A story in this week’s episode of the radio programme/podcast This American Life tackles that age old conundrum: Which superpower would you prefer – the power of flight or the power of invisibility?

The reporter behind the story, John Hodgman, seems to have spent a not inconsiderable amount of time examining this very question. He’s researched the issue over many years and has now compiled a vital analysis of people’s responses.

His findings reveal that most people know instantly which superpower they would choose, almost as though they have been pondering it all their lives. This rings true with me. As soon as he mentioned the options I knew that I wanted to fly.

He then goes on to point out that absolutely no one actually wants to use their superpower for fighting crime and saving people from collapsing buildings as superheroes are supposed to. No, mostly they want to use them to spy on ex’s and work colleagues, perve at other people, nick stuff and get to pub quickly. Exactly. I want to fly because I want to feel the cool wind rushing through my hair, enjoy the view below me and never have to encounter mustard and banana loving commuters ever again.

So what about you – flying or invisibility? And what are you going to use it for?*

*Analysis of people’s decisions also suggests that choice of superpower says a lot about your personality. Allegedly. But lets not go there. Just because I dream of the power of flight doesn’t mean that I’ve got some kind of guileless, show off, hero complex alright.

Some time ago I developed an unnatural interest in those vacuous celebrities of the 1920s known as the Bright Young People. I watched documentaries about professionally posh prats like Brian Howard and Nancy Mitford, poured over their portraits by Cecil Beaton, read Evelyn Waugh’s mirth-making Vile Bodies again and revelled in the salacious details of Circus Parties* and Bath and Bottle Parties** in DJ Taylor’s book, Bright Young People.

All that remained was to see Terence Rattigan’s ‘lost’ play about the period called After the Dance.

Happily it’s now showing at the National Theatre.

So I took myself along to see it.

After the Dance is very good (and not just because it stars the lovely Benedict Cumberbatch). A sharp, witty look at inter-generational conflict, it also examines what happens when people try to hang on to their youth for too long. It’s not pretty.

But the most impressive / horrific (I can’t quite make up my mind) thing about it is the drinking. The play starts with most of the main characters being hung-over and continues with them enjoying post-breakfast drinks, pre-lunch drinks, afternoon drinks and well, any-other-time drinks. They are never away from the drinks cabinet and the cocktail shaker. This is the kind of lifestyle you can only maintain if you have a butler named Williams, shamelessly use the words ‘drinky-poo’ and your sole occupation is drunkenly dictating a pointless biography of ‘King Bomba of Naples’ to the hired help at 5am in the morning. Still, I’m kind of jealous.

The sad practicalities of life demand that I limit myself to a tiresomely small number of cocktails each week. I’m pleased to say, however, that I have managed to locate a new favourite recently. It is called the ‘Fiesta’. They probably didn’t drink it in the 20s but hey, its the closest I’ll get to Bright Young Person style exuberance these days.

Fiesta
- dash lime juice
- dash grenadine
- 3/4 oz Noilly Prat
- 3/4 oz Calvados
- 3/4 oz white rum

Stir over ice cubes and strain into chilled cocktail glasses.

* Come dressed as a trapeze artist or lion tamer
** at St George’s Swimming Baths, Buckingham Palace Road. Guests were required to wear at Bathing Suit and bring a towel and a Bottle. It was simply divine.

You may remember that some months ago I encountered a big fan of the humble banana on a train journey. Well, yesterday I had the (mis)fortune to meet his evil twin.

Again, I had innocently boarded the tube and settled in for a quiet journey in the company of a book. There was only one other person in the carriage. He was sitting diagonally opposite me with a plastic supermarket carrier bag on his lap and a bread knife in his hand.

Needless to say, my interest was piqued.

My fellow tube traveller reached into his bag and casually pulled out a slice of loose white bread and a jar of Colman’s English Mustard. Evenly, thickly and smoothly, he carefully spread the mustard across the bread before proceeding to eat this mustardy morsel in a couple of happy bites.

Not being a huge fan of mustard myself, I struggled to stay immersed in my book. I desperately tried to ignore him as he smacked his lips and reached into the bag for another slice. But try as I might, my nose wrinkled and my stomach clenched as he smothered an even thicker layer of mustard onto this next piece of bread.

