Honky-Tonk Blues

So, my advice to you is this: Always keep a stock of pen refills in your house in case of emergencies. And in order to try to maintain this stock, buy your refills on-line instead of venturing out to the shops. You see, I didn’t take this advice, and so a couple of Sundays ago I realized that I urgently needed a refill for my ballpoint pen. There was nothing for it but to take a trip to the refill retailers – a harmless enough exercise you may feel, but in doing so, I had to walk past a pub in which it just so happened that two of my friends were sitting. It seemed rude not to respond to their cheery waves and eager beckoning, so I entered the bar. Some time later, after three or four pints, I emerged to discover that the pen-refill shop had already closed and thus, I came home empty-handed.

The following week, using the next opportunity to get to the shop (I work Monday-Friday in the remote and inhospitable salt mines, with no access to shops at all), I set off again – confident that it was too early for my friends to be in the pub. In fact, I deliberately went in the opposite (circular) direction so as to avoid even having to look through the windows of the bar. I therefore successfully navigated myself to the pen-refill shop without incident, bought the required items, and emerged from the shop to make my way home. But just then, just as I was happily about to head back to my apartment, there, right across the mall opposite the shop doorway from which I had emerged, something caught my eye. It was the piano shop.

Oh, shop of wonders – more tempting even than some bar crammed with my dearest friends. The piano shop, where dreams and schemes of impossible skills are hatched and nurtured. The piano shop, where it isn’t simply pianos that are sold, but the promise of joy upon joys to come. I ventured inside where I was met with a bewildering array of different pianos, both electric and strung (I think that's the right expression). I confessed to the energetic and courteous young salesman that I knew nothing whatsoever about pianos, but he was so patient with me, explaining all the various merits and drawbacks about each type and model, and so very willing to demonstrate the different sounds that each model made with his elegant and nimble playing. I wanted them all!

Not only do I know nothing about pianos, but I can't play one either. I was never taught such a bourgeois effete skill as a child - growing up, as I did, in the backstreets of Naples - and as such have remained totally non-musical all my life. Inside that piano shop - having meant only to go out to buy some refills for my pen - I decided that this non-musical status of mine was about to change. The boy in the shop convinced me that it is never too late to learn to play an instrument - but then of course, he was trying to make a sale. Well, whatever his motives, I was soon hooked on the idea of becoming the next Librace or Barry Manilow and so, after much deliberation over the various models on display, I made my most foolish and extravagant purchase to date.

Foolish and extravagant? Phooey! I now have a fabulously stylish, beautifully-sounding, full-sized 88-key and 3-pedal electric piano sitting resplendent in my livign room. It plays and sounds exactly like the real thing, and with the added bonus that I can play it with earphones on - thereby sparing my neighbours the tortuous horror of listening to me endlessly practising my scales. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, but I do know that's it's going to be one hell of a lot of fun finding out. I have appointed a fine young fellow as my teacher, and have already made a start. I have already learned to play a very well-known piece of classical composition, worthy indeed of a concert in the Royal Albert Hall: Frère Jacque.

You may laugh, but I have this to say: "Ooh, I am the music man, and I come from down your way!"

A New Life!

Oh dear - if any of you are still out there, dear listeners, then I'm so sorry that I haven't written for so long. You've probably all deserted me anyway because you must have thought I had died, or that possibly I was in prison. Why wouldn't you?

Well strangely, you would not be too far from the truth there - I am working in a high security psychiatric hospital (the highest security) and my working day is spent incarcerated inside the prison-like conditions. It really is extraordinary - everywhere I move around the hospital I have to unlock and then re-lock a door or gate every few yards. Of course, I carry a great big bunch of keys hanging from my belt (as do all staff) which if nothing else, identifies me as staff, and not a patient. Because as I am sure you will understand, the only difference between me and a madman is that I'm not mad.

But it isn't the 'working-for-a-living' malarkey that has prevented me from updating you on here. Well actually I suppose it is, because working does take up so much of the day - but there have been many, many other distractions to keep me away from here. Too many, in fact, to tell you about them now - I just wanted to pop in to say hello and to say that if you can bear with me, I'll give you a full update in a day or so. And no, I haven't been away creating revolutions in middle-eastern and north African countries; I haven't been performing for Comic Relief; nor have I been caught up in the dreadful events in Japan; nor spending time finishing off the Olympic Stadium; nor attending the Liberal Democrat Spring Conference; nor anything like that.

