Tiggle Tiggle

If houseware doesn’t make a good present, even if you REALLY wanted a new toaster or a set of towels, then what does?

For some ladies, it’s all about the bling, for others, it’s all about the thought. Thoughtful presents include photo books, surprisingly cheap and easy to come by, yet meaningful due to the effort and thought taken in their composition.

Photo books of special moments in a relationship show time, care and effort, which translates to the female brain that you are a man who will spend time and effort on your ladyfriend and, more than this, WANTS to spend time and effort.

But if exterior displays of sentiment and mush aren’t your thing, and let’s face it, photo books could turn into one big stomach-turning mushfest, any present that shows thought and effort is a good ‘un.

For example, the best present I’ve even been given was two pet mice. I think it was for my 20th or maybe 21st birthday, I can’t be sure. The giver took time to consider that I love animals and especially little pet animals. My hamster had died earlier in the year and they’d seen how sad this had made me.

Is it acceptable to buy your lover houseware for an occasion such as their birthday?

Does a gift of a toaster or blender to your girlfriend render you a hopeless un-romantic, or should she show some respect and be grateful she got anything?

I asked around some female friends to gage a general opinion, and it seems that the answer is that it all depends on what you want to say to her, and what you want her to think about you, and what you want her to do about it.

If you want her to feel romanced, cared about and appreciated, and earn yourself some good boyfriend points in the process that you can bank for later, buy her something for herself; jewellery, clothes, a weekend away, anything shiny or pretty or girly.

If you want to get dumped, buy her houseware.

So there we have it folks.

Say bye bye to scenes like this

We are all a product of chemical reactions and nothing else, and I’ve just discovered something worrying.

A study has found that a hormone called Oxytocin, when administered to Aspergic people, causes their social inhibitions to lessen.

That’s a good thing though, right? Asperger’s is a form of Autism in which people suffer, amongst other things, the inability to interact socially in the way that a ‘normal’ person would; lack of eye contact, a dislike of being touched, that kind of thing.

It’s also the hormone that is released during sex, particularly in women, which causes them to ‘bond’ with their partner, and experience feelings of love and trust. All those feelings are caused by this hormone. Dangerous stuff. Imagine what you could do with it if only you could buy a bottle of the stuff online?

Well guess what, you can. Oxytocin is sold online by numerous vendors, most of which are unscrupulous about the potential manipulation that one is possession of a bottle of the stuff can achieve.

“Discover the power of trust!” one website proclaims in its gleeful call-to-action to buy ‘liquid trust spray’. How sinister? Salespeople, apparently, can get anyone to buy anything from them once they have ‘the power of trust’.

What is it with baby names these days?

Parent deludedly give their children names which are made up, stupid, and practically unheard of in the vain belief it will make them special, superior, and destined for stardom, when really, the best little Shiloh, Destiny or Chardonnay can hope for is a spot of Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

What are they hoping to achieve? To show that they have the ability to name something differently? Is that such an achievement badge to wear that it justifies someone having to have a stupid name their whole life?

What’s weirder is the fact that everyone judges someone by their name before they meet them. The baby names they were given as a baby. Have you ever made assumptions or even cast aspersions on a person based on their name?

For example, now I’m thinking about it, I probably could never date a Simon. The only reason, I think, is because when I was growing up I knew a boy called Simon, roughly the name age as me, and his nose was always running. Not only this, but he was really disgusting, more so than little boys are in general to little girls. Yuck. And so now ‘yuck’ is associated in my head with ‘Simon’. Ridiculous.

There’s a reason I always have crap hair and it’s because I’ve got a phobia of hairdressers.

When I say a phobia of hairdressers, it would be more accurate to describe the affliction as a phobia of awkward situations, of which sitting in front of a stranger and having them wash, cut and dye my hair, is the epitome.

Every visit I tell myself it will all be fine, that I manage to conduct myself in society relatively well amongst a mixture of people in an anxiety-free manner and so this is just another one of those situations, but it never is.

I envy with intensity those who have formed a friendship with a particular hairdresser and feel relaxed in their presence.

It’s always the same as soon as I sit in the chair. Perhaps it’s the height difference; the assumed superiority hierarchy of those with a higher eye-level. I am a lowly primate on a low down branch and I definitely know my place.

There’s a huge hoo-har in Italy right now because Paranormal Activity, the jumpy US horror movie, has just been released there without any restriction, despite the fact it’s rated a 15 in both the UK and US.

Emergency services have apparently been receiving dozens of calls reporting people suffering from panic attacks, especially in Naples.
Naples, the notoriously bonkers Italian city which sits below Mount Vesuvius, has witnessed people fainting and suffering panic attacks lasting as long as an hour.

Spooky picture to illustrate the spooky nature of this story

And now Italian Defence Minister Ignazio La Russa has voiced concerns about a trailer for Paranormal Activity being shown on TV, as it is too scary for children, and there are calls to take it off TV to ‘protect children’.

Really? Is an advert for a spooky film really going to damage children?

No, lets all bury our heads in the sand and pretend to them that the world is all lovely and fluffy, that everything’s just how it seems on the surface. That people are just how they seems and idyllic.

It’s not like they can just log onto the internet or anything and watch a bit of rapey porn is it?

Continuing the theme of my armchair theories on ‘love’ (mainly its non-existence), relationships and what attracts one person to another and then just as quickly repels them again, and exactly why all of this happens, I’m going to talk about Valentine’s Day.

Yes, Valentine’s Day. It’s just around the corner, and while the rational-brained among us cynically view the day as yet another money-making ploy akin to Father’s Day, woe betide any man who fails to spend adequately on their female on Valentine’s Day.

You may be poor and you may not wish to waste your money on tat just because the card companies say you should, but be warned: scrimping on Valentine’s Day is a false economy. Hedge your bets too low and you could be waking up alone come February 15th.

Just shows how shallow them women are then innit if that happens right? Wrong, idiot. I’ll explain why what you’re willing to spend on the one you love equates to a much deeper meaning about the chances of your genes being passed on and the survival of the species.

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.

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.

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?