As the carriage filled though, fortunately so did his belly. After two more slices of mustard bread and a quick lick of the mustardy knife, he put the remains of the Colman’s jar back into the carrier bag, got off the train, and left me in mustard-free peace.

So this really begs two questions:

1. Is the solo mustard sandwich a frequent occurrence that I just haven’t met until now?
2. Why do these things happen to me?

A scammer attempted to scam me today. It was quite amusing.

He called the office this morning and attempted to convince me that the free listing our organisation had been enjoying in something called City Map which was now sadly coming to an end. To confirm that we didn’t want to continue with this generous offer in a ‘well known’ publication I’ve never actually heard of, I just had to sign and fax back a form that he was sending over right now.

So the fax duly arrives. It is a poorly laid out sheet of A4 utilising three different font types in eight (count them!) sizes and contains a proof of ‘our ad’. Our logo is wrong and our company information incorrect in both content and spelling.

The fax includes some humorous instructions like ‘The advertising will materialise after the placing of the order’ and other contractual information which is clearly made up. It also includes some crafty clauses indicating that if you sign this form you’re not actually cancelling the free listing that you’re not aware that you have, but ordering £1,697 of display advertising which you can’t cancel for two years instead.

But, small print aside, who would fall for this scam? This is people working in marketing and communications that they are targeting – vacuous people like me who judge things entirely by how many font sizes and spelling mistakes there are. Such a poorly executed scam deserves to fail. Put some effort in scammers!!!

A funny thing happened to me on the way home this evening… something that I’ve only ever seen happen ‘abroad’.

You see, a woman rushed up to me at my local suburban train station tonight as I was approaching the escalators. She explained in a peculiar mixture of frantic embarrassment that she had too much luggage to take by herself, that she was kind of scared she might fall down the escalator and could I help her until her husband arrived. So I took a suitcase and a bag, and once at the foot of the escalator, I assisted her in stacking a somewhat formidable pile of luggage while we waited for her husband to come down with their baby. I then pointed them in the direction of central London, they thanked me and we went off our separate ways.

The odd thing was that this all happened in French.

As much as I’ve cringed at some of my fellow English speaking natives shameless usage  of the  ‘loud and slow’ dialect in other countries, I don’t think anyone has ever just randomly started speaking to me in another language whilst in the UK or Australia.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. I don’t know whether I’m more surprised that I could communicate with her (especially considering my poor relationship with my French classes over the past year) or the fact that she just assumed that everyone at the station spoke French and wasn’t in the faintest bit taken aback that I did. Perhaps some people think higher of the foreign language speaking skills of this country than we do. Either that, or fear of the escalator conquers all.

I couldn’t get to sleep the other night. Even Mondo’s trusty old method of counting down an A-Z of some boring topic like ‘indie bands from 1991′ wasn’t working. I just remained frustratingly wide awake. So I went to the book shelves to see what I could find to soothe my sleepless misery and my hand seemed to be drawn to a book I haven’t read since 1986: Mary Norton’s The Borrowers.

And boy, it was good.

It’s odd re-reading a dimly remembered book from your childhood. Of course I remembered the vague outline of the plot, but the details were long lost so the story was relatively fresh. I probably enjoyed reading it as much as I did when I was 11.

However, it didn’t feel the same. I seem to remember that once upon a time I became absolutely immersed in a book, I couldn’t put it down, I lived in there with the characters and wanted it to go on and on and on.

I spent hours reading. I read before school, I read in the car and I read under the bed clothes at night. I read my way through the shelves of both my school library and the local library. I read everything from the classics like What Katy Did and Anne of Green Gables, to every fad series going, from the Bobbsey Twins and Nancy Drew to Sweet Valley High and Choose Your Own Adventure. I read my Grandma’s girls’ boarding school books from the 40s and the 70s/80s teen equivalents by Judy Blume and Cynthia Voigt. I read trash fantasy series by David Eddings and distressing sci-fi by Kurt Vonnegut. I just read. All the time.

