Impending doom pending

Have you ever spent time doing nothing? I mean really nothing? (By the way, my subconscious just made me type that previous sentence as 'I am real nothing' - a typo, you may say, but it does show what I'm constantly having to put up with from my own mind). I was not prepared for the fear you encounter when you actually have spare time.

To explain: not to make a song and dance of it, but I badly sprained my toe a few weeks ago. I have no idea how. It may have been tight shoes. I may have forgotten about something dropped on my foot. The latter is just as likely considering that I regularly find bruises or scratches and can't remember how they came about. I blame the Amy Winehouse lifestyle I lead.

So, I was off recovering. Mock me if you must, but you try standing on a foot which has one big toe, three small toes and one bright red chipolata where your second toe used to be. In any case, shoes were not my friend that week and I had to wrap a bandage around it and 'keep it elevated' (i.e. sit on the sofa trying to find a comfortable place to put my feet up).

I like to think I have a fairly active imagination. However, I can understand why people give up on trying new things, especially when TV is about. I thought about reading a book and I have a few I need to go through. What I realised was that laziness conquers all. I am a profoundly lazy person, but I was quite amazed at how little I did. It's just so easy to lay back and fill your mind with whatever crap is on the television. And what a plethora of crap there was.

I sometimes wonder if daytime television is designed to be so innane that people watching it go, "Dear God! I can't take it! Fuck it, I'm going to start drinking at 9 in the morning." I turned into a zombie. Managing to side-step Jeremy Kyle (there's only so many times I can listen to him remonstrate people for being stupid or lower down the food chain then him), I instead found myself caught up in a world of Fucking Awful American Dramas. I'm not waving; I'm drowning.

What really disturbed me, though, was the news. We are, in case you haven't noticed, in the midst of a somewhat spectacular economic bellyflop. The reason I noticed is that the news hasn't let me forget it. One could argue that the whole point of news is to deliver up to date information in a factual way, but anyone who's ever endured Breakfast on BBC 1 knows this is not the case. By the way, if you haven't seen it, imagine a couple of simpering sock puppets bobbing up and down and casually sipping tea because, gosh darn it, they just want to have a chat with you. It's thoroughly disarming to have this cosy couple suddenly move from, "Thanks for the weather, Jill, and now: DEATH, DEPRESSION, WAR, followed by our guest, Gordon Floombugle, head of charity 'Stamp Out Penguin Illiteracy' with news about their fun run."

Every day, something has gone wrong with the global economy. I can't say I blame the media for gobbling it up; they are, after all, harbingers of doom. It is their job to give us information and what we crave is bad news. No one cares about the fluffy panda who's given birth to an equally fluffy yet smaller panda, not when there's REAL STUFF happening. It only supports my theory that humans crave misery in order to define their lives.

It makes me wonder how much of this panic is media-constructed. They've had nothing but American politics to fret over and that's a hard sell to a lot of British people. But economic disaster? With shots of people fighting for free petrol thanks to an idiotic computer game promotion? Break out the champagne and Do the Hustle!

Soon, we'll be subject to this:

News anchor
"And news now from our Financial Correspondent, Nick Lucre."

Cut to: Nick Lucre, dishevelled and covered in dirt, screaming and rending garments against a post-apocalyptic background. People fight over scraps of bread; babies' nappies and babies themselves are thrown as lethal weapons.

Nick Lucre
"The dark days are upon us - beware the beast with twelve nipples wearing nought but a McDonalds hat and a cheeky smile! (In a normal tone) Oh, and Body Shop has announced plans to start buying human fat for moisturiser as part of their new recycling campaign. (Back to screaming) My God, my God, WHY HAVE YOU FORESAKEN ME?!"

Cut to: News anchor, nodding thoughtfully.

News anchor
"Thank you, Nick. So, there we have it: armageddon, starvation and despair. Now, Sports!"

So, the media feeds itself with a somewhat perpetual news story. They must be having a field day. First off, you've got the obvious main story - the world economy is fucked, and that just keeps going. Then you've got lots of updates: the US, the UK and Iceland all imploding, continuously. So now we can run reports explaining how this'll affect the every day person with many patronising explanations (see: CNN telling people that $700 billion would buy each American 2000 apple pies from McDonalds). Look forward to style shows based upon finding wedding outfits in charity shops or how to save money by recycling your food into amusing handbags.

What they all seem to miss out is that little bit of sensible advice i.e. stop spending more than you've got. I'm as guilty as the rest, but it's manageable. A credit card is fairly forgiveable in this day and age, but when did we start to think it was ok to buy a £2000 home entertainment system and just "put it on the card"? Personally, I blame the American Dream: you want it, you go get it! Regardless of, oh, say, reality.

So, sensible human being that I am, I can't help but fret thanks to the grinning doom-bringers of television news. I'm buying nothing but value food; I'm stocking up on water; I'm buying torches and survivalist gear. Bring on the recession - I may not have a baby to throw at people, but at least I'll be prepared for the apocalypse. You'll never take my freedom or my O2 contract.

Growing pains

I'm officially a grown up. I should have known this when I stumbled into my 26th birth year with all the enthusiasm of a decomposing swan. 26 is just the wrong side, isn't it? Sure, I'm still young, but now 30 is a closer target and I can't get away with saying "I'm in my early twenties". I'm now in the mid to late twenties bracket, which is as good as saying "If I don't get my life sorted out soon, it all goes tits up from here."

I don't really think this, of course. My father, as one example, only really pulled himself together into a career when he was 30 or so. However, that is how the world at large feels. By now, I should be defining myself with a career, relationship and home. I have two of these things, but they are as focused as seeing through cataracts.

My career consists of trying to teach. I am not at ease with it for a great deal of the time, mostly because of my various social problems (i.e. not liking society very much). As for my home, I seem to be a victim of my own idealism (it exists) in that I just wanted to live in a place where I didn't have to hear street arguments or worry about people throwing cans of Strongbow onto my car. I forgot that every area has problems and nothing is perfect. My new home is actually an improvement; here, I don't get woken up at 2 in the morning by incoherent, angry voices from the next door neighbours. No, my new neighbours believe firmly in a 10 pm bedtime. In all truth, my ideal home would be surrounded by people who were do-nothings like me, all keeping themselves to themselves.

I think we can gather that I have a difficulty with the human race at large. Dinner parties or parties with unfamiliar people are like my own disaster, my own Titanic, if you will. Think of me as the unknowing ship, sailing through uncertain waters until I get blindsided by an iceberg-shaped social handicap and slowly sink beneath the waves.

I attended one such party recently. I'll say this first: everyone there was lovely. They were really nice and friendly and there was no problem there. My problem was that I realised I was now being invited to those types of parties. I'll explain: it was a nice, relaxed affair for a friend's birthday. Everyone was sitting down, casually chatting, helping themselves to bits of food. It was a grown-up party.

I've never really acted like a grown-up at a party before. I have been to parties with other grown ups, but there's a big difference. That difference was alcohol and mobility. The last party I attended was with a few people from work, but mostly strangers. However, everyone was drinking and laughing and it was a very much a party where you moved around.

