Je m'accuse!

Oh dear, gentle reader - I have been neglecting you again. I've just been rather busy recently, completing year-end accounts for two of the companies for which I am financially responsible. So, I've been knee-deep in paperwork, invoices and receipt, and wishing that I could afford a PA or similar - someone who would perform all these tedious tasks for me. I seem to spend most of my time on administrative matters, and there's hardly any time for being creative. There was a time when I would write something every day (I'm not talking about this blog here) because it was almost a need in me to do so - now I meet up with writer friends and they ask me if I'm writing anything at the moment, and I have to answer "No, nothing".

This simply won't do at all. I still have that need to write, and so to frustrate that need by continually becoming submerged in the burden of administrative matters (and other work), is inflicting an unhealthy amount of stress on any sense of well-being that I might otherwise achieve. It's simply not fair - and if I had a dummy in my mouth right now, I would spit it right out. The trouble is, in today's accusatory society where we are always trying to seek redress from some authority or other when things go wrong, in this situation there is nobody to blame but myself. I take on far too much responsibility - I always have - and the result from this is that I am constantly chasing my tail trying to satisfy all the various people and organisations to whom/which I have made some previous commitment.

It's not as if I receive any recognition or thanks for most of what I do. On the contrary. Usually, I can be minding my own business and just trying to get on with things, when all of a sudden I find myself caught up in accusations and recriminations about all manner of things, most of which I was previously not even aware. It's almost as if other people instinctively know that when something goes wrong for them, and they need to cast around for someone else at whom to throw the culpability, they see me as an easy touch. Everything - whether I am responsible for it or not - seems to stick to me.

Take this morning, for example. My landlord had arranged for some of the wooden flooring in my hallway to be replaced. There was a leak from next door's bathroom which had caused some of the flooring in my apartment to become warped. This sounds quite a simple exercise, I'm sure, and nothing (you would think) for me to worry my little head about. Until, that is, the builder had finished his job. The section of flooring that he had ripped up with such hunky, masculine energy was subsequently replaced by wood which clearly doesn't match the original. The result is a complete mess. Well, it's a neat enough job (the builder was very conscientious and very thorough), but the visual outcome is a stylistic disaster. My landlord, of course, blames me for this. He thinks I should have barred entry to the builder chappy, or at least prevented him from despoiling the former clean lines of the hall. The problem was that I had to leave the apartment while he was doing it - I had a committee meeting to attend (another of my many commitments that yesterday, I could have done without) - and by the time I had returned, the evil deed was complete. I could hardly ask him to rip it all up and start again; the poor lad was exhausted, and it wasn't his fault either - he was only working with the equipment with which he had been supplied.

No, this is clearly my fault again. Everything always is. As I write this, I can see from my window that it is snowing heavily outside. Hmm, this will no doubt cause all sorts of problems for the transport and communication infrastructure of this city, and everyone will start complaining and looking around for someone to blame. I wonder who's sorry head their beady eyes will settle upon this time? Yes, you've guessed it - little old me!

It's not fair!

Irritating People

So in my last posting, gentle reader, I said that I would be getting angry with myself. I haven't done that yet - although sadly, I have been getting angry with other people. This is not good - it is neither beneficial to one's health, nor is it useful for attracting good karma. The trouble is, some people can simply be so irritating sometimes, and then it becomes difficult to avoid the red mist descending before one's eyes. I'm not entirely sure why I let other people's silly actions affect me but just occasionally, I do. Oh, I know what you're thinking - you think that a truly good person would overlook the foibles and iniquities of others; he would dismiss other people's shortcomings and failings with an optimistically indulgent approach. And you'd be quite correct in this, dear reader - which means, therefore, that I am not a truly good person. We must aim to correct this unfortunate position as soon as possible.

Right - here's the plan: First, go to sleep every night with a coat hanger in my mouth so that I always wake up with a smile on my face. Next, give up the booze so that I never get my otherwise razor-sharp judgement clouded again (awareness is everything). After that, have my ego surgically removed (can I get that on the NHS?) so that the fragile shell of my so-called dignity never gets cracked again. And finally, move to another city where none of these irritating, toxic people whom I encounter here will presumably be encountered! Hmm, I somehow wonder whether my approach to all of this is actually the right one? On reflection, my cunning, brilliant, amazing four-point plan does seem a tad shaky, to say the least.

