Me Myself and I

I think that I've alluded in the past to the fact that I work in property. In fact, I'm a chartered surveyor. Sorry ... that should read "Chartered Surveyor". Please note the capitals. It's not like being a heart surgeon or a barrister, I realise, but it took a lot of work and needs some maintaining and is something that I'm pretty proud of.

To be passed off by the Royal Institution of Chartered Surveyors, you have to sit an interview. One hour of grilling on anything that you (a) claim to have done in the course of your training, and (b) anything that you ought to have covered in the course of your training. A favourite way to trip up the slightly wobbly candidate is to ask them to explain the difference between "price", "value" and "worth" without using those three words. It's tricky. Try it now. Go on ...

OK? Now try this. Explain "isolation", "solitude" and "loneliness" without using those three words.

I know, it's really just semantics. But maybe that's what matters? The minute difference and the detail. I get chastened regularly for using the word "nice" in a positive way, when really it's so very dismissive. And just this evening, we were teasing a colleague for saying that he wanted to be "fresh" for an openly gay client. The interpretation of a word. The way we choose to define a particular word is critical.

So to that end, I should confess, partly to The Readers (yes ... that's all of you), and specifically to one particular reader (and neighbour and friend and role model ...) that I recently deliberately interpreted her question to enable me to tell a half truth. I seek forgiveness.

When asked by said friend recently if I liked my life, and if I liked being on my own, I said yes. I have a good life. I have a nice house, good friends, a job (nay, a career), good health, a family who love me and who I love. I have a car and long legs and hair that (usually) goes where it's put. I have a good life. And do I like it? Yes. I like all the elements of my life. I'm fundamentally lucky and I appreciate that. So it wasn't a lie. I like my life.

And do I like being on my own? Well I guess that's where the semantics comes into it all.

Isolation. Technically, according to the OED, "the process of being isolated ... for patients with infectious diseases ..." Well maybe that's a little extreme. But I would say that isolation is very factual. I am not alone. I have, as I've mentioned, a lovely group of friends, plus colleagues I can socialise with, plus nice neighbours. I'm not isolated. I'm surrounded!

Solitude. OED offers the following: "the state or situation of being alone: she savoured her few hours of freedom and solitude." which I rather like. The example drawn paints solitude as a positive, which I wholeheartedly approve of. Solitude is a lovely and fulfilling thing. It's all about being able to come and go as you please. Solitude is being able to wear your jarmas all day on a Sunday. Solitude is being able to wee with the door open. I love it!

And loneliness? "Unfrequented and remote" apparently. I'd go further. It's when you wake in the morning and the emptiness of the other side of the bed makes you feel agoraphobic. It's hearing the empty seats in the lounge screaming at you. It's the bursting feeling of unspoken words churning in your head and loitering on the tip of your tongue. It's saying goodbye to a friend at the end of an evening and resenting the fact that they are going home to a share of the sofa or a pre-warmed bed. It's a void that feels incapable of being plugged. It's endless. What is loneliness? It's being in the house now, alone, and being aware that I occupy one corner of the sofa in the corner of one room, on the ground floor of the house and the rest of the house is full of emptiness.

So so I like my life? Yes, I do actually. The up side of singledom is that I can please myself all the time, so to not like my life when it's all mine would be a waste, don't you think? I like my life.

And do I like being on my own? No. I loathe it. It's not how we were designed and it's not how we're meant to be. It's not good for body or soul and it's something that clings to me always. But it's a hard habit to shake, so I hope you understand why I told a small pork pie.

And, my lovely friend, remember this - never envy someone else their life, because you never know what it's really like. And however overwhelming you feel your life is, it beats life being underwhelmed, Trust me.

Sssshhhhh ...

You remember that I was having a German houseguest?

And you remember that I was a little nervous about it?

I am, by nature, a solitary creature. I wallow in being a bit antisocial. The whole German-stranger-in-the-house-for-two-weeks thing was a terrible mistake.

Anyway, she has been, and stayed, and now has left and gone home.

For two weeks, there has been someone here when I've got home in the evening, and someone asleep in the next room when I've woken up in the morning. For two weeks, I've tiptoed out in the mornings, and rushed home in the evenings. For two weeks someone has been eating out of my fridge and using my shampoo. For two weeks, the TV has hardly been switched on to make room instead for language non-specific music. For two weeks two phones, two laptops have jostled for time at the charger, and two people have jostled for time in the bathroom.

For two weeks, a person in my house with limited language skills has asked me to explain what words mean. Really. Try explaining "congestion" without saying, "it's when something's congested." It's tricky. Try explaining what the word, "tainted" (context: Tainted Love by Soft Cell) means. And the meaning of the phrase, "Bob's your uncle," was lost entirely.

And another thing. How do you describe Marmite? Or crumpets? Or The Proms? Or bonfire night? How do you explain why Gordon Brown does that thing with his mouth when he talks? Or why the Duke of Norfolk lives in Sussex and the Duke of Westminster lives in Cheshire?

