Salon de Thé

My apartment has recently become a little bit like an eighteenth-century salon. I'm not objecting of course, because it is lovely to have visitors dropping by – invited or not – and it's a lot better than sitting here alone, going stir crazy and crawling up the walls. Last Friday I had a small soirée and served a paella of mammoth proportions to – amongst others – one of my two known Birthday Buddies (that's someone who has the same birthday as me). It was a charming evening that ended – if I remember – rather drunkenly.

On Saturday evening another friend of mine dropped by, and after I'd fed and watered him he sallied forth on a date, leaving me to wash up before reappearing – many hours later – with his said date in tow, so that they could avail themselves of my spare room. I was delighted to be of service and hope that I've facilitated the beginnings of a new and lasting relationship. On Sunday, after a few chaotic drinks in Edin's, Browne's and that stalwart of traditional pub life: The Peacock, I came home to entertain someone of my own choosing, and that was another evening that began with more food and drink and then ended in a haze of strange intimacy.

Then last night – well, late afternoon really – my little stray cat turned up, quite out of the blue. He had been kicking his heels and presumably rummaging in the bins of Broad Street, when the cold weather drove him to tap on my door. He came in for a saucer of milk and other such feline treats and stayed for several hours before miaowing to be let out, and thus disappeared into the night once more.

Now today, I must keep all visitors at bay. I have so much paperwork to catch up on, and really need to get my VAT return in the post to Her Majesty, who will be waiting for it. I also have a script to finish, as well as preparing for my participation in Broadway's Reading Room event which begins at the end of this week (click here) . So, nose to the grindstone again.

Hmm, I wonder if there's time to pop out for a quick coffee somewhere? Who knows, I might just bump into someone I know....

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Hmm, Sundays get on my nerves sometimes. I always think I'm going to be very constructive and creative on Sundays, because Sundays are 'getting-things-done days', but aren't they also meant to be fun days? I've spent quite a while squashing a whole load of washing into the protesting machine – that machine is such a queen, and makes such a scene about the load that I try to goad therein. There's a young man on my sofa, asleep. He lies without motion and has no notion that while he counts sheep, I keep quiet while I sweep the floor around him. He wouldn't be told, and lo and behold, he's now out cold because, of course, he had too much drink in Nottingham's Pink, or so I think.

But I must away and do something with the day, or someone will say that I am wasting my time as the clock doth chime, and while it does seem sublime to sit here making things rhyme, it also seems ridic-erlous to have to go around knicker-less which, if I don't switch on the machine, and get some of them clean, I will surely be. And that might be obscene, or even unclean, albeit unseen.

I might take a drive and, in doing so, will strive to bring this boy alive and get him on his way, so that he can face the day, however grey the day, and keep his throbbing head at bay. He'll thank me in the end, when he's on the mend, and will then lend himself to another pursuit – and a healthier one, to boot.

Now, if only I'd used rhyming couplets, I could have turned this dismal Sunday into a John Donne day. Instead. I'm out of routine and spinning between, just like the machine.

It Won't Always Be Dark Before Six

I woke up this morning feeling really grateful for the things I have in life. At the moment, I am jobless and penniless but these issues are mere trifles – there is so much more that I do have, and I shouldn't forget that. The problem with most of us, I think, is that we fail to recognize the things that we can be thankful for, and tend only to focus on the things that we want (but don't have). For example, I'd like to have a crate of champagne - but I don't have one – so I should really focus on the two bottles I already have in the fridge, and be grateful for those at least. Similarly, I would like someone special in my life with whom I might share that champagne – but I must be grateful for the fact that not having that special person in my life, means all the more champagne for me. You see? There is always something good in even the blackest of all situations.