So how else can I rectify this position? Well, a dear friend of mine gave me one of those lucky cat things the other day. She said it would 'change my life' (and presumably she means for the better), so perhaps I ought to forget the plan and just rely on my new paw-waving companion to save me? I actually feel a little better already, just thinking about it. In fact, I'm waving at you now, dear reader - can you feel the benign benevolence flowing your way? I hope so. Ooh, this is going to easy.

I wonder what my Great-Aunt Dolores (she who was run over by a lorry but survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone, only to die within two years by throwing herself over Niagara Falls in a barrel) would have made of this? Dolores's motto when faced with irritating people was: "Don't get mad, get murderous" (she once bit the ear off a woman who had stepped off the escalator in front of her and had failed to move out of the way quickly enough), so I doubt if she'd approve of my lucky cat at all. She once gave me a .25 Beretta Revolver as a Christmas present, so she would definitely have viewed my arm-waving lucky cat as rather "cissy".

However, I still think I'll give it a go. I might also stare at a rather beautiful painting of a cat - and I think I know where I can find one - and reflect on the peace and harmony therein.

Rise Up! Rise Up!

Amidst a week of turmoil and despair, there comes some hope. Protestors against the increase in student tuition fees in England rose up last week and caused violence. This is (despite violence being something that one should always condemn) both a good thing, and a bad thing. It is a good thing because it illustrates that the British character is not quite as lily-livered as our French counterparts would have us believe, but it is also a bad thing because by rioting, the students have inadvertently exposed the manipulative nature of our evil government. You might argue that this too is a good thing, but my point is that when such violence erupts, it becomes all too easy to distract attention away from the real cause of the disquiet. I suspect that the attack on Conservative HQ was tolerated (perhaps even encouraged) by the authorities because it meant that any outrage was then directed at the mob, rather than at the government's disgraceful policies. So, it is my view that last week's incident was actually welcomed by the government (who deliberately under-policed the event) because the sure way to silence people who are saying something you don't like, is to put them in the wrong.

But enough of politics. What of other matters that have graced the previous week? I had a delightful visit from my daughter Sophie and her two lovely friends. The city of Nottingham displayed its magnificent charms to the visitors - charms that included a performance from one of our best bands (Long Dead Signal); an exhibition of contemporary art as part of the British Art Show at both the Gallery and at Nottingham Castle; a bizarre tribute to Rolf Harris who popped into the Davenport Shop of Originality to pose for photographs with a group of didgeridoo players; plus shopping, eating and drinking galore. We had a marvellous time - but as ever, it was all over too quickly and my visitors have now returned to their respective countries, leaving me to ponder my dismal future, alone again. I have been looking this morning at my 'list of things to do' and it is as long and as daunting as ever. Priority number one is to find some work because since taking a couple of months off to deal with my late father's estate, I have had no income at all, and unfortunately more than the usual amount of expenditure. As Mr Micawber was always so fond of telling us, this does not create a good balance for remaining solvent.

And what of affairs of the heart? Ha! That's a laugh - I think my days of romance are long over. This is a shame because I do try to take care of myself, and friends tell me that I'm still reasonably well-preserved; that I dress well; and that I'm a lively and interesting person with a caring heart. My friends tell me that I would make quite a good 'catch' for someone. Hmm, be that as it may, I still don't seem to be able to make a connection with the right people. I don't suppose there's anything wrong in being single - in fact, up until very recently I was always declaring that the single status is exactly what I prefer - but I do sometimes miss the easy comfort of always having someone around to share life's pleasures with. I guess I feel a little bit as if I'm being left behind. Most people I know are in relationships; even my ex-wife has moved on and is planning to set up home with her new partner. Also, up until only one year ago I still had two parents - and now I am orphaned. I do feel a certain sense of abandonment about my current life, and wonder what will become of me? Of course, all this leads me to conclude that more than ever before, it is now time for a change. Change is good - apparently, the universe has to move things out to allow the better and more wonderful things to appear. We are told not to resist change because change means that something even better is coming through. This is most encouraging - and most welcome too!

