Tiggle Tiggle

Sometimes, I really want to move out of my house and away from all the problems it holds, both physically and psychologically. There’s something really appealing about cutting all ties, burning all bridges and taking off to somewhere new to start all over again. But there’s so much accumulated junk in the house that to move, I’d have to use all of the storage Ipswich and Colchester have combined.

But while I wish to leave everything and start again, I have this unshakeable feeling that I can’t bear to let anything go and not see it again. It’s this dichotomy that keeps me in a state of limbo in which I never really do anything.

I’ve had many theories about it in the past. It could be a Gemini trait in me; one side of me wants one thing, one wants the other, but in the end neither gets what it wants.

For example, I’d really, really like to go travelling. The buzz of new experiences and the unknown is hugely addictive to me. But then I think perhaps I enjoy having a stable, predictable life where I go to work and go home again and go to work and go home again. And occasionally I do enjoy it, but I’m not giving it the best shot I could because I think there’s something I want more.

I know I’m not alone in feeling like this; never really getting anywhere or chasing after a dream. Maybe it’s a symptom of having too many choices in modern life, or it could be an attempt to conform to other people’s expectations and demands; it’s probably a mixture of the two.

Maybe it’s because no one can work out the meaning of life. What are we here to do? To really go for? Oh yeah, nothing more that to breed and produce a next-generation of equally desolate souls.

In my case, it’s partly the idea that to go for what I really want is selfish. But it’s not. But what if someone’s dream was actually to go far, far away and sell fish? THAT would be selfish.

Ello darlin

How time changes a girl. Once, all I wanted to shop for were clothes and music. Now I find myself staring at the catering equipment and kitchen utensils like a housewife.

As soon as I’ve eaten lunch, I think about what to have for dinner. As I walk home from work, for at least 50 per cent of the 35 minutes it takes me, I think about what to cook my boyfriend and me for dinner.

It’s an obsession that can’t be quelled. As soon as I get in from work I go to the kitchen and look at what’s in the fridge, throwing around cooking possibilities in my head until I decide on one, then I start cooking.

Where has my catering obsession come from?

Most obsessions are about chasing a gratification, a prize, something you want. But my obsession is anything but gratifying; I get intensely stressed in the kitchen and smoke about ten cigarettes and swig around half a bottle of wine as I work myself into a state trying to time everything perfectly.

Always, about ten minutes from the end, I get a massive urge to sit down and give up.

Cue a frantic few minutes of plate juggling and final preparations with bread extracted almost too late from a roaring oven, a make-up-smudging mini face sauna for me as a by-product of the spaghetti draining and a frantic cobbling together of a salad which I always forget to do until the last minute and at last…dinner is served.

Actual photo of me cooking

And then I realise the last thing I want to do is eat.

Then I drink more wine with the food and fall asleep on the sofa without fail, waking with a sore neck and dry throat circa 2am. Then I do it all again the next day. These are my only extracurricular activities. Thank goodness for catering equipment.

Sounds like a rubbish Harry Potter title doesn’t it? Well it’s not.

Some people like to take a lot of photos, some don’t take any. But those who like photos tend to not only like them but really love them, and cherish their photo books as proof of a life lived, of fun had; documents that certify the past was all one big happy gooey bubble of glee.

But is there more to a love of photo books than meets the eye? Do those who lovingly order their photographic documents, keep them pristine and in a special place, actually cling to them with all their might because they are in fact the only proof we have that time is linear?

With each page turned in a photo book we witness the ‘passage of time’; a child growing taller and less cute, innocent eyes wide, soon to be shocked and aged by the wider picture of the world. Or a grey hue creeping slowly onto a head like death smog as each album passes.

But there is not one image of anyone looking significantly older than they do in the present, in ‘real life’. And so if all moments existed simultaneously, this wouldn’t be the case, would it?

And so we uncover the primary use and purpose of the photo book: mankind’s attempt to understand time and verify its linearity.

