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Pampered footballer's injury 2: this time it's personal

So I've broken my foot again. Oh no! you gasp. And this has been confirmed through the medium of proper specialists and scans in actual hospitals? Ahm, no... because I can't get in to see anyone. My foot started hurting at the start of October just after I came back from Spain (last time I broke my foot, I had also just come back from Spain at the start of October. I am starting to think this is not coincidence) and it's morphed into a very familiar sensation. A kind of pressure at the top of my foot, in the centre towards, but not at, the toes; it throbs sometimes when the foot's at rest, and even though I've been careful to walk on the side it's starting to hurt. This week I have developed a rather interesting limp.

I went for an x-ray a couple of weeks ago, but it didn't show anything (stupid stress fractures and their taking 3-4 weeks to show up). What I need is an MRI, but I don't have private health insurance any more because I'm freelance. Actually, no, scrap that. I don't need an MRI: my doctor knows I've broken my foot. I know I've broken my foot. What I need is treatment.

On Monday I finally got an appointment to see my regular GP. He decided to refer me straight away rather than faffing with a second x-ray, so I got to have my first experience with NHS Choose and Book. It was not, shall we say, good. I have three options - I can go to Beckenham (I'm not even sure where Beckenham is), Lewisham or Guy's. The theory is that you call the Choose and Book number, or go on their website, compare the appointments available and make one that suits you.

Except Lewisham and Guy's aren't on Choose and Book, so I had to call them all separately and compare their earliest possible appointments.

In addition, because the break isn't urgent (read: I am not dying and can still walk), my referral is "routine" (there seems to be no grey area between 'OMG it's an emergency' and 'there's a little niggle I need to have vaguely checked out'). So, after calling three individual hospitals, the earliest date I could get was the end of the month.

A month! I felt like the moment in Peep Show where Jez screams in his head "I've been to fucking Hastings!" only in my case it's more "I've got a broken foot! (In Kent!)". The nice bloke at Lewisham felt my rising panic and suggested I go back to my GP, come out of Choose and Book hell, and try a referral direct to the Lewisham fracture clinic instead; apparently it's faster.

Well, thank god for my middle class sense of entitlement. Were I older, younger, less annoying, less informed, more accepting, I'd be spending November growing increasingly housebound and trying to work out how to get to Beckenham. Somebody needs to do a PhD properly comparing this system and seeing if it does, statistically, discriminate against people from lower income / education / class backgrounds. Oh, hang on...

I have no real idea when this appointment at the fracture clinic will be. However, I have a pretty good notion that when I do, eventually, get seen, I'm likely to be pushed down the route of getting a plaster cast (because it's cheaper). This is not an option: a) I'd quite like to be able to make dinner without having to use crutches to hop between the cooker and the sink b) I'd quite like to able to have showers and stuff and c) I'm not 9, at school and eager to have something for people to sign. What I want is another boot like I had before, and I imagine I'll have to pay for it.

So fuck it. If I know what's wrong, I know what can treat it, and it's possible to get that treatment using my middle class money from outside the medical system, I might as well go ahead. Tomorrow I'm nipping out to Marylebone to pick one up. As of tomorrow... robo-boot returns.

It's taking my principles in exchange, but sometimes a girl's gotta do what a... tattered metatarsal is begging her to do. Because even though we love the NHS, we occasionally experience the mild frustration of battering one's head against a brick wall.

Aged matron

Yes, I know I keep banging on about parkin. That's because it's important - ask Chris Addison, who resorted to asking the hive mind where he could get some (and who, for the duration of The Thick of It, or until 15 November, will be my TV boyfriend). But, in the week where I saw the date of my 40th birthday written out (it'll be a Wednesday, apparently), I also found myself turning into the kind of person who sits down and seriously ponders recipes.

It's the Guardian's fault. Most things are. They printed another parkin recipe (it's the cusp of October / November, they do it every year. Must be the remnants of being from Manchester) which I might have a stab at - it's closer to the hardcore parkin recipe that I find ridiculously tasty but also ridiculously easy to overbake, but with the liquid easymethod of Delia - but then I got to the bit about the flaked almonds. I don't give a shit if they're marked as optional, flaked almonds have no place in parkin. And don't get me started on this chocolate parkin aberation. Raging, I was, raging around the kitchen at the very temerity of those almonds!

