed he was having some issues so ignored him, so he put his sirens on again and pointed at me. I realised he was telling me off as he couldn’t see my seatbelt. This is because I wear it tucked under my arm as seatbelts for some reason cut in to my neck and leave me with huge red marks across my neck and I look like I’ve been garrotted. I also feel that in an accident it would immediately snap my neck. Surely it is better to either catapult myself through the windscreen or crush all my internal organs? Either way, I proved I did have my seat belt on, arranged it properly and then enjoyed my neck being sawn to bits for the next 20 minutes. I can’t help but wonder if I am bizarrely proportioned. I thought only the likes of Jimmy Krankie had issues like this. I am a normal height, I don’t have to sit on a cushion to drive or anything. Perhaps I slump.

The last time I came in to contact with the police was when I was seven, so I am a generally law abiding citizen. Back then I was walking to school with my 8 year old brother when I thought it would be funny to pull his bag off his shoulder. He found this less amusing than I did so kicked me up the bum. At that precise moment a policeman appeared and said to Ben “Don’t kick girls. Would you like me to kick you? No. Don’t kick girls”. We carried on our way; Ben with the fear of God in him and me repeating “Don’t kick girls”. I still say it to him now. Later that day the same policeman came to school to give us our cycling proficiency lesson. Ben thought he had come to arrest him and panicked so much he had to be taken in to the hall to calm down. Looking back I can see how much this story has dated; the fact that a seven and eight year old were walking to school unaccompanied, the fact that a policeman was actually patrolling the street and the fact that we were scared of a policeman. If the Daily Mail is to believed kids nowdays would murder the policeman then complain that their human rights were contravened.

But apart from that I have had few dealings with the police. I called them once when my old next door neighbour lost the plot and her door keys and after a while trying her door open and tracing her friends and family and having the real fear that I was going to have a ninety year old house guest for the night I called the police and asked them if it was OK for me to break in. It wasn’t. I was told to hold fire until they got there, then Mary found her keys and she got in in a very undramatic fashion. But I think it is normally best to call the police and get advice on committing crimes before you do them. This could be a hell of a way to cut the crime rate.

I think law abiding is the way forward. A fair bit of my childhood was spent on the channel islands, on the island of Sark, where there is no crime. There is a prison but it only holds 2 people and is so horrendous that no one is allowed to spend more than a night in there. I remember peering in to it as a kid and it scared me so much it gave me nightmares. Even if I was in a normal sized prison I would die, I simply wouldn’t have a hope. So my seatbelt is now on properly, I have repaired my broken headlight and I absolutely refuse to break in to my neighbours house.

Being Cool

As everyone knows I am incredibly street. Like totally. Bo. I grew up on the mean streets of Essex and attended an all girls grammar school. You don’t go through something like that without being proper street. You get me? It’s just how I roll.

However occasionally you are reminded how incredibly middle class you are. For me, it was attending my nieces 3rd birthday on Sunday. All five of my nieces and nephews were there and first they ate lunch, commenting on how much they liked hummus and asking for more cous cous. After some party games Abigail and Evie (3 and 5 respectively) decided to put on a dance interpretation of Peter and the Wolf. With the ipod blaring out Prokofiev’s finest 4 children marched around, Miriam was excused on grounds on not being able to walk, changing characters with the music. It was fairly impressive – I wouldn’t have a clue which was grandfather and which was the cat. Even when Herbie had a breakdown about something and laid on the floor and Monty lost interest the girls continued to dance/march over them.
It wasn’t really like the birthday parties I had when I was growing up. Although I do remember having an Alice in Wonderland theme for one of them so I think I was just as middle class but twenty years earlier.

Over new year some girl I was friends with at school tagged me in a load of photos from that time. Thankfully she missed out the years where I looked really horrendous but still gets the tail end of the crimes against fashion years. Looking at the photos it would seem that I never managed to combine decent hair with a decent outfit, it was always either/or. Wearing school uniform that is fairly timeless? Then I must have insanely bouffant hair with no form of styling. Hair straight and fairly normal – then I am dressed as a member of the Wonder Stuff. Quite why she has done this and why she has left the album open for all to see ,despite me untagging myself, is beyond me but what strikes me most is what a bunch of absolute gimps we were. We were the uncoolest kids in the world. Barely missed a day of school, would have soiled ourselves if a policeman had spoken to us and the worst thing we did was wear jeans on the last day of school (they weren’t allowed). We were as far from being street as it is possible to be.

