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.