and it ain't not proving that me mind ain't moving....

There was a funny crowd out in town on Saturday night. I wasn't stopping for long, and was just having a quick meal after the cinema before heading home... but it was long enough to see that the makeup of the crowd was a lot older and more male than usual. It took me a minute or two to realise, as I walked up the Lace Market, that Carl Froch was defending his Super-Middleweight crown at the Nottingham Arena later that same night, and that the people milling about were likely boxing fans whiling away their early evening before the start of the under-card. If anything, this had a calming effect on the city centre, with pubs filled with crowds of people having a quiet drink as a prelude to the main event of their night, instead of crowds of people moving between pubs and well on the way to oblivion.

We ate in the Cock & Hoop, a relatively quiet pub that serves excellent food and probably isn't really a stop on most people's pub crawls. Dinner was good, but what really caught my eye was the group of ladies who were gathering in the main seating area where we were eating. At first I took them to be the other halves of some boxing fans; they were a little bit older than your average hen party, and they were clearly having a fairly quiet drink rather than slinging back the Bacardi Breezers. After a bit, I noticed that they were all wearing some kind of a uniform. As one of the ladies turned her back to me, I got a good chance to have a look at the large logo on the back of her fleece. There was a large picture of a star, a website address and the company name:

Central England Paranormal Investigators.

I looked them up when I got home, and apparently they were having some kind of a "do" at the Galleries of Justice, just opposite the pub. If you've seen "Most Haunted", then you probably know the drill: set up loads of infra-red cameras and thermometers and stuff, and spend the night giving your paying customers the heebie-jeebies in a really creepy old jailhouse in the wee-small hours of the morning. A quick scan of their website reveals that they guys I was looking at in the pub were the core team who would be leading the night's investigations. Now, I personally don't really believe in all that stuff. It's not so much that I don't think there's anything else out there, but rather that I'm prone to be a bit sceptical of someone selling their services as a psychic or a spirit medium. I'm open-minded though, and I'm sure these guys are really good at what they do and that their clients have a really interesting night out..... but the thing is, I'm not sure if I would really trust in the expertise of someone who had put a six-pointed star as the focal point of their logo. Everybody knows that the pentagram is associated with magic and the occult, but surely most people also know that a pentagram has five points. The clue's in the name. These guys had a six-pointed star - a hexagram - on their backs. The Star of David. Um. Doesn't that mean something completely different?



We had a good laugh about it on the way home, anyway. Can you imagine summoning a demon and thinking you're protected by the symbols you've drawn on the floor inside a chalk circle... only to discover that the six-pointed star you've drawn protects you rather less well than the pentagram you thought you'd drawn? You'd be a laughing stock in all of the circles of hell.

Or perhaps I should try not be such a smartarse - a quick glance at wikipedia tells me that the hexagram (not necessarily the same thing as a Star of David, apparently) is commonly used both as a talisman and for conjuring spirits in the practice of witchcraft.

Ah.

That being true, then I am forced to admit that those people I'd been quietly laughing at might well be right. Anyway, it definitely means that I was wrong to infer from the logo alone that they must be idiots. Just because I didn't know the hexagram's associations with the occult, doesn't mean that no one else does, and it certainly doesn't mean that they made a mistake.

*does more research*

Ah, but then again, they were using the "Star of David" form of hexagram - two overlaid triangles - rather than the Unicursal hexagram, which is drawn in one continuous line and is more commonly associated with the occult....



So they could have known of the hexagram's associations with the occult but chosen the wrong form of hexagram for their logos, or they could simply have mistaken the hexagram for the a pentagram. Or I could be wrong.

Or I could be thinking about this too much.

......Actually, don't answer that.

and you've got the face on....

When I was about eight years old, we did a test in our biology class to see how many of us could roll our tongues - apparently it's a genetic thing, and not something that everybody can do. I couldn't do it. About half of the class could do it, but I wasn't one of them, no matter how hard I tried.

For some reason, when I was a teenager, I tried again. This time it worked. Now, the ability to roll your tongue is not really anything much to write home about, and it doesn't really have much practical use, but I still felt elated by this. I'm not sure that my late development in the field of tongue rolling exactly disproves the genetic theory (unless I'm a member of the X-Men with an especially rubbish mutant power... take that Magneto!), but it gave me a bit of a kick to suddenly discover that I could actually do something I had assumed would forever be out of my grasp.