No, some time ago I gave up smoking. Just like that. I didn't opt for any patches, or gum, or hypnotism, or counselling, or (god forbid) the drugs that my GP offered me - I just quit. And it's been so remarkably easy - not because quitting is an easy thing to do, but because it happened when my mind was in exactly the right place for the job. At any other time I couldn't have done it (which is why I didn't), but on that specific morning when I realized that my pack was empty, and that I really couldn't be bothered to go out to the shops to buy any more, my mindset was completely lined up to the act of quitting.

But why should giving up smoking have kept me busy, you ask? Well, as a reward for my efforts I have bought myself a piano. We all deserve a treat when we have done something special for ourselves, and my treat has been my piano. I have never played the piano in my life before of course, and I had thought that I never would. However, I am beginning to learn to play and it is that which is taking up all my free time at the moment. That and going to the gym (another bonus of being smoke-free). So watch this space, dear reader - very soon I shall be restored to the Adonis-like figure I once was, but this time there will be an added tool in my skillset. This time, I will be banging out my tunes like the most famous pianists of all time.

More on this, and other matters, next time.

Back to the Salt Mines

After a lengthy sabbatical, I will soon be returning to the Salt Mines. Not the same salt mines where I was slaving away at last year, but a different set. Much as I hate the idea, it has become necessary in order to stave off an impending state of penury. It is unfortunate, but not an insurmountable horror and I am sure I will survive the ordeal. I don't mind working for a living - goodness knows, I am far from an idle person and you must know, gentle reader, that I am not a person who would ever shirk from my responsibilities and duties - but it's just the turning up every day that I find so distasteful. It lacks so much imagination - but the people I usually work for think that it's the standard thing to do. Don't get me wrong - I don't resent these people, and I will always turn up at the office with good cheer and steadfastness, but I do resent the assumption that turning up to the office every day is the normal way of things.

So, this is my last week of freedom, but there are still many chores to get through before the week is out. I had intended to spend my last few days in virtuous pursuits - I was planning to go to the gym every day, give myself a daily Italian lesson, clean the flat, work on my novel, and all manner of sensible things that I'm not going to have time for once I am chained to my toil by the evil Gangmaster at the salt mines. However, the week has so far passed in dissipation, catching up with people whom I won't see for ages once I have retired from polite society (which I must do, when work starts again). I was rather drunk last night and so this morning has been a very slow start. Therefore, this entry is very hurriedly written and so I apologise if it fails to entertain, educate or inform.

Tonight I have the AGM for the Nottingham Writers' Studio (of which I am Chairman), and so have all the paperwork for that to prepare. I hope that the event will pass without issue, but I always fear that there could be a revolt from the members about some of the changes I am proposing - we'll see. I don't want a 'Boardroom coup' of any type as it could be embarrassing. I put in a huge amount of (unpaid) work for the Studio, but who knows whether any of it is what the members really want? I am their servant, after all.

I see that I was wrong about Natalie Portman's performance in 'Black Swan'. I had said earlier that I thought that (in the film) she acted her way through the whole gamut of human emotions from A to B. Now she wins an Oscar for her performance. Oh dear - I did get it wrong, didn't I? Then again, perhaps I didn't, and perhaps I'm just the little boy who has spotted that the Emperor is wearing no clothes - after all, the hype around the film was so great that it might be presumed that the Hollywood Machine is no more immune from believing its own whipped up excitement than we are. How gullible we sometimes can be. For example, look at the latest scramble to paint that nice Mr Gadaffi of Libya as an evil tyrant. The journalists would have us believe that he has billions of dollars salted away somewhere - yet we all know that he is a poor, simple man who lives in a tent and probably washes his own underwear. I see that Britney Spears has revealed that he paid her $1 million to sing at his daughter's birthday party. Well, I bet he had to scrimp and save for days to afford that - any father would do the same, surely? Leave the man alone - he doesn't even have a job, apparently. I bet he'd join me in the salt mines, if he could.

And now, I'm going to sneeze, in the Hungarian tradition.