On a separate topic, I am intrigued to learn that a new, smaller Mosquito Device has been developed. You will recall that this instrument was introduced a few years ago and is used to discourage anti-social behaviour by emitting an irritating vibration that only people under twenty-five can hear (it is marketed as a "teen deterrent"). Because of its cost, it has mainly been used only by large organizations such as councils, big stores and shopping centres. But now there is to be a new, cheaper version that most people will be able install outside (or inside) their homes. This is rather strange – its usage could easily be abused. For example, a desperate mum can't get her three young children to go to bed: She switches on the mini Mosquito Device and hey presto, pesky kids immediately leave the room. Or picture this: Old George can't get to the bar in his local pub because of a crowd of under twenty-fives all clamouring for their hideous alcopops: George switches on his hand-held Mosquito Device, and guess what? George is the next to be served!

I know where I'd use it, if I had one. I'd switch it on whenever my front door was being approached by those incredibly smart and sweet-faced (but always under twenty-five) young men who come knocking, just so that they can tell me that I can be saved by giving myself over to the truth of the Lord's Good Book. Imagine the scene: I open the door to be greeted by two sets of pearly-white teeth. "Excuse me sir, but have you ever thought about turning away from sin?" Calmly, I flick the switch - and before you can say: "The body is not for fornication", the backs of their pretty blonde heads would be seen beating a hasty retreat down the garden path.

Hurrah! I must get one immediately.

One Hump or Two?

When I was at school, I once became obsessed with the idea of riding on a camel. I'm not entirely sure why this happened – perhaps I had been reading a novel or other book that was set in Morocco or somewhere, or possibly I'd just fallen in love with Lawrence of Arabia. Riding a camel became something I simply had to do, and I can remember writing to my French penfriend at the time, telling him that this was my life's ambition. (n.b. wasn't it always delicious fun having penfriends when you were at school? I remember that one of mine had the somewhat inauspicious and rather silly (to we English schoolboys, at any rate) name of Michel Prat, but I now wonder whether he is the well-known French author of the same name).

Anyway, back to the camel. A friend of mine who kept two Afghan hounds in his apartment (he was slightly older than me) once showed me a photograph of his mother riding a camel in Tunisia. I was madly jealous of my friend in the first place – his mother was glamorous and mad, and had dyed her hair bright blue when it wasn't even fashionable to do so (and no, I'm not talking about a blue rinse here – this was a vivid, electric blue). She owned a fashionable 'boutique' in Nottingham (as trendy shops were called in those days), drove a sports car, smoked French cigarettes, and had a Spanish boyfriend who was half her age. She represented everything to me that was bohemian, artistic and eccentric. I loved that woman and when I saw the photo of her sitting atop a camel in the desert, blue hair flashing in the scorching sun, I loved her even more, and was even more jealous of my friend.

I so wanted to ride a camel myself, but how was I – just a poor working-class kid from the back-streets of Naples – ever going to achieve something as unreachable as that? It was an impossible dream. And then one day many years later, when I was visiting my daughter in Gibraltar and had taken a day-trip from Tarifa to Morocco, I had my chance. We had taken a little tour into the outskirts of Tangiers to view the endless white sand dunes that mark the beginning fringes of the vast Sahara, and the tour bus stopped in a remote lay-by. We were all herded off the bus to be confronted by a group of bedraggled berbers standing by three rather scraggy-looking camels. Our guide informed us that for the princely sum of 10 dirhams (about 50 pence) we could ride the camels. I surveyed the scene: The men looked bored; the crouching, ruminating camels likewise. I watched the first three from our party of tourists excitedly clamber into the saddles, and then watched as the beasts, moaning loudly, heaved themselves up into a standing position and were led by their robed masters around an area roughly the size of a small duck pond, before returning to the original spot for a brief photo session.

It was all too ridiculously phoney to be treated with any enthusiasm, and so when I was asked if I wanted to hand over my money and take my turn, I declined. I recognized the scene as exactly the same as the one in the photograph with the blue-haired diva, oh so many years ago – and all of a sudden, the whole idea lost its glamorous appeal. I re-boarded the air-conditioned bus feeling that a part of my childhood had been stolen from me. I could have achieved that impossible dream after all, but at what cost to my self-esteem? No thanks.