I've always been able to wiggle my nose. I don't know how I do it, but I can make the damn thing twitch like a rabbit. Again, it's not a skill with any great application, but it does seem to make people laugh, and was always a good secret weapon to be able to unleash in any staring contests I happened to find myself in.

A little while after discovering that I could roll my tongue, I discovered that I could raise each of my eyebrows individually. Finally! A talent with a practical application, and one that opened up a whole new world of sardonic facial expressions. Looking back, it was probably a discovery that played a critical role in the formation of my personality in those teenage years. This was a skill that required a little practice to master, but it felt like an investment worth making, and I'm still collecting the dividends today with every barely discernable and yet unmistakeably sarcastic flicker of disbelief I make in tedious meetings at work.

I thought that perhaps that would be it. After all, I had been amply gifted already with a tongue I could roll, a nose I could twitch and eyebrows I could arch independently. What more could I possibly ask for?

Well, just last week I discovered that I could wiggle my ears.

Will this never end? Are there other, still greater talents awaiting my discovery?

Much more of this and I'll be considering an entry into Britain's Got Talent.....



[a loud klaxon sounds]

between the nose and upper lip.....

Movember...because so many inspirations have 'taches, and because it's an excellent cause.

So.... for the love of Merv, Goochie, Magnum PI, Boonie, Iron Bottom and the rest.... you can donate here.

I actually haven't shaved since Friday, but I'm promising nothing (although it's surely a lot less effort than writing a 50,000 word novella).

**UPDATE**

C has just pledged £100 if I go through with this... so I might be giving it a go after all.

homeward bound....

As I was sat in traffic the other day, I glanced across at the truck alongside me, and to help pass the idle time, I read what was emblazoned on the side. It's not that I was expecting it to be particularly interesting, it's more that I had time on my hands and felt that it was likely to be more interesting than continuing to study the numberplate of the car just in front.

It was a haulage company. No real surprises there. I read on, perhaps not eagerly, but I read on nonetheless. It was a haulage firm from Barnstaple, North Devonshire. Now, my father's family are from Plymouth, so I happened to know that Barnstaple was in Devon. I didn't actually know that Barnstaple was in North Devon. If I'd had to guess, then I think that's what I would have plumped for, but it would still have been a guess. It seems my gamble in reading the side of the lorry was paying off and I'd now learned something for my troubles.

I read on.

Except that was it. The name of the haulage company and the fact that it was based in North Devonshire. Perhaps it's just me, but I was expecting more. Hell, now I'd started reading, I felt a little bit cheated that there wasn't more. In the unlikely event that I wanted to find this haulage company, what the hell was I supposed to do? Follow the truck and hope it was going home? Is it too much to expect a phone number or something? Is a website really out of the question? Do you even want my theoretical business?

And North Devonshire? What's that all about? If I didn't know where Barnstaple was, is telling me that it's in North Devonshire as opposed to any other part of Devon really that helpful? Are the people of Barnstaple able to get into a taxi, anywhere in Europe, give their address as "North Devonshire" and have a trouble-free journey directly to their doorsteps? Perhaps there's some kind of regional pride here that I'm not aware of, and the people of North Devon are desperate not to be associated with any other part of their county?

"Where are you from then?"
"Ah, I'm from Barnstaple"
"Oh yes, is that in South Devon?"
"FUCK OFF!"

etc.

Do the people of Central Devonshire make an advertisement of the fact, or do they prefer to think of themselves as being Southern North Devonshire? Or Northern South Devonshire? Are there rules here? Do the local councils have to issue guidelines, or is this something you are born knowing?

And then the traffic cleared up and I drove home.

Well, it passed the time alright, but what about all those unanswered questions?

let's talk about sex....

I received a brilliant email yesterday. It looked as though it had been addressed to me personally, but I imagine it's been sent to hundreds if not thousands of people. Hell, you might have it. You should check your inbox -- it's definitely worth a look.

It's from someone glorying in the name of Dr. Tuppy Owens, and it's a press release for the "Erotic Awards Showcase & Ball".

Sounds promising already, right? And that's even before you get to the quote from Grayson Perry saying that the event is “The Glastonbury of sex – these are the good people in a gloriously mucky Business". Wow. Grayson Perry, Turner Prize winning artist and cross-dresser said that? Maybe this is worth a closer look, eh?