Then I stopped. And considered a moment. And wondered if I now qualify for a spinster's bonnet and apron.

Oh dear.

Local politics

Wow. I mean, wow. Doorbell just went while I was in the middle of watching last night's The Thick of It, which probably didn't help the caller, seeing as he was from the Hither Green Labour party. Talking through my front door (the keys were in the back, I'm not traipsing all the way into the kitchen for this guy), it rang a bell: was he from the group that leafleted about the Hither Green Cinema the other week?

I've posted on Londonist about the background to the campaign to save the old Kids Corner building, and last Sunday the non-partisan, and newly created, Hither Green Community Hall and Arts Society took over the old Firemaster building and showed some films. It was a brilliant idea, and I went along towards the end. Anyway, a leaflet had appeared in my letterbox a few days before on Labour Action Team headed notepaper, introducing themselves and writing "to give you notice of an event in the area that might be of interest to you". Then they had all details, and mentioned at the start of the fourth paragraph that it was actually being organised by another group. Then they went on to talk about their new website and how to contact them - Labour, not the Hither Green CHAS.

I showed this to my parents, handily available as independent judges. Who, I asked them, did they think was behind the event, based on that leaflet? After a quick scan - which, let's face it, is all any of us give unsolicited mail shoved through the door - they said "well, Labour". This confirmed my initial reaction, and made me a bit angry. It looked very much like Labour were trying to claim the cinema event.

Back to tonight. Labour man was very apologetic, said the leaflet had been through the committee for approval and that he himself had actually been quite concerned about the association, in case the event didn't work out... Woah, I said. Hang on. You mean, in case Labour were tainted by a possible failure?  Er, er, er, no, of course not, said the Labour man. Goodbye, I said.

I don't buy the idea that people are attracted to the BNP mainly because of the failure of the three main parties to give a stoat's toss about local concerns. Lots of people, me included, are thoroughly disillusioned with mainstream politics and we manage to resist the many and varied charms of the far right. But you do wonder about the effect of such self-serving weaselling from your local 'acceptable' political representatives.

I may not agree with what you say...

Late to the party (hey, I've had my parents here again), here's my tuppen'orth on freedom of speech. Charlie Brooker did the best takedown of 'that' Jan Moir article - so I feel no need to rehash the issue - and of course Moir has since accused the internet of mounting an "orchestrated campaign" against her (in an article during which she also apologises to Gately's family for the 'timing' of the article, as if that was the worst thing about it). Leaving aside the Mail's own orchestrated campaigns, Moir is only serving to demonstrate her ignorance of how the internet works, and denying the strength of feeling against what she wrote. It's as though she wants to protect her right to say what she wants while denying the right of others to reply. Freedom of speech only functions, Ms Moir, if that freedom works both ways.

And for what it's worth, I think she had the right to say what she did. I don't think what she said was right, and she throughly deserved the outcry that followed. (But not the publication of her home address. Way to lose the moral high ground, whichever Tweeter did that.) But to respond "you can't say things like that" is a dangerous reaction. We all know there are plenty of people around who think like this, who think things that are abhorrent to us lovely liberal folk. However, standing on a hill and shouting at them will simply reinforce their tiny, paranoid beliefs that they are a persecuted bunch, and therefore must stand up harder and firmer. Hello, polarisation.

Which is also why I think, after much thought and gritted teeth, that it was right to have Nick Griffin on Question Time. It wasn't right for the BBC to trail the fucking programme on the news for days leading up to it, and it also wasn't right for the papers to go through a period of wailing and hand-wringing about how he shouldn't be allowed on because it was just bringing publicity to the BNP - and then splash it on the front pages. Hello, hypocrisy.