All things considered, I have been looking forward to tonight, and to having my home back, my telly on, my phone charging, my choice of words unquestioned, and to being able to go to the loo with the door open (as is my wont). Don't get me wrong - she's a sweet girl and all, but she has been a sweet girl living in my house. A cockoo in my nest, if you will. And it has vexed me to have to compromise my life and my routine and my antisocial selfish ways for her.

So tell me, then, why does the house seem so very empty tonight? Why is it that the silence of the house is screaming at me? And why do the rooms seem so big? And why am I still locking the bathroom door?

This weekend (6) ...

It's been a wee while since I did a "this weekend" post. Partly the demise of the dino-puter, partly the fact that there has been one thing more interesting to write about than lots of small things together, and partly because I was paranoid about being stuck in a rut. But I've decided that I rather like the format, so I think that I'll pick it up again and flog it a while longer!

So. This weekend ...

1) Thursday night, as regular readers will know, is quiz night at The Furzedown, where Team Biscuit regularly attends, and often fares well. A new quirk in the scoring means that the gap between first and second is now often wider - the too-complicated-to-explain "risky round" rules making the difference between good luck and good judgement. This week we came second. My role ... very much making up the numbers!

2) After the quiz, back to the lovely Gillian's house to watch the election results come rolling in. I have been repeatedly angered in the run up to this election, not by the propaganda of the political parties, but by the mind tricks and bullying of the voting public. Friends and neighbours - people I'd have counted amongst the more open minded and free thinking people I know - have foisted their political views on the world around them with such belligerence that I have, on many occasions, had to hold my tongue in the face of ignorance, arrogance, and down right lying. I was brought up to believe that everyone was entitled to their own views on religion and politics, and yet to some, the definition of democracy seems to have been altered along the way to "do what you want, as long as you do it my way." Thankfully, the group clustered around BBC1 on the night of the 6th, and the morning of the 7th, was a cheerful and upbeat one. Political allegiances didn't come up in conversation, but comments like, "I think he's a bit creepy," and, "she shouldn't have worn that skirt," abounded.

3) After a veeeeery late night on Thursday, I had foolishly booked a 9am hair appointment for Friday. Yuk! But, on so little sleep, it was thoroughly lovely to be pampered by Crazy Martin. He knows the format now. He asks what I want, I shrug and grin at him, and he sets to with colours and foils and scissors, and creates something a bit different every time. I am now very short (and therefore straight) on one side, and longer and curly on the other, and am peppered with scarlet highlights. Ohh la la!! As I left, he called after me, "next time, we go blond!" and I laughed nervously.

4) My German (not Swiss, it transpires) houseguest is now here, and enjoying all that London has to offer. But on Friday evening, neither of us had the energy for a big night out, so we settled instead for dinner at one of my favourite restaurants. Tooting is possibly the most unlikely place on the planet for a good, authentic Japanese restaurant, but there it is. I've not had an excuse to go there for ages, and it was deeeeeeeelicious! Thoroughly stuffed with sushi, noodles, fried tofu, and chicken, we chatted about all sorts, and had a thoroughly lovely evening.

5) Saturday morning saw me leap (fall) out of bed bright and (hideously) early to head to my parent's place in Kent. A friend has given me a new route which I tried for the first time. Escaping the maze that is South London can be torture, but the new route avoids all the pinch points, and feels like a well kept secret as I head south-east, without getting snarled up once. A small pleasure, but somehow also a massive one!

6) First job on arrival ... get mother to the garage to pick up her New Car! Let me hear you say "Oooooooh!" She has been driving the same Corsa for nine years, and threatening to buy a new one for three. Two weeks ago it blew up on the dual carriageway and forced the issue. She is now the proud owner of a not-quite-new Polo, and is very much in love with it. Repeatedly over the weekend, she used phrases like, "I have to pop to the supermarket for a few things tomorrow ... in my New Car!" and, "what's that blue thing on the drive? Oh, it's my New Car!" I am extremely jealous, but any suggestion I made that I "borrow" it fell on deaf ears.

7) The weather all weekend is thoroughly dreadful. Cold, windy and rainy, as you might expect from a weekend in November. The heating went on, along with spare socks, cardigans, and the telly. My brother and his lovely girl were also visiting this weekend, and it was quite lovely to be limited by the weather to spending time with them, even if we were just loafing.

8) I popped to the corner shop to pick up a few things for Sunday lunch (in the New Car!) and found a sign above the eggs, supplied by a local farmer, declaring that they are all guaranteed double yolkers. "How do you know?" I asked the lady at the counter. "Beats me," she replies, "but he says they've never laid a single yolker yet." So I bought half a dozen and am looking forward to bright yellow scrambled eggs for my tea tomorrow.

9) One of the curses of the death of the dino-puter was that it was the home of my iTunes. I had thought that I would have to admit defeat and reload my music, album by album all over again. But a chance look on line found a fabulous programme designed to transfer music from iPod to computer, and my library is now right here, along with a few new additions. So I drove home from Kent singing, top volume, with my new Glee soundtrack, sometimes singing the lead, and sometimes the harmonies, but always, of course, picturing myself centre back in my own show-choir! When WILL I grow up!