Well, a quick perusal of the press release reveals that:

"Fundraising The Night of the Senses (now in it's 22nd year) and the Erotic Awards are the main fundraisers for the Outsiders Trust, a charity set up by Dr Tuppy Owens in 1979 for disabled people to enjoy sexual pleasure and form relationships."

Cool. Apparently, "The night begins with the announcement of the winners, who are presented with Golden Flying Penis Trophies which have been hand carved in Bali."

Hand carved Golden Flying Penis Trophies from Bali? Sounds brilliant. Apparently the award ceremony is then followed by the performances onstage: "fashion shows, performance art and striptease, a hot show that warms up our guests so they spill out merrily into the maze of pleasure palaces. Every taste is catered for: the Sensuality Chamber where couples make love serenaded by musicians, the Roissy Dungeon, the Infinity Dome, Golden Pond, Massage Garden, Boys' Back Room, Women's Womb, Café Shebeen and Grope Box."

My absolute favourite bit though is the announcement of the guests. Amongst the various artists, academics and international film makers, we have:

"Sue Newsome, Tantric sex worker from the West Country"

I don't know where to begin with that, really: the distractingly normal-sounding name that could (and perhaps does) belong to a jam-making pillar of the community; the fact that she's not just a sex worker, but a tantric sex worker; the fact that she's from that infamous den of iniquity in the West Country.....

This looks real enough, but I don't really know if this has been sent to me genuinely (but a little mystifyingly) as a press release or if it's simply a mailing that my spam filter has missed.... what I do know is that it made me smile and it's a whole lot better than the vast majority of the crap that I get sent offering me "v1agr@", or promising an appendage that "even lions will fear" or asking me to enter the personal security details for a bank I don't even have any accounts with.

If it's real, then I salute you and the cause you are upholding. If anyone reading this is interested in finding out more, then they should check out (at their own risk and presumably NSFW):

www.nightofthesenses.com
www.erotic-awards.co.uk (check out some of the acts in their showcase)
www.outsiders.org.uk
http://blog.nightofthesenses.org/

and apparently they have a presence on Facebook and MySpace.

A quick look at the websites and it looks like a proper event to me, and the more I think about it, the more pleased I am that it exists. Good luck to them. I'd buy a kiss off Mat Fraser, wouldn't you?

....I am curious about Sue Newsome, Tantric Sex Worker from the West Country though. I can't get her out of my head. She sounds like fun.

wake up....

Finishing your exams at University is an amazing feeling. All that pressure and the weight of expectation is suddenly lifted from your shoulders. All of those long hours in the library desperately cramming in information can be consigned to the past. There are still results to come, but just for the moment they feel a long way in the future. Right now, the whole summer is stretching out in front of you and you can finally start to relax with your friends before the end of term, and perhaps the end of your University career.

I think it's entirely understandable that, in these circumstances, you should go out and have a blow out. After all, you probably need to let off some steam to work the last vestiges of stress out of your system. The exams are in the past and the anticipation of things to come can wait until tomorrow. Now is the time to live absolutely in the present.

Enjoy yourself. You've earned it.

One thing though.

It would perhaps be better if you could manage to restrain yourself from spilling out onto the quiet residential street where you live at 4am in the morning to conduct loud, drunken conversations in the dead quiet of the suburban dawn. Tomorrow may be the start of a brighter future for you, but for lots of other people living here, tomorrow is just another working Wednesday with only tedious commutes and even more tedious meetings to look forward to. A whisper at this time of the morning can carry a long way, and a noisy blackbird can keep people awake, nevermind a bunch of shouting, leery students.

Many of us living here were students too though - it's that kind of a neighbourhood - so we do understand what it's like to finish exams and we also understand the urge to blow off some steam. Hell, we're probably more than a bit jealous of you, truth be told. That's why no one was too angry at you for waking up the whole street this morning, and only that one chap stuck his head out of the window and asked you if you minded popping inside. If I'm honest, I'm not sure there was any real need to call him a "wanker" before proceeding to make just a little bit more noise before finally taking your shouted conversations indoors.

So although I rejoice on your behalf that exam-time is now over, when I drove past your - now silent - house this morning, you've no idea how tempted I was to stop and make damn sure that I disturbed your beauty sleep before I went into work to see how you liked it. A few loud honks of the horn, maybe. Some banging on the door, perhaps. A short, sharp clubbing to the sides of your selfish heads with a broken brick....

But, as I say, I remember what it was like. I understand. I kept driving.

Just don't do it again tonight.

I'm tired and I might snap.

back at the house a bottle is found....