The Time of Your Life

It's funny, don't you think, how a minute can sometimes seem like a long time; yet in other circumstances a minute can seem like nothing at all. I was only reflecting on this paradox earlier today when I was re-heating a cup of tea in my (rather noisy) microwave whilst trying to listen to somebody talking on the radio about something important. I was straining to hear the weighty words, but was finding it difficult – drowned out as the words were by the grinding, whirring and humming of the heating machine. I'd only set the damned thing for sixty seconds, but as the speaker's words were slipping forever into the eddy of obscurity, those short sixty seconds seem to be dragging themselves along as if anchored to the dawn of time which, for some reason, wouldn't let them go.

This was hardly an original observation, but when I looked further for the real reason why time is (for us all) relative, I began to recognize that it's probably to do with our own state of mind. Today, I was irritated with the microwave and wanted it to stop. The fact that it didn't cease its grumbling rumble when I required it to do so, was not the machine's fault. It was simply obeying the instructions that I - now the irrationally irritated one - had issued. So really, I was irritated with myself and because of that, felt that time was playing a trick on me. Which of course, it wasn't. Time isn't relative at all (in fact, time probably doesn't exist – despite David Bowie once singing that "Time flexes like a whore; falls wanking to the floor.." etc). No, it is our application of time that is relative, that's all.

Once the microwave had stopped turning, I caught the rather breezy young reporter cheerfully asking her interviewee: "So, you then went on to become a crack-cocaine addict?" She asked the question in the same tone as she might have asked: "So, you then went on to study the History of Art at Oxford?" It sounded like the sort of question the guests are asked on Desert Island Discs (it wasn't, by the way). I can just imagine Kirsty Young interviewing Adolf Hitler and saying: "So, you put the painting to one side, and then went on to become a mass murderer? Your next choice of music, please."

Oh goodness, I must stop prattling on – look at the time!

An Uplifting Experience

For the past week-and-a-half I've been on Jury Service at Nottingham Crown Court. Of course, I'm unable to reveal any details of the various cases and people that I've encountered during this sojourn, but I can report on my impressions of the general experience. When you're summoned to appear for Jury Service, you have little opportunity to refuse. There are some instances when your allotted stint can be postponed, but in most circumstances it is a legal requirement to attend the court when instructed. However, turning up on the day does not guarantee that you will be selected to serve on a jury – they always call more people than they need (presumably in case of illness, inappropriate conduct, prior knowledge of someone/something involved etc.) and so it becomes a bit of a lottery as to who is selected for the cases being heard.

Because of this, about a hundred people are herded into the 'Jury Suite' to await being selected for a trial. The result from this is that there is a great deal of hanging around, sometimes for extended periods. The whole process then becomes a bit like sitting in an airport lounge waiting for your delayed flight to be announced. People sprawl around on chairs and sofas drinking endless cups of coffee, absorbed for a time in the perfunctory reading of books and magazines, chatting idly to total strangers in that unique way we British have when faced with collective discomfort and inconvenience. There's a kind of 'air-raid' spirit amongst the people, which we often engender when we are trapped in an enclosed space for an indeterminate length of time.

Except for the fact that there is one major difference. The staff members in the Jury Suite are as different from airport staff as a cat is to a dog. Whereas airport staff are mainly condescending, officious, arrogant, uncommunicative, unhelpful and downright unfriendly, the Jury Suite staff are sociable, affable, helpful and very open. They give continuous updates of information coming from the courts, they address everyone by name, they offer abundant and genuine apologies for the inconvenience caused, and they do it all with good humour and sympathy.

The two scenarios are quite similar: A group of people is trapped in an alien environment; its freedom of movement is restricted; it is a captive audience. The information available is often vague and inconclusive; an eventual end to the group's waiting is determined sometimes by chance, sometimes by circumstances being controlled by unseen forces elsewhere. Yet the brusque and secretive manner in which airport staff usually handle such groups is replaced in the Jury Suite by a spirit of cooperation and consideration that makes the somewhat tedious hours of waiting seem almost a pleasure.