The party I attended was more of a seated thing, so there's some social awkwardness right there, at least in my mind. For some people, casually chatting with strangers is an easy as breathing. I'm not one of them. That's not to say I didn't have a go, but I have this absolute, freezing fear of awkward conversations. I put it down to my inept social skills at secondary school which pretty much left me baffled about human interaction. My shyness comes across as indifference and then I start to notice I'm being shy and then I get even more wound up until finally I'm just a supremely nervous mass of stress, vibrating so fast people can't even see me move.

The other thing about this party was that it felt grown up for one major reason: no one was saying we should drink stupid amounts and do equally stupid things. No one said, "Hey, let's go to a strip club/gay bar/carnival!". People were actually engaging with each other in a relaxed atmosphere and seemed genuinely interested in what was being said. I cannot function in this situation with strangers, no matter how lovely, thanks to my aforementioned social inabilities.

I solved this problem with alcohol. 2 bottles of beer later, I ate some food. I then went through (I think) 4 vodkas and cranberry juice drinks. Quickly. I found I loosened up after that, even if I did pronounce "Seinfeld" as "Seinfield" a number of times. I knew I was truly merry as I started craving a cigarette and every other word became "fuck". My last clear memory of the party was of people complimenting cheesecakes.

I think my main issue (besides a burgeoning alcohol addiction) is that I am so used to being with people where I can see the line, it throws me when I'm with strangers. With work people, I know how to be around them (funny but not too offensive). With friends, there is no line. I say generally whatever I want. I think this is what I have become used to. Comparing watching the last 3 Star War films to being raped by George Lucas is probably not a description people at the party had heard ever before.

The problem is that it's my problem. Everyone was lovely and friendly. Couldn't have been nicer. Something in me, though, instantly turned me into an awkward, nervous mess, isolating herself. I freaked out because I suddenly realised, "I'm at a party where I must behave in a way that is not a free for all. I must not say whatever comes into my head. I must engage with nice people I don't know." This, by my definition, is a grown-up party, where you care about how you behave.

I think what really screwed me was the ratio of couples to single people. Officially, there were at least 5 couples and 3 single people besides myself and a friend. This is a greater ratio than I am used to. I have nothing against couples - I think it just serves as a reminder that I am not a part of coupledom and entry will be denied until I can work out what it's all about. I am starting to feel a little Bridget Jones.

So, I'm 26 and I've now started going to parties where you talk about holidays and other grown up things. I shall eventually acclimatise, I'm sure. A part of me, however, wonders whether I'll know when it's time to truly grow up or whether I'll be one of those sad cases who clings desperately to youthful fun well into her 40s. I hope it's the former as I can't see me doing a Peter Pan, after all.

Blind faith

There is something to be said for contemplating life. I'm just not sure what, and there in lies the charm. It's such a hugely vast subject that you could make up some random piffle, stick a question mark at the end of it and label it as a deeply profound reflection upon anything at all.

For example, if someone asks, 'Where do we come from?', you can easily cobble something together in reply: 'Ask yourself, do flowers yearn to hide in the ground or reach to touch the sky?' I've no idea what that means and yet, if you say it with a deep voice, a humble look in your eyes and a glow-in-the-dark halo held over your head, people will nod in understanding. Or throw rocks at you. Either one's an acceptable reaction to faux wisdom.

I have been contemplating blind faith (in both science and religion) because of an article I read this week about Creationism and its critics. Apparently it's making a comeback, Britney-style, though hopefully Creationism won't similarly be made to stumble up and down a stage under threat of electric cattle prod (though it seems she was in a better state this year, Gawd bless 'er, apples and pears, knees up muvver Braaaahn).

There was one particular part that intrigued me:

The Rev Greg Haslam, who preaches the creationist Christian creed to his 400-strong congregation at Westminster Chapel in London, welcomes the determination of Muslims to impart a religious-based view of the world.

"Science does not have to be taught in conflict with faith or religion," he says. "I believe the current debate over creationism versus evolution is beginning to draw more and people over to our side of the argument

"The materialist explanation of the creation has nothing to offer - if we came from nothing and go into nothing, then that encourages people to lead reckless and materialistic lifestyles.

I'm not going to argue the obvious problems posed by not defining which kind of Muslims he's agreeing with (i.e. the ones who live a better life through their spirituality and the few who want to kill people for drawing offensive cartoons). I agree that discussion of religion's conflicts with science causes mankind to move forward.

However, I have a two major problems with Creationism. One is that it shouldn't be taught in a science based environment. I'm not saying ban its mention as that path leads to Hitler impersonations (and, according to my friends, I already have something in common with him. I hope they mean I'm growing a moustache and not that I'm going to massacre millions of people as, frankly, who has that kind of time? Hitler, that's who). I encourage its mention so that differences can be drawn.

I may be preaching to the perverted here, but if science is about evidence and proof then religion, which always lists pure faith as its essential ingredient, has no place to be taught there as a scientific theory. I wouldn't expect to hear in church about how Jesus walking on water isn't physically possible, so why should Creationism get a look in during a class on evolution? By the way, it always amuses me that the physically impossible is interpreted in different ways by science and religion (science - it's physically impossible, so it didn't happen; religion - it's physically impossible, so it's a miracle and proof of divine power).

And here in lies the real problem because evolution is also a theory yet we extend it a courtesy to its flaws that we do not allow to religious beliefs. It has gaps - the missing link, for example. Creationists always jump on this as proof that evolution is rubbish. I might add that talking snakes are, in contrast, completely legit. Obviously. However, it is also general accepted opinion to believe in evolution, often without working out why you believe in it.

You see, the funny thing is, science can be every bit as reactionary as religion. Professer Michael Reiss, who also happens to be a Church of England minister as well as a director of Education at the Royal Society, stepped down from his position at the Royal Society as some of his comments about Creationism could be "open to misinterpretation", according to them. As far as I can tell, he just said that if someone brought up the issue in a science class then it should be addressed. He didn't say it should be taught as a part of the curriculum, which is what the society was jumping up and down about. If we encourage students to ask questions (I personally don't because I like to finish early), no matter how foolish they may feel, how can you ban the idea that perhaps we aren't right? Scientists at the Hadron Collider are going to be excited if all they find is nothing, because it'll show that what they thought was wrong and that there are still things to discover. Perhaps the Hadron Collider will be able to tell us some answers within the year because a part of me does think, "Actually, yes, maybe it did just happen. Maybe we're just one of a cycle of universes, continuously exploding and imploding, each Earth different from the last." Just because something's hideously unlikely doesn't mean it's divine.

One other issue I have with Creationists is this assumption:

"The materialist explanation of the creation has nothing to offer - if we came from nothing and go into nothing, then that encourages people to lead reckless and materialistic lifestyles.

I know plenty of atheists and they seem to live good lives without resorting to Grand Theft Auto lifestyles. What encourages people to lead terrible lives is a lack of belief in anything or anyone, not just God. Anyway, what's wrong with being "reckless and materialistic" for a time? I lead a "reckless and materialistic" life (I have a deep love of dvds, for example), but I also rescue puppies and kittens from bad owners (ok, no I don't, but I have the slight inclination to do so and that at least indicates a heart).