There wasn’t a hope in hell of any of us getting arrested unless it was for crimes against fashion. Seriously there are some bad outfits in there. In one of them my mate is wearing a suit (on a night out in 1998, why wouldn’t you wear a suit?) which she looks like she has nicked of Ricky Martin. In another we look like the village people going on a night out. I am amazed we made it past the bouncers. I am wearing a one shoulder top and black trousers and it would seem that a friend is dressed as Pocahontas. But we were happy. We may not have been the coolest kids in the world but we do look very happy in the photos.

So I shall embrace my uncoolness. I shall roll the middle class way. Sensibly and in bad clothes. I shall watch the little Sleeps dance to classical music and proclaim the virtues of lentil bake. Although I dislike the fact that they make me feel so old. All of them were able to work the ipod and find Peter and the Wolf, when I was taking pictures on a disposable camera they were amazed that they couldn’t instantly look at the pictures. When I was walking down the street with Abi in summer she became very upset and kept grabbing my arm and telling me that there was a “man stuck in a box, look, look, he’s stuck in a box”. He wasn’t of course, he was simply using a phone box, she’d just never seen one in use before. Still it’s nice to see phone boxes being used properly and not just as a place for the cool kids to hang out. Not that I ever did. I was at Girls Brigade.

The Brits

So it was the Brits last night (today being Thursday) I had some friends round to mine, I cooked – it was pretty rancid I realised half way through making chilli I had no cumin so I improvised with marmite and balsamic vinegar. No one complained but it was pretty rough, not quite up there with my carbonara stir fry but nearly. Whilst watching the Brits we discovered that my mate thinks that the words to Creep are “I’m a creep, Michael Winner”. But over all a pleasant evening was had by everyone.

I love award ceremonies. Truly love them. I am very excited about the Oscars, not excited enough to get sky and stay up and watch them but will enjoy watching gmtv Monday morning, make a change from them droning on about the credit crunch, I swear it’s all they talk about. My favourite award ceremony is of course the Smash Hits Poll Winners Party. Not now, in fact I don’t even think it’s still on, but years ago. When Phillip Schofield hosted it dressed as Indiana Jones and someone from Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine rushed the stage and knocked him over. In my mind, any show that has an award for best hair cut is a work of genius.

But yes the Brits. What I like most is that in every category there is someone utterly unknown, not in a oh yes they’re very up and coming type way but in a what the bloody hell are they nominated for kind of way. You sit around and voice your opinion about who’s going to win “And the nominations for best international group are: Killers (no), U2 (no), Kings of Leon (yes), MGMT (no) and Wendy Wonka and the Disheartened Fudge Machine (whoooooooooooooooo??????).

In every category last night there was someone in it who I had never, ever heard of. And it is worth remembering that I get sent around twenty cds every week – as part of my job, I’m not in the Britannia music club- and I listen to it all. Yet somehow I don’t know 20% of the acts (this is based on 11 categories (I’ve ignored Life Time Achievement and Critics Choice), 5 nominations per award, not knowing 1 per category – some very dodgy maths and the help of three editors to work out the percentage and then deciding it doesn’t really matter – however I still have the post it note on which I worked it out so I may get marks for showing my working). How can this be? Now I am not saying that I am cool, hip and groovy (I assume you all know that) I am saying that it is not a fair reflection of the record buying public. Ah you may say, but it is judged by a panel, so why would it be? Well if it is just an industry shin dig then surely it is only fair to have the electrical retailer of the year awards on telly- we all use fridges. What I am really saying is that Girls Aloud should have won more awards.

However the performances are always great. Michael vs Jarvis, Scissor Sisters performing with the Muppets and Natasha and Daniel Beddingfield singing “Ain’t Nobody” to each other. Maybe not the last one. I personally thought that the Ting Tings duet with Estelle sounded like Estelle had got confused and wandered on stage during the Ting Tings performance and then they’d all decided to make the best of it. We were promised a spectacular performance by Duffy and she stood there in lights so bright she couldn’t open her eyes and occasionally moved her arm. But then there were the saving grace of the Pet Shop Boys. Lady Gaga ruined it by marching on in her pants and bellowing out some lines like she was in a nativity play but their overall genius of doing a mega mix and blending Brandon Flowers in to it was just genius. They can do no wrong. Even the pink wig was great.

So now we turn to the Oscars. Hopefully Slum Dog Millionaire will sweep it. And then what will I do for award ceremonies until the soap awards? I can’t think of any others that are coming up in the near future. Perhaps I will have to create my own. Worst cooking awards. I’d romp home.

And the answer to last weeks question: mascarpone.


