OR:
How to be Sick and Make Sure the World Knows It.

STAGE ONE: HAVE AN ILL

This is important. This is not ‘Skiving for Beginners’, which is a seperate chapter that will come later on, being far more important and useful to real life; this is ‘Invalliding for Beginners’ meaning that ‘Having an illness’ is the very important first stage in the proceedings.

The type of illness is also key to many things, particularly to your health and wellbeing.

- How ill?

You do not want to be too ill, because that hurts.
You want to be just ill enough to justify a duvet on the sofa and a stack of DVDs, to make everyone feel sorry for you, and to earn some time away from whatever you should be doing instead of sitting with a duvet on the sofa next to a stack of DVDs.

Which ill?

- Some kind of ’sicking’ ill is alright, as long as it doesn’t hang around too long.

- A cold is ideal, as long as it is NOT low-level enough to bother ’struggling through’ or ‘being a trooper’; these things are almost the exact opposite of our intention. The only ‘trooping’ we will be doing is to the bathroom and back, and the only ’struggling’ will be the struggle to whine loud enough to be heard in the other room.

- Pregnancy is a reasonably good ill, because people let you have your seat, which periods don’t get you (periods being similar but shorter, and producing a less cuddly/photogenic run-off)

- The gold prize in the world of invalliding is something extremely infectious, but not painful in the slightest. As long as you have someone completely immune to the infection on hand for kettling, duveduty and on-demand-biscuitage, then it is good.

If you are on your own and very infectious for a long time with no biscuits, then things look bad for you. Very bad indeed, my friend. Very, very bad.

*shakes head, slowly*

Very bad.

When ill?

- The most popular time to be ill is at Christmas, or over Bank Holiday Weekends, on Birthdays or whenever you have booked time off from your workaday pursuit in order to have fun. At that point, no matter how rude it has been previously, your health will spectacularly nosedive into a large pool of phlegm mixed with the fluids that come together to manufacture stomach noises.

- Basically, whatever time you do not want to be ill, that is the time that you will find that the ill wants to be you. It is the law, sorry.

STAGE TWO: BE THE ILL

How to ill

The first thing to perfect is your ill noise.
This needs to be a noise loud enough to be heard in the kitchen from the sofa, but not too loud as to drown out the daytime television. Some form of groan-slash-whine-slash-creaking noise is ideal, really, perhaps a ‘NYYYYIIIIIIIIEEAAAEEURGH?‘.

The upward-inflection at the end indicated by the question mark is, of course, incredibly important.

To merely gurgle ‘NYYYYIIIIIIIIEEAAAEEURGH’ monotone carries the meaning: ‘My head/throat/stomach: ow, woe be upon us, yea: though it be unfortunate, it seems that death is nigh, goodbye, cruel world, goodbye‘

While ‘NYYYYIIIIIIIIEEAAAEEURGH?’ - upspoken - clearly carries the meaning: ‘My head/throat/stomach: ow, woe etc, yea, though it be unfortunate, it seems that death is nigh, goodbye, cruel world, goodbye oh and can I have another jaffa cake please? And a lemsip? And can you change the DVD while you’re up?‘

Once your noise is perfected, you will need to work on your public persona and bearing. Remember, you want to inspire outpourings of love, and pity, but never disgust. So as a simple rule, smiling winsomely with watery eyes and sneezing: GOOD; Smiling winsomely, sneezing in someone’s cereal: BAD.

Coughing politely (like a nun with TB) then excusing yourself is GOOD, coughing politely (like nun with TB) excusing self and then admitting the cough has caused you to follow through, meanwhile: BAD.

If you are lucky, people will phone and ask how you are. They will not come round, because - to be honest - they don’t want to catch something and ill people are boring. But they will phone. Generally when you are just slipping into your most restful nap of the day. However annoying this may seem, this is good, as it allows you to sound at your most meek, sweet, and pathetic.

Especially if it is work phoning to check on your recovery and return. In these circumstances;

You SHOULD say
“Oh, I am glad you phoned, I was just thinking about you…”
You Shouldn’t say
“…Because I’m eminating this really funny smell, and I was trying to think what it reminded me of”

You should say
“yes, I’m deperate to come back to work … because I’m bored”
But never…
“…because the idea of infecting you all - and all our bastard customers too - makes me cough with joy. Cough. Cough.”

You should say
“I must go … I need the bathroom”
But shouldn’t say
“I must go, my beer’s getting warm and I think the pizza delivery guy’s just arrived. Oh, and the prostitute seems to be getting bored.”

And as previously mentioned, these points will be covered more comprehensively, and somewhat condradictorally, in our skiving section.

In general, no matter who is on the phone,

Always mention:
Boredom, lack of entertainment, availablility of medicine, unavailability of doctor’s appointments, sleep and lack of it, and ALWAYS remember to cough occasionally, so they remember to feel sorry for you.