My point is, you can be "reckless and materialistic", but that doesn't mean you live that way forever. Maybe you start a family and believe in that. Maybe you find the strength to be better thanks to amazing friends. Christians would argue that this is proof of God working through people but that sounds a little bit like an over-eager father taking total credit for his football-sensation son's achievements.

Creationists shouldn't get all het up about people arguing against their beliefs, but then again, neither should scientists. The problem is when they both just go along with what they're told without pausing to think objectively. I was recently reminded of the Milgram experiment conducted many years ago. Milgram was an unethical genius. His experiment was designed to find out just how much people would follow an authority figure (I believe it was influenced by the Nazi example). A subject was placed in a room in front of a device which was hooked up to another person in a different room. A man in a white coast instructed the subject to shock the other person if they got an answer wrong to the questions they were asked. The subject was able to hear the other person's reactions to the shock. As more questions were answered incorrectly, the shock level would be increased, despite growing pleas from the person next door. The dial went up to dangerous levels and the majority of subjects, though hesitant, would continue the shocks up to dangerous levels, despite the agonising cries from the other person. This was because the man in the white coat told them to keep going.

I might add that there was no other person, that it was faked. However, the subject didn't know that. They just kept going because an authority figure told them to, even when the other person went silent after crying he was having a heart attack. This is kind of how I view people who listen only to science or religion with no room for discussion - subjects going along with whatever's handed to them because actually thinking about things is up to the higher authority, be it God or a scientific institution.

I have to take the view that people who hide behind blind belief in religion or science deserve every argument that comes their way. 47% of America, for example, believes in Creationism and I have to assume that, in the great U.S of A, it's not just the other 53% who occasionally do bad things. It's possible that religion or science aren't responsible for people leading good lives or doing hideous things and that religion or science as an explanation for how you act is just an excuse. Maybe, if you're going to believe blindly in science or religion, you shouldn't be surprised when you have to defend it.

Ode to Complaining

I have recently found myself devoid of ranting material. I mean proper, philosophical ranting. I'm personally amazed about this occurrence as I am a) an easily irritable woman and b) a professional grump. This sad state of affairs has been brought about by the recent upheaval in my life. In the last two weeks, I have finally managed to start driving again, assisted on a film shoot, moved house and started back at work. This leads me back to a theory I've always held, which is that if you've got time to think then you aren't busy enough.

I do not mean that we should all perpetually grind ourselves into the ground (on the other hand, this would mean less people around to bother me - it's a double-edged sword). My God, though, I never realised how much complaining has become a daily form of life. It's near impossible to spend a day without someone spinning you a yarn about the latest catastrophe involving their puppy, Mr Miyagi (you know I'm totally going to get a pet and ruin its life by naming it that). I have nothing against the occasional gripe. It is, after all, a very useful way to relieve stress - there are better, dirtier ways to relax, but not ones your boss would approve of at 10:30 am in the office. It's just not hygienic and you know it.

There has been much to moan about recently, but not much to rant about: various companies have told me my post code doesn't exist; BT seem to live in an alternative reality where they turn on your phone line and charge you for it, but do not accept its existence even when you call from that number for help (a Kafka-esque nightmare if ever I heard one); the local utilities do not understand the concept of reading the right meters; and finally, I've been trying to do all this whilst keeping my head around a film shoot budget. Actually, the last one has been the least stressful of them all, but it's a compounding factor.

Of course, there is a difference between ranting and complaining, at least in my opinion. Ranting is done after taking stock of the world and railing against its flaws in order to make people think. Complaining is done when you can't find a good pair of shoes and need to communicate annoyance to the world purely to pay it forward. However, I have only complained of late, not ranted. The main reason is that being kept busy with relatively minor things prevents you from thinking. And I have to tell you, for me that's bliss.

Reflection, pondering, navel-gazing – call it what you will, it has never done me much good. When I do have the time to sit down and ruminate upon my life, I have never enjoyed it. I am sure the quick answer to that is, "Well, you should change what you don't like". Whilst I'm sure that is a sage piece of Tricia advice, it doesn't work for me. In all fairness, I am a defeatist by trade so I'm screwed before I even start to read "inspirational living" newspaper supplements (I never really wanted a £200 leather magazine rack, anyway). The real heart of the problem is that I will never be honestly happy. Sure, I can say that if I lost weight/got a boyfriend/found a new job blah blah blah, I would be happier. For a lot of people, this would be true. I'm not those people, though. Being highly self-critical pretty much guarantees that happiness will always be just one more cream cheese Ryvita out of reach.

I have to believe, therefore, that complaining is a deliberate way of preventing us from thinking. If your mind is filled with petty concerns (did I take the rubbish out? why is she looking at me like that? where's my car?), it's harder for it to ponder the stuff that really breaks your heart (why did it happen? is there any point? when will my pizza arrive?). Those ideas, apart from the pizza, are the stuff that brings you down. Small, minor things can be more easily dealt with than questions about the cosmos. Also, in my case it's always a good idea to avoid being down as my past indicates that I have a difficulty getting back up again.

It used to frustrate me that people could wax lyrical about the crappy service they received from their phone company but had no idea about human rights violations happening in this country. Until, of course, I realised that public discussion in everyday life of the latter was purely about finding something to talk about as well. Now I'm a convert to open complaining, especially to people who hate hearing it as it gives them something to moan about and so on. It's like a cynical circle of life.

There are some who say that it is counterproductive, that you achieve nothing substantial as complaining makes you think you're changing something when actually you're just talking about it. The English are a brilliant example of this with their easy irritability and contempt for people serving them. Only in England would you find people who recount their various hardships with the wounded voice of an injured puppy, yet then dismiss all concerns with the martyr-inspired, "Well, that's life, isn't it?". I do not disagree that complaining is usually a waste of time, achieving little. In fact, I think that's one of its strengths. Talking about a problem often helps to put things into a wonderful perspective as, eventually, someone will tell you to shut the fuck up about the way the neighbours leave their bins. You will soon realise that your annoyances have become obsessions, ones which would go unchecked if not voiced.

My point, if I had to make one up, is that we often do not realise how intrinsic general moaning about the trivial actually aids our everyday survival. We complain about complaining, but why? Complaining is good for three things: it disperses anxiety; works a useful bonding exercise (you'd be amazed at how well you get on with another person if you share a mutual hatred of something); and allows instant distraction from the things that actually wake you up in the middle of the night. Bitching each day keep the doctors away, or so I find.

Having said all that, I must concede that sex is a better way of achieving those three things. And, if the sex is just god-awful, at least you'll have something new to complain about.

Adventures in strange lands: part 50 gazillion

Life is what happens while you're busy making plans. This was a line from John Lennon and, as I often say, he should know. Nothing says "surprise!" more than being shot by Mark David Chapman on December 8th, 1980.

I do have a point here. I planned to explore the world of Second Life and report back on my encounters. A quick update: the evening of the first day I was on there I ended up dancing (if that's what you can call a bunch of pixels jiggling around other bunches of pixels) at an indie club. I enjoyed 2 things about it:

1) The music was great.
2) The DJ took requests and was quite delightful.