I didn't see Question Time. I was out. From what I gather from clips and reports, it turned into the BNP show, focusing solely on BNP policies, immigration and a picking apart of Griffin's personal beliefs and prior statements. This had a place on the show, there would have been no point in having him if he wasn't held to account. But for god's sake, let's not make the entire show about the BNP, yeah? First off, it panders to their egos and second, it makes them more able to say 'oh, we're the persecuted minority. We're the only ones who stand up and say what you, the British public, are thinking and look what they do to us in return'.

Let's not forget I cannot fucking stand the BNP. I want them pulverised into microscopic fragments. But the way to do that is to let Griffin and his cohorts trip over their own slack jaws and be armed with facts and stats to expose their mealy-mouthed lies in a dispassionate, logical way. Not to have an entire panel and audience staring him down. Anyone sympathetic to the BNP will have watched that and only been reinforced that they are the plucky underdogs, standing firm under establishment duress. Which is a key plank of their recruitment strategy (and boy, does it seem to have worked).

And if you don't believe me? My Dad went to Leeds the day after QT and found his brother oh-so-keen to talk about Griffin's 'great' performance. My Dad stopped him from even starting, thankfully. My Uncle is a man who gets his news from the rabble-rousing papers and is so dense, that even as he dismisses the main political parties for being 'all the same' and 'useless' and 'liars', he accepts whatever the BNP feed out with unquestioning greed. Because they pander to his underlying prejudices, he doesn't want to investigate underneath. He's bought the myth of BNP civilisation. What he saw was Griffin having it stuck to him unfairly by the liberal elite and 'understandably' floundering in the face of such 'overwhelming pressure', rather than a man incapable of coming up with justifications for his real beliefs when he's trying to peddle his smoothed-over lies. Question Time needed to have less anger focused upon Griffin and more clinical destruction. Finish him off with cold steel in a way that even my Uncle can't misinterpret.

This said, I'm less concerned about the rise of the far right than I was 18 months ago. Even with the failure of Question Tme to do anything other than reinforce each side in its view of the BNP, I believe they will destroy themselves. They can't stop bickering internally, are exposed by their own lies, aren't managing to do any effective work where they are elected (I believe they still haven't found a group to work with in the EU?), are more interested in local shitstirring than addressing local problems, publicly embarrassing themselves with massive strops and seem to lose as many members as they gain (perhaps because, once inside, vacuous people with vague notions about 'immigration' finally realise what a vile piece of work the party really is). Of course, we can help them along with some nicely aimed mortars of truth and deconstruction, done in a way that can't be accused of being tinged with anger.

I am clearly not the person to do this. But presumably there are people out there who can.

Gosh, look at that. I appear to have got sidetracked down another BNP rant alley. *ahem* But the thrust of my argument remains: freedom of speech is actually our best weapon against racism, homophobia, sexism and other hideous lines of thought. Forcing them underground only makes them fester. Allow them to be brought to the surface, and then engage in a calm, detached manner - and destroy. Of course there will be some people whose prejudices are too deeply ingrained to be convinced with logic and reason, but a lot of support for stuff like the BNP comes from myth and outright lies. Ignorance can no longer be an excuse. Let them talk.

You can't handle the parkin, apparently

The one thing I miss about Yorkshire - apart from the popular racism, of course - is parkin. You simply cannot get it down here, and god knows Liz has tried. It's only available in the north around bonfire night anyway, but it is the most wonderful thing. Oatmeal based, so it's very heavy, but moist with treacle and warm with ginger. When my parents moved away and could no longer post me emergency rations I was forced into making my own. It's pretty good, and this time of year I'm constantly in a parkin-making frenzy. I've already done four slabs this autumn and they're all earmarked for other people. (Bah.)

But what should I see yesterday evening, as I bought some milk at the local Co-op? "Halloween Treacle & Ginger Loaf Cake"? Bloody HELL, it's parkin! In the south! Of course they can't call it parkin, nobody down here's ever heard of it, but it's definitely trying to be parkin. For once those tillside displays did their job and I tipped one into my basket. So what's the verdict?