Just an idea but if you can’t drive, drive a vehicle that can’t go above 15 miles an hour or are scared of other cars and like to veer violent sideways whenever you see a car on the other side of the road, then perhaps, just perhaps you shouldn’t be on the road during rush hour. This morning I got stuck behind a man being towed and frigging dial a ride. Pensioners have all day at their disposal – why dial a ride for 8-30 in the morning? I assume for the same reason they go to the post office at lunchtime – to cause trouble and start fights.

I don’t spend a lot of time pondering my own death, not being a goth, but I would like to imagine it will be around the age of 95 surrounded by loved ones. The way my pension plans are going it will probably be shortly after the age of 65 in a box on a street corner. However I definitely don’t want it to be at the hands of some yummy mummy in 4x4 steaming down the middle of the road to drop a child off at the fluffybunnykins nursery. I do not want my last words to be “are you going to move over…”. If you insist on driving a monster truck around town then may I suggest you drive it on your side of the road.

Perhaps it is car envy. I have only ever driven little cars. Except a hire car which I got when I was lavishly upgraded when a friend and I decided to drive round Tasmania. We ordered a fiat punto or something and got, well, a monster truck. For which we were supremely grateful given that the west coast of Tasmania is all hills and few roads. It wasn’t until one night when unable to sleep and I didn’t have a book I read our rental agreement which said that the car was not covered to go along the west coast and in no circumstances was to go there. Still what the mind doesn’t know the heart doesn’t grieve over and apart from one terrifying moment when I tried to drive up the largest sand dunes I have ever seen, we were fine. Worth remembering though that when you return the hire car and they accuse you or scratching it don’t say “I didn’t do that… I did that” and point out a huge dent. Also don’t park the car in the entrance of the rental shop and walk off with the keys in your bag. They won’t thank you for it.

I leant my car to someone recently and they actually tidied it for me, which was nice. Although given that it is pretty much a skip on wheels I’d imagine they had to clear a spot to sit down. However when they gave it back they had the seat so far forward that I knee capped myself when I tried to get in, I actually couldn’t get my knees under the steering wheel. I know I have fat thighs but they’re not debilitatingly big. The borrower must have been pinned through the pelvis by the steering wheel. Or been an actual borrower.

People’s driving techniques get worse in the winter. Fog lights remain on at all time, regardless of weather making you think that the person in front of you is constantly breaking. People like to have their full beams on as well, which is lovely and safe. One day I shall buy a tank. A big armoured tank. And steam down the middle of the road waving at the people who flee in my wake. Although I am not sure where I would park it. A friend of my parents once confessed over dinner that he had bought a fire engine, which came as news to his wife. I don’t think she was that bothered about the fire engine but rather objected to the barn he had to buy to house it and the HGV lessons he took in order to drive it. Still maybe I can use his barn to house my tank.

My Coat

My coat makes me look like I am in the SS. Which is not really the look I was going for and was particularly bad taste around Tuesday but I persevered and tried to lighten the look up with my hat that was once mistaken for a dishcloth. I have a problem with hats in general. I have an enormously large head (physically, not in a vain way – it’s not being vain if it’s true) and so to find a hat that doesn’t make me look like one of the Mr Men wearing a hat is quite an achievement. My head is so big it has a kind of shelf at the back so my head overhangs. Pretty hey?

But anyway I’ve been wearing my coat even though I don’t like it as it is so insanely cold and it is look like a member of the SS or freeze. I have this issue with quite a lot of my clothes. I refuse to buy new stuff until I find something I really, really like at a price I am willing to pay. Therefore I walk around in clothes that are far past there best in order to satisfy some weird desire.

I also have very bad taste. And buy clothes that make me laugh. I am writing this wearing what can only be described as a party dress. I quite often get halfway somewhere and realise I am dressed like a lunatic. Sadly it is often too late to change. I’ve lost some weight recently (I intend to sell the “eat less, move around more” diet to Closer magazine) and so have been able to get in to clothes that I haven’t been able to get in to for a while. About 8 years. As I was going through them I happened on a pair of jeans that I wore when I was a size 8. Given the unlikely event that I get to that size again (taking in to the account the massive head I looked simultaneously like Bunyip and like I was about to die) would I really want to wear a pair of stone washed, high waisted, straight leg jeans that cost me about a fiver ten years ago? The answer is no. And as the answer is no why the hell have I moved them 5 times and carefully keep them in a suitcase under my bed? In the same suitcase is a pair of jeans I wore once and an ex told me I looked like a transformer, a bridesmaid dress and a pair of dungarees I must have bought during a Mrs Brick the Builder stage.