A Typical Sitcom Moment

Some years ago I took a business trip to the island of Guernsey. It's a delightful location, quaint and balmy, with tiny high-hedged roads that twist and turn through the model-like villages and luscious countryside. I was with two colleagues and the purpose of our visit was to try to sell a big IT installation to one of the major businesses in St Peter Port. My role was to support and balance the other two members of our team: The first, a salesman who clearly might not be trusted to tell the truth about the merits of our software; the second, a technical expert who unfortunately could be relied on to tell perhaps too much of the truth. Also, as a senior manager with the company, I was expected to provide some gravitas to the proceedings.

As we gathered at Birmingham airport, I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to pack any underwear and so I bought a pack of rather snazzy and fashionable briefs in one of the concourse boutiques. Thinking no more about it, we flew to Guernsey and checked in to our hotel in preparation for the major demonstration the following day. A spot of sightseeing, a pleasant dinner, and some last minute checks on the efficacy of our software demonstration system, and we retired to our rooms for the night.

The following morning we checked out of our hotel and with our luggage and our technical equipment, took a taxi to the Headquarters of our prospective client. In a conference room we were extended all relevant facilities to present our demonstration in the appropriately professional manner. At the appointed time, members of the senior board of management filed in to take their places before us. Our salesman made his well-rehearsed pitch. On the overhead projector our technician effortlessly demonstrated the commercial, practical and strategic benefits of our software, and I led the Q&A session in a soothing, confident and reassuring way. The prospective client's management team were rather dour and reserved at first, but by the end of the two-and-a-half hour session, we felt that we had raised their level of enthusiasm to an extent that led us to feel fairly confident of securing an order. However, such was the size of the investment that we already knew that the decision would not be made that day. So, we ended the session feeling that we had made a suitably professional impression on these people, and that we stood a good chance of securing the deal later.

We thanked our audience for their attention, and they politely thanked us for making the trip and for presenting a convincing case for our application. As there were another five hours until our flight home, we had decided amongst ourselves that we would engage in some further sightseeing of the island once the meeting was over. Not wishing to do this in our business suits, we asked one of the senior managers if there was anywhere we could change into our casual clothes. She said that we could use the same conference room we were already in, and as the management team filed out she said: "You won't be disturbed".

Relieved that the intensity of the meeting was now over, we entered a mood of levity and quickly began to shed our smart business attire in readiness for an afternoon on the town. For some reason I suddenly decided that it was important to show my colleagues how good my recently purchased underwear looked and so, in a moment of madness, I jumped onto the conference table, naked except for my new briefs, and proceeded to imitate a catwalk model, gyrating and cavorting up and down in a provocative manner. At that moment the conference room door opened and in walked the aforesaid senior manager, asking if we would like her to call a taxi for us? She stood horrified at my antics as, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I froze in mid-gyration with my hips thrust forward to reveal the clinging contours of my new stretch-lycra briefs. Sheepishly, I climbed down from the highly-polished table mumbling that yes, thank you, a taxi would be most appropriate. Still reeling with shock, she retired from the room in silence.

We didn't get the deal.

Welcome to the House of Fun

Every time I write one of these blogs I always vow to write another one very soon. And then life and its chaos gets in the way and before I know it, whole weeks have passed. Things have been extremely difficult in the past couple of weeks - the burden of duties has been crushing to say the least. All the usual stuff has bubbled up onto my already crowded agenda. My weekly and daily schedules resemble a school timetable - but without the free periods. However, I did take a break last weekend to visit some friends in London. They live on a houseboat on the Thames - that great, brooding body of brown water; heaving and swelling as it nudges its way silently through the capital. The boat doesn't float for the whole time - it rises up with the tide for a few hours and then is lowered gently back, to settle once more in the oozing mud like a stranded whale. This is a fascinating process because when settled, the boat lists at a very slight angle, giving one the impression - strangely - of being at sea. For me, this was a wonderful opportunity to relax completely.