I ended up talking to someone. This took me a while as I had no idea how IM worked on there. After a gap of 15 minutes, I finally worked out how to apologetically reply to a guy who had said hello. He seemed nice and offered me a sage piece of advice, which was: "Don't add everyone you meet as a friend. You'll end up with lots of friends you never talk to."

This is why I gave up MSN - too many people, not enough of a multi-tasking capability.

However, I did learn another thing. I asked how often he came online and he said he was a daily visitor, often sacrificing sleep. When I asked him why his 8 hours a night had reduced to 2-3 hours, he replied that it was because he had many American friends in Second Life and the time difference meant there wasn't a great deal of daytime in which to interact with them, so he stayed online until the early hours.

Anyone who even vaguely knows me knows that I take sleep seriously. It isn't just something done at the end of a long day; it isn't even just a fond hobby. It's a vocation. So, if I don't get quality sleep I can get a) grouchy and b) depressed. I used to find sleep interrupted by my worries and anxieties. When I finally realised I enjoyed sleep a great deal more than I liked worrying, I resolved to prioritise and to not stress at night when nothing could be done.

But I digress.

One reason I haven't gone on Second Life is that I don't want to get addicted. I have an addictive personality and I've already just gone through the joys of not smoking (3 weeks and counting); I don't need a new addiction. However, the other reason has been more personal. I made a vow when I started this blog that I wouldn't do the "oh, woe is me!" because woe is most certainly not me.

You see, things have been hectic here and of concern to me. But, I am not beseiged right now. I'm distracted, but that's expected. I can't make promises to reply to things and do tasks as my mind is elsewhere occasionally. My point is this; I had something of an epiphany. A friend here called me to ask if everything was going ok, aware of my recent problems. In that moment I was tempted to say, "Well, y'know, I'm coping, but I'm so tired and I don't feel up to going over it." However (and this was the epiphany moment, so get your epiphany hats on and prepare yourself to shout "EPIPHANY!". I think I just like that word. Epiphany, epiphany, epiphany...), I didn't feel any of those things. It was like an automated response. I am coping. Scrap that: I am not "coping", I am fine. I have a little philosophy (and it's not "I hate people", although that is still very true), which is that there is no point completely losing it until you're sure there is something to lose it over. This could also be denial, but it's working for me so a rose by any other name blah blah blah.

My real point is this: I am accustomed to playing the martyred victim. I am too familiar with that process. Society has a tendency to allow us this feeling of victimhood. I'm not saying there aren't genuine victims out there. I'm not going to argue semantics with a murdered corpse (particularly as it's dead and would make a lousy debate opponent). I find it strange, however, that I am either encouraged to wallow in self-pity by society (see: any accident claims advert) or that I should just bloody well cheer up, come on, why are you crying, GET ON WITH IT! Hence the martyred victim syndrome, suffering in silence and so on. Society's opinions are schizophrenic, to say the least.

My mother's culture is a prime example of the latter view, by the way. Nothing's wrong, always smile, laugh hardest when things are going wrong, I said LAUGH HARDER! I have nothing against a culture which encourages people to work through things and try to adjust back to life when ready, but that's not the stance of my mother's culture. In the Philippines, there's an overriding sense of carrying on as if nothing is wrong. They turn denial into an art form. This, of course, leads to repression on a grander scale than us stiff upper lipped Brits could ever imagine, let alone practise. One day, a few months ago, a priest completely snapped. He had been campaigning for a local school in Manila to remain open and decided he had found a perfectly sane way to demonstrate his outrage. He kidnapped the children on their school bus, parked it outside the town hall and held the children hostage with grenades and rifles. This is but one spectacular example, but you have to admit that it's a hell of an example. To further emphasise their incredible use of denial and enforced normality, the parents of the schoolkids passed ice cream through the windows to them. But then came the wailing and rending of garments. You think you've seen distraught parents? You've never seen a Filipino mother in action. I literally mean rending of garments and beating fists on the floor until bloody.

When they break, they break good.

Back to my original point: I am a product of this upbringing, so I don't know how much I'm in denial about the potential problems and stresses around me and how much is to do with the things my mother taught me about trying to get back to normal asap. This wasn't the only view in the household, of course. I'm not really going to go any further, but let me say this: my parents have very different ideologies when it comes to handling stress.

Weighing up both viewpoints and how they are reflected by society, I find myself detached. How do I feel right now? I don't feel anything. I don't feel like a victim. I don't feel like a survivor. What is there to survive? My culture encourages me to turn problems into dramas of daytime soap proprtions and then gives me conflicting advice on how to deal with them. Honestly? I really feel like this is just another moment in life that is less than perfect. I'm not wallowing in self-pity, but I'm not pulling up my socks, either (well, only once when I put them on in the morning). So, why write about it at all? Don't think I haven't second-guessed my writing as self-indulgent, by the way. The answer's actually fairly simple: I feel like I want to write because if I don't do something other than mooch around the house, I may die of boredom. Right now, this is all I can write about. Once it's cleared out, I can write about more frivolous things like AIDS and famine.

Until there's something worse, something concrete and fixed and with no discernable way out, I will continue to accept that there are some things I can get angry about and change and some things I cannot. Why tilt at windmills? I don't know if that's stoicism or defeatism or nihilism or some other ism. That's life. Normal service will be resumed shortly and we apologise for the delay.

Adventures in Wonderland Part I

Denied access to the outside world, I yearn entertainment. DVDs aren't going to cut it anymore and there are only so many flies I can chase around the house with a zapper before I start to get bored of insecticide.

Thus I found myself taking up Katey's challenge. She had suggested I go on Second Life to actually experience it. So I did. The next few days will be a kind of diary of what I see and do on there. For the record, I do not understand code or what the hell skins and avatars mean. This could be torturous.

Anway, I found the site and went for the girl next door character. I didn't think I could pull off a CyberPunk personality, though I was tempted to masquerade as someone completely removed from myself. However, I didn't think I'd find it very enjoyable if I had to try and remember to act a part whilst navigating this world.

After a few hiccups with installation, I found myself plonked online in a giant castle designed to help out newbies such as myself. This amounted to me owning a chainmail shirt (for when you really need some dungeon porn outfits?), taking a photo of me with blank, white eyes staring back (I hadn't mastered the appearance bit) and giving myself a tremedously huge arse (art imitating life).

I played around with some settings, ended up naked but then finally got my clothes sorted out again. I think I now have a pair of black trousers on...a shame the arse cheek of which has what appears to be a white "Hello Kitty!" logo on it. I then, through trial and error, found myself at Waterhead or Waterworld or something, along with similarly bemused avatars wandering around.

Instantly, I was confused. I could hear noise, like people's conversations. I walked around, collecting notecards and the like to gather as much information as possible. However, to paraphrase Shakespeare, they often signifyed nothing. At least, nothing immediately useful.

I have found flying to be quite fun. It's the closest I'll ever get to being a superhero. However, I haven't mastered the art of landing. Oh, I can use the "stop flying" button all right, but I have a habit of using this whilst at great heights. If my avatar were a real person, it'd be long dead, a corpse I insist on chucking from high altitude.

Right now, I'm back at the Waterhead area listening to two guys discuss the Tree of Life and Christianity. It's weird as it feels like I'm intruding. It would be something I take more seriously, but I keep hearing "boing!" and "woo!" noises in the background. Oh and some douche is shouting at them, "STOP BREAKING GOD'S LAWS!". Now he's screaming like Tarzan.