It certainly looks a lot like parkin. But it doesn't smell so much like parkin. Flip over the packet and oatmeal is listed below rapeseed oil and water (water?!). Which probably explains why, despite the cake feeling quite weighty in the hand, the consistency is actually quite fluffy. Which is not parkin. *glower* Fluffy does not belong round a bonfire.

To be fair, the cake's alright. It's a bit spicy and has chunks of what I'm guessing are supposed to be ginger, looking at the ingredients, but have no taste and look like bits of mixed peel (which is a legitimate parkin addition. Here's a real hardcore parkin recipe, but I manage to overbake it half the time so I've given up). But this cake is such a disappointment. It's not even supermarket crapness either - Morrisons and the Co-op in Yorkshire do excellent parkin (I wonder whether northerners are being subjected to this "Halloween Treacle & Ginger Loaf Cake" this year? ).

This is the true north:south divide. Never mind your economic differences or your accents or whatever you call your couch / settee / sofa. It's whether the corporate powers that be think you can handle real parkin. Because I know you can handle it, my fellow (adopted) southerners. 32 pieces went at the Londonist party last week; work colleagues come back for seconds and thirds. I dream of a world where we're not separated by 200 miles and a parkin deficiency. Join me - join me in my fight for real parkin!

Have you seen a watch like this?

I need a new watch. I've needed a new watch for about four years, but I love my old one so much I've been putting off going out and getting one. This watch, tarnished, cracked and on its third strap and however manyth battery, came into my life for my 17th birthday (from the Gadget Shop, about £15 if I remember rightly), and I absolutely love its sleek chunkiness. You heard me. Sleek and chunky. It even manages to combine two utterly divergent states of being, how could it not be the best thing I've ever had around my wrist? But it really is falling apart and it needs to make way for a younger, sexier rival.

The problem is: I want to replace it with something very similar. Silvery face, not necessarily round, leather strap, clearly visible hands. And I don't have the first clue where to start. The Gadget Shop circa 1997 is long gone and it looks like the major watch makers don't really do 'interesting' silver watches without also doing a metal strap. Any suggestions? I really, really need some suggestions. Please. Before my wrist develops some kind of gangrene.

Creepy and inappropriate

It's a little tricky to know exactly how to frame this post; how to word it without seeming heartless or frigid or fishing for compliments or self-esteem. So I'm telling you upfront, this post has no ulterior motive. It's just a tale of some things that happen to have happened.

Lately, I have got blonder. Not blonde - I want to make that very clear as well - no, not blonde, because I'd look shit blonde, but blonder. Partly the effect of summer sunshine, partly the effect of a change in dye, I'm now less of a coppery redhead and more of a reddish gold. Plus, my hair's getting longer, so the general effect is less in-your-face and altogether more feminine. I'm not deliberately aiming for feminine (in fact, I'm just aiming for a hairstyle that doesn't make me look like my mother; however much I love her, a woman doesn't need to see her Mum staring out of the mirror at 31 years old), but that's whats happening.

So naturally, I'm getting hit on.

I'm normally blithely unaware of being hit on (evidence: years of being blithely single). It's similar to the way I can walk down Camden HIgh Street - have walked down Camden High Street many times in my decade in London - and not hear any dealers offering drugs. I was convinced I was the only person in Camden never to have been offered drugs until I was walking back from a gig with a couple of friends, and one them turned to me and said "You didn't hear any of that, did you?". I confess, I had not. So for me to notice being hit on, it's got to be pretty unsubtle. But there's unsubtle, and then there's creepy and inappropriate.

The other Saturday, I'd been in town and decided to catch a taxi back to my house from Lewisham. It was only about 10pm, but there was a huge rainstorm tracking down from London Bridge and I was knackered from getting up early to inject the cat and watch the Japanese grand prix qualifying. So I jumped in a black cab (which happened to be red). The driver asked a few pleasantries, I answered in a vaguely neutral, tired sort of way. He pulled into my street and started asking how long I'd lived here, if I owned, if I lived on my own, if I were married. (Note to self: rehearse the imaginary boyfriend so you can pull him convinceingly out of even your tiredest brain instead of automatically reaching for the truth.) As I paid, a little hurridly, he said "right, and if I see you again we'll go for a beer".