There have been other moments of pleasure too, peppered amongst the ever-growing list of mandatory chores. I am a member of a scriptwriting group at the Studio, and our modus is to take two new scripts each month and to critique them, offering comments and (perhaps) advice to the writers. We have been lucky so far because we've only had high quality scripts to work on - there was a fabulously creepy horror film written by award-winning film writer Graham Lester George; a lovely gentle comedy about life in a nudist colony by TV writer Michael Cook; theatre writer Nick Wood's powerful and moving dark drama about teenage self-harm and abuse; and Georgina Lock's outrageously quirky and hilarious new TV sitcom about Osama bin Laden and a group of his hapless cronies. It's been great fun to read the first drafts of these works and, because there's always something useful we can all say about possible improvements to the scripts, it's exciting to think that in some small way we are contributing in the genesis of some great productions to come.

Last night I attended the Studio's quarterly spoken word event where members and guests get a chance to perform their written work in front of an audience. I've performed my work here before on several occasions, but last night I had the pleasure of being a member of the audience. It was a super evening with some very interesting stuff being read. Top of the bill was guest artist Sophie Woolley, fresh from her success in Channel 4's 'Cast Offs'. She performed an astonishing monologue about betrayal and loneliness - all the more remarkable because Sophie is totally deaf which must make it so difficult getting the comic timing right, when she can't hear the audience's reaction. And the reaction was one of hilarity and pure joy. She is brilliant. Irvine Welsh (of 'Trainspotting' fame) described her satirical play 'When to Run' as "a stunning, electrifying show full of imagination and verve". A magical evening.

And now I have my lovely daughter (also called Sophie) and her boyfriend staying with me - so there's heaps more fun to come. Hopefully, dear Reader, it won't be too long before I can recount the details of this on here. I'm ending again with another promise (to myself as well as to you) that my next blog will follow shortly. If it doesn't, you can be assured that it's only because I have again become mired in the drudgery of daily tasks. Let's hope not.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince

What strange times I'm living through. I've been trying to lead a more sedentary life recently and have only been out on the town for a handful of times in the last two weeks. I must confess that last Friday was probably the biggest hiccough in the plan, when I drank enough red wine to wash down a large cow with, and my poor head certainly woke up to the full horror of that on Saturday morning. But apart from that specific excursion, my outings have been somewhat moderate by earlier standards, at least. I've been going to bed early, swathing my face in lavender oil (to aid good sleep), and reading a book to aid my rest. Why then have I been repeatedly tormented by the most bizarre, disturbing and (yes) cruel dreams every night?

My Great Aunt Dolores used to say that our dreams were evidence that none of us really exists. She said that the old religious ideas that dreams were god's way of talking to us were a load of old codswallop. She was more akin to the Greeks' theory that dreams came from within the self, but she took the idea even further in some ways, although stopping short of Plato's claim that dreams were 'communications from the soul'. Dolores's theory was that when we become unconscious (i.e. when we sleep), we are at once tapped into the consciousness of the Universe and that our dreams are merely the collective babble that emanates from that consciousness. From this she deduced that as individuals, we don't exist. Her claim was that the cacophony of voices that our mangled, incomprehensible dreams reveal to us is merely evidence that we are all 'One'. Our conscious physical selves are too trapped in our own egos to tune into the real collective mind (she said), and only when we sleep do we release our egos and slide into the deluge of combined communication. Dolores claimed that none of us really thinks as an individual, but that we all think as a single entity. Hence, her assertion that none of us really exists in the way that our waking worlds would have us believe. Many people have suggested that my Great Aunt Dolores was bonkers, although I have to say that this wasn't usually because of her philosophical views.

However, I remember a time when the two of us were travelling through North America and we stayed for a while with a group of Navajo Indians (Native Americans to you; Red Indians to my somewhat anachronistic aunt). This particular tribe has a tradition where dreams are considered vital to the understanding of life and nature, and during our stay they bored the pants off Dolores each morning by recounting the previous night's dreams to one other at breakfast (breakfast - by the way - consisted of hash browns, waffles drooling with maple syrup, pork roll, eggs and coffee). Hogwash, she called it - and told them so. Self-indulgent hogwash. She so insulted them with her assertion that dreams were nothing more than the channelling of all human thought - and nothing to do with messages from the gods - that they threw us out of their community, but not before we had been forced to buy a whole range of turquoise (plastic) jewellery and some rather tacky wacky 'dream-catchers' which are constructed like spiders' webs to be hung above the bed at night to prevent evil dreams from entering our sleep. I still use mine, although I don't know why I bother, because I still have nightmares.