Never mention:
The colour, texture or odour of any fluid matter being expelled from within you.
No one wants or needs to know that. No, not even your mother.

DAYTIME TELEVISION…

… is a very important part of the illing experience.

Though unwilling to burst your bubble at this point, as one who has illed in the recent past, I feel compelled to inform you that it is nowhere near as good as you remember it to be, even, and this is key, even if you (correctly) remember it as not being that great in the first place. It’s worse than that, and there’s more of it.

You can now flick through almost endless channel-upon-channel, finding up to three simultaneous episodes of Diagnosis Murder that you can’t remember if you’ve seen yet or not.

Or watch in despair as celebrities the magnitude of which you’ve never seen before (or, in fact, heard of) try their hand at cooking, watersports, teaching, or dance, all of which will make little difference to you as you’d need a the internet or a child to tell you if that wasn’t the area they happened to be ‘famous’ for in the first place.

All this is much of a muchness, of couse, as you’ll often as not find yourself dozing off during the actual programmes and being woken only by the adverts, which, between the hours of 10am and 6pm are Exclusively for Insurance and Consolidation Loan Companies, and Make NO Mistake About It - They’re Unreservedly Shouty About The Matter!!!

CONSTRUCTIVE CREATIVENESS…

… is something you can hope for all you want, but you will never actually achieve.

You may think ‘I’m housebound for a few days, at least I can get some writing/emails/composing/nuclear fission/reading done’, but you are neglecting the fact that your brain has turned to kalimari and where usually words, ideas or beautiful things come rushing from your firmly toned frontal lobes, you suddenly realise that the only thing eminating from it now is a low-pitched drone that fills your head, and goes ‘Ummmmmm…‘ (or , if you have watched too much Diagnosis Murder or are actually American, where it is a real word, then, ‘Duuuhhhhhh‘.

WEIGHT LOSS…

… may seem to be a natural and bonus side effect of many ills, and in fact, is the main intention and cause of Some Ills, but they are not funny ills, so will not be mentioned here.

You would, of course, think that losing the equivalent weight of a lower leg in poo, snot, or sweat every day would, at the end of a reasonable sized ill (3-6 days) lead to a newer, slimmer you, but you would be wrong. Though you might shed pounds through the actual ill, any benefit is immediately lost the moment you lose your nausea, and suddenly gain the desire to eat something the size of a horse. Including, should anyone be fool enough to wave one around near you, an actual horse.

STAGE 3 GETTING BETTERER

At some point, invalidding becomes a bore. The heady mix of duvets, sofas and daytime television lose their novelty, and even oozing bodily matter the colours of Spring just isn’t as fun as once it was.

At this point, you need to recuperate. Recuperation is easy. You just need to stop illing, and take all the drugs. All The Drugs in this case should include anything the doctor has given you, anything you can find in the medicine cupboard, enough Lemsips to almost reconstruct a real lemon (you’ll need about 400,000) and all biscuits, Anywhere.

After taking all the drugs, and pulling your socks up, you should almost immediately discover that healthy life is yours once more.

If you notice no difference at this point, you were possibly never sick in the first place. Or it’s, you know, a bit terminal.

Sorry.

[Please note, this guide is intended for beginners at their attention-seeking/illness game. I will write a separate Advanced version for people with penises. Erstwhile sufferers of man-flu will not find anything here they do not already know]

These aren’t words you’ll hear me say often, so enjoy them: I was a bit wrong.

I was wrong (a bit).
When I said ‘I seem to be better’, or something like that, I was wrong. Well, no, to be fair to myself, I was right at the time, as is generally the case: it was only later that I turned wrong, when my throat suddenly blew up to the size of the moon, I started sicking once more, and my stomach waged war on the rest of me, and the rest of the world.

I am listless, I am grumpy, I haven’t been able to go to the gym for a WEEK - and you know what? That doesn’t Matter, because I’m blowed if I can eat Anything Whatsoever, and what’s more, I’ve had more than enough exercise running up and down the stairs to the bathroom every forteen minutes. Too much information? Yeah? Well you try BEING me - then you’ll know what Too-Much-Poxy-Information is.

Go to the doctor, you whining bastard, I hear you say.

Yes, well, I tried that, thank you; stop swearing at me you unsympathetic fucktards. I phoned the doctor’s surgery when it opened, couldn’t get through for two and a half minutes and then, when I could, discovered all the appointments for the day were gone. This incredible system has been put in place to stop people missing appointments, apparently.

Although they may not have noticed that people are now missing appointments because they are sadly a bit dead by the time they could get one.