If that sounds innocuous to you, let's recap. I'm a woman on my own. At night. I'm quite little. This man knows where I live, and that I live alone. I haven't even properly seen his face. Attempting to arrange a date after five minutes' taxi chat is not something to make me feel comfortable, or even safe.

But do you know what pissed me off the most? The fare was £6.40. I paid with a £10 note. I always round up when I take taxis, but I do it by leavng the money with the driver when he hands me the change. This guy automatically rounded up for me. I didn't quibble, I wanted the hell out of the car. But what kind of man tries to set up a drink with a woman and then takes his own tip?

Moving back in time... a couple of weeks ago I was at a gathering that shall remain nameless, because it's not the fault of the poor gathering. Suffice to say it's a place for sensible, rational people to meet and chat and have a few beers. Heavily geek, if I'm honest with you, but that's OK because I am also geek. On this occasion, my usual (male) gathering buddy was going to be a bit late so I watched the main event on my own after having a peer round for anybody I knew. Felt a bit hyena-surrounded-by-lions, but put that down to paranoia. Until. Later, after my friend had turned up, I got introduced to This Guy. This Guy and I had a very stilted conversation for about 60 seconds, during which he increasingy resembled an over-eager spaniel about to start humping one's leg. Except that makes him sound cute, and it most definitely wasn't. We get to 61 seconds and he comes out with "I was very pleased to be introduced to you". 'Really? Well, that's nice, and I've heard of how you've been helping out w-' "I was very pleased to be introduced to you because you're very pretty", and This Guy stares at me, waiting for a response.

Again, let's recap. We're in a pub, it's true, but it's a deeply unfashionable basement in a deeply unfashionable part of town (which is why I love it). This is no meat market, this is a place for intelligent people to discuss things with people of like minds. It's the kind of place you expect someone would place a little more emphasis on inter-personal relationships, how we get on, whether we have anything in common, striking up a conversation that lasts more than 65 bloody seconds before you try and get jiggy with a lady. I think it was fair for me to be somewhat blindsided, and only able to respond with 'Errr, thanks... that's a bit weird'. (Doubtless that latter bit was not what he was expecting, and I feel a bit bad. But not that bad.)

"I know it's politically incorrect to say such a thing", he continued. I wish I could have shaken off the shock and replied with something like; 'It has nothing to do with political correctness. What did you honestly expect to get back? 'Thanks, I know nothing about you but your attraction to me physically is clearly a basis for a date'; 'This is nothing, you should see my degree certificate'; 'I'll buy you a drink right now if you can remember my name'?' Instead I could only come up with, again, 'errrrr, no, it's a bit weird' and start backing away towards my friend (who, on hearing the tale, actually apologised for being late and leaving me in there alone. Which is terrible; I shouldn't need fucking chaperoning).

I am unused to this kind of attention. You can probably tell. But I'm more than happy to have been unused to it if it means avoiding men who think it's perfectly acceptable to charge in without warning or trying to work out if such advances might be welcome (hint: you cannot do that in 65 seconds, or from the driver's seat of a short cab ride). Perhaps this is symptomatic of the self help mantra to 'go out and seize the day - you never get want you want if you don't GO FOR IT!'. But I suspect that was never intended to mean 'go impose yourself on anyone you want, and make them feel bad when they're forced to reject you because you barely gave them a chance to breathe, never mind form an opinion of you'. And yes, you do make us feel bad because we're British, damn you, and we survive on binding rules of etiquette and self-loathing (or is that just me?).

Maybe it's all an unfortunate coincidence. But I do blame my hair. No, that's not right. I blame a culture that has incubated a belief that women are there to be picked up, that we have to endure being reduced to our hair and whatever else some guy likes the look of. Apparently being blonde-ish now places me in this category. Lifelong blondes: how the hell do you deal with this shit?

Flamingos!