When I next write to you, dear reader, I'll tell you about the time that Dolores managed to insult a whole group of Chinese people by telling them that whereas the rest of the world was frightened by China's communism, there would eventually come a time when the world would only be concerned about China's capitalism. This was in the 1970s and Dolores's prediction seemed farcical to say the least. When I asked her how she could possibly have made such a preposterous prophecy, she replied that not only does none of us exist - neither does time. "I heard it in a dream, dear boy," she said. "We all have this information within us. It's just that most people - like you - choose not to let their waking egos listen."

This is why I think my Great Aunt was so fearless. Because she believed that she was part of some huge universal consciousness, she believed too that she was immortal. Unfortunately, as her excursion over Niagara Falls in a barrel some years later proved, she wasn't.

Life Is A Bed Of Roses

Oh my, how I hate cleaning the shower. My shower's role in life is to clean ME, so why should I return the compliment? It should be able to clean itself, the lazy fucker. So, having got that off my chest, what else is there to tell you, dear reader? Well, all of life is a struggle (or so the Buddhists would have us believe) and it has been just thus in recent days. However, I am slowly getting my pathetic life into some sort of order - I completed both my VAT Return (very complicated this quarter) and my Tax Return this week. This involved wading laboriously through knee-deep paperwork and bending my head around a maelström of figures (most of which started out as incorrect), until I had a semblance of a realistic financial picture. The wonderful feeling of relief though, when it's all finished, is a joy to experience. As a child I used to suffer from excruciating migraines - the pain was so bad that I often just wanted to kill myself - but the relief when the pain had finally dissipated was so luxuriant that waking up from the horror of it would give me a renewed love of life. And that's how I feel this week.

It's been a bit of a social whirl again recently. I should point out that I am meant to be moderating my lifestyle at the moment, and so have been trying hard to impose some rules on myself. I've been having some early nights with little or no alcohol, and I have sometimes resisted the feral call of the social scene and remained within my apartment (during one celebrated sojourn I realized that I hadn't spoken to another human being in over 36 hours). But there are many demands on my time, and all too often I am just too weak to resist. I like seeing my friends though, so it is unreasonable to think that I can become a total recluse. On Friday I went to see the film 'The Black Swan' and subsequently created a furore on Facebook when I had the temerity to slam the film. I simply didn't enjoy it - I felt that it was cheap and clichéd, and I didn't think much to the acting either. Most people I know have declared me as wrong - and perhaps I am - but if I didn't enjoy it, I can't pretend that I did.

The remainder of this weekend was passed in a haze of drunken revelry - two separate parties and several other general eating and drinking events. If I had saved up all the money that I have misspent on alcohol over the years, I could afford several skiing holidays and would be living in a much more sumptuous apartment than this one, I can tell you. Of course, there are many other important things I could use the money on, but these two items are of particular concern to me at the moment. This is the first year in many when I don't have a skiing trip planned, and this has caused me to yearn for the thrill of the slopes. Unfortunately, few of my friends ski (and my normal skiing chums decided this year to make arrangements that didn't suit me), so I have nobody to go with - even if I could afford it. And this apartment is getting me down too. It has suddenly become far too small - especially as I am sorting out my possessions from my other house and continue to bring more and more items of detritus from there to here. I am knee-deep in boxes and spare furniture, whereas I should be heading for a more minimalist lifestyle. Oh hell and spite! I really should get myself sorted soon.

January has rushed itself to an early conclusion, with little achieved. But as I said above, I do have a renewed excitement for life and so I'm convinced that February will be better. February - usually the month in which I go skiing. Grrr. Now I've made myself unhappy again. Doh!

Whadda Mistekka To Make!

What a great feeling it is, to be living in the power of 'now'. I was thinking the other day about the various mistakes I've made along the way (and there have been some, let me tell you), and wondering how different my life might have been had I not made those mistakes. It's easy to live with regret sometimes but then on more careful reflection, one realizes that none of it really matters because none of it (the speculative scenarios, that is) happened, and so therefore there is absolutely no point in worrying about it. What happened, happened.