So, maybe I need to launch a riot on my own life? Smash a few of the windows that look into my comfort zone; tear down the trappings and hangings of my current defensive thought? Why yes, as I've already said in this posting - sometimes, violence can be good; sometimes it is necessary to bring about a change. Watch out, gentle reader - I am about to get angry with myself!

Inappropriate Clothing

I actually don't like Hallowe'en, so why I agreed to get dressed up in the most ridiculously undignified costume on Sunday, I don't know. I had an idea that I should attend the party at the Davenport Shop of Originality dressed as a warlock. However, not wishing to spend good money on an appropriate costume (I'm terribly mean like that), I decided to improvise with items to hand. I have a magnificent authentic Chinese kimono which - adorned as it is in shimmering black satin, adorned with a resplendent red and gold dragon across the back - I reckoned would pass for a warlock's magic cloak. I painted my fingernails a malevolent dark purple (quite evil-looking), and the outfit seemed to be coming to shape.

The mistake, I think, was adding a green satin basque and a witch's hat encrusted with pink, glittery spiders. Somehow, these items seemed to steal some of the darkness from the image I was trying to create. The final result (because I couldn't resist going completely over the top by applying copious amounts of eyeliner, thereby totally spoiling the effect), was that I resembled something half-way between a character in La Cage aux Folles, and Dame Edna. Oh sigh, these things just never seem to go right for me. Nevertheless, the party was huge fun and as the alcohol flowed more generously as the afternoon wore on, I gradually began to divest myself of various items until - by the time the shop had closed and we had headed off to the pub - I was dressed in normal weekday clothes, but still had on the eye makeup. This must have puzzled the somewhat sober and perfectly correct barman who served me later, although he didn't bat an eyelid.

I've never been good at getting it right where the correct attire for the occasion is concerned. I remember a particular incident when I once attended a ball many years ago at some Embassy or other in Lisbon. It was when I was working as a cabin-boy on a Swedish container ship. Our regular route was from Stockholm to Cape Town, stopping first at Lisbon and then various ports on the West African coast along the way. For some strange reason, I wasn't allocated my own bunk on the ship, but had to share a cabin with the Lithuanian chef - he told me that it was because I was his 'favourite' and he was always very generous towards me, although I was so naive at the time that I didn't even realize that some of the 'rewards' he gave me were actually illegal sexual practices.

Anyway, there we were in Lisbon one night, and Vitali (for that was his name) said he had procured two tickets for a posh embassy ball to be held ashore. He had managed to bribe one of the officers on board to lend us a couple of dress naval uniforms, so off we set for what I was hoping would be a very grand night of elegance and luxury. I felt so handsome in my crisp white uniform with its glittering gold buttons; I felt sure that all the ladies would want to dance with me. I was very good-looking in those days (if a little boyish) and had naturally blonde hair. We drew up outside the red-carpeted entrance of a very grand colonial-style building and were soon ushered inside by liveried footmen who I noticed were strangely wearing fishnet stockings and high heels.

Imagine my shock however, when we entered the opulent ballroom and were confronted by a scene straight out of Dante's Inferno! There were men hanging from chains in the ceiling, others were shackled in cages or strapped to racks, some were being led around the room on dog-leads, and nearly everyone was barely clothed. What clothes most of them were wearing seemed to comprise of a few pieces of studded leather, or items of very restrictive rubber. I felt very conspicuous indeed, over-dressed as I was in my smart officer's uniform. As far as I could see, there were absolutely no ladies present, and certainly no-one was in a ball gown. What a strange ball this was. I felt rather disappointed.

Then Vitali (who had often told me always to prepare for the unexpected), suddenly ripped off his outfit with surprising ease, to reveal underneath a studded leather harness and a leather posing pouch. A man in a rubber cat-suit (crotchless, of course) then urged me to do the same, but how could I? I wasn't even wearing any normal underwear underneath my outfit, let alone anything adorned with spikes or shackles. I told him that unfortunately, however inappropriate my outfit might appear to be compared with the others, I would have to keep it on. The party was in full swing now, and drinks were pressed into my hand by Vitali, snatched from trays attached to the bare nipples of the semi-naked waiters. That looked terribly painful for them, to me.

As embarrassing as it was, I decided that I would wear my uniform for the remainder of the evening because, even though there were no ladies present, I thought it might be even more embarrassing to remove it and to stand there naked. However, Vitali had other ideas.....