Sitting around, moping in front of musicals between stomach cramps, I have been trying to think of something to do. I have already filled half the day diagnosing myself via google (I have appendicitis, diptheria, ectopic pregnancy, malaria and smallpox to date, do check back later in case I and Dr Google have discovered I have anything else).

There must be something constructive I can do.

See, I always hoped someone would hand over the rulebook of ‘What life is Actually like’ when I was 18, and they never did. Then I thought I might get it when I was 21, didn’t show up. 25? No book. So I’ve just realised that, since I’m coming up to Thirty in just over 6 months and it isn’t showing up on Amazon, I’m going to have to write it. So That’s what I’m going to do this afternoon. I’m going to write ‘The Instruction Manual for Life and How to Live the Damn Thing by Death’s Warm Duck.’

Just as soon as I’m able to straighten up again.
And once I’ve come back from the toilet, obv.

Also, I have TWO zits.
That’s not a very good payoff, sorry.

Neither was that.

I’ll die, and then you’ll be sorry.

You must excuse my relative quietingness, I had a sudden bout of The Sicks, but they have stopped now. I was sicking dreadfully for a night and a day, but then I stopped sicking, and I no longer have the sicks. I did then get a case of The Sleeps, but that too has worn off, and now everything is well. Or weller-than-sick.

Yesterday was mainly spent under an enormous duvet, lying on the sofa, making small sorry noises and pretending that watching shopping channels really is a medically proven cure for any Ill.

I don’t know why I find them quite so comforting, but when too restless to write and too wretched to read, there’s nothing that calms me quite like QVC. The soft lilting tone of the voices, the sunset glow of the orange makeup, the boundless enthusiasm for utter rubbish that restores your faith in the power of the human spirit. I can lie here for hours, sated by selling; drinking in the detergents, the steam cleaners, the luxury ‘egypto-cotton’ duvet and curtain sets, the stretch2fit fleece nightshirts with Native American wolf design.

I think it’s the fact that they try to wish their products into your life by sweet-talking you and your wallet into submission.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, it’s Lovely, just so … special”

“Special, and also gorgeous, yes, Amber.”

“And you know what I find the most special about it? It’s the Uniqueness. It’s a special uniqueness, Garry”

“Yes, and you won’t find another one like it, either.”

And softly, their happy blandness smothers me into submission, and I nap off to Sicky-sleep thinking that everything, Everything is ok.

Buy something? No of course not, it’s fucking tat.

I used to like the incredible-falling-auction channels, but they have of late become a big swizz. That, however, is a matter for another day.

Today, I have abandoned Amber and Garry for a 4-disc Looney Tunes collection.
In front of which, I recuperate, miserably.

It’s more a case of value for money than vanity, to be honest, me and this whole weightlosingey thing.

I’ve always known that the whole ‘buying clothes without trying them on’ thing is A Flaw, and that being too scared to take things back and too lazy to sell things is A Mistake, but that doesn’t change the fact that my wardrobe overflows with clothes in the ‘Well-I-may-be-thin-enough-to-wear-them-one-day’ drawer/trunk/cupboard/room.

So the tipping point were the trousers. Was the trousers. Were the trouser. The tipping point/trousers.

Two pairs, I bought, and, getting them home, realised that I’d just spent another not-saying-how much on the world’s most expensive drawer liners. Lying down, I could fit one leg a while of the way in, while the other leg cowered quietly, backing away and pleading claustrophobia.

Lying on the floor, minutes later, I watched the trousers through a very thick film of tears as they lay there, twined together, giggling in an almost inaudibly denimmy way.

That’s it, I thought.

I’m going to get into these trousers if it kills me - how bad can it be? - they’re only a size smaller than I am now, and the jeans I have now are falling off, so it would seem to follow that with a little tiny bit of effort, I will slip into these trousers. No problem, I thought. This will be easy, I thought.

I had forgotten to take one thing into consideration.

The trousers, they hate me.

I have been regularly gymming and eating like a weight-watching winkle for several months. I can fit into a lot of other clothes that I haven’t fited into for ages, I’ve bought tops, troos and dresses of sizes I would never even have considered a couple of months ago (or if I had considered them, I would have simply picked them off the rail, bought them, and placed them carrierbagged in my wardrobe, as there wasn’t going to be any remote chance of me fitting into them any time soon. Or so I thought), in fact, I have shed so many pounds that people are almost constantly telling me how nice my hair looks.

[This is a fact that probably deserves its own post, but the fact is that when you lose weight, people don't seem to notice. Or at least, they don't know what they're noticing. They can tell *something* is different, but they don't know what. So I've been told I have great hair more times in the last few weeks than possibly ever before. The remarkable thing about this is that I have terrible hair at the moment. The fools.]

Which would all be well and good and happy happy joy joy, apart from the fact of the trousers.

I can’t. Fit. Into the trousers.