The very best we can do with our lives is to enjoy what we are doing now, and not to worry about how we got here. We should resolve, of course, to try to make sure that whichever highway stretches out before us, is the correct one - but there are no guarantees that it will be, of course. Start here, start now - it can be done. The road ahead is clear - we have nothing to hit but the heights (as the song goes).

What started me thinking about this was an entry I read in my diary - written when I was just seventeen. I am preparing to clear out all the detritus from my old house in readiness for selling it, and I came across a box of my old diaries in the attic. Fascinating stuff - but it's all in the past. This particular entry read: "I think I've decided what I want to do as a career. I want to be a journalist." You don't need me to tell you, gentle reader, that it never happened. However, a couple of years after the diary entry, and while I was still at university, I went for an interview with the Editor of the Nottingham Evening Post when I was at home on holiday. I can recall this incident with alarming clarity. I was on my way to the train station to return to Oxford and thought I'd do the interview before catching the train. As such, I had a small suitcase with me and, in my youthful exuberance, didn't think that it would matter that I was dressed in my student attire.

The Editor called me in to his shambolic office. He was a fat man, sweating in the smoke-filled room, and the skin covering his face was a glistening and translucent pink, and somewhat stretched. His first question to me was why I had thought it necessary to bring a small suitcase into an interview, and why also did I think it was appropriate to turn up in a T-shirt and jeans? His curt response and beady, cynical stare did little to reassure me when I explained to him that I was on my way back to university and therefore couldn't be bothered to put on a suit that wouldn't be worn again for months. Oh, the innocence of youth! He then went on to tell me how awful it would be to start as a trainee journalist - the hours were long and unsociable; the work largely unrewarding ('Do you think you could whip up sufficient enthusiasm for something like the Arnold & Redhill Flower Show?'). Then came the stinger: The salary was £4 per week. WTF? I had been earning £8 per week working as an assistant in a pet shop during my holidays - he must have seen the look of sheer incredulity upon my arrogant, university-educated face. I didn't realize at the time that he too had once started out at the bottom, and had probably started on a wage much less than £4 per week himself.

Without showing any enthusiasm whatsoever, I thanked him for his time and left to catch my train. And here's where the sorry tale becomes muddled and fruitless. I sat on the train thinking about how on earth anyone could manage on only half of what I'd been earning - even if (as would have been the case) I were living with my parents? No, I decided, he was taking the piss. Far better to stay on at university, get my degree, and forge a career for myself that was much better paid. I wasn't naive enough though, not to recognize that my lack of servility and my lack of passion for his profession would hardly have impressed him anyway, so I assumed that the choice had already been made. Imagine my shock when, a few days later, he rang to offer me the job. How desperate must he have been to fill the role? I declined, and forgot all about it.

How short-sighted we are when we are young! All I could think about was how (if I'd wanted to) I could earn double what he was offering, just by selling rabbits, mice and guinea-pigs to the unsuspecting unwashed of Nottingham. It never entered my immature and stupid head that journalistic training on a provincial newspaper is the bedrock of the craft upon which so many of our household media names have based their careers. All I could think of was that at that time, it cost £2 in the pub to get drunk, so how on earth was I going to survive on the wages I was being offered? Now, of course, it's difficult to resist the temptation to imagine 'What if...?' but as I've already said - it's useless to look back. Yes, my life would have followed a totally different route from the one I eventually followed, but such a thing is impossible to think about because the route I did take has brought me exactly to this point, now. Anything else, and I wouldn't be writing this.

We only have now, and followed by what is to become. Nothing else. Plain and simple. No regrets.

Battle of the Sexes

Researchers have apparently discovered the reasons behind why men die (on average) at an earlier age than women. Statistics have been gathered from thirty European countries and these have revealed some interesting trends. There have been lots of theories put forward previously - such as the assumption that men work much harder than women, and therefore wear themselves out earlier (this seems somewhat tenuous, to say the least); or that men are more reluctant to seek help for suspected illnesses than are women, thereby presenting themselves with additional health risks. Sir Donald Acheson - the former Chief Medical Officer in Britain - once declared that it was simply a question of "hormones". He says that it is men's "rash and venturesome natures" that renders them the real weaker sex. However, this latest research has dismissed all of that and has concluded that the reason why men die younger is attributed to two main causes: Booze and fags.