After that massive whine I figure I should balance it out with something nicer. It turns out that my parents live about ten minutes drive from a load of wild flamingos, out at the San Pedro del something - I forget what now - salt flats. Actual. Wild. Flamingos. Just hanging out. How the HELL did I not know about this before? I think it should be a rule we all follow from now on: if you move to a new country, ask around if there are any flamingos in the area. I'll let you unpack first, but if you don't find out within a couple of days I'll be mad.

The flamingos weren't by the edges of the water much last Saturday (a few days before, apparently, they'd been really close. Stupid flamingos), but I did manage to get fairly near to a few young flamingos, and get my camera to zoom in reasonably close to a group of four pacing a circle - like they were walking on the water - feeding.

Flamingos are cool. Spanish electricity is not. But at least seeing Weird. Pink. Birds made up for the way that, just a few hours later, the heavens opened and did not stop. For 48 hours. Rain the like we're not used to, thunder and lightning all night (of course it doesn't help that the windows have three different things to close - shutter, insect blind and glass - and on each night I forgot to close one bit. My, the noise), with the electricity vanishing at various points and one enormous thundercrack so loud at 5am that I woke up and sat bolt upright in one swift movement. Not helped by the open windows, naturally. At least I now know that if we're attacked by aliens in the middle of the night I'll be ready for action. So long as they're noisy about it.

And electricity going off isn't all that bad. Unless you happen to be having a wee in the internal bathroom during one of the outages, and are suddenly pitched into complete darkness. I used the upstairs bathroom for the remainder of the stay. The water pressure in the shower may be rubbish, but at least it has a window.

(But still. Flamingos!)

Airports make me angry

You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. Particularly not if you're at the start of your holiday, dreamily winding down as you amble through Gatwick, and you cross my path as I'm storming through on my way to my parents' in Murcia.

I've done this flight enough now that I know where I need to be. Get to Gatwick with enough time to get through security, go to WHSmiths and buy a paper and bottle of water, go to Boots to pick up any toiletries, grab a sandwich from Costa - and if I'm there early or the plane's delayed, get an Oreo milkshake from that new place in the South Terminal; thank you, BAA for that one (it's the only thing I have to thank you for. When the hell is passport control going to stop being a building site?) - then the forever tramp down to the Gate.

And I'm sorry if you're in holiday mode. You see, I'm not. I'm going to see my family in a place that, while pleasant enough, isn't somewhere I would choose to visit if I had all of Europe at my disposal. Perhaps it's too many package holidays as a child. Whatever the reason, I'm not in the same happy headspace as you, and you just weaved across my path six times while I was trying to go to the loo and I hate you. I'm sorry for the stare that could freeze waterfalls, but did you hand in your brain as well as your bags at check-in? You had a right to. You're on holiday. Unfortunately that doesn't change the fact that I hate you.

I hate you even more at the Easyjet boarding gate. No, there is no allocated seating. Is that any reason to crowd round the door the very millisecond the lady in the orange shirt walks behind the microphone? You are in the final boarding group. Because I am an internet savvy gal I checked in online which means I'm in a boarding group ahead of you, and have to wade my way through you when I'm called. And you will look at me suspiciously, like I'm trying to pull a fast one. But this is just the way it works. You know this. You also know that it's not like you'll be left behind. They won't make you sit on the wing if you're the last on. You even have the information that the flight lasts less than 2 and a half hours. If you're not sat with your loved ones for such a perishing eternity, is that so bad? Will you die because of it?

You may point now and say 'ahh. You say this because you're not in the final boarding group. And you're on your own. You don't understand our desire to get on First'. Well, I have been in your situation before - with friends and part of the crushing, sweating, final group (god knows, it's worse on Ryanair) - and I didn't care. It's not worth the fucking stress! What do you gain by scooping your fellow travellers? The chance to block the aisles and slow boarding down to a crawl because hey, you're on the plane now, you'll spend five minutes sorting out your bags and putting them in the overhead locker and screw the rest of us. I hate you. I really, really hate you.

And then my parents wonder why, when I arrive, I'm so tense and spend the first ten minutes complaining. This is not helping familial relations.