I’m beginning to think I’ll never fit into the trousers, or at least may starve to death trying. No matter how much weight I lose, how many muscles I tone, the trousers are remaining solidly, resolutely FAR TOO SMALL. And never seeming to get any more in the realm of reachable.

My theories are these:

1) Though stating their theoretical size on the label - and from a shop where I have bought many many other clothes and cannot therefore blame erroneous labelling practice - I believe these might be what are termed ‘Skinny fit‘ jeans. In which case I must say that the very idea of selling ‘Skinny fit’ cut Anything in a fat-lady department is cruel and inhuman and should be banned, like bear-baiting and the popular beat combo ‘Muse’.

2) There is a slow drip of cold water in the left hand side of my third drawer, causing shrinkage. As I can find no clear root of water, such as a pipe, I can only imagine that the cold water is coming from an ice cap, which is slowly melting. I blame Al Gore, though I’m not entirely sure why.

c) Someone - be it mischevous elves, the bullies from third year secondary, or Society - is sneaking to my bedroom at night, and changing my should-fit trousers for non-fit ones. I have been looking into some kind of technology to prevent Society from sneaking into my house at night and erarranging my drawers, but apparently any attempts I could make might officially border on Anti-Social behaviour.

4) Every time you walk though reception at the gym, the Sticks who run the place have engineered it so that moving through the turnstile applies a thin, almost imperceptible layer of doughnut to your bottom as you depart.
This ensures that your confidence will never rise too high, you will never get your goaltrousers on, and you will keep giving them money.
As a marketing strategy, it borders on genius.

v) The trousers. They hate me.

You know what? I know I’m easily annoyed, and I don’t care.

I’m generally tired, I’m generally anxious, and I have this crazy idea that I want everything to be perfect - is that too much to ask?

So no, sonny, I don’t have that much problem with the fact that I brought my darling little mother to your quite expensive establishment and you managed to bring the wrong starter - that was ok.

I don’t mind that on giving the bill and being presented with two credit cards with which to pay it you had to run away for ten minutes to find a manager and/or a calculator to work out £71.50 divided by two. That was fine too.

I do mind for some reason that you, perfectly pleasant young waiter man, spent the whole evening calling us ‘guys’.

Not guys. Apart from one of us who technically is a guy with the whole penis thing and stuff. We are, in full; 29-year-old woman, her beloved, and her little mother that she really would like to impress by taking to nice restaurant.
Not, generally then, ‘guys’.

‘Hey Guys!’

‘So what can I getcha, Guys?! One bottle of organic English wine is it? Great choice, Guys!’

‘Now, who’s tasting this wine, Guys?!’

And I don’t know why, but your over-matey, tosspot comfyism made me want to strangle you. So stop it.

A bit of background, here.

I recieved this email two days after someone I know and like very well had been outed in the media for being Fired for Blogging. Dooced.

She was everywhere. Radio, TV, Newspapers, Magazines, everyone was picking up the story of lovely Cath and her unfortunate hoisting by her erstwhile employers. For blogging. Which is why, I have to say, I was pretty surprised to recieve the following email…

Hi Anna,

Like many others, I’m a big fan of your blog, and I wonder if you could help me with a radio programme I’m trying to put together for XXXX XXXX Radio.

I’m looking for someone who’s willing to record an audio diary about their job.

You mention that you work for a newspaper website. I guess there must be stresses and strains in that job, like any other.

The point of the programme is to share your views and experiences of your everyday working life. I’m interested in with how you deal with members of the public, the colleagues who wind you up, bosses with annoying or nasty habits that get on your nerves, problems that could be easily solved to make your working life easier and ways you try to cope - I’m sure you get the general idea.

With our wonderful technical wizardry we can preserve your identity and you can use a pseudonym if you wish.

I’m in a bit of a hurry on this, so I would like to talk with you as soon as possible.

I sat and looked at it for about a minute and a half.

It summed up everything that annoys me about the perception of bloggers; you choose to have an online site where you write about yourself, therefore you must be COMPLETELY extrovert and willing to felate the mainstream media for ANY ridiculous piece-of-crap opportunity for public exposure no matter how dangerous it might prove to your life, career, your relationships, whatever - because you are a rabid self-publicist, and will take anything thrown at you.
You are percieved as not professional: so for some reason it follows that you must be desperate.

Quite apart from the fact that every media outlet available was buzzing with stories about someone who, through blogging, got themselves out of a job, I couldn’t see how anyone - particularly someone who seemed to know vaguely about my site, would think this was a logical thing to ask.

She had asked for a hurried response. So I dashed one off.

Hi [Name here]

Thanks so much for getting in touch, and for saying you like my blog - thank you, this is lovely of you. Thanks for considering me an interesting enough subject for your programme, too, that’s very flattering.