Bad taste hasn’t just occurred recently though. As a child my mother was rather overwhelmed by having a girl after 2 boys and so dedicatedly smocked all my clothes. I still worry that if I sit still long enough she’ll smock my jeans. I came across some pictures recently of us putting up the Christmas decorations when I was about 10 and I appear to be dressed as one of EMF. I’m wearing dungarees (with one strap undone naturally) and a psychedelic hooded top with my hair in bunches. I remember getting the top on the market and LOVING it. Whether I caught my mum on a bad day or she wanted one of the Shamen as her daughter I don’t know but it certainly does make me stand out.

My problem is that I get a very specific picture of the clothes I would like in my mind and when I find that shops haven’t recreated this dream for me I get disappointed and don’t buy anything and am forced to wear horrible old clothes.

Word Twist

I have a new addiction. It is very serious and is beginning to impinge on my life and ability to function socially. My new addiction is called “word twist” and you can play it on facebook. It is essentially an anagram game where you try and get as many words out of a mix of letters, but you can play against your friends, it is incredibly addictive and I am having issues. I was seriously addicted to online scrabble for quite sometime and I still dabble occasionally but there is nothing like the fresh hit of word twist. Driving home the other day I was trying to put the person in front of me’s registration plate in to words and came up with the amazingly boring statement: “If you have a B and a G, then you can use every single vowel with them; bag, beg, big, bog and bug”. There was no one else in the car with me, so not only am I insanely boring I am just insane.

I have always loved doing quizzes and trivia games. I blame the parents. Without making us sound too odd they used to record University Challenge and then we’d play it as a family and keep score. Having just read that back I realise it’s really odd. Even now if I go and stay with them they will have stocked up a couple of episodes to play at some point over the weekend. I’d say my first pusher was my grandfather. When I was in sixth form I never used to have any lessons on a Wednesday so would pop in on him during my study time when of course he would be watching 15-1 and Countdown. I would have loved to have gone on 15-1, I think there is something very noble about competing for 50 weeks, going through games after games to be rewarded with a bit of old pottery.

I was a child who got obsessed by things, learnt everything I could about them and then found that led to a new one. Sadly this wasn’t with anything enjoyable like My Little Ponies or Barbies. My first obsession was with flags. I am laughing as I write this as I really don’t know why. There was a book that I used to get out the library (and you could tell that I was the only one that got it out) that had all the flags of the world in it and I learnt them. I used to make my brother test me.

Then came my monarchy obsession. I am able (and believe me as gifts go it’s just above being able to get a sound out of your armpit by shoving your hand under there and pumping up and down) to recite in order all the Kings and Queens since Henry VII and (if that wasn’t dull enough) can tell you the current line of succession to about 15 place. Lady Sarah Chatto is a name I shouldn’t know. I even had…a Panini sticker book of the Royal family. Everyone else had football clubs and Neighbours sticker albums and I was wandering around the playground desperately trying to swap the Queen Mother for Peter Phillips so I could complete my royal montage. The centre spread was the royal family on moveable stickers at a garden party. It’s a wonder I survived to adulthood and wasn’t beaten to death in the playground. I really need to find some kind of game show which is exclusively Monarchy and flag based. I don’t think it would have much of an audience.

caught in a storm

Hello, I’m back. I’ve been around the world (literally, I lost a day of my life, for me there was no 3rd October) but there’s no place like home, ooh baby. And if I’ve learnt anything, it’s firstly not to quote East17 lyrics in the opening paragraph of your return column and secondly that wherever you go the weather is insane. I don’t know whether it’s global warming, El Nino or the presence of me but it’s been weird.

I managed to get a tan this year for the first time in my life. I know they say that you should let a tan build gradually I just never knew they meant the best part of thirty years. It’s fading now, which is probably a blessing, with the tan skin and orange hair I was beginning to look a bit like a 70’s carpet. However in between bouts of tanning I also enjoyed some mental weather.

I haven’t really fallen over in years. I have various scars which are the result of a childhood running around and falling over. But as I have grown older and come to the realisation that I am built for comfort, not speed, my tumbling incidents are few and far between. Until this summer. And I can trace it to two things. When these things meet incidents occur, sadly usually in public.

Factor number 1: Flip Flops. Very comfortable. They are my shoe of choice for the summer. However the minute it rains you must start walking like a geisha as any large strides will cause your foot to slip against the sole of your flip flop sending you shuttling forward (usually whilst emitting a “werrrrppp” type sound). My favourite place to do this is when entering shops. The majority of the time you manage to stay on your feet though.