But not any more. I rarely read any fiction these days. I’m not sure why. It’s not that I couldn’t make the time if I wanted to. I think it might be that a precarious combination of cynicism, a long neglected imagination, the stress of everyday life and a seriously limited attention span means that I just can’t sit there and be properly lost in anything any more. It’s not the same as when I was 13 and pathetic as it may seem, I’m kind of sad about that.

‘Good girl’ said the dentist ‘I can see you’ve been looking after your teeth – even if you haven’t seen me for two whole years.’

‘Yes’ I think, silently stewing as she scrapes away at my teeth like a chisel-wielding maniac, ‘they have invented toothbrushes now, you know.’

How can these people be so patronising? Do they actually think that making me feel like a ten year old will get me to make regular visits? Or is it the power of having someone trapped in the chair beneath them, the threateningly bright lights and the sucky thing?

Yes, I’ve been to the dentist this morning.* It wasn’t unpleasant, just annoying. From the quite frankly bizarre selection of magazines (Attitude, The World of Interiors and Lancashire Life**) when you arrive to the ‘And you’ll be making your appointment for six months time?’ breeziness of the receptionist when you leave, the whole experience just irritates.

I think that it is, like with my old friend the optician, the expectation that you should troop off to see them and their ilk at regular intervals (even if you have absolutely no need to) and that they don’t hesitate in reminding you of this fact. Oh, it’s for your health and all that, but who has regular visits to the doctor just for the hell of it?

So I want to get to the bottom of this once and for all. Does anyone actually go to the dentist and/or hygienist every six months? Is this number plucked from the air in the hope that you might go at least once a year? It is just opportunistic scaremongering isn’t it? Or am I being cynical as usual.

* at this point I’d like to reassure you that I have done more interesting things than go to the dentist during my recent blogging absence. Really.  
** no, I haven’t moved to Lancashire.

I think I may have identified another 21st century ‘illness’ – password fatigue.

This became apparent to me last night when, straight after locking myself out of my online banking for failing to remember the 11th digit of my 14 digit password, I then attempted to buy some tickets for the National Theatre and discovered that I needed to set up yet another account with yet another ‘unique’ password. I felt like screaming. Why can’t I just buy the damn tickets?*

I think I have at least 50 accounts which require passwords – from Amazon and our work’s Flickr page to this blog and the Barbican. Of course, they’re not all completely different and they have varying degrees of complexity, but this doesn’t make things any easier. I still have to remember which password it actually is and which complicated recipe of numbers and £$%£^’s I cooked up at the time. And the less I use the account and password in question, the harder it gets. God knows what my password for ebay is, its been that long since I used it, but I know I’ve got one.

Being a paranoid and cynical type of person who believes that identity muggers really do lurk around every corner, of course I never write any of them down. So all the passwords are residing in my head and as Betty Everett once sung ‘it’s getting mighty crowded’.

* ok, I work in marketing and I know exactly why they don’t allow this, but that’s not the point.

I’m sick of football, my head is full of hay-fever and the council are digging up the road outside my office window. But things could be worse. I could work for the insurance company I spent several hours with the other day.

Along with various other organisations, I had been invited by this particular company’s beleaguered HR department to an afternoon aimed at encouraging employees to make the most of all that the city around them has to offer – lunchtime music concerts, talks and walks, gyms and sports clubs, libraries and short courses, massages and spas, volunteering opportunities and in-house social clubs etc. etc. The clichéd work/life balance may have been the message, but there were loads of interesting things to do.

But well, you know what I’m going to say next.

Were the employees interested? No, of course not. They just drifted around looking faintly bored, if not perplexed, by the whole thing. As one man told me ‘We don’t have time for this kind of stuff. I go to work and don’t have time to do anything else other than watch TV’ and another ‘Why would I want to do a course for fun? What’s the point?’. But mostly, they all just looked non-plussed.

Admittedly, some people were interested in life outside work and commuting, and to give them the benefit of the doubt, others may have been put off by the continuous loop of background ‘motivating’ music featuring the likes of ‘Happy Talk’ from South Pacific and C&C Music Factory’s ‘Gonna Make you Sweat’.

Perhaps the world of insurance just attracts boring types, but really?! Life must be tragic for some people.