I've joined a couple of groups: I'm in a writing group, belong to an indie nightclub, visited an art gallery and even went to see a Star Trek museum (best not to ask). I'm actually beginning to understand why people like it on here so much. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want. I wonder, though, if I only feel like this because I can't do this stuff in real life right now.

I'm still too scared to talk to anyone yet, though, thanks to Tarzan out there. We'll see how it goes...

Pope Idols

One problem I've had recently (I have many, all small and pointless as is the way with the middle classes) is working out where I now fit in to what Bill Hicks called his "favourite sect". With the apparent resurgence in Catholicism (thanks to immigrants bringing their Catholic beliefs with them), my own faith has been playing on my mind. I have always said "I'm Catholic", but it seems a knee-jerk reaction rather than a statement of identity, an automatic response built in to me, like "It wasn't my fault", "You look lovely" and "This isn't blood, it's paint".

Faith is a strange thing. All power to you if you have it, by the way. I'm not knocking it. I'm talking only about how I make peace with the Catholic Church. Other people derive great comfort and support from religion and Catholicism and fair enough, frankly. I'm not arguing to convert people from their own point of view, merely trying to work out mine. Also, the church bake sales can be pretty awesome, so it can't be all bad.

Back to my point, though: does religion have a shelf life? A "Best by" date? I'm talking about an individual's ability to claim membership to a certain religion, not whether religions fade out of fashion (Kabbalah, I'm looking at you. Friendship bracelets won't cut it anymore). Can you ever completely leave the faith you were born into? I was brought up as a Roman Catholic. I went to a Catholic primary and secondary school. I received Holy Communion in a nice little white dress (in retrospect, it's a little creepy dressing up as tiny brides for Christ because it makes Jesus seem like a big ol' bigamist paedophile. I said seem like. Well, if I wasn't going to Hell before, I am now). I went to church every Sunday, despite my insistence that what was really better for my soul was watching Pob's programme on Channel 4; eternal salvation can't compete with a spitting puppet in the eyes of a 6 year old child. My Catholic credentials are pretty well-established.

But, to be or not to be Catholic...Technically, I'm not sure I am still a Catholic by rules of entry alone - I never got confirmed. I suppose you could liken it to being a regular at a club, but then suddenly becoming established by having your name appear every night on the guest list. I'd like to say my lack of confirmation was because I struggled with deep ideological conflicts, but in reality it was because I was a teenager rebelling for the sake of it. Look, drugs and drinking were out because other family members went there, did that and got buried in the t-shirt, ok? This was about as extreme as I could get. Plus, have you ever tried dying dark brown hair a bright blue shade? It doesn't work. Renouncing my faith seemed like an easier option.

What should really get me struck off the Catholic guest list is that a lot of my personal opinions clash with the Church's stance. I am also decidedly not religious. Don't get me wrong, I'm well-versed in Jesus and his adventures (coming soon : Super Jesus - Blessing the meek! Feeding the poor! Fighting crime!). I agree with the idea of a god being made flesh as I believe divinity is to do with the soul, much like Hindus believe the soul cannot commit sins as it is divine. However, to work out what I'm supposed to believe as a Catholic and how it differs from Anglicans, I had to look some stuff up. By the way, for those not in the know, here's a quick guide to bluffing you're a Catholic (besides looking really guilty all the time):

a) Transubstantiation - the belief that Holy Communion actually turns into the physical body and blood of Christ when you eat them.
I'm with this until the cannabilism kicks in. Surely they meant it as a metaphor? This is like those people who believe Jesus was a magician who fed the 5000 with paltry supplies when actually it's more a parable of miraculous humanity and generosity as people shared what supplies they had amongst themselves to feed each other.

b) The Catholic Church sees the Pope as their authority whereas Anglicans/C of E are excommunicated.
Whilst I don't have much faith in a religion formed on political grounds (or so Henry VIII could go on a European "Spring Break!" style hunt for wives), I can't exactly have any more faith in a religion led by a man holed up on his own in Rome, left behind in a world constantly moving forward. At least Anglicans are trying to progress (see women bishops at the moment).

c) The Catholic Church believes good acts help get you into Heaven whilst Protestants don't.
I'm a bit torn on this one. Whereas I agree with Protestants that good acts without selflessness and honesty behind them shouldn't go towards your spiritual score card, I also agree with the Catholics that this doesn't mean you shouldn't do good works at all. The problem is that it's kind of an enforced charity - without good works, you can't get eternal life. However, I am of the view that enforced charity is better than none at all.

I have no problem with helping the poor and your brother and so on (until they start expecting it. Then you never get rid of them. Ever tried walking down the street followed by begging lepers? Ok, me neither, but it's obviously the inevitable outcome of committing any good deed). My problem is with the Church. It's a strange and faintly ridiculous beast. For example, how am I supposed to go along with a religion which tells me that gay people are ok, so long as they don't have sex or fall in love? How am I supposed to take seriously the advice that contraception is not allowed when said advice comes from a celibate old guy wearing a pointy, phallic symbol hat? If you want unnatural, there's little better example than a bunch of men forcing themselves to give up sex.

For inspiration to struggle against our sins we must go to church, something I should do but don't. Attending church happens only on special occasions, such as Christmas and Easter. I go more for the feeling of celebration, to be honest, as well as the free chocolate (at Easter. During Christmas, we get free babies). One Religious Education teacher told me that we have to attend church once a week for a spiritual "top-up". I wish he hadn't made the faith sound more like a mobile phone card than an answer to humanity's problems. I haven't gone to church for months and don't feel lost in life. A religious upbringing has helped me question everything, which can only be good (unless you're one of my friends pleading with me to shut up and sleep before you try and gag me with old socks). The problem is I don't think I can find answers in a weekly hour-long mass where maintaining the status quo is the order of the day.

So, can I still call myself a Catholic? If I adhere to the teachings alone, I guess that makes me a Christian, but not a Catholic as I don't recognise the authority of the Roman Catholic Church. I like the label of lapsed Catholic, though. It makes me sound like I've mislaid my faith in a sock drawer, or something.

My friends tease me about my religion by saying at least, as a lapsed Catholic, I can recant on my deathbed and become a fully licensed Catholic again. The problem is that you have to mean it. I think that's one of the more misunderstood things about the Catholic Church. You can't just say, "Whoops, cut my wife's head off. Sorry!", recite three Hail Marys and expect Heaven's Gates to open if you aren't truly remoresful. Plus, the wife will probably up there, pissed off with you, and who needs that hassle? Bring on the soothing comfort of fiery, pitchforky Hell.

It's odd that I have this problem with the Church, especially as it's given me such a fond identity: guilt-ridden, sin-loving, much-repenting me. I debate everything because of the dogmatic teachings of my schools (complete with Stalin-like slogans painted on the walls of the lunch hall - "JESUS IS THE WAY AND THE LIGHT! HIS IS THE ONLY WAY! EAT BROCCOLI!"). I am instilled with a firm sense of social responsibility. PLUS I can make fun of Roman Catholic habits and get away with it because I am "one of them" (however, it turns out priests don't have much of a sense of humour when it comes to altar boy jibes - it also turns out they're bloody accurate shots when they have a Bible to hand). It's not been all bad.