As for the actual idea - well, how about you come on to the very large and high-profile site I work for, and write us a long detailed column about how you feel about *your* job, the people that annoy you, how much you think you should be paid, instances where you feel you’ve been right and your colleagues have been hideously and completely wrong…
Tell the world (and your colleagues, though we’ll change their names if you like!) how stupid you feel they were at that point. You could also tell them that the bathroom smells after they leave it. What would be great would be if you could expose the Director of [Production Company] as a egomanic, or an imbecile or something. It’s just the kind of thing our intelligent, media-savvy readers would go for! We won’t pay you for this, but it’ll be great exposure for you, apart from the fact you’ll be anonymous, and don’t worry, if you get fired for it, we can always do a follow up story!!!

No?

Thought not.

Seriously, [Name], in a week where one of my friends has announced to the world that she got fired for mentioning her workplace obliquely, twice, in her blog, do you really, honestly think that this is NOT a stupid idea?

I do work in the media, yes, which makes me even more aware that no matter how anonymous you think this could be, weirdly, I think someone might just catch hold of it. Yes, you could change names and details or whatever, but this, as you well know, is career suicide, and I’m not sure who’s going to take you up on your offer, but they’re a moron.

Really, thanks for thinking of me, and if you’re ever producing any programmes that aren’t utterly ludicrous, please do think of me again, as I’m always keen for more radio experience. Just not at the risk of my job, reputation, and affection and respect of my friends, family and colleagues.

I’m sorry to be blunt, but though my job may not be perfect, I’m very loyal to my company. Also, it’s the only job I have, I need it, and I don’t want to lose it, thankyouverymuch, something which your programme is very, very likely to do for whoever is damn fool enough to take part in it.

Thanks again - incidentally, would you mind if I put your email up on my blog? I’ll change the name and remove any identifying features, of course: I just think that my readers would find it funny.

Have a lovely weekend.

I mean really…

Not my own copy of the Metro this morning - (I don’t take the free sheets, darlings) - but on everyone elses, the front page headline stood prominently out:

‘CLIMATE CHANGE IS FAULT OF MAN‘

While I’m not sure whether it Named this man, but I’m very glad of their incredible scoop.

I demand that we immediately discover the identity of this man so we can track him down, make him say he’s sorry, and then punch him in the knees.

That is all.

No, hang on; I will do my bit:

Come out, come out wherever you are, you bastard.
NOW that is all.

The prize spots in the womens’ gym I frequent are the pieces of apparatus that sit beneath the air conditioning vents. I hang back, waiting for someone to clear and then scoot for the machines where the air will blow over me as I notreallyrun, kinda-cycle or pseudoski my way to health, fitness and an admirable bottom.

Because for the last month my days have been all dawn-slanted, I’ve had to go gymming in the evenings, when the place fills up sweatily, Amazon women glare-tussle over favourite lockers and the whole place hums with a estrogenic determination. I can’t remember who said ‘Horses sweat, men perspire - women ‘glow’”, but it’s a barefaced lie.

So I’d forgotten what it was like in the morning. It’s quiet. I swan from high powered equipment to high powered equipment, from floor to weights, bike to treadmill, rowingthing to crossingtrainerything, from all to shower, from shower to train and from train to work.

I don’t know if it’s always been this way, but…

This morning, scooting-on-the-spot in various ways, I slowly became overpowered by the smell of fresh baking. Next door, or downstairs, or somewhere - wherever the damn air vent sucks in - they were baking bread. And doughnuts. And, from the smell of it, Pain au Chocolate.

As I exercised, the rich smell of croissant and melted chocolate ran over me, sticking to my muscles and running its slightly sticky fingers through my slightly stinky hair.

Either there really is a bakery in the vicinity of the aircon shaft, or the pouffy-haired stick on reception has a very odd idea of a joke.

If this was a joke, then let me tell you: You’re sick, Stick. Sick.

If only there was some way of making only HAPPY things plop floppily down on the doormat.

Yes, occasionally there are postcards from my little mother, or small packages from Amazon, or sometimes a cheeky appearance fee cheque for my scabby Beloved; but more usually, they are little rude notes about the PACKAGE from Amazon that was TO LARGE TO FIT THRU DOOR, or some other badly spelt inconvenience.

And you can join as many mail-preference services online and yes, fair enough, your actual posted spam-mail may stop, but all the other stuff doesn’t. Your local freesheet, plus the other local freesheet, plus the ad sheet. Fliers for the newly opened clubs youll never go to because you’re too old, and ratty looking takeaways you’ll never patronise, except in tone of voice.