But last week something different happened at the NFT, an event so rare that I need to share it with you. Particularly since it happened, not once, but twice:

1. Drunken Angel

This is one of Akira Kurasawa’s ‘modern’ films (i.e. not a samurai epic). The film tells the tale of an ‘unlikely friendship’ between an alcoholic doctor and a gangster with TB, a death wish and hey, a keen interest in booze as well. Although quite grim in places, I would say that Drunken Angel is pretty enjoyable and definitely compelling. It is, however, certainly not the sort of film where you expect to see snogging couples indulging themselves in the seats in front of you. After a while though, I came to unfortunately recognise that there was indeed an emotional connection between the tongue-wrestlers and the film – as the gangster’s plight became more desperate so did their passion. Probably because they’d long given up on reading the subtitles.

2. Bronco Bullfrog

This British film from 1969 about a group of miserable mono-syllabic 15-year-olds living a life of petty crime and violence in East London is not the sort of film I previously expected to appeal to the cinema snogging type. OK, there is a blossoming romance between the two main characters* and I personally found this story of non-swinging London a strangely touching portrayal of youth, but clearly there is more to the film than that. The bleak streets of late 60s London make a perfect accompaniment to cinema fumbles. Well, for the couple near me anyway.

Well, it makes a difference from the usual straight-laced cinephile types I suppose. Any other unlikely snogging at the cinema tales to tell?

* Sample dialogue from when he first goes round to her flat to ask her out:

‘Is your daughter in? I don’t know her name, but she’s medium size with long hair.’
‘I’ll get her for you…’
[girl arrives at door]
‘So do want to go out with me on Saturday?’
‘Yeah.’
‘See you then.’
[boy leaves]

A little while back I wrote about the joys of the e-cigarette and now, you’ll be delighted to know, I’ve found the ideal accompaniment to it.  It’s Le Whif inhalable coffee.

Inhalable coffee is perfect for the busy person who doesn’t have time for a coffee break or who is just plain tired of having to repeatedly lift those damn cups to their mouth and swallow pesky liquid. No, with the Le Whif, you just raise the convenient pocket sized aerosol spray to your nose once and take a sniff.

And with one quick hit containing as much caffeine as an espresso, inhalable coffee is also a handy reminder that you’re a lazy, joyless sod with an addiction problem.

Things got rather morose down the pub the other night as conversation turned to the last drink you would choose before you died.

Friend 1: ‘a pint of Badger’s Hopping Hare’
Friend 2: ‘oh, it’s got to be a plain old pint of London Pride. Or maybe a whiskey…’
Me: ‘a martini, definitely’
Friend 3: Some kind of lager, probably Carlsberg’
Friend 1: ‘Are you kidding?!’
Friend 3: ‘Well, I like lager… but really, if I was about to die I’d try heroin.’
Friend 2: ‘Yeah, why not? I mean it’s got to be good.’
Me: ‘And that’s probably one of the most practical times to give it a go.’
Friend 1: ‘Hmmm… a pint or a wrap? It’s a tough one…’

So what do you think? What would be your last drink? Or are you going to go for the heroin?

I know that Oscar Wilde once made some comment along the lines of ‘The most frightening sentence in the world is the one that begins with “I had a really interesting dream last night”‘, but forgive me because I’m going to indulge myself…

I had spent a good hour or two last night combing the internet for some background information on various local candidates and wasn’t getting anywhere. Incomplete CVs, unexplained party politics and general spin prevailed. I went to bed disgruntled and my sub-conscious quickly took over: it was now Thursday morning and time to vote.

So I rolled up at the local polling station only to discover that all of our usual candidates had been mysteriously de-selected, disqualified or disgraced.

‘Don’t worry’ said the chipper election official to the growing crowd of disgruntled voters, ‘Rod Stewart has volunteered to be your MP instead.’

Murmurs ran through the crowd. We turned to each other and shrugged. Why not? Perhaps he’d get The Faces together again for a jam at the local pub? None of the other parties could do that.

Sadly I woke up before I could find out whether The Faces did play the Standard. And it was with a certain degree of resignation that I dragged myself off to the polling booth this morning to vote for the usual suspects.

Happy Election Day everyone.