Why having a black cat can cause the occasional problem

El Mog is a black cat (yes; I'm a single woman in my early thirties living on my own with a black cat. Were this medieval times, I would have been denounced as a witch some time ago. BURN HER! BURN HER!). And the thing about black cats in London is that there are shitloads of them. During my entire Northern childhood I don't think I saw more than handful of black cats - it's all tabbies up there - but here, some black tom in generations past has copulated its genes far and wide. Animals shelters despair at the numbers of them. You run out of ways to describe them to potential adopters. What differentiates this small black three-year-old female from this one? Or these other seven? What? You want the ginger and white? Yeah, fair enough.

There are plenty of other black cats living around here. There's the well known long haired one with a cataract, sometimes hanging around the Co-op, that belongs to Hither Green's official mad cat lady Doris. Most of the others have some small white markings, but recently another, totally black, cat has moved in. It already confused my Mum over the summer ("the cat's out in the garden"; "no he isn't, I just left him in the kitchen"; "then there's a cat in your garden") and this morning I let Mog in without really paying attention (changing shoes). As I popped outside to hang out the washing, I noticed a small black catty head peering balefully at me from the garden wall.

I know I say Mog's fat. He is. He has an enormous stomach and a big fat arse. But his head is really quite tiny and he has exquisitely delicate paws. This cat was only really visible from the shoulders up... and I couldn't tell. I swear, I had no idea if I'd just let a strange cat into my house or not. (It's not as daft as it sounds - last week a black and white thing made two determined efforts to charge past my legs and into the kitchen.) I had to get to within ten feet of it to see if I could see any distinguishing features, like his ripped ear or missing tooth -

- actually, before finishing that thought, let's take a moment to consider what a feline ragbag Mog is. Done? OK -

- and even when it eventually turned tail and legged it, I was only really convinced when I went back inside and poked the animal having a drink of water.

I am this close to painting a fluorescent stripe down him. I think lime green would work, don't you?

E.coli hackwatch

A prize* to the first person to spot a newspaper, or more likely a tabloid columnist, going from "it's a disgrace, the HPA letting these petting farms stay open putting our children at risk" to "it's a disgrace, the government nannying our kids by saying under 5s shouldn't toucn the animals at petting zoos". I'm afraid the winner of 'be the first to say "it's 'elf and safety gorn mad"' is Katie from Devon, who may be appearing on SpEak You're Branes any day now.

* Not an actual prize. You'll get my respect. Maybe

Why my "love" for Hitler is going to get me into trouble one of these days

There's a joke I used to share with a couple of my old housemates. I can't remember exactly how it came about, probably I was watching some WW2 thing on TV and one of them came in, passed comment and I replied "Oh, I love Hitler!" Then, realising what I'd said, added "but not like that".

If you study history at any level you end up being swamped in twentieth century dictators. At least, you did in the 90s and I can't imagine things have changed that much. It's all World War Two, Hitler, Stalin, the odd smattering of Weimar and Bismarck and Lenin. If you're lucky you get a bit of medieval and Tudors chucked in, and if you're really unlucky you have to suffer the Industrial Revolution (for my money, the least interesting important thing ever to have happened). But not much of it. Presumably it's all the documentation that's available (particularly all the stuff that was coming out of Russia after the fall of communism), cos university students only get taught what their lecturers are being paid to research. Essentially, it always comes back to your megalomaniac fuckheads.

Last night I went to the Firestation Bookswap. The premise is, it's an informal author-chat night and everyone brings a book to swap. And during the swap, one woman held up her book and announced that she'd brought the account of the last days in the bunker by Hitler's secretary.

I knew immediately what this was. The cover says it's the inspiration behind Downfall, but back in my reviewing days I watched a documentary called Blind Spot, which is footage of Traudl Junge herself saying the things she says in the book. It's fascinating stuff, really insightful, of how perfectly normal people got sucked into the Nazi myth and how, at the time, she didn't see beyond the nice, jovial Hitler she knew and the mass-murdering bastard we're more familiar with.