10) So now here I am, in bed, writing a post. I don't know why I've never thought of this before. I thought that sitting in front of Swiss (German) Chick and typing up a lengthy post would be more than a little antisocial, so we chatted for an hour or so and I retired to bed. I'm doing this more often though - propped up in bed, cuppa tea at my side, snuggled under a duvet in my jarmas, this is, surely, the bestest place in the world to correspond! And now ... to sleep. G'night!

Share and share alike

I have noticed that, when I drink, a lot of things happen.

I talk a lot more shit. A. Lot. But it's all interesting shit. I know all the words to all songs ever written, and prove it readily and loudly. And I'm a lot more attractive to everyone. I also find myself saying, "yes" a lot more than my sober, more circumspect self would.

It is for the last of these reasons that, in a couple of weeks, I have a Swiss girl coming to stay with me.

I was in the pub, with a couple of colleagues, when one said that he knew someone who was coming to London for a few weeks to improve her English, and needed somewhere to stay. And like that (*clicks fingers*) I was saying, "she can come and stay with me."

Now, someone (who will remain nameless) has suggested that I use the time I have with someone who says things like, "I am thankingful very much," to introduce some fake English words*. Others think it's potentially time consuming, some think it's interesting, and the people who know me best realise that it might end in tears.

I have, since student days, lived with two people. The first was a slightly obsessive compulsive girl, who was slightly mental but actually, in the main, either somewhere else, or on good form. In the main, we had a good time. In the main, it was ok.

The second though. Phewy! She was a bit crazy. Actually, that's not fair. I'm selling her short. She was absolutely fricking fruitloop! We lived together for a year, and it was the longest year of my life.

She was a smoker, which I knew when we took the place together, and, in itself, wasn't a problem. But I objected slightly that she used anything she could find to flick her fag ash into. Still, all was fine until I bought her an ashtray and asked her to use that instead of my wineglasses, and she threw a benny. And the glass in use at the time. A minuscule over reaction, perhaps.

Speaking of reactions, one evening I came home to the smell of gas. She had left the tap on the gas hob open a smidge. To be fair, it could have happened to anyone. So I went into the lounge (which led to the kitchen) and said, "I can smell gas." "Can you?" she said, looking at me vacantly, "I can't." Then she took out her cigarette lighter, and sparked up. AAAGGGHHH! I pointed out the stupidity of what she was doing, and she flounced from the room, ranting. All my fault apparently.

Oh, there were so many examples of abject idiocy! The food that went into the freezer was carefully frozen in portions for two. Each time she cooked (which, mercifully, was rarely) she would take, say, the two chicken breasts out of the freezer, and prise them apart, and use only one to cook a meal for two, and be surprised that there wasn't enough food. Can you imagine the sheer force that it must take to separate two frozen chicken breasts? Would you not, at any point in that process, think about throwing caution to the wind and using both? Maybe?

But then, if you dropped a heated iron on a cream lounge carpet, I assume you'd rush to pick it up, rather than using the immortal line, "gosh! That was close! That almost landed on my foot!"

Her finest hour was when she took something of a fancy to my boyfriend of the time. She'd flirted a little for a while, then one day decided to make her move.

As I've said, the kitchen opened off the lounge. Next to the kitchen door was our dining table. Immediately inside the kitchen (i.e. the other side of a flimsy internal wall from said dining table) was the fridge. We'd just finished our dinner one evening, and I was in the kitchen at the fridge, roughly, to paint a full picture, three feet from where she sat. It was from this position, that I heard her say to Boyf, "if things don't work out between you two, you can always give me a call." I stood, agog, at the kitchen door, looking directly at Boyf, who gawped back at me, opening and closing his mouth a few times, before saying, "actually, I think I'm alright, thanks." She knew I was in the next room and was entirely unrepentant. It didn't seem to cross her mind that she'd done anything wrong.

Still, not to be outdone, she started making dirty 'phone calls to his mobile in the middle of the night. We didn't realise it was her at first. It came up as "number withheld" on his phone, so it could have been anyone. It took some detective work to get to the bottom of the mystery.

The thing with making nuisance phone calls, is that it pays not to make them from the phone which you share with the person you are pestering, especially if you've already insisted on itemised bills. And the thing with being clinically stupid is that you should know your limits.

All told, I'm a little anxious about the prospect of sharing my home with someone again. I'm worried that it will be an invasion of my privacy. I worry that she will be a cookoo in my nest. I worry that Swiss Chick will flick cigarette ask into my wine glasses, blow up my kitchen, and set fire to my carpet.

On the positive side, at least there's no boyfriend for her to steal this time. And for that, I am thankingful, very much.


*Secretly I think this is a splendid idea, and am now collecting made up words. Please supply suggestions, along with a definition, and a sentence using the word in context. Thank you!