I’ve tried to keep it to myself, but what is a blog for if not to rant and vent?

1. Why does David Cameron think that it is ‘a good thing’ to show that he can pull an all-nighter? So he’s been up for 24 hours campaigning, pressing the flesh and inflicting himself on innocent people. I’m not impressed. I would prefer my probable prime minister to realise that work is more productive after a good night’s sleep.
2. What’s the appeal of the new John Lewis ad? They’ve reportedly spent £6 million on a load of schmaltz and a dodgy cover of the lamest Billy Joel song ever, ‘She’s Always a Woman’, to remind us that all a girl needs in life to be happy is marriage, some lovely children and a nice aspirational lifestyle bought from a department store. And over 600,000 mugs seem to have watched the ad of their own free will on youtube. What is with these people? It’s an ad!
3. One of our suppliers at work thinks that the way to get on my good side is not to complete the work to deadline, but to send me through pictures of the new addition to his family, a puppy, with every email. How can I tell him that I don’t care quite as much about his precious pet as he does (even if it is very cute)?
4. My already mixed feelings about Doctor Who have become even more mixed. I’ve long thought that the show is completely and utterly unrealistic. I mean, if you could go anywhere in the space time continuum why you would choose to hang around the UK in the late 20th/early 21st century all the time is beyond me. But who exactly is the target audience for this show? It’s surely not a family show now – the 7 year old me would have had a minor nervous breakdown watching the recent angels episode. What would I have done? Hidden behind the sofa in fear or stuck my fingers down my throat with all the yucky snogging? Many children must be facing this same dilemma and I feel for them.

OK, enough now. I’ll be back later when I have something civil to say.

‘Good film this.’
‘Yep, pity everyone in it’s dead.’
‘Robert Ryan?’
‘Dead.’
‘Ida Lupino.’
‘Yep. Dead.’

[long pause]

‘Did you go to that Diana Dors screening the other month?’
‘She’s dead too.’
‘And Sid James…’
‘Yep. Dead.’
‘Guess we’ll be joining them soon.’
‘Yep.’

[even longer pause]

‘Fancy a pint after the film then?’

Oh, how I wish I could have joined these cheery chaps for a swift half and further chat…

Long before I discovered punk, or indeed any music beyond Culture Club and my Dad’s Beatles records, I knew Malcolm McLaren as the man behind the groovy skipping song ‘Double Dutch’.

This single, with its natural exuberance celebrating the important things in life for an 8 year old, kicked off a huge skipping fad in our school playground. And for once I wasn’t standing on the sidelines wondering what the fuss about. No, it was quite clear from the film clip I’d seen on Australian Sunday night music staple Countdown that skipping was not like the usual rubbish sports like cricket or netball. Skipping was COOL.

So here’s to you Malcolm – for not only helping change the course of music but for managing to get sport hating bookworms like me out of library (for the weeks that the song was in the charts anyway).

‘…The skip they do is the double dutch, that’s them dancing…’

Malcolm McLaren, ‘Double Dutch’, 1983

It is almost ten years to the day since I moved here from Australia. I remember it like yesterday – sleepless nights and teary telephone calls, the last coffee in Newtown, the farewell cocktails with friends, the sunny sprawl of Sydney below me as the plane rose into the air – all followed by a week of sheer bliss by myself in London. I walked the streets for days drinking in the daffodils, the tucked away City churches, the rows of tight Victorian terraces, Primrose Hill, Wardour Street and the Westway, being able to buy Q magazine the day it came out and an astonishing sense of freedom and exhilaration that I knew I’d never feel again.

Since then, life has settled down into the usual routine that work and stability brings, but I still love being here. The cultural life is unsurpassed, the people are friendly but not tiresomely so, the countryside beautiful and the weather is fine by me. Like Australia, I’ve learned to live with the politicians.

I feel very at home here. That feeling is only hindered by ‘other people’. After ten years the two questions I’m most regularly asked remain:

1. Are you Australian? How long are you here for?
2. When are you coming home?

I’m never allowed to forget that I’m not ‘home’.