All in all, I don't think you're ever truly "free" of the religion you're brought up in. How can I be when it was such a formative part of my life? I find little habits from it cropping up in my mind, such as trying not to eat meat on Fridays or blessing myself whenever I walk past a church. That's why I'll stick with the "lapsed" label - I was one, can't deny it and wouldn't want to. It's a part of me. But I'll never be a true believer for one big reason alone: the majority of my friends are sinners in the eyes of this religion because of who they are (my friends would probably raise a drink to that, actually) . And, in all fairness, they've been of more support in times of need than the Catholic Church. They can also handle their drink better than the priests I've known, which is always a plus if you want an injury-free evening (ever seen a priest glass someone using only a Bible? It ain't pretty).

So, though I know the door to Catholism is held open with an expectant (and somewhat patronising) belief that I'll eventually return, at least now I'm staying away more from what I believe in than because of teenage angst-born contrariness. Forgive me, Lord, for I lack blind faith. Thank Christ.

Life, Jim, but not as we know it.

Reality versus Virtual Reality. The great battle or the great evolution? This possibility has been lurking in my mind ever since I heard of Second Life. You see, Second Life fascinates me. I am something of a Luddite when it comes to technology and it physically hurts to try and comprehend the concept of Second Life.

I had an interesting discussion with a friend of mine a moment ago. Realityman came round to visit and I promptly mind-raped him with discussions on individual free will versus the expectations of society while all the time he was dying to go to the toilet.

A part of me knew that he was in pain, a part of me which giggled as he continually crossed and re-crossed his legs out of politeness.

Anyway, moving on from my sadism, we eventually started talking about Second Life. The reason this particular area interests me is that I am increasingly of the opinion that this is an equally valid universe, as real as this one.

I don't participate in Second Life or Metaplace or any virtual world, so my assertion may seem strange. However, during my discussion with Realityman over why people log in and live online, I asked him what people on there actually do. He informed me that there are people who actually discuss their first life and others who resolutely refuse to allow their first life to interfere with their Second Life (or is that the other way round?).

This made me curious. I always thought that Second Life was a way of escaping, like a holiday from your real life, so why take it with you? Then it occurred to me that, even when you go on holiday, you take yourself with you: your neuroses, experiences and unfortunate reactions to spicy foods are all there as you bask in the sun of a far-off land. The same could be said of Second Life - we cannot change ourselves completely.

So, what about those who do live a different life online? The ones who pretend to be dragons or elves? Runescape's 130 million users shows that there are a lot more of these people out there than you'd expect. The appeal may be primarily that it is a game, but the chance to immerse yourself in a world so completely different from this one can't be dismissed as its selling point, either. I realised that underneath the scales and giant ears, these people must have the same personality traits. I have never understood the phrase "act out of character" - if it was outside of your character, how could you do it? What people really mean is "exhibited behaviour not commonly shown by that person". Virtual worlds, for the online pixies and lapdancers, are a means of acting out this side of themselves (I'm sure there's a part of everyone which just wants to swing round a stripper's pole, by the way).

What I was debating with Realityman was why Second Life couldn't be thought of as a real life, to define "real". He argued that reality for him was being able to interact with real people, for the five senses to be stimulated. Try as you like on Second Life, a virtual stripper isn't going to be quite the same as a real one - if porn is a poor substitute for sex, imagine how an awkwardly gyrating lapdancer compares.

I tried the Socratic method and asked him why this made Second Life less real (it might be noted that the Socratic method is to constantly question in order to create debate and expose nonsensical thinking. It should also be noted that Socrates was not a popular man and was eventually sentenced to death by his own hand. Well, if you had a small child constantly asking, "Yeah, but why?...Why?...Why?", you see how long it takes you to get annoyed. And Socrates was a full grown man doing this to important politicians. My point is, I expect my use of his methods to make me unpopular). Because I very much believe there is an argument for Second Life to be considered "real" life.

The idea that Second Life is not real because you can't taste or touch is a valid point. We learn by crashing through the world and recording it all through our senses. My argument is that Second Life is just a different kind of real. We experience things in this life through our bodies - in Second Life, we experience things through our computers. Both are instruments controlled by our brains, minds shut off from the environment around us. We just register the information in a different way.

At this moment you're probably thinking, "How am I shut off from my surroundings? Look, I can pick up this pen. See the pen, going up and down? Up and downy, up and downy... There you go then." But we are cut off from our environment. The person you are in your head is very rarely exactly the person who walks and talks and orders take-aways from the Spice Of Life. Thank Christ, frankly - if I said precisely what I thought all the time I'd have been hung by mobs some time ago. Well, I'd at least have been excluded from certain social gatherings. Oh yes, tea parties are my bitch.

My point is that the only thing making Second Life a fake world is our belief that it isn't real. This isn't the point where I ask you to clap to resurrect a zombie Tinkerbell. Realityman said that you could have a fully fledged existence in Second Life, but only if you could become two different people, keeping the two worlds separated so that each experience in each world was segregated from the other. That way you keep separate identities. But don't we already do that? I have many different parts to play, but only feel "real" when with my friends and family. So, is the me at work a complete fiction? Do those I teach have a fake education because that's not really "me"? I might add that, with the amount of students I have who continue to need support despite (or because of ?) my teaching, this may not be a bad argument.

So, why can't the me in a virtual world be just as real? All I'm doing is interacting in a different way. Hell, if I choose to be Shemale, queen/king of the androgynous Malipi elf clan (it could happen), why isn't that real? I'm not talking online game worlds - there's already an acceptance that those are just for leisure, for fun. I'm talking about the people who choose to live as a character online. Because it wouldn't just be in my own head - there would be people out there participating in the same world, showing an acceptance of this life. Very sexually confused elf people.

We decided that this life, the one you wake up in, go to work in, argue with the wife in is real because this is the one in which we feel love and pain, but mostly because of the latter. We measure reality by how crappy it is - it if hurts, it's real. In Second Life, there is no disease or war (perhaps there will be one day - we take who we are with us, after all) , thus it cannot be real. Or maybe this is just a reality where terrible things don't have to exist, at least for now.

Perhaps virtual worlds don't demand as much emotionally, but this could be because we haven't learned to do that yet; we're badly judging things by standing the worlds side by side. Compare the pain of a papercut to the pain of breaking your leg - well, sure, the former is going to seem insignificant compared to the latter. Doesn't make it any less real, though, does it? Maybe that's the same for virtal worlds; perhaps they are poor versions when compared to this life, but that doesn't mean they are less real. For some, it may be the case that they only feel alive when in the virtual worlds.

Eventually, perhaps some people will choose the virtual worlds as their only reality. After all, reality is what you make of it. But then where would you escape to - Real Life? Holiday from your perfect existence by pretending to be an accountant working in a shitty cubicle for an unsympathetic boss. WorldOfShit.com - there's potential there, you know.

Give me something to care about...