This week’s favourite flier, the one that sent me flying out of the house in a foul mood and a feverish mind was the one for a local Church, advertising for new congregants. Shiny textured, well-designed, expensively printed, hand-delivered with a bundle of fliers for other services, it made me angry at organised religion all over again - just what you need at 6.38am. People should be free to believe what they believe, and good on them for it; faith brings many rewards and a great sense of peace. But churches that send money on producing advertising rather than, say, giving it to the poor or something (it’s a revolutionary thought), make me feel quite angry, and not a little dirty. Or maybe Jesus talked about single-venue evangelism through direct marketing in one of the gospels I *didn’t* read. I don’t know.

[Speaking of organised religion, how great is this paragraph:

"The Vatican last night said Pope Benedict XVI had not intended to offend when he quoted a 14th-century Christian emperor as saying the Prophet Muhammad had introduced only "evil and inhuman" ideas into the world."

Well of course. No offence intended, like. He meant it in a GOOD way. What can we all be thinking?

Granted, it may have been taken out of context and now may, well, *possibly* be blown out of proportion, but one might think that the best way of not causing offence would be to choose a different quote. Perhaps one that didn't call the Prophet 'evil and inhuman'. But then what do I know? I'm not Pope this week.]

Then there are bills, which while correctly addressed, are still a pain in the arse. And ‘Important information’ letters, which, as I have just discovered, while not addressed at all, correctly or incorrectly, can be a damn sight painfully arsier.

‘Dear Sir/Madam/Homeowner,

I would like to inform you of planned works to essential water connections in your area in the near future.

The work is planned for the 14th-15th on the corner of [the road next to us].”

They have been digging for water mains, or diamonds, or gold or something, for the last 4 weeks. Mainly they haven’t been digging at all, and the rare DUGGA DUGGA DUGGA that alerts you to the presence of real live workmen is seperated by silent days of roadworks standing like a battlefield graveyard, protecting open graves of half-life waterpipes.

Well, that and drivers swearing loudly at their inconvenience.

“During these works there will be an interruption to your water supply. Ths will occur between 23:00 hours on Thursday, and 03:00 hours on Friday.

Also during these works a moderate amount of noise inconvenience may be experienced but I assure you that all endevours will be made to keep it to a minimum.

I read the note a few times over, trying to decide whether it was meant to be funny or not.

And what their ‘endevours to keep noise to a minimum’ might be.

I imagined a foreman standing in front of a small cabal of JCB diggers, men with pneumatic drills and a medium-sized lorry going “SSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I imagined a troop of water-boardmen tip-toeing through the streets looking watchfully toward my windows, making ‘SHE SLEEPING ONNA PILLOW!’ miming gestures at each other before tip-toeing to the correct spot of workingness, muffling their giant metal hammer with a sock before SLAMMING it down on the pipes below the road. And then turning on the pneumatic stomper. And then shouting a bit.

I imagined my current slightly-over-5-hour night of sleep slipping to somewhere nearer a 1-hour one.

I imagined the grump I would spend the day in, and the fits of tears I would suddenly cry for no reason.

I scoured the letter again for a little tiny note at the bottom saying

‘haha! we kidding you!‘

but there wasn’t one there.

Last night I lay as long as my tiredness let me, waiting to be kept awake.

Good lord, I thought, as I woke the several times to worry about whether I’d be woken or not. They’re being awfully, awfully quiet. Well done THEM, I thought. Haven’t they done WELL? That foreman really is a Very Effective Cha… and then I’d fall back to sleep once more.

This morning, padding past the orange-striped standing stones of we-didn’t-do–the-water-main-work-after-all-ness, I realised. The only quiet workman is the one who hasn’t bothered to turn up.

I know when they’ll do it instead, of course.
Tomorrow morning.
6.30am.
My first lie-in in weeks.

Perhaps if I simply nailed up the letterbox, they couldn’t deliver the letters. Then none of this - none of it at all - would happen.

I’ve been reading a book about films this week, and really enjoying it - I’ve been meaning for a long time to read Easy Riders, Raging Bulls - that one about the heyday of seventies cinema, Hopper, Scorcese, Godfather blah blah blah. But I haven’t read that yet, for reasons that may become guessable as this post goes on.

The book that I am reading - and I recommend it, especially if you’re reading, Dave - is Blockbuster.

Now, I like this kind of thing because, it has been noticed (and abused in other situations) I am an unembarrassed fan of popular culture. I get bored with people not liking things just because they’re too popular - that’s snobbish, and cliquey, and stupid. There’s nothing wrong with a ‘dumb’ that entertains.