Factor number 2: Tiled pavements. In the UK we are built for rain. We may not enjoy it but damn it we are good at it. Tarmac provides good grip as do paving slabs. However in Australia (where I went on holiday) they see fit to tile the pavements and occasionally place a shiny manhole cover as an obstacle. Fine in the dry, lethal in the wet. The roads are full of people sliding to their knees and then pretending that they meant to do that.

Anyway. Here is a story of when factors combine and unleash hell.

I was in Brisbane. Only being there for 3 days I had jam packed my days full of activities and pretty much left the hotel early morning not returning till late evening. That particular day I had been at Australia Zoo. The zoo that Steve Irwin ran and is now devoted to his daughter’s rather bizarre show business career. Annoyingly my camera batteries started to fail on the way round the zoo. Wishing to see animals and not Bindi Irwin dancing around and deciding that buying a Steve Irwin posable action figure was in bad taste (I won’t deny that I was tempted) I headed back in to the city early with the idea of twatting around until I went to see a play that evening. I was going to see “The Importance of Being Earnest” at a theatre situated across a very narrow (tiled) bridge.
As I sat in a glass walled café it started to rain. And by rain I mean it lashed down. It was like someone was pouring a bucket of water down the walls. It then started to thunder. For those concerned with the details I will tell you that I was wearing a vest top, a white skirt and flip flops as it had been 30 degrees when I left the hotel. According to news reports the next day this had been a major tropical storm involving 2,200 lightening strikes in 6 hours. All I can tell you is that every 10 seconds the sky lit up and was followed by thunder so loud people couldn’t talk over it, trees were being blown horizontal and everyone in the café was there for life. On my fourth pot of tea I made the executive decision that I was not going to see a play that night. Walking across the bridge would lead me, I feared, to certain death. However I did decide that I would make a dash for the taxi rank. So I ran outside and immediately slipped, did the splits, banged the underside of both arms on to a step, sent my skirt see thru and finished the manoeuvre by sitting down hard on my bag smashing my camera to bits.


It is coming to the time of year when I have to make a decision. When driving my little tank (or my car, whatever) do I wear my glasses or my sun glasses? Each has it’s benefits. My glasses help me to see and therefore I don’t plough off the roads, in to the elderly and cause widespread disaster. However if the sun is shining they make little difference as I can’t see anything anyway and run the risk of my retinas being burnt out. Of course I could put the little flappy sun shield thing down but they don’t work. Perhaps I should buy massive sun glasses and where them over my normal glasses? Or just be grateful for the fact I live in the UK and chances are this will only be a problem for a week or so.

I am meant to wear my glasses all the time. But I don’t this is for a variety of reasons. The main one being that they make me look like Ronnie Barker – which is no bad thing when I am watching telly or driving but not really the image that I wish to portray around the office. Someone might ask me if I am the phantom raspberry blower of London Town. The second reason is that I have a vague idea of training my eyes – if I wear them all the time then there is no concept of a challenge. They will become lazy and then the next step is inevitable a stick and a dog, at the moment I can still fool them in to working and then every now and then when I feel it is important to see I can treat them to a bit of 20/20. Thirdly I have a theory that my eye sight will improve over the years. This is based in fact. At the moment I am short sighted and need my glasses for distance. As people get older most become long sighted and need glasses for reading and close up work (hence the bizarre dance of trying to hold a paper at the right distance for reading). I am ageing, therefore at some point I shall become long sighted thus correcting my short sightedness ipso facto – perfect vision for my old age.

Or I’ll need bi-focals.

But the main reason for not wearing my glasses is that I quite like the foggyness bad eyesight brings. I have waved at many people and then as I get closer realise I don’t know them at all and have just grinned and waved at a complete stranger. However around 90% wave back so I am making the world a friendlier a place. I also have many wonderful experiences that I wouldn’t have if I could see clearly. Like the time I saw a goose on the pavement. A huge brown goose. It was actually someone crouching down to tie their shoelaces. The time I saw a giant, freestanding Forever Friends Bear – actually a fold up table outside the pound shop. And on Monday I saw Alan Carr cruising down Borehamwood High Street in an open top Honda before popping in to Paddy Power. It wasn’t him.

I shall at some point wear my glasses. I will have to as I will never ever wear contact lenses. It’s not so much the putting them in that worries me, it’s the taking them out. Plunging your hands in to your eyes and ripping the lenses off. And whilst talking to someone suddenly grab your eyelid and pull it down whilst saying “oh it’s gone round the back”, it’s normally around then that I spontaneously vomit in to my own lap.