Apparently, men drink more and smoke more than their female counterparts. Hmm, alcohol and tobacco are undoubtedly big killers - that can't be denied - but the question is this: Why do men drink and smoke more than women? Is it because they work harder than women and therefore need more release from stress, or is it because of their "rash and venturesome natures" that causes them to ignore the risks? If so, then Donald Acheson was correct - as are some other pundits from the past. Perhaps women are just smarter than men, and it's therefore not a question of taking fewer risks, but more one of being better at risk management? It would be interesting to learn the proportion between the sexes of the biggest bonus earners in the banking system - for we are told that the bigger the risk, the bigger the bonus if the deal comes off.

Perhaps women are simply more responsible in their outlook, and thereby give more consideration to their actions? The fact that the bankers whose risks fail don't appear to face any consequences from that (other than a loss of the bonus) could indicate that men are more selfish, and less worried, about the damage that their bad actions can do to others (recklessness again)?

All this leads me to think that the guys who never take risks - for example those who prefer to under-perform in steady, mundane jobs - should presumably (statistically) live longer. And as a counterpoint to that, the guys who are the real risk-takers will (statistically) shorten their lives by a considerable amount. In the case of the greedy, bonus-hungry bankers, let's hope so.

I have to confess that I drink and smoke too much and that also, I am a man. This puts me in real danger of shortneing my life. My dear father neither drank nor smoked, nor took any other real risks, and he lived until he was ninety. Does this prove a point? I'd be interested to learn too, whether guys who change sex and so become women suddenly develop a more responsible attitude to alcohol and tobacco and also, become more attuned to their responsibilities when taking risks? In theory, according to Donald Acheson, they should (if it really is all about the "hormones" like he said).

I feel a research project coming on. I'm going to apply for some funding for this - it's crucial that we understand whether swapping sexes also means swapping our sense of self-preservation, our sense of responsibility, and our willingness to take risks. What's more important though, is that I need the money from the funding application to pay for my next bout of booze and fags. Bring it on!

And... Action!

My 'Things To Do' list now stretches to fifty-three lines, and some of those lines are only categories (or headings) which could themselves be expanded into several more lines of objectives. Hmm, it's quite a daunting list really - and not just because of its length. So, the thing to do is to begin an assault on the challenges before me, and not to waiver in the face of adversity. Years ago, I adopted the maxim "Action Cures Fear" which, if you think about it, is the simplest approach to anything that anyone can ever make.

We all fear doing certain things - maybe it's jumping out of an aeroplane; holding a snake; telling a friend that her bum really does look big in that; or perhaps just returning a faulty item to the shop where the manager is so intimidating that we fail to remember the axiom that the 'customer is always right'. Well, although I'm not the first to claim it (for that honour goes, I think, to Franklin D Roosevelt), but I am a firm believer in the adage that: "The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself". If you think about it, it makes perfect sense. Because we fear it, we can prevaricate and procrastinate about taking all manner of actions - but all we are doing by stalling, is prolonging that fear. Of course, there may be a good reason for being fearful of something - jumping out of a plane, for instance, can be a frightening thing to do - but until we do it, the fear is all we have. Take the action, and the fear is instantly dismissed.

So, staring at my 'Things To Do' list, quaking in my boots at the multifarious and daunting tasks before me, helps nobody - least of all myself. All I have to do is take action, sort the list into an order of priority, and make a start at the top.

Item No. 1: Quit smoking. This is indeed frightening - but once done, the fear will have gone. All it requires is not to light another cigarette. If I do light another cigarette, then it will only be satisfying the craving that the previous cigarette created. This will in turn only create a craving that nothing but a further cigarette will fulfil. Break the cycle, and it's done.

Item No. 2: Complete my on-line tax return. Terrifying, to be sure - but I have all the information to hand, so all that is required is to make a start and hey presto, it's done! Fear gone.

Item No. 3: Design "New Life". Oh goodness, this is such a daunting task that my legs have turned to jelly just at the thought of it. What sort of New Life do I want? How do I achieve it? Perhaps the first thing to do is to make a list of all the things I need to do in order to bring about the New Life? Hang on a minute, haven't I already done that? Oh dear, ticking off one item on the list only creates a new fear that ticking off the next item will suppress. Another vicious circle. Or is it a case that simply tackling one item on the list will only bring about the creation of another, newer list of fear.