There are two types of people who take holidays. There is the type that goes for the all-inclusive holiday, and those who take self catering holidays.

I can’t imagine why anyone would want all-inclusive, and I’m really judgemental, probably unfairly so, about people who take them.

Judgements I make include: 1. These people have never learned to cook, and therefore can’t even feed themselves and so if society broke down they’d die and this would be natural selection  2. These people have no interest in their surroundings outside their hotel complex and therefore must be really boring and not know very much  3. These people must be chavs by default from the last two assumptions.

I also assume they are fat; not really sure why.

I’m all about the sweeping generalisations and judging people before I really know them.

People on self catering holidays however, I like to imagine that these people are free spirits who do not wish to be controlled by hotel complex catering tyranny, and they desire to explore local delights; restaurants, markets, and immerse themselves in another culture.

They don’t wish to sit around a swimming pool all day, staring at the same faces staring back at them for two weeks solid, so that they can drink the hotel bar dry and be on time for lunch.

They are adventurous and spontaneous and take care of themselves.

Of course, it could just be that people take self catering holidays because they are cheaper.

It’s a commonly-held opinion that insurance is a negative thing. But would people take more risks in life if there was even more insurance around? Aside from the usual car insurance, holiday home insurance and contents insurance, what else do we have to fall back on in life?

We only have each others’ words; verbal guarantees that range in importance and impact. “I promise to meet you at X time,” for example is one such guarantee that may not matter too much if it’s broken. So someone is late to meet you for lunch. Who cares?

But what about “I promise to love you forever”? Surely no matter how much you know the person that’s speaking the words to you, that promise should come with a guarantee? There could be a form of insurance that promises you a cash sum should your lover depart, leaving you alone and without hope.

People would then be less afraid to love. People wouldn’t then analyse every detail of their interactions, looking for clues with which to spoil things before they really start, because they’d have insurance to fall back on.

And the best bit is, people would willingly sign up to this insurance, because when they are buzzing from the chemical releases in their brains that occur during the first few months of a new love, they would be completely abhorrent of the suggestion that their feelings might one day change.

It’s win: win – and so the departed would win the first prize: new love, and the remaining lonely broken-hearted person would have money.
It would be a winner for insurance companies too. Not everyone needs holiday home insurance or car insurance, but everyone needs love.

I never realised how much joy and order storage solutions bring to life until I started working somewhere where I have none.

I’m not claiming that I’m a highly-organised, tidy person; if you know me you’ll know how much of an overstatement this would be. But My desk right now is littered with so much stuff, and if I had drawers at my desk, then my desk would be tiday.

So it’s not my fault that my desk is untidy. I have no storage solutions, and I’d like this to be rectified. I’m fed up with people commenting on how messy I am – I’m not, I just don’t have any drawers like everyone else in the company has.

And so on my desk is a pack of liquorice organic tea, donated to me because it’s so rank that no one else in my team wanted it, and I don’t want it either, notepads, vital for making notes on everything, bits of paper which I just know I’m going to need some day, a pack of organic green tea which is admittedly empty and so I COULD put it in the bin, but haven’t, and about six half-drunnk cups of water. My desk is like Signs (the film, not the road variety) in this way.

And so yes, colleagues, my desk IS messy. But I don’t have drawers like you lot. And I say this to you: what is worse: messy desk, or messy drawers? No one likes messy drawers.

I often think that I could set up a company and call it Rent-A-Brain. Then I’d go round pointing out all of the things other companies are doing wrong, and all of the things I think they could do better.

Take exhibition stands, for example. This is where half-a-job companies really live up to their names.

In my previous career, I had to attend numerous exhibitions and spend days meandering up and down the aisles, taking in the delights and sometimes horrors that greeted me at every step.

Some of the exhibition stands I saw were beautiful; luxurious; grand and welcoming. Others were mediocre; not as much money had been spent but this was in relation to the size of the company and they were still tastefully decked out enough to entice passing interest and potential clientele.