Right. Well this little problem has been nagging away at me now for more than a month, so I'm going to admit defeat and throw it open to the floor. Maybe you can help me.

When we were in Austria a few weeks ago, we paid a visit to the Ottakringer brewery shop. It so happened that we were in the neighbourhood where Vienna's most famous beer was made, so we decided to have a quick look see. Amongst the many different varieties of beer, they had a few bits of merchandise. Amongst all of the t-shirts, fleeces, tea trays, umbrellas and the like, I spotted a key ring. I did need a new one, and it seemed pretty cheap - so I bought it.



But here's the thing, it appears to have three functions. The first two I can work out for myself without any great difficulty.

-> thing to attach keys to to make them harder to lose

-> handy bottle opener

Great. Those two things were the main reason I bought it.

But what's the other bit for? That bit on the top, just above the hooked bit, where a little groove has been cut into the metal. It is clearly there by design, but I'm blowed if I can work out what it has been designed to do.

Peter and I studied it closely over a Wurst and a beer at a street stand later on that same afternoon. Perhaps it was for opening cans?

We tried it.

Nope. Useless.

Perhaps for removing the foil from bottles of wine?

Nah. Too blunt and not exactly fit for purpose.

Opening letters?

Why the hell would you attach that to a key ring? Couldn't you just use a key?

I wouldn't say that this was occupying a whole lot of brain space, but it has been gnawing away at me for weeks.

What the bloody hell could it be for?

Any suggestions?

I want to give you children...

I met up with an old friend of mine the other day. Whilst chewing the cud about this and that in the pub, he suddenly looked at me, put on a glum face and said:

"Lisa wants to get a cat"

"Right. And that's bad is it?"

"I don't like cats"

I shrugged. "So don't get a cat then"

He pulled a face. "She says it's either a cat or a baby".

Oh. I see his problem. It's catch-22: she's not offering him a real choice at all. When she says it's a cat or a baby, what she really means is that it's a cat then a baby. Either way, there's bound to be a baby involved at some point - it's just a matter of time.

I don't really see how he can win this one. It's a double-bind.

He can stall for time, I suppose, but if he *really* doesn't like cats then he simply has to bite the bullet and get on with the other option.

...or he can run as far and as fast as his legs will carry him. And even then, Lisa's pretty sporty, and I rather suspect that she can run both further and faster than him, and he knows it, so he's back to square one. He can run, but he can't hide.

No wonder he's looking a bit glum.

everything's for sale.....

I occasionally get emails from people wanting to buy advertising on this blog. No, I don't know why either really. Let's be honest: it's not as though the likes of Endsleigh Insurance are really going to drive much click-through traffic from you lot, is it? Nor is £500 enough money for me to put adverts up (just so you know). I had a slightly different approach from Stella Artois the other week, who sent me an email with some very specific comments about my blog and an invitation to go and visit some film website or other they were launching in return for a pile of free stuff. I'm not really sure what they were hoping to gain by inviting me on board, but I actually thought about that one, being as they'd clearly done some reading here and all, but in the end I simply couldn't be arsed.

I was trawling the spam folder on my email today though, and I found an email with the heading "WILL THE CHRISTMAS NUMBER 1 BE AN EARWORM?". Hello, I thought, what on earth is this?

---

Dear Swiss Toni,

I notice you suffer from the occasional earworm or two! Thought you might be interested in the following and at least put them to good use!!!

WILL THE CHRISTMAS NUMBER 1 BE AN EARWORM?

Jingles on the brain help language-learning stick

‘Tis the season when you find Christmas songs stuck in your brain – if only it was that easy to remember Italian or Spanish words when you need them!

But it is, with XXXXXXXXX [product name removed to avoid free advertising] you can give the gift of language to someone planning to catch some winter sun, take to the ski slopes or even stay at home struggling with their GCSE revision.

Our researchers estimate that many of the best selling Christmas number ones are in fact ‘earworms’ - songs that have sound patterns that are indelibly burned into your auditory cortex. Just try saying the following out loud and immediately most pop-pickers over the age of 20 would be able to give you a rendition.

* Return to Sender – Elvis Presley 1962
* Long haired lover from Liverpool – Jimmy Osmond 1972
* Merry Xmas Everybody – Slade 1973
* Don’t you want me – Human League 1981
* Do they know it’s Christmas – Band Aid 1984
* Can we fix it – Bob the Builder 2000

The elves from Earworms have captured this magic, incorporating something useful, so you can say ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?’ in the sort of French accent that gets results. Languages for the most popular holiday destinations are included in the ‘Rapid’ series including Italian, French, Spanish, Greek, German, and Portuguese and even Mandarin, Russian and Japanese.