This is getting ridiculous. Perhaps I should just do nothing? Or maybe I should write a blog about it? Yes, writing a blog is fear-dispelling action of some sort, surely? Of course it is, so - let's make a start....

I'm feeling better already. Action cures fear, indeed.

My Round or Yours?

Welcome back, dear reader! That is, if you even want to come back after such a long absence of reportage. I can't explain it - but you have probably guessed that the Christmas festivities had something to do with it. Well, that and illness too. I had rather a shock on Boxing Day when all of a sudden I had a nose bleed - the first ever in my life. This was followed by several others over the next few days leading me to conclude, naturally, that death was imminent. Add to that, an inexplicable backache that was so severe that I could hardly get out of bed on one occasion and well, reporting my daily detritus to you, dear reader, became a low priority I'm afraid. I am happy to inform you that both ailments have now largely diminished.

But my worries are small compared with those of others, it seems. This country and the entire world seem to be unhappy at the moment, with troubles aplenty. Floods, shootings, forest fires, plagues, corruption, murders and deceit - all are features of our daily exposure to the news. We could all have been forgiven for struggling to raise the enthusiasm to wish each other a 'Happy New Year' if it hadn't been for the copious amounts of champagne that was available on December 31st.

The mention of alcohol brings me to a new matter that I have been contemplating. I'm not usually one for New Year Resolutions - the passing of New Year is, after all, just an arbitrary date in the Christian calendar with no proven significance to any of us - but because this time of year brings with it a time for reflection, I have decided to impose a new maxim upon myself. That is, the next time someone offers to buy me a drink, I shall refuse. Now, you will already know by now that I am far from being a fan of Conservative Leader David Cameron, but it is he who has given me the idea for this new regime.

David Cameron recently announced that in his view, part of this country's binge-drinking problem is caused by our culture of buying rounds in the pub. Poor David, he still doesn't get it entirely (i.e. he doesn't really understand how the low-life of Britain is motivated), but he has hit upon something that has been troubling me for some time. The tradition of buying rounds in the bar does present one of two (or three) difficult issues to me: Either I end up drinking too much; spending too much; or both. Here is a typical scenario: I enter the bar to find three or four friends seated therein, all with near-empty glasses before them. The immediate choice is to offer to replenish these said glasses whilst ordering my own drink. This is the accepted course of action in so-called polite society. The fact that perhaps on this particular occasion I might have intended to pass only a single-drink sojourn in the bar is uneasily shelved.

I am not a miserly person - I would hope not anyway - but it is surely human nature to seek fairness and balance in such situations. So, the inevitable outcome is to sit it out until the next round is offered, and thereby to accept a drink. This is now drink number two, when I had intended to stay for only one. Unless the occasion has been so planned, it is unlikely that I will want drink number three and so shortly, I will take my leave. Balance of expenditure: negative. On another occasion I may be with a friend who has already bought me a first drink. Suddenly we are joined by another friend who insists on replenishing our glasses. Drink number two. Again, I might not wish to have a third drink, but decency forces me to stay for a third as I offer to repay the generosity of the latecomer. Balance of expenditure: roughly equal. Balance of drinking: unnecessarily excessive. In both scenarios, an unwelcome outcome.

The solution, of course, is never to accept a drink from anyone, and never to offer to buy one for anyone else either. Such self sufficiency would then result in a balance both of expenditure and of alcoholic intake. A perfect solution, no? I would be able to pace myself according to my desires and to the time (and funds) available. Nobody can argue that this does not make perfect sense, can they?

But they will. Such is the peer pressure of our long drinking tradition that my actions will probably appear mean-spirited and selfish. Furthermore, some people will undoubtedly be offended that their bonhomie and goodwill, when offering me a drink, have been snubbed. This is a very mis-placed sentiment, and one that I shall try to dismantle as I begin my crusade for more sensible drinking. I'm terribly serious about this and just hope that when I begin, nobody will accuse me of being a Tory. That would be worse than standing accused of being an alcoholic spendthrift. Ah-ha, those days are finally over.