Yes, I knew what it was. And I immediately shot my hand up in the air and yelled "Oo! Me! I want that! You said Hitler, that's all it takes!"

One of these days, I'm going to remember that some of the people* who are interested in Hitler are perhaps less intrigued by the societal aspects of forming and maintaining an insane dictatorship, and more interested in the white supremacist, killing aspects. I did eventually move my two, very thick, copies of Ian Kershaw's Hitler biographies (with "HITLER" in enormous letters down the spine) when a friend popped round to return a DVD he'd borrowed and, not quite remembering which was my flat, peered through the living room window, spotted the books and thought 'yep, this is the one'. Wouldn't want to give the neighbours / binmen / burglars the wrong impression.

So just to make it clear: I am not a neo-Nazi, I am just someone who is incredibly (perhaps even endearingly; oh, do say it's endearing) nerdish about history. If anyone fancies bringing along anything about medieval kings of England, or the French revolution, or something about the Tudors that doesn't involve Jonathan Rhys-Myers or David Starkey, to the November bookswap, I'll more than likely very excitedly attempt to take it off your hands as well. And possibly scare you a little into the bargain.

* Sorry, I meant of course to say right wing scum

On the radio woah-oh-oh

I have finally capitulated. Both the radios in the flat (including my alarm clock) are now tuned to Radio 4. I can't quite remember what it was that made me finally switch this morning (clearly, it was so banal that even this momentous incident immediately faded from memory). Farewell, XFM. You were good for a while, but I've stuck with you over the last couple of years out of boredom rather than quality.

So now, for the first time in my life, I'm going to be living without a daily dose of music. I am now officially old (or betraying my youth. I suspect it's the same thing). It'll be interesting to see how this goes (and how quickly it forces me to buy a digital radio or two so I can finally get 6 Music), but the main problem I can forsee is: what the hell is going to happen to my daily earworm?

I always have something noodling round my head; this is normal, yes? And quite often it's the last song I hear before leaving the house, or it's something that followed a (relatively) logical path from the last song I heard before leaving the house. Or, the last song I heard before leaving the house was so abysmal that I forced myself to think of something else. These are my favourite earworms, because it means I get to override the shuffle function in my head and scroll through the menu instead. But now what? Today I found myself going over Conchords songs, because I'd been listening to them at the gym on Saturday. Saturday! Is this how long my earworms are going to last now? What if I end up with Lady Gaga's stupid 'Poker Face' in my head for three days because I just watched it on YouTube? Today's going to need to ramp it up if it's going to help me out on this one. Come on Humphries, jazz it up a little man.

(And sorry for anyone I gave an earworm to with the title of this post. But it's better than Lady Gaga, right?)

Vending update

Despite originally thinking I'd hop from one contract to another when I returned to work, the original place keeps bringing me back (this is fine by me). It also means I can continue my battle with the vending machines. The office chocolate machines are still farked; I've lost count of the number of times my choice has got stuck, or I've seen a previous, abandoned attempt teetering on the edge.

Today I made the necessary afternoon excursion to the box of delights for the first time in about six weeks (lovely, lovely summer break) to discover the price of each bar has shot up from 40p to 55-60p. What the hell? Isn't the nation hovering on the precipice of deflation? Aren't chocolate companies doing rather well out of our need for comfort during the recession? Apparently not. And then I realised, it's probably balls all to do with the national economic shafting. It's all those free chocolate bars.

I wanted a (60p; so much for subsidisation) Galaxy Caramel today. It pushed and it pushed but instead of delivering my gooey chocolate niceness, it - of course - stopped just before succumbing to gravity's pull. Money refunded. I opted for a (50p) Toffee Crisp. Sighing - but not too much, cos I'm partial to a Toffee Crisp - I slotted in the coin. Yet again the bloody thing didn't work. Money refunded. By that time I was fed up and I gave the machine a little shove... and down fell the Toffee Crisp. A brief shoulder nudge from the side and the Galaxy tumbled, too. Fucking score, mate.

But it does make me wonder about that price rise.