Anyway - could go on about this; won’t, far too tired, sorry (after this week life will slow down a little, I apologise for the drop in quality the last few weeks represent…) - my point is this:

I’m reading a book about Blockbuster movies. So it mentions those films and also other films. I’m really enjoying it. The almost pathetically ridiculous thing is just how many of all these films I am reading about and enjoying knowing the full backgrounds of, etc etc, that I have actually never, ever seen:

- Jaws: No
- Star Wars: Think so, once, about ten years ago.
- Close Encounters of the Third Kind: No.
- Alien: No.
- The Terminator: No.
- Raiders of the Lost Ark: Yes!
- ET: No, or not that I remember. Almost certainly not.
- Top Gun: Maybe.
- Back to the Future: Of course.
- Aliens: No.
- An Officer and a Gentleman No
- Batman: No. Don’t think so.
- Last Action Hero: No.
- Terminator 2: Nuh-uh.
- Jurassic Park: Yes.
- The Empire something? A Star War: Yes.
- Independence Day: Yes.
- Titanic: Those are three hours I can never get back.
- That Other Star Wars Film with the Teddybears: No.
- Godzilla: Um. Yes. Three times. I have my reasons.
- Indiana Jones and the Annoying Kid: Yes.
- Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade: Hell yes.
- Star Wars Episode One: with the Talking Hammerhead Rastashark: Maybe.
- Lord of the Rings: Yes. But late at night in a quiet house with no remote control. I didn’t want to have it up loud, because the loud bits were very loud, and there were no bloody subtitles (BOO HISS) so had it a reasonably quiet level, which meant the quiet bits (most of the rest of it) were almost silent. I’m not sure if we can count that as watching, really. I watched some funny looking short people, running around in sacks and circles for three hours. I may as well have visited the local Primary School sports day.

I mean, it’s not because i don’t like movies - I just don’t happen to like jumpy movies. I really don’t like them - and somehow, that extends from traditionally scary films into action (seriously. I wept with terror at Snakes on the Plane the other week).

But then, even where I say ‘watched’, you have to bear in mind that a fair number of them I actually read books, papers or otherwised multitasked through.
Because of all of those movies, there’s only one I can think of that I saw in the cinema.
And I saw it in the cinema three times.

Look.
It was small-town California, one long semester, we were under twenty-one, had nothing better to do, and had a bet on how many product placements there were in the film, alright? Who WOULDN’T go and see Godzilla repeatedly under the circumstances?

Oh shut up.

…And of course the other news of the weekend (sorry. the weekend was a long time ago but this is, quite literally, the first chance I’ve had to do this since Monday) The OTHER big news of the weekend was the lottery.

I didn’t win it.

For, like, the fifty thousandth consecutive or historical occasion.

My powers of non-winningship must be, I think, the most dependable thing in the history of betting. I’m rubbish. If playing the lottery is a skill, then it’s one I haven’t got. If luck is inherited then sorry, I got the family nose instead. (I didn’t, as it happens. I don’t know whose nose I’ve got, but it’s not a family one. They’ve all got MUCH nicer noses than me, and if whomever DOES lay claim to it wants it back, they are most welcome)
All in all, if playing the lottery is a game of chance, I haven’t got one. Chance, that is.

Playing the lottery, I understand, is a mug’s game. The statistics have been read out to me, loudly, and in several different accents and still, still, it makes no difference. For why? Because A) it’s the only way I can think of that we’ll ever, ever, ever be able to afford to buy a house and B) I have NEVER won. Ever. Anything.

I’ve never won. Not a tenner, or a rubbishy little prize, or perhaps one hundred shiny English pounds or fifty slightly less shiny English pounds or five slightly gruby ones. I’ve never won a bean,nor a button. I’ve never won a winkle. I ain’t never won Nuffink, guvnor. NAAATHEEENG.

And so my thinking is this:

The longer I go on winning Absolutely Fuck All, the more chance there is of me one of these days suddenly landing an awfully large jackpot all at once. Wham Bam, one Saturday. Thank you very much, howsyourfather, bif baf boff, there’s a bunch of million squids for you, Anna Pickard.

Because surely it can’t be possible to be unlucky - surely just like people complain of the ‘Lucky’ running out, surely the ‘Unlucky’ is equally finite. No?

Yes, I know that’s what they want me to think.
Yes, I know I’ve just jinxed it by speaking it out loud.
Yes, I know I’m a mug.

I don’t care.
One of these days.

One of these days.

One of these days my unluck’s going to run out, and then you’ll all giggle on the other side of your nonlotterwinning gobboles.

Mwa ha ha ha ha ha hI’m… really over-tired, sorry.

· Several small bruises, inside of left thigh
Not as exciting as it sounds, these are from the fact that I have been carrying someone elses laptop around in a bag that is not meant for it, and which hangs in the wrong place and bonks me in the leg.

· Mouth ulcer, lower right inside lip
I’ve tried ignoring it, I’ve tried poking it, I’ve tried rubbing Vegemite on it and everything. But nothing seems to work.

· Bruise, upper left arm
No idea.

· Bruise, back right calf
No idea.