There were a few, though, that had quite frankly made such a poor effort and scrimped and saved so much that just their existence was counter-productive and a detriment to the company.

For the sake of saving a few pennies, these companies had missed out on quite a few pounds. Old rent-a-brain could have come in before all of this and pointed out the problem; you didn’t need to be a business expert to see what was wrong.

And so to other areas of life and business… what about retail? We hear cries and complaints from the high street because it’s failing; consumers aren’t spending, footfall is low, but hang on a minute! How do most people get their money to spend in their shops? They work. When do most people work? Nine to five. Err… when are your shops open? Nine to Five.

I for one would love to have more time to shop for clothes. I’m a girl; it’s what I do. But there’s no way I’m enduring the town centre on a Saturday for anyone. And so sorry high street, you’re going to miss out on my money, and most other people’s with similar sentiments. Rent a brain!

I’ve decided that in order to live for a long time and not degenerate rapidly, I’m going to do the minimum amount of exercise I can.

Think of our bodies like tyres; we’re all born will a full tread but the more you use it, the quicker it wears out. Our metabolisms are the engines. The faster the engines go and the further they go, the thinner the tyres get before they eventually wear out and are no longer useful.

I'm tyred of being the biggest, said Bill.

The tread is worn right down until a tyre ends its life as a tyre and becomes… I don’t know what it becomes… does it go to tyre heaven? See, even this bit of the metaphor is exactly the same. No one knows for sure what becomes of us after we’ve stopped living.

Does the tyre question what becomes of it? Does it question the purpose of its existence? Probably not. Perhaps we should take a lesson from the humble tyre here.

Maybe this is all for nothing and we are merely a tyre on a car belonging to something that wants to get somewhere. Some life force perhaps, the one that keeps driving mankind to breed. We are just a vessel for our genes.

There is something appealing and magical about motorhomes to the commitment-phobic demographic. They awaken in them the idea of a perfect existence that means you don’t even have to commit to a place in which you live.

They embody ideas, fleeting thoughts, yearnings and fantasies about burning all bridges, saying good bye to all for good and starting afresh. And if the starting afresh becomes the mundane, the familiar, they symbolise the possibility of doing it all again and again.

Searching for the perfect, the state of existence you want, of what that entails you don’t yet know. They represent the idea that you can keep travelling, looking and pursuing everything you’ve ever wanted, and that when you do stumble upon it, you can keep it in that state for ever.
It doesn’t matter how long it takes to find that state, because you can exist in the transient searching state until the end of time.

They promise the possibility of leaving everything you’ve ever known and existing with only the ones you love, or alone, if you prefer, away from everything and everyone, totally off grid. But where would we go in our motorhomes?

All of the Earth is overpopulated and you know those annoying people you can’t stand to be around right now? The voids they leave when you leave will be filled by further people when you arrive.

Mars becomes the nearest available wilderness to head to in motorhomes. 

The best party products in the world for me wouldn’t be balloons, poppers or copious amounts of booze, thought the latter is always welcome.

No, the best party products would be those masks they wear in Romeo and Juliet, because I think I’ve got Prosopagnosia.

Yeah, you know, Prosopagnosia? I think there’s something up with my fusiform gyrus because I have real trouble recognising people’s faces.

People’s other erm, bits, don’t cause a problem, especially their hair, I always seem to notice that, so by default my problem is at its worst with bald, middle-aged men. They all merge into one. Thankfully, I don’t frequent parties where the main demographic in attendance is bald, middle-aged men, but if I did my world would be a confusing place for the night.

Not that there’s anything wrong with bald men. I don’t consider myself baldist. It’s just that a room full of the follically-challenged may as well be a fridge shelf full of eggs in terms of my being capable of identifying individuals.

Grant Mitchell

Bruce Willis

And not being able to tell people apart at parties can cause all kinds of problems.