Now, what I would like to know is this: Who trains these two disparate teams of people? What attitudes are ingrained within them which results in two totally different types of treatment? If a beleaguered Courts system can manage to instil an aptitude of genuine customer service in its staff, why can't those pompous twats who run our airports do the same?

I think we should be told.

A cheat, a thief and a killer.

Now this might seem like a strange thing to do on a Friday evening, but tonight I watched a TV programme about cuckoos. It's strange that I should even watch TV at all because that is a rare thing for me to do on any night of the week, but stranger still that I should become educated into the bizarre world of that most unique of birds – the cuckoo. Some would call the cuckoo a British bird (and I'm sure it's catalogued as such in ornithology annals), yet it only comes to this country for ten weeks of the year, and only then to commit its heinous crimes. An incredibly cunning bird, it selects a specific breed upon which to launch its attack. Some will choose the Reed-Warbler; others perhaps the Meadow-Pipit – the trick is to lay an egg in the nest of a bird whose eggs most resemble those of the ingrate.

Apparently, the female cuckoo will sneakily keep watch on the nest of its target host so that it can accurately time the laying of its egg to coincide with those of its obliging host's own. It can select up to twenty-five separate nests in which to secrete its (cleverly disguised) eggs – thus ensuring the chances of success. I learned tonight that this behaviour is unique amidst the bird kingdom, and this leads me to question – why? There must be millions of species of birds in the natural world, so why is it that this one particular bird is the only one in the entire bird fraternity that can't be arsed to raise its own young? I'd like to report this bird to the government – how the hell are we meant to promote diligence and responsibility when there's a bird out there that gleefully abandons it all, and actively abdicates its duties to another authority? Talk about the Nanny State - Little Britain's Vicki Pollard had nothing on this bird.

Anyway, I must stop this kind of thing on a Friday evening. I'm sure there could have been much more exciting and exotic things I could have done – there was a Blues Night at the Broadway that I could have attended. I suppose the trouble with that, is that I would probably have encountered quite a few "cuckoos in the nest" of my own. And the trouble with that, is that these cuckoos won't even become the harbingers of spring. And remember, Spring is just around the corner.

Oh Goody!

Now this is interesting – I've heard this before but I never learned what happened to the concept – but apparently they have discovered a new treatment for blood poisoning that could prove to be an instant hangover cure. For yes, a bloodstream 'cleaner' which could save thousands of lives a year by quickly disabling poisons has been invented by British scientists.

Apparently, a special molecule (called Bridion) binds itself to unwanted substances in the blood, rendering those substances ineffective within three minutes. Bridion then removes the poison from the body (by process of natural wastage, er...) Sounds good, eh? Of course, there is a serious medical benefit to this discovery – the molecule will make it possible to remove all types of poisoning: Paracetamol overdoses; anaesthetics; snake-bites; poisons & toxins etc., but possible future uses of the mechanism could include the quick removal of alcohol from the bloodstream. Well, this sounds more like it. This means that we can sit all night in the pub, necking whisky after beer after wine after whisky, and in the morning – when we are say, due in court on Jury Service, we take the new drug and hey presto, we're immediately sober! Just think – we could even go to a boozy dinner party, drink ourselves stupid, and (after a quick dose of this molecule) could then drive ourselves home! I wouldn't buy any shares in taxi companies after this, that's for sure.

I never get hangovers (I don't drink enough) but for those poor souls who do – and for those who crash hopelessly drunk into bed without removing either clothes or make-up – this discovery sounds like an absolute boon. You get up in the morning - head like a whirlitzer, stomach like a bag of pig-swill, mouth like an oven-baked donkey's arse – and within the time it takes to boil a kettle, you're refreshed and as pure as a mountain stream. Quick – bring it to market!

