Amber

I probably drink too much orange-coloured fizzy drink. We're talking a likely 2,409,000ml since I was 19, when a bout of glandular fever first sent me hunting pig-like for the truffles of artificial energy boosts. Obviously GF doesn't last 20 years, but frankly by the time it subsided completely I was 20, ergo an old man and in need of stimulants. I've drunk so much of it that I sometimes wonder if I should be like one of those classic fish-aliens of sci-fi cliche that get pushed around the world in their tanks having bubbly conversations with humans. Except, of course, my tank would be full of Irn Bru or Lucozade.

Orange coloured fizzy drinks that don't taste of orange, I should stress. No, I'm a slave to drinks that taste only of themselves. If it tastes even remotely like something that exists in the real, non-fizzy-drinks world, I'm not interested. Even if it's nice. Obviously I'm not interested in a drink that tastes like a hair brush, but then noone else is either. But someone out there would like a drink that tastes like a kumquat. It's not me. (while I'm at it, why are there not a wide range of tangerine-flavoured cordials? Did tangerines upset someone high up in the drinks industry? Maybe they're not very good at networking, or something.)

Lucozade - what does it taste of? Lucozade. It's a lucozade flavoured drink. Which is quite cleverly self-referential for a sugary liquid. It's practically post-modern. Or possibly even post-post-modern. Have we reached post-post-post-modern yet? Modernism was now so long ago that you feel we must have at least squared it by now. Otherwise how would we have Lucozade and Ant & Dec?

Sunday mornings are supposed to be for getting over hangovers. If you haven't got one it's almost as if you have to invent one. So I'm drinking Lucozade to get over the torpor of having done next to nothing yesterday. I feel so lethargic I'm thinking of applying for a job as a speed bump. It'll pass. Hand me my post-post-modern drink and I'll see you later.

What did you do during the war, daddy?

Tripping the light fantastic

It sums up the summer rather neatly when I wake up at 6am because my bedroom is filled with unmanageable quantities of sunlight. Why? Because it's the first time this has happened.

Admittedly I've only been there a week, hence my shying away from using the word "EVER" in large capitals at the end of that statement, but it's still fairly depressing that it's taken one 52nd of a year to get a sunny morning. I'm sure we'll get lots in January, except I'll have been in the office for an hour before they turn up.

Getting up at 6am because my brain has been infused with pure sunlight is a lovely way to start the day, but I'm fairly sure the darkness will have its revenge and I will be blearily bashing into bollards by 9pm. This could be awkward, since I'm off to watch a play at the Bridewell Theatre. The last time I did this I slept through 30% of the play (having recently arrived off a plane from Cambodia). If I'm not careful they'll ban me as a persistent snoring menace.

[they actually have these - my friends' enjoyment of Romeo & Juliet at the Bridewell was somewhat spoiled by someone (noone can confirm who) having a good old high decibel snooze in the lighting box throughout the final, emotionally traumatic half-hour of the show].

In fact, I may not have to wait until 9pm. The fluffy clouds of doom are already gathering around the watercooler and gossiping about how they plan to cover the sun and steal my light-filled soul. I'll be in a coma by lunchtime.

The Depths of the Swamp

This is not the best of days. It's half past seven at night, and I am probably less than halfway through the world's most depressing ambition: to clear a room known only as The Swamp.

I'm moving home - slightly involuntarily* - and gain access to the new property on Saturday morning, so obviously the sooner the various dampened fragments of my life are either boxed or disposed of the better. But many of them, the particularly damp ones, are hiding in a strange basement room - The Swamp. It is a desolation, a cube of cracks and flakes and drooping webs, of high rise slugs and a vague sensation of something tickling your neck. It is not a holiday destination, and as a day trip it sucks.

Still, I have a few hours to go, and if all that room is clear of the detritus of my existence by bedtime, I shall sleep soundly. As long as I haven't just moved it all onto my bed.

S.

* I decided to play hard-ball with my landlord over a 12% rent rise. Like killing Mandy Patinkin's father, beeg mistake.

The Violent Eggs

The Violent Eggs are coming

They're marching down the street

Deserted roads are echoing with the clump-thump of their feet

They've all got salmonella (they've been eating uncooked meat)

Yes the Violent Eggs are coming, and they're turning up the heat

They're armed with sharpened tea spoons which they polish night and day

They're after more than a 7% rise in annual pay

The only thing that you can do is go to them and say

That you're Edwina Currie.

And then they'll run away.

The Violent Eggs are coming to murder kith and kin

They'll stuff you with mayonnaise sandwiches, and stop you being thin

Make sure you're good and hidden when the massacre begins

Yes the Violent Eggs are coming and they'll punish all your sins

The Violent Eggs are coming, their eyes are dead and flat

They'll trample on your garden and throw porridge at your cat

They'll even cut your ears off if they do not like your hat.

Yes the Violent Eggs are coming, and they'll make you very fat.

SR.

Honestly, I must try harder

I thought giving up the random words format of this blog would be liberating. Of course it isn't, because when faced with the infinite possibilities of free-form blogging, I cannot, of course, think of anything to write about. Consumer choice is all well and good, but most of the time the act of choosing becomes an activity in itself, instead of just a gateway to something fun or informative.

My late Dad, it is not an exaggeration to say, spent almost as much time staring at the blue and yellow musaky screen of the Sky listings as he did watching episodes of House. My brother claims that his flat mate does much the same thing. This might all be very entertaining for the person doing the choosing, but for anyone else in the room it's like watching the test card thinking that it might suddenly turn into your favourite programme, but it doesn't.

I have lost precious minutes of my life watching my mum select a jar of coffee. At least I need not fear for her penury - the amount of person hours she's prepared to put in to save 17p means that it would actually be impossible for her to run out of cash (if only because while you're engaged in calculating the cost per kg of granulated sugar it's very hard to be spending money on anything else).

So this is all going to be a terrible effort. Or should that be a terrific effort? Possibly both. Bear with me.

Over-Stretched Generosity

Last Friday my Dad passed away. Although we tried to get him home to care for him, he was never quite well enough to be moved and died in hospital. The same day I was due to complete a Swimathon in aid of Marie Curie, an organisation that helps people care for their terminally ill loved ones at home, just as we had hoped to do.

Because of that association, I travelled back up to London and did the swim. When I returned home, I was delighted to find that my wonderful brother Johnny had forwarded my sponsorship link to his own Facebook page, and his equally wonderful friends had doubled my sponsorship in a few hours.

Subsequently my brother wanted to do even more. He took a fantastic picture of a daffodil that looked very much like the Marie Curie logo, and entered it into a hipstamatic competition, pledging to add a pound to my sponsorship for every vote the picture got.

The last count was 927. This might just be a little more than he had in mind.

To that end I’m making my own last plea – my sponsorship is still open, so if you sponsor me now I will a) match it* and b) release John from paying the equivalent amount so that he doesn’t end up eating dust in the street.

http://my.artezglobal.com/personalPage.aspx?registrationID=337278&langPref=en-CA

* within reason. See, I’m learning lessons from my big brother, just like any little brother should. :)