I just never seem to get these things right. I might give up the whole fancy dress idea in future - I should have learned my lesson back then.

Watching The World Change

Whilst listening to a programme on BBC Radio 4 the other day, I was struck by an observation that was so straightforward that it had actually passed me by. The programme was 'Saving Species' and the article was about the recent demise of some British birds. It was reported that many species of birds are in decline in this country, and the experts were putting forward various theories about why that should be. One suspect is the decline in insect life which means, of course, that there is less food for the birds to eat - hence fewer birds. There were several ecological speculations as to why insect life should be in decline, but meanwhile one scientist made the observation that you don't need expensive technical equipment to measure the volume of insect life (although of course, they do), you just need to take a drive across the country.

It's true - I hadn't noticed this myself until it was pointed out to me, but whereas twenty years ago a journey from say, Nottingham to Coventry would have resulted in the bonnet and the windscreen of my car becoming coated with the flattened corpses of dozens of insects, these days such wholesale slaughter is almost minimal. I spent this summer batting up and down the M1 motorway at high speeds, daily - but it failed to come to my attention that the death toll that such journeys had often caused in the past, had been greatly reduced. Thinking about it, I now see that to be the case.

It is very strange when we are suddenly made aware of environmental changes by things that we can witness ourselves and without needing to absorb the details of the scientists' technical data. I saw something similar a couple of years ago while I was on a skiing holiday in Argentière, France. There is a glacier in the valley, the extent of which can easily be seen with the naked eye. In the foyer of the hotel where I was staying, there was a photograph of a group of skiers taken in the 1930s. In the background of the photograph, behind the skiers' grinning faces squinting into the sun, the glacier is clearly visible. Glaciers - as you may know from your geography lessons - either grow in length, or they retreat. Comparing the scene in the photograph with the scene I had viewed earlier from the piste, it didn't take any scientist's data to tell me that the glacier had receded up the valley by at least a kilometre - in just seventy years! Quite chilling (or not, as the case may be).

So perhaps we should be wary of the mass of scientific data that we are presented with by the boffins. We often hear contradicting reports in the news - global warming is on the increase due to mankind's carelessness of consumption; global warming is not happening at all, but temperatures are just naturally fluctuating. The sun is getting hotter which strangely, will cause the earth to cool; the sun is actually cooling, which will cause the earth's gases to heat up the globe until it is out of control. It's all very contradictory and confusing - so maybe we should look with our own eyes if we want to know exactly what is happening? Well, of course there is a problem with this - sometimes, without the guidance of the experts, we run the risk of mis-interpreting the results we see. For example, if I had even noticed that the number of flies on my windscreen had reduced over the years, I might have concluded that this was as a result of the presence of more birds which were therefore eating up the normal insect supplies. This would have been wrong, of course.

I have been standing on my balcony this morning observing, the three dozen or so pigeons sitting benignly on the opposite rooftop. What does this tell me? That foodstuff for pigeons (often the detritus so carelessly cast down by the riff-raff of Nottingham) is on the increase, thereby allowing the pigeon population correspondingly to increase? Or is it simply that there are no young boys around with air-rifles anymore? Or maybe it is neither of these - perhaps it's just that one of Nottingham's many film-makers is shooting a re-make of Hitchcok's 'The Birds'?

Perhaps I should just start studying environmental issues instead, and become an expert myself? Stranger things have happened.

Join Me!

I was out filming all day on Monday, which is why I didn't update my blog. It was a pleasant day, if a little tiring - there were the usual frustrations of having to wait around for hours just to achieve about five minutes of usable footage, but there are always nice people to chat to during the wait, so it was all fun. We were in what Terry Wogan used to call the 'Lost City of Leicester' - a charming city of leafy walks and pretty shopping lanes. The weather was perfect, and we were very adequately fed and watered too! So, a good day indeed.