When I said some time ago that one of my favourite quotes from W C Fields is: "Always carry a small flagon of whisky in case of snake bite – furthermore, always carry a small snake", I can now change that to: "Carry whisky and a small snake if you wish, but always carry a phial of Bridion."

It's a (door) Hanging Offence M'Lud

I spent the whole of yesterday afternoon re-hanging my bedroom door for the third time. It's a design fault really – the door is made of reinforced glass and is so heavy that the ridiculously small screws holding the hinges to the frame simply aren't strong enough to take the weight. The first time I attempted to solve this, I went out and bought some longer screws. I thought it would be easy. Then I realized that the idiot builders have put a metal panel in the wall-thingy (I can't remember what the side-frame of a door is called; I know that the top bit is the lintle) and even my hammer drill couldn't get into it. So, I had to continue with the ridiculously small screws. A few weeks later, the door fell off again. On my second attempt, I decided to drill a wider hole and then insert some really fat and (supposedly) tenacious rawlplugs to hold in the screws. I was convinced that this would solve the problem. However, this time two of the screwheads snapped off and the door fell away from its frame again. Hmm.

Right! Undefeated, I drilled out the decapitated screws and squeezed some filler into the holes. Then I gave all the rawlplugs a thick coating of some special glue that I have. This stuff is specifically designed for boat building and is so strong that it will hold wooden planks together, in water, while a 17-stone man sits atop. Bloody strong, see? As an added measure, I then coated the backplate of the hinges with said adhesive, and re-screwed them in. If the bastard door falls off for a fourth time, I shall admit defeat and call in the builders. It's no fun trying to balance such a heavy door whilst trying to heave it into position to meet the holes in the frame – especially when I had inadvertently coated myself in the aforementioned adhesive so I was thereby sticking to the door, to its hinges, and to the step-ladder too. A tricky manoeuvre I can tell you, and not one to be carrying out just as – inevitably – the phone should ring.

Anyway, the door is now Public Enemy Number One and I'm glaring fiercely at it, daring it to move again. It had better not even think about it.

This afternoon I'm off to the Woods for a jolly lunch at Davenport Towers. I suspect I might have a sip or two of alcohol while I'm there but I must be careful as I'm in Court tomorrow morning. And no, I'm not up on a charge of cruelty to doors – I'm on Jury Service. Oh hell.

What's New?

Well - by text, email, phone and of course, Facebook, I've had the usual plethora of messages wishing me a Happy New Year and declaring that 2009 is going to be a lot better than 2008. Notwithstanding my stated position on this matter (viz. previous posting), I actually agree with these well-wishers. Don't get me wrong – I'm not of the opinion that it's because we're in a different year (what is a year?) that things will get better, but I believe that things will definitely get better from whatever point we start. You will aready know that I am not a subscriber to the theory of ruin that those pesky economic journalists keep stuffing down our throats. So, because of this, I am continuing with my optimistic demeanour and therefore looking forward to the weeks and months to come with great cheer.

Today is January 1st which means that I, like most people, should be nursing a great big fat malevolent hangover. But no, dear reader, I have spent today quite clear-headed and as bouncy as that loveable old feline, Tigger. I decided to eschew the various invitations to enlist in the normal revelry of the masses last night and instead, stayed at home with a bottle of vodka and a re-run of Anne Reid's remarkable interpretation of the life and personality of Dame Barbara Cartland on TV. Yes okay, I hear you calling for the pipe & slippers, I know - but it gave me an essential breather in this manic life of mine and afforded me a time to reflect on the joys & pleasures of my life for which I can be so grateful.

So, the message I have for you all is this: Please do not worry – life is good. The future is a Christmas Cracker of joyous wonder; it is a serendipity of providence; it is all so, so magnificent. But be assured that this spirit of elation has nothing whatsoever to do with this rather haphazard Gregorian calendar to which we so pathetically cling. No, it is because of the indominatble spirit of the human psyche - the spirit that has danced and cavorted throughout the realms of time since before the 'calendar' was invented - that I rejoice. Rejoice.