I found myself trolling through the BBC news website today. It's one of my few means of contact with the outside world, short of getting my parents to venture out in search of information I desperately need (e.g. "What are this season's fashion must haves, Dad? I SAID WHAT ARE THE FUCKING MUST HAVES?!! Oh, for Christ's sake, WHAT ARE YOU CRYING FOR?!! I will cut you...").

Of course, I don't ask my parents to do that (replace "this season's fashion must haves" with "today's important news stories" and it's pretty much the same, however. Mo-fo's.) as I have the internet for my main source of information. That sounds like a contradiction in terms. If anything, the internet often brings forth more questions than answers (such as, "aren't facebook friends just like imaginary friends i.e. people not even you see properly?"). However, news-wise I always rely on the good ol' Beeb for updates.

I was having a look around it today and realised I was actually looking for something to be angry about, like seeking out and talking to a hippy who believes regressing to the Stone Age is progress (they're out there and they live in Witham. I'm not kidding you, this is a town whose Green Party wants people to use public transport but won't allow more commuter car parking to be built at the station because...it'll encourage people to drive. That they're going to the train station so as not to drive to London or Chelmsford is apparently a moot point).

Back to my point (I'd say to be concise, but it's because my legs ache): as my last rant demonstrates, I love to get angry. I was surfing the BBC news website to find things to react to. Let's face it, there's a lot of stuff out there: the horror that is Zimbabwe; Gordon Brown telling poor people not to be poor (an actual piece of advice my sister believes in - "if you don't want to be poor, stop fucking complaining and earn some money then." Ah, New Labour: thou hast cast a plague on both my houses...); the US and Israel wanting to bomb the crap out of Iran; Big Brother still being in existence...and so on.

What surprised me was not that I was looking for trouble. This is not a revelation - who doesn't love getting annoyed about something? Complaining is the great British pastime, but the greatest British pastime is complaining and then doing nothing constructive about it. We all need a release and getting righteously indignant about something, anything, is the way most of us do it, be it moaning about the latest rubbish sport result to bitching about the friend who just happens not to be there at the time (yeah, I'm talking about you). Being judgemental is in our blood, but maybe that's the jaded lapsed Catholic in me talking. Accepting others, now that takes work.

However, I once heard a saying and it's very true: opinions are like arseholes - everybody's got one. The problem is, I noticed I have been missing this for a few days now (an opinion, not an arse, thank you. I am well aware of that part of my anatomy having landed on it whilst rapidly descending the stairs a few days ago). I have found that if you remove yourself from the outside world, you suddenly don't think about it. Your universe becomes the four walls around you and whatever funny email forward you get sent. I forgot all about the horrendous attacks that happened in Zimbabwe that, at least a week ago, had so incensed me. I had forgotten all about the fact this country seems to be heading toward economic implosion on a Death Star level (almost - do you know how good other people's misery is for house-buying prices?). I had even forgotten that people we now refer to as "characters" were still humiliating themselves in the BB house for the bread and circus crowd.

I like to think I'm not heartless (the only true part of that sentence is "I like to think") and I'd like to think that my behaviour is common. We can only invest emotionally in so much at a time: family, friends, partner, work. I'm almost suspicious of those who cry hysterically over minor events, such as the deaths of beached dolphins - surely there's something better these people could be doing like, I don't know, not turning a depressing event into a Biblical tragedy (Hark, tis the 4 dolphins of the Apocalypse and their blowholes are the trumpets sent to level Jericho's walls!). I like dolphins, by the way, but I'll say the same thing I told my Mum when she made us go to Princess Diana's funeral: "Yes, it's very sad, but how much am I meant to cry over someone I didn't know?"

I suppose my real point is that disconnecting ourselves isn't the worst attitude to take - it's often the only option we have and we have a way of using it. My Dad suggested setting up a fake charity where you show upsetting adverts on television comprised of various, completely unrelated images (a kitten stuck in a well, a boy crying over spilled sweeties, a grown man weeping against a photocopier) and then asking people to send money to "end the suffering". The idea would be that the suffering in question would be that of the distressed, erstwhile viewer who wishes to make the nonexistent cause go away using the least demanding means - chuck some money at it. It's not a terrible thing to do. People need that money. But we only think about them for as long as it takes us to read out our debit card number. Then they quickly drift to the back of our minds behind the phone bills and costs of nights out.

So I stand here, wondering whether I only care as much as society dictates I should. Isn't it terrible, we're heading towards a recession and oh my I can't believe he used that racist term and how much cheaper are baked beans in Asda's compared to Sainsburys? (answer: lots).

Should we dedicate our lives to the well-being of others, though? Didn't work out so well for Gandhi, did it? Being able to fill your own salt shakers isn't payment enough for assassination, frankly. I think the sensible answer is "are you mad?" We walk a fine line. I knew someone who tried to save everyone he met. He was a good man, but it wore him down and pretty much killed him, in the end. You can't take on the world and expect to come out of it ok. That's what heroes do; we're just human beings trying not to fall over the edge.

I'm not going to say "the answer is to do more about stuff!" because that's hardly original. A blog isn't going to change galaxies (hey, might as well think big). I'm not going to say "the answer is to only care about what matters to you!" because then that really cuts you off from the human race. We're all so connected and yet so alienated from each other as it is. I guess my main rambling argument is this - do you ever ask yourself why you care? Not whether you should or shouldn't, but why? I have absolutely no idea why. But I do - only when I've got the spare time, though.

Only forward

My Dad said a funny thing to me today. He said, "This is all going to go to shit, isn't it?" All right, it's not that funny, but I never promised you flowers, either. Get used to it.

I need to write and, at the moment, this is my world, so you'll have to excuse my self-involvement. I'll write about something worldly-wise in a while and I'll try not to get too weepy. I don't have the energy for it, anyway. Also, I'm writing this standing up, so I'll be concise. I'm not giving a standing ovation to my computer, by the way. It's because I can't sit down. An operation has left a nice little wound just beside my tailbone so my options are standing, lying on my front or lying on my side. The last two are not conducive to computer use.

FYI, I slipped down the stairs yesterday. Maybe five or six steps, but I landed on my arse for all of them. On the area where I had surgery. If I go for pain, I go all the way, baby.

Anyway, after composing myself from weeping in the foetal position, I fell into talking with my parents about moving house. We've been talking about little else since then. Today, my Dad was talking about the complicated moving house situation as they've now decided to move as well. Basically, my sister and her fiance may buy Mum and Dad's place and they, in turn, will move to a brand new block of flats. It all rather depends on my sister getting the mortgage sorted and that's what my Dad was talking about.

We fell into talking about the whole situation and it became apparent Dad really wanted to go. When I asked him why, he said that it was time to move on. Our house is too big for just them and it was the family home...now the family is moving on. Well, my sister will be setting up her own in a while and I have dibs on being the crazy spinster aunt.

It made me realise that I am also going to have to move on. I can no longer be the bumbling sister/daughter. I actually have to take responsibility for stuff, like bills and mortgages and possibly a cat or twenty. There is, of course, a part of me that just wants to say 'Fuck it, we're done for, I'm getting the hell out of here', before jumping on a Harley and riding off into the sunset. And, of course, I won't do that (for one, I think motorbikes are scary and secondly, I still can't sit down).