Now I am in hiding - the mad social blur of my life has taken its toll of course, and I just need a few days of rest and recuperation. You'll be pleased to know, however, that I have been behaving myself quite well and that there are plenty of empty cells in the naughtiness spreadsheet. This is all about awareness - most of us behave badly because we are not aware of our actions. Take people who throw litter in the streets - they're not actually evil people, and they're probably not even that stupid - but they are totally unaware of what their (lazy) actions may bring about. If you could train these people to think about what will happen when they have randomly thrown down their detritus - that someone else may slip on it; that someone has to clean it up; that an animal or child might be endangered by it etc. - then they may think twice about their actions. It is like this with all types of behaviour. It is easy to be thoughtlessly rude to someone, and just as easy to say something embarrassingly stupid in front of other people, but if we simply give some thought towards the repercussions of our next act, it can have the effect of stopping us in our tracks. As with all things in life, planning is everything.

We often make errors of judgement when we are drunk. Okay, so not all of you, dear reader, will know what it is like to be drunk - so for the benefit of those who don't, I will explain: The manufacturers of alcoholic drinks put something strange into their products. I don't know what this particular ingredient is, but it has the effect (for me at least) of bringing about impaired judgement. Well, not so much impaired judgement perhaps, but definitely a lack of the ability to plan. So, when a few drinks have been taken, even though we might subconsciously know that it is inappropriate to make that mistaken sexual advance or to send that insulting text message, the mystery ingredient in the drink seems to stop us from looking beyond the act or from seeing its possible outcome. The awareness quotient becomes somehow diminished, and before we have had time to think about what we are about to do, we have done it. As I have said, planning is everything - so the trick is to begin the plan earlier than required. Instead of blithely expecting that we can plan our actions once we have drunk seventeen pints of lager, it is far better to set out by planning to drink fewer than seventeen pints of lager. It's that simple - and this way, the emergencies that usually ensue sometime later in the night, will not arise. I think that I have discovered a remarkable and unique strategy for life, and I can hardly believe that nobody has ever thought of this before.

I am going to begin a campaign of awareness for the general public. I think this might make me rather famous because I will soon be seen as a saviour of social behaviour. I see a TV show; I see national coverage; I even see a cult following. As a first step, I am going to get some badges made up:

"Drink less; err less. Plan more; fun galore!"

Kind of catchy, eh? I am a genius!

The Happiness Factor

I wrote on Facebook this morning that today, Monday, is the 8th day of the week. It certainly feels like it. Last week was just so ridiculously hectic that I was barely able to cope. There were award ceremonies, launch parties, theatre trips, drinks, dinners out and dinners in - it was the most action-packed week in my diary. And it was all undertaken whilst in the grip of a debilitating illness too. My poor weak body has had no chance at all to recuperate, nor to fight off the onslaught of germs. Needless to say, there aren't too many empty cells in the naughtiness spreadsheet either. Oh dear, the shame of that!

I've also paid a few visits to the 'Davenport Shop of Originality' - a new addition to the retail scene, located in Nottingham's fashionable Flying Horse Mall. Housing an eclectic mix of design treasures, there's everything from jewellery to corsets to fabric to furniture. It's all local treasure too - just goes to show that when people think that Nottingham has nothing to offer, they are wrong because there are dozens of talented designers here, all bristling with innovation and style. The shop is attracting a lot of attention too - I'm sure I saw Vivienne Westwood browsing through the corsetry with professional interest, and on one visit I found myself rubbing shoulders with international design-guru Marcel Wanders who was showing a keen interest, it seemed, in the Davenport 'Table of Collaboration'. If he is thinking of collaborating with any of our own home-grown talent, then the shop will have done its job, and more. You should check it out if you're in the area.

In the meantime, Yours Truly is still failing spectacularly at trying to achieve anything worthwhile. I am meant to be finishing my novel, finishing my play about the 'Great Tullamore Balloon Fire Disaster of 1785' (in which the entire theatre has to razed to the ground for effect - it's a 'one night only' play in most cities), finishing my film script in time for the centennial anniversary of the Sarajevo shooting, and a whole host of other writing projects. Instead, I seemingly produce nothing at all. The only thing I do seem to be any good at these days, is upsetting people. I am forced to make more apologies than there are grains of sand on the beach which is, if you think about it, unsustainable behaviour. Whereas most people do forgive me for my misdemeanours, it is regrettable and reprehensible that I should make them in the first place. It doesn't take a psychologist to understand that bad behaviour stems from only one thing - unhappiness. Yes, gentle reader, this may come as a shock to you but I am deeply unhappy with myself. Few people would recognize this since I am usually fairly good at presenting a sunny disposition to the world - but Smokey Robinson had it about right, didn't he, when he sang his song?