Volume 1 covers all the essentials such as polite phrases, ordering a drink, at the restaurant, hotel, dealing with problems etc. Volume 2 will have you talking about yourself and others, likes and dislikes and general conversational items (even flirting). Using the lexical approach, by breaking vocabulary into ‘chunks’ and then reconstructing them, you can mix and match phrases to create natural conversations.

Earworms is unique in that it’s effortless – just play the CD in the car, at the gym, or as a download on your MP3 player while jogging, and after a few repetitions key words and phrases and are embedded in your mind, ready for instant recall when required.

The idea is not new. Song and verse have always been a powerful memory aid - from the Aborigines ‘Songlines’ to the advertising industry slogans – Earworms taps into this subconscious brain function to make learning spontaneous.

Music puts listeners into the ‘alpha state’ of relaxed alertness, which is ideal for learning and Earworms exploits this by using simple techniques which open up more of the brain's native power, making language learning fun and rewarding even to people that struggled in the past to learn languages.

Available from high street bookshops, major Post Offices, Amazon etc. etc. etc.

---

Well, full marks for effort, anyway.

Sheesh.

Do I look like I'm for sale?

(all offers to the email address in my profile)

of recklessness and water....

I know there are probably worse things going on in the world and everything, but in my comfortable middle-class world, the clearest demonstration of man's continuing inhumanity to man is to be found in the swimming pool.....

There are only so many lanes in a swimming pool, and there are often lots of people wanting to go for a swim at the same time. If we all want to swim - and we do - then we are forced to share. If we want to swim, we must coexist with our fellow swimmers, sometimes crammed many to a lane.

In a harmonious world, a world where people gave a damn about their fellow man, this would not present any issues. Every swimmer would have an instinctive understanding of the space that their fellow swimmers required and would show some simple consideration: faster swimmers would be allowed to pass at each end, and slower swimmers would pause to let the quicker swimmers through. Nobody would have to feel rushed, or frustrated or angry.

Everything would be just peachy.

But we don't live in a world like that. We live in a world where, if they think of anyone or anything at all, people think of themselves. We live in a world where a swimmer will think nothing of pausing for breath at the end of a length, putting their arms behind them and generally taking it easy as the person behind them swims towards them. Their only concern at this time will be that they kick off for their next length at the last possible moment before the other swimmer arrives. It doesn't matter to them that they swim considerably slower than their fellow in the lane; it doesn't matter to them that they also did this at the other end of the pool too, that the other swimmer was forced to wait for half a length to give them enough room to kick off, and will now be forced to wait another half a length before kicking off. Hell no, the important thing here is that this person has the best possible swim that they can. To hell with anyone else.

If we can't coexist in a swimming pool, what damn chance do we have anywhere else?

---

Creepy boss update: C. had a meeting with the new boss and a number of other people today. C's current director was sitting between them, but new boss kept leaning behind his back to wink at C. during the meeting.... about 8 times in all.

I think the new boss likes C, but it's kind of hard to know for sure, isn't it?

a splendid time is guaranteed for all....

I went out running on my normal route on Sunday evening: up towards Wilford, hook back across the playing fields towards the river, and then across the Toll Bridge, along the Embankment up to Trent Bridge and then head back for home. About four miles in all.

Somewhere on this route, somewhere along Wilford Lane, I run past a Social Club. I have no idea what this club is or what you have to do to become a member. The only thing that I do know about this club is that - according to the sign that is always up just outside their driveway - it holds some sort of auction on a Monday night.

Normally I pay it no mind and just carry on past. Yesterday evening though, something caught my eye: there was a new poster stuck over the auction sign. It was a lurid fluorescent yellow, and written on it in bold, black letters was the following message:

TO-NIGHT!

THE TALANTED CHRIS AUSTIN!

8PM!

As I ran past, I couldn't get this message out of my mind. Who was this Chris Austin? What was his special talant? Would to-night be my only opportunity to find out?

I was almost tempted.

But then I remembered I was a spelling and grammar nazi and I kept running.

tuesday's grey and wednesday too

I have spent all day today thinking that it was Wednesday.

