Hope that life works out the way we plan;

Fear that it won’t.

One drives us forwards, the other holds us back.

Me: Hi, could you tell me where the Bonjela is please?

Lady in Boots: I’m sorry we’ve sold out.

Me: Ah, that’s a shame… (I start mindlessly scanning products next to the till; there are no other customers; there’s a couple of moment’s silence)

Lady in Boots: There is Bonjela Cool

Me: Oh, what’s that then?

Lady in Boots: The same, but minty – nobody likes it.

Me: Oh alright then. (I nod gratefully and walk towards the door past a shelf full of new Bonjela Cool, next to an empty space for Bonjela original)

‘Gordon! You don’t mean that? You aren’t really thinking of having an aspidistra?’

‘Yes, I am. We won’t let ours get dusty, either. They say an old toothbrush is the best thing to clean them with.’ George Orwell
It’s two o’clock in the morning – I’ve just cleaned mine with an old sponge.

So there I was buying myself my own little post-Christmas present (the replacement toothbrush heads I gratefully received from my mother not quite filling the gargantuan consumerist void created by the festivities) thinking that this marvellous piece of modern technology, the MP3 player would revolutionize my walk to the bus…

Little did I know, after spending rather a long time with this device attached to my ear ‘oles listening to podcasts of a certain radio show, would I end up with Russell Brand’s voice as my interior monologue – and what’s wrong with that I hear his raging ego reply.

On and on in unfeasibly long sentences festooned with words like anthropomorphism thrown in willy nilly, whipping my thought processes into a frenzy – a frenzy sir? Yes like a man of the cloth caught napping with his genitals exposed. Oops sorry, forgive me faver for I ‘ave sinned, it has been twenty one years since my last confession. [Russell, I didn't know you were Catholic? asks a curiously monotone voice of one of his minions scampering around his coat tails]. Oh no I ain’t, but it’s ama-azing what one can learn napping in one of ‘em little wooden booves when escaping to sanctuary from the marauding ‘ordes on the outside.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/shows/brand/

I must admit that at first I was really drawn into this book – a compelling love story where the transience of time is brutally razed by Henry’s genetic ability to jump back and relive tumultuous and tragic moments.

I sat on the sofa devouring every page (one of the perks of the howling winds outside) however slowly but surely details started to jar. The couple simply didn’t do anything – I mean they were two of the most boring people ever despite having dazzling parentage. Couldn’t they have been a bit more creative, if that was the unfurling of their destiny then it was just a tad disappointing.

Justification of their every thought and action lay in the ‘purity’ of their love. No really. What was it with Charisse’s calm acceptance of Gomez’s love (read strange, obssessive, pervy lust) for Claire? Was the author trying to justify Claire’s desirability by giving her a second fiddle so to speak?

I finished it. The cold depths of bereavement was skimmed over with the promise of their final reunion, some quasi-religious meeting in a room filled with light.

My friend throughly enjoyed this book but being a grumpy singleton I have to convince myself that life can be fulfilling without true love, children or an ability to cook.

Why do ‘grown ups’ insist that young people don’t know how to string a sentence together and yet when pushed for proof they simply gesticulate like this was an obvious truth.

“I have seen writing by teenagers.” Was the response I just had to contend with. Really? Where? You are a product designer, working in an office of 25, where, by your own admission, you play computer games for most of the day.

“I’m just saying that in my day…” he falters “I know I pay more attention to accuracy.” he continues.

So you are saying that at the age of 33 with a degree you can write better than the average 15 year old.

Well done.

The students from my form will be getting to know Lourdine from Haiti this year and next…

The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

‘Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face.’ Prospice by Robert Browning

My neighbour is a truely Dickensian fellow, rarely seen out of his tails with a face that peers through his perfectly round, metal-framed glasses in a friendly but never overly familiar fashion. His mouth a hotchpotch of Victorian dental work and coffee stains.

We chatted in the hall today – apparently this is a very busy time of year for them. He appears flustered when I suggest that it was maybe the cold weather?

We live opposite an Old Folk’s Home, I ask if it isn’t a bit like touting for business when he parks his van outside…

Sometimes late at night, through the wall can be heard strains of Queen’s “Find me somebody to love.”

Last piece of work for the term, a letter. Time till bell – ten minutes.

Rebecca (12) : Miss?

Me (30 and maudlin) : Yes?

Rebecca: How do you spell sincerely?

Me : Um. (I say looking down and accidently catching sight of my rapidly expanding gut owing to too many chocolates and not enough will power.) I dunno. How do you spell spare tyre?

Rebecca: D – I – E – T

I got told.