So, let us instead make today, Monday, the FIRST day of the week, not the eighth. Let me become a 'happiness magnet' instead of the inwardly crippled monster that I often am. Yes, that's how to do it. I can't put right the iniquities of the past, but I can do something about the future. Before I can stop failing other people, I have to stop failing myself.

Here goes......

The Fight Between Good and Evil

Well, the chart is being filled in accordingly each day. The naughtiness chart, that is. As I suggested in my last posting, I have designed a 'naughty' spreadsheet where I am able to record different categories of foolishness on my part, and so when I notice that I have done something wrong, I make an entry into the appropriate cell. The aim, of course, is to end up with more empty cells than full ones - thereby indicating that my overall behaviour is improving. The Buddhists have this notion that awareness is everything, and that although we can't always avoid behaving badly, to be mindful of our behaviour is everything. When we become mindful, we can then take action to modify what we do. It makes sense if you think about it - how often do we recognize bad conduct as being "mindless"?

I can report to you now, gentle reader, that after a very optimistic start, the spreadsheet has become to look depressingly overcrowded in recent days. I behaved so abominably poorly on Sunday that I had to tick more or less every box on the chart. I can't say that anything I did was identifiably evil, but the mindlessness that motivated my iniquitous deeds was disappointingly evident. This being a family show, I can't go into too much detail here about the sordid and distasteful acts that I became embroiled in, but it is sufficient to say that they involved alcohol, drugs, squalid sex and all-round inappropriate debauchery. There would actually be nothing wrong in such behaviour if it were contained only to the deeds themselves, but we all know that there is always an aftermath to be dealt with when such things happen. Yesterday (Monday) was completely written off as all I could do was lie on my sofa attempting to recover. Today hasn't been much better either, although I have at least engaged in some domestic matters such as changing the bed, cleaning the flat, baking some bread, putting on some washing and dealing with some urgent paperwork. But there has been nothing creative happening, nor any attempt to earn any money.

The disappointment about all of this is my seeming inability to take heed of my somewhat grubby actions. What is the use of the spreadsheet if I simply ignore its lessons? I take a crumb of comfort from the fact that all self-improvement measures will inevitably show peaks and troughs in the graph of progress. The trough that I see before me - this pit of depravity and despair - will hopefully serve as a reminder that an even higher peak can be attained in the coming few days. We'll see.

Before I start slashing my wrists about all of this - and before you start castigating me with disapproval - I will give you a couple of quotes to think about:

"It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." (Oscar Wilde)

"When it comes to the point, really bad men are just as rare as really good ones." (George Bernard Shaw)

Perhaps there's hope for me yet.

Out Damned Spot!

Am I to be forever in the quest of self-improvement? I was listening to an article on Woman's Hour (BBC Radio 4) which said that we should embrace the times when we are wrong, and so learn from them. Some woman has written a book about how we should deal with being wrong - that we first of all have to admit that sometimes we can be wrong but moreover, that being wrong shouldn't be seen as an indictment of our moral worth. We are told to remember that because we have swift-thinking minds, it is inevitable that we will sometimes make mistakes when we are reacting to the fast-changing world around us. We have to accept that mistakes will be our life-long companion, and that the more ready we are to accept those mistakes, the more likely we are to avoid making them in future.

This isn't rocket-science, of course. "Learn from your mistakes" is an oft-heard maxim throughout everyone's life. But how many of us do just that - heed this aphorism? I am as ready as the next man (often readier) to acknowledge the frequent lapses of judgement that befall me, but do I actually learn from that? Some guy on the programme suggested that we should write a diary of our errors, so that we might more easily identify where and how and why they are made, and then to use that as a framework for our future behaviour. Blimey, this would be one hell of a diary in my case! I'd have writer's cramp from this, sans doute. But nevertheless I might give it a try because as I said at the opening of this entry, dear reader, it would seem that I am doomed to be forever in search of self-improvement and never seem to be in a position of self-satisfaction.