· Bruise, lower right arm
No idea. Don’t worry, it’s been this way all my life. And I actually don’t know. It’s not even as if I had the pleasure of being drunk to not remember. I just Don’t Know. Looking like a purple dalmation would be so much more fun if I got to be mildly alcoholic too.

· Bruise, hand
Ooooh! I know this one! Russian biro roulette.

· Very Hurty Ears. Scaly, some might say.
You’d think that I could remember from one hair-dying session to the next that I’m allergic to certain types of hair dye, but no, no, I don’t. And the ears are the first to suffer. Won’t someone please think of the ears, etc.

· Headache
Well, on and off. It’s only because I take my glasses home for the weekend and then forget to put them on on Mondays.

· Muscles
Because stretching is for pussies.
I thought.

· My EARS
You know when people say ‘my ears are burning’? Well, when they say that, they mean this. So Either everybody I’ve ever met and 40,500 people I haven’t yet are all talking about me, all at once, right now, or I should make a note somewhere about that damn hair dye.

· Bruise, hip
No idea.
Jeez.

And why am I telling you this?
Because my poor beloved has got a horrible hurty disease, and I am trying to claw some scrapings of attention back from the world, because I am a small child, and the world’s worst nursemaid.

Although I do qquite like the word ’shingles’.
Baby, how is your shingles?
Yes, he has shingles.
Do your shingles hurt awfully?
Have you had shingles?
He is quarantined due to shingles.
Gosh, look at that shingles. Those shingles. Those shings. Oh whatever, I’m bored, what time is it, let’s go out, ow, who put that coffee table there, what’s on telly?

Because it has to be done every now and again. Today:

“Why do chickens have no knees?”

Which is a very good question, and also might explain why it’s often said that they give very poor blow jobs.

Or at least that’s what I’ve heard, anyway.

Elbow in my ribs, the man in the seat next to me picked up his phone. Short, businesslike and unremarkable, he recieved the call in a fittingly short, businesslike and mumbling fashion. “Shnugnogfrink?” he said (I think). And then he said ‘mmmm’.

And then there was a pause, for twenty seconds or so. And then he said ‘Mm.’

I stared out of the window. The day had been explosive and stinky, but now the Thames was rolling slowly and gracefully under the bridge, under the train, under me, and under the man who sat with the plastic shell stuck to the side of his face and said, again, after a pause, ‘Mmmm’.

‘Mmmm” … “Mm … mhm.’

It wasn’t an intruiged mm. It wasn’t a sexy mm. Or an amused mm. It was just ‘mm’. Or ‘mhm’. or ‘mmmf’. Slightly bored, slightly off hand, definitely an ‘I’m listening’ mm. Just an ‘Mm’. He said ‘Mm’.

I searched through my bag for chewing gum. and just as I found it, he said it again.

“Mmm”.

And only every ten, fifteen seconds. And always with a pause so long you felt absolutely sure he was going to say something this time. And then he would. He would say ‘Mm’.

There’s a stretch of track that drives me mad every day, on the way in, and on the way back. It only seems about 500 metres between two London stations, yet it takes over nine minutes, as the train ker-chunk-ker-chunks at more than leisurely pace, blithely uncaring of the schedules, tempers or mental health of the bacteria that infest its innards. This journey the eight minutes passed in an ever-increasing drone of on-and-off-mmm’s.

“Mmm”

What on EARTH was the other end of this conversation?! Was he a hitman, receiving his orders? Was he a husband, receiving his nag? Perhaps his mother had never got out of the habit of reading to him every night, and…

“Mmm”

… and she rang him at the same time each evening to carry on with the next chapter of ‘Pippi Longstocking’ because without it, she knows he will not sleep, and so… He speaks again.

“Da, da. … Mmmm”

It is not his mother! It is his everloving dad reading the story! Ah, it is good to see hands-on man-parenting, even into the fortieth year, and, no, well, now I think of it, perhaps that ‘da, da’ was a little more Eastern Bloc than filial affection. So he’s Russian. And a Spy. And that phone will self-destruct in five

“Mmmm”.

I’m trying not to laugh. If he doesn’t actually say anything other than ‘yes’ and ‘mmm’ soon, I’m going to completely lose it. It’s not that I care what he’s saying, it’s just that I’m desperate to know what the hell kind of conversation can progress with twenty-five seconds pauses and the occasional

“Mmm”.

I coughed to cover my giggle. My slightly wetbynow eyes met the woman in the seat opposite, who was looking as bemused by the conversation as I was. We locked eyes for a second. Fought the temptation to laugh together, as swept our glances to the window and to handbag, knowing that one snuffle would be the end of it all.

“Mmmmm.

Mmmhm.

Mm.

Distinigsnogta. Sloshnighty. Rumpsomeski. Fnar.”

And he put the phone down.