I'm sure that somewhere in the rational part of my brain (assuming that there is one) I knew exactly what day it was: I still managed to turn up to all the right meetings and I even remembered my appointment this evening at the osteopath... but for some reason, today has just felt like a Wednesday.

Finding out that it was in fact only a Tuesday was something of an unpleasant surprise.

Don't you just hate it when that happens?

I bet my whole week is out of sync now.

Grr.

kick off your sunday shoes....

What is it about men and flip-flops?

I'm not a massive fan of flip-flops generally, to be honest. I can see how they're practical when you are in the showers at the gym or on the beach or something, but beyond that I haven't really got any use for them.

So why have men started wearing them around town? Perhaps it's just Nottingham, but I see it all the time: guys wandering around town with over-sized sunglasses, gelled hair, fitted t-shirts, designer jeans and wearing flip-flops.

Why?

It's not as though Nottingham is the sunniest city in the world or anything, but the weather doesn't seem to make a jot of difference. It can be pissing with rain and still you see these people, flaunting their dirty feet to the world.

I just don't get it.

They're not that comfortable, they're not that practical and -- let's be honest -- most men simply don't have feet that should be seen in public.

Is this the modern metrosexual male in action?

If so, I'm simply not having it.

David Beckham has got a lot to answer for.

radioactivity is in the air for you and me....

It seems that there in an ongoing debate about the safety of wireless networks.

There is some concern that exposure to all of this non-ionising radiation can damage our chromosomes or DNA or something. There's a Panorama on it and everything, and it was all over the news when I was listening to the radio this morning.

Here's the thing though: the levels of radiation emitted by wireless networks are 600 times less than the Government's recommended safety limits. Not 6 times less. Not 60 times less. 600 times less. The radiation emitted by a microwave oven is 100,000 times more potent. You could sit in a WiFi hotspot for a whole year and you would only absorb as much radiation as you do in a 20 minute call on a mobile phone.

Is it just me, or should they just revise the guidelines or just shut up?

Honestly, haven't we got more pressing things to be worrying about? Global warming, perhaps? War? Famine? Natural disasters? Man's continuing inhumanity to man? The identity of the next Joseph on the West End stage...?

Then again, they used to think that smoking might help clear up persistent coughs and that mercury was good for stiffening hats*.... so I suppose you can't be too careful eh?

*I suppose that technically mercury actually was good at stiffening hats, it just wasn't such a great idea for the hatters**.

** well, I suppose that from a business point of view the hatters probably thought it was a great idea.... who wants a limp hat?

and the pain was enough to make a shy, bald buddhist reflect and plan a mass murder....

---
Wow. I seem to have talked about a whole lot of different things this week. Are you ready for another sudden shift in direction?

Okay. Let’s go!

I used to pick my nails. I wasn’t ever really a biter, but I used to tear at them until I was right down to the quick. The problem is that I simply have no tolerance for long nails. Well, I say that, but I don’t mind them in other people. I just hate them on me. As soon as my fingernails reach a certain length, they really start to annoy me and I simply have to deal with them. In the old days, this meant either savaging them with a pair of blunt scissors or picking at them manually, and as a consequence, my fingers were always sore; I had those nasty little snags in the the corners where the nail joins the skin that always seem to hurt disproportionally to the size of the wound.

The solution in the end was quite simple: I bought a nail file. Whenever my nails started to bother me, I filed them down.

Simple, huh?

Just occasionally though, I lapse: I find myself somewhere that I don’t have access to a nail file, and I just can't seem to stop picking any irritating long nails down. Today was one of those days: one of my thumbnails caught my eye. Far too long. I picked it and worried it until I had shortened it. It looked deceptively neat though, so I was actually feeling quite pleased with myself….

…and then I peeled an orange.

As the citric acid leached under the nail and onto some of the exposed delicate bits underneath, I nearly screamed. I swore right then that I really would get round to keeping a nail file at my desk.

Oh good grief. Would you listen to me? Why stop at a nail file at my desk? Perhaps I should just cave in to the inevitable and buy myself a little bag that I can carry with me at all times? I could keep loads of useful things in there that I might need at any moment. A hairbrush is out, obviously, but how about a nail file and some moisturiser… perhaps I could also pop my wallet, my keys and my phone in there? That would improve the hang of my trousers no end….

**sigh**

I still haven’t worked out a satisfactory approach for toenails either.

Answers on a postcard.

Actually, don’t bother. I’ll manage.