Take this recent weekend, for example. Having had one hell of a few days running up to it, during which I was knee-deep in paperwork and other legal matters surrounding the execution of my late father's estate, I decided to relax on Saturday and to treat myself to some 'rest and recuperation'. All well and good, you might say, and probably well-deserved - but the problem is that it is now Tuesday and I haven't yet re-started! I have been spectacularly lazy since then, and have only performed the barest minimum of chores in order to preserve some semblance of a ship in working order. My father's affairs still languish; there's been no writing done at all; I haven't attended to any matters relating to my crushing personal finances; and apart from buying a (relatively useless) rice cooker and subsequently cooking (and then eating) some rice to test that it worked, I haven't eaten anything. I have only been able to sustain the engine of my body by taking in calorific value from other sources - the scatter of empty whisky bottles and empty wine bottles can testify to that.

So, this is clearly wrong - and as per the advice from the bloke on Woman's Hour, I aim to write this information in my diary. I don't want such information to get muddled with other items in the list - such as sending inappropriate text messages while under the influence of alcohol, or trying to get the wrong (and equally inappropriate) people into bed when it is clear that they would never indulge me in such things - but muddled it will no doubt become. So, as a born administrator, I think an Excel ® spreadsheet is called for. Along the top, the days of the week; down the side, categories of foolishness. And rather than simply putting a tick into a particular cell to identify when some oversight in behaviour or attitude has been encountered, I will put a brief description of the precise misdemeanour that I have committed. A weekly review of this chart will then hopefully induce such shame and humiliation in me, that the following week's chart ought to look thinner, with more white space.

Unless of course, as each particular ignominy then becomes eradicated from the pattern of my iniquitous life, I find more and newer disgraces with which to discredit my pitiful self. Oh dear - how far does one need to sink before one can begin to climb out of the mire? Pity me.

That's Entertainment!

I saw the worst film I've seen for a long time last week. Written and directed by Frenchman Gaspar Noé, it's called 'Enter the Void'. I suppose the blurb about the film should have warned me, at least of something: "A post-mortem hallucination likely to induce seizures even in the non-epileptic". The film is shot almost entirely from the point of view of someone who has been shot dead (which doesn't sound too outlandish, on the face of it), and what attracted me to it was the phrase in the blurb about it "floating through the neon miasma of Tokyo like a woozy ghost." That's the bit that should have set an alarm bell ringing, I suppose.

Because, apart from the first hour of the film when the action is actually happening, that's about all we get - we are forcibly floated through a 'neon miasma' of hallucinogenic special effects, stomach-churning camera-rolling, repeated split-second flashbacks of horrific scenes, but little more. Sure, the film was pretty enough to look at, and possibly if I'd been watching it under the influence of some mind-bending narcotic I would have found it even prettier to watch, but there was scene after scene after scene where the director simply failed to move the story (such as it was) forward. I began to get fidgety after about an hour-and-a-half when I started to suspect that the scene I was watching was just another regurgitation of a scene I'd been watching a few moments before. Then another, and another, and yet another. True, each scene was shot slightly differently, and each may even have contained different characters, but the uneasy truth was dawning on me that basically, there was nothing new happening. This was either a display of lazy editing, or an act of gross self-indulgence on behalf of the director. I suspect it was both, but more strongly the latter. Gaspar Noé simply didn't seem to know when enough was enough. There were many, many points when he could easily have ended it, but no - he laboriously chugged on with more and more psychedelic images (some containing the most gratuitous and pointless sex I have ever seen), none of which did anything to develop the story. After one hour and fifty-five minutes, and when I gradually remembered that I had a life to be getting on with, I walked out. There was still another twenty minutes of this rubbish yet to run, but I urgently had some paint to watch dry. Not recommended.

On another evening this week, I went to watch a fairly reasonable stage performance of Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing'. This was a mainly amateur production at Nottingham's Arts Theatre, and although some of it showed the cracks between the professional curtain and some of the performances were a bit flaky, the company made a rather good stab at presenting the light and bubbling froth that this play is mainly about. After the dire and spirit-draining experience of watching Noé's film, this light satire on the tribulations of false wooing and social bungling, was the just the tonic. I also saw Billy Ivory's 'Made in Dagenham' in the same week - something else which is billed as having the 'feel-good' factor. It has some cleverly and sensitively scripted moments true enough, but the 'touch' of the whole film is depressingly stereotypical of many British 'underdog' comedies which - despite Billy's often strong and witty script - the director turns into a cliché. Worth seeing though.