How I handle this new tranisition comes from my parents - I'm the product of them, after all. Like my father, I don't value possessions (make all the jokes you want about lost dvds - now you're never getting them back). They're just things. My mother, on the other hand, hoards like crazy and so do I. But I collect things of sentimental value. Somewhere in my room is a box with old birthday cards, tickets from gigs and other assorted stuff which holds fond memories. So, leaving this house is a bit of a strange prospect for me. Sure, on one hand, it's just a house filled with things, but on the other hand it was my home and I won't be able to go back to it again.

My parents both grew up poor yet their views are very different. Mum holds on to things because there could always be a use for them - never throw anything in the trash (unless it's, well, garbage). It's her way of being secure. My Dad, however, sees possessions as pointless - they can easily be taken away, so why try and hold on to them? Each of them understands that nothing is guaranteed and each deals with it in their own way, Mum by trying to be uber-prepared (the girl guides could learn a thing or two from her) and Dad by accepting that you can make plans but fate is indifferent and having a 42 inch plasma TV won't protect you against that. (However, he does accept that it would be cool to have one).

So, my opinion is to wait and see. I'm moving, there's no doubt about that. What happens after that is partly up to me. I believe in free will. However, I also believe that, sometimes, life will take me away from the places I wanted to go and the things I wanted to do. Accepting that isn't defeatism - it's just the way it is. I have absolutely no idea where I'll be in two years time, let alone five (the term of a mortgage I'm looking at). I do know that, whether I like it or not, I can't go back anymore. Only forward.

Here we go again...

It's been many years since I've blogged (my Catholic mind, no matter how lapsed, still tells me there's something dirty about that word: blogged. Go on, say it out loud. I'm not wrong, am I?). There are many reasons I quit:

1) I found more pressing things to do, like descend into destructive self-analysis
2) I was getting too old for this shit
3) I read the columns printed in Sunday supplement magazines.

After this opening paragraph, you're probably assuming:

1) I'm highly self-critical and self-involved (yes and yes)
2) I have seen Lethal Weapon
3) I'm middle class.

It's the last one that's the most important, not to detract from the awesome contribution Danny Glover and Mel Gibson made to cinema with their portrayal of Riggs and Murtaugh. I'm middle class - I don't own a wooden salad bowl yet, but I do have Coldplay albums, a sense of liberal guilt, a deep knowledge of ennui and enough pretentiousness to use French words. Thus, you would think I could read the Sunday magazine articles with ease, quickly convincing myself that what I really need to fill the emptiness of life is a neon pink salt and pepper shaker set featured on page 59.

However, I find so many things wrong in these columns that I am led on to explain again why I stopped writing. The most vital reason I quit writing blogs was that I realised there couldn't be anyone who found what I was saying remotely important. Stick with me, here. I mean, I wrote and my friends could read it but, so what? I talked to them in real life anyway. It quickly dawned on me that writing blogs was just a way for me to carp on about something without having my friends interrupt me with sharp observations such as: "You finished bitching yet?"

No one cared: my friends probably didn't care about how the newest Coldplay song really spoke to me (I am indeed off the hook) and, eventually, even I didn't care. So, why am I writing now? Because, like all good lapsed Catholics, I am susceptible to ranting and revelations. I had two of the latter. Firstly, some of my friends on here have blogs and are actually very funny through them. Secondly, I am inspired by the insipid and vapid Sunday supplements to pen this rant. Strange, no?

I'll get to the point - have you ever read those columns? A friend of mine (let's call her Hippie) recently sent me a link via her blog (see: http://solopolovision.blogspot.com/) . It was an article from a Sunday supplement penned by a Bridget Jones clone who was pondering upon the unhappiness of her love life. In any case, it made me realise that people get paid to write about things no one else could possibly care about.

Think about it: you sit down in a cafe with a friend and she starts bleating on about her love life. It's always happened and will continue to the end of time, barring men not acting like men or women accepting that people are human. However, she starts getting more self-absorbed and you want to tell her to get some perspective or that things will get better. Then you find she can't hear you. So you decide to walk away, much like you can put down the article. But then you find out someone is paying her to tell you this stuff. Someone is paying her to tell you things you already knew about life, but in a whining, grating tone. You're livid. So that's when you pick up the scone knife, plant it between her shoulder blades and thus the cafe becomes forever associated with a horrific stabbing, so much so that it ends up going bankrupt. You're in jail, the cafe owner has committed suicide and the knife shall never again know the pleasure of buttering a scone.

My point (which I eventually meander to, now and again) is that the people who write these things very rarely offer anything entertaining. Why do I care if the writer is unlucky in love? It may be tongue in cheek, but is she writing anything in an interesting or amusing way? No? Then let me just suggest the character could head to Ann Summers and the column could finish there.

Ok, that's a shallow point, but there's a decided obsession with discussing the obviously tedious, like there's a contest between columnists for trying to kill off brain cells with mundane musings. I once tried to read a Sandi Toksvig column and I do think she is a very intelligent woman. However, she was writing about the minutiae of life and Scrabble. By the second sentence, I wanted to kill myself. By the third sentence, I wanted to kill everyone in the world to save them the horror of reading the article. By the fourth sentence, I had decided worldwide homicide was too much effort and settled for numbing the pain with Tesco Value whiskey.

There are good writers in these things, but the bad far outweigh them. Still, people can argue that, even if you don't agree with it, there are many who see a point in those kinds of articles found in Sunday supplements. But tell me: what is the point? I have heard short poems depicting the tragedy and comedy of mental health with more eloquence than can be found in a book's worth of Sunday supplement columns. I can even see some sense in nonsensical pop song lyrics (e.g. "usually drink, usually dance, usually bubble" - what the hell is "bubble"? It could be some dirty slang and this, therefore, interests me) but the columnists of these magazines do not generally enlighten or even entertain. They write because they were famous for something, know someone on the paper or were/are known writers. These things do not necessarily mean said people can produce an interesting sentence about life events. I once read an established author's column and found myself wondering how knowledge of his dining habits added to the quality of my life. So, he has problems working out which bits of cutlery to use - a revelation so incredible it's like God lifting the scales from my eyes.

Some would suggest that if you don't like it, don't read it. That's lazy thinking, a get out clause for those unwilling to form an opinion. The problem is that it's just so lazy - the idea that it's ok to write this sub-par crapola because no one likes to think too much on a Sunday morning after the previous night's wine box escapades. No one's saying fill the Sunday Times with the works of Aristotle (apart from Aristotle groupies, of course - they're proper hardcore) but, for the love of God, act like you respect your readership more than fobbing them off with one woman's need to drag us down to her 15 year old teenager mentality.

This leads me back to why I'm writing, I suppose. I don't want to write about how I'm up, down or sideways, but I do want to write and I will have a lot of opportunity to do that soon. Also, knowing that in the United Kingdom there is probably at least one person who finds reading Sunday supplement columns a nice way to pass the time, I believe there is at least one person out there (besides myself) who will find what I write to be of minor interest. Am I a hypocrite? Only if I get paid to write about keeping up with the neighbours or my hilariously ineffective attempts at human interaction. Someone come make a hypocrite out of me, dammit. You know I'm good for it.