But at the same time, I do forget. I don’t know what’s going on in Australia, I can’t answer any questions about Australian politics, I don’t even know if Ray Martin is still on TV. Despite going back every few years, my memories of the country are stuck in 2000. I don’t feel particularly ‘Australian’.

On  the flipside, although I have quite a good working knowledge of British culture, I didn’t grow up here and its not my country. I don’t get the class obsession, Marmite, voting on a Thursday or Carry On films; I’ve never seen Blue Peter and Margaret Thatcher was nothing more than a nasty presence on the international section of the news.

When I think of Australia, I miss people and I miss very particular things – the harsh light, bustling cafe culture and flat whites, the ABC and Phillip Adams, the sense of humour, the smell of gum trees, the sound of cackling magpies.

I could go back, but I’d miss the UK in exactly the same way – the friends I’ve made, the long soft summer evenings, the cosy pubs and cask ale, Radio 4 and Just a Minute, the sense of humour, the smell of wet coats in a steamy local caff, the sound of the visiting summer swifts outside our window.

When I was last in Australia, a Greek-Australian taxi driver took me to the airport. We discussed the problems of our dual passports and living with our nearest and dearest spread between two continents. As he was dropping me off, he sighed saying ‘Good luck. You’re like me. You’re at the point of no return. Our hearts are torn between two countries, so much so, that we’ll never be completely happy in either.’ I think he’s right.

Regular readers will know that I like a good gripe about the state of the world’s manners. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I have come across a new, impressive level of disrespect to share with you.

Picture this:

It’s Wednesday morning. I am in Paris. For some bizarre reason I decide to go into Notre Dame Cathedral, rather just walking past it as usual. I am surprised to see that 1. it is free entry, 2. there isn’t much of a queue and 3. that there is a short service going on.

I slip into one of the empty back rows, let the sound of the priest’s voice lull over me and actually enjoy the opportunity to look around the massive nave and soak up the historic ambiance. Tourists still continue to amble in and wander around. It’s a bit distracting, but most people are quiet and behave themselves.

I say most, because at least five people during the 10 minutes I lasted walked straight down the front and took photos of the priest reading at the altar. Another two turned around and took a few action shots of the congregation at prayer.

The priest didn’t bat an eyelid. He’s probably used to it. But I’m an anti-religion, severely agnostic cynic and I’m appalled. What were these people thinking? Did they mistake religion for theatre? Did they not care at all about other people’s beliefs? Or couldn’t they resist a good photo opportunity?

I was all set to write about the wonders of science and technology that I discovered at the Wellcome Collection yesterday, but seem to have instead been distracted by the wonders of science and technology contained within the pages of the Easylife: Lifestyle Solutions catalogue.

One lifestyle solution in particular leaps off the page. It is the Genius E-cigarette.

The lifestyle benefit of the Genius E-cigarette is that it allows you to ‘beat the smoking ban’ and light up inside. It’s ’state-of-the-art micro-electronic technology produces a realistic smoking experience’ where you can even blow smoke-rings. The downside is that the ’smoke’ is merely vapour and although it contains no tar or nicotine, your tobacco comes in easy-to-use cartridges in three tasty flavours – ‘tobacco’, mint and cherry.

I am finding more humour than genius in the e-cigarette (even if it comes ready supplied with a USB charger) and as a non-smoker, my opinion is probably invalid, but what mug is ever going to fall for this? Isn’t the tobacco precisely the point of smoking and what sane person wants to sit in a pub with a pint and a tobacco flavoured pen with an LED bunged on the end?

But apparently it’s quite popular – any lapsed or current puffers want to fill me in on this one?!

I am pathetically excited this morning.

Why? Because I just had a fantastic coffee.

Last night I went to a screening of a documentary about the coffee industry called Black Gold. The film focused on a man who lived and breathed coffee, and who spent his life travelling the world selling coffee from a co-op of southern Ethiopian farmers. ‘This is the best coffee in the world’ he proclaimed. ‘OK’ I thought, sucked in by every word ‘but where can I get this stuff?’

Up the road from my office it transpires.

So this morning I found myself in the queue at Taylor St Baristas, a place that is sells itself on all the things I usually despise. Not Ethiopian coffee, but patriotic snobbery strangely enough. The place is run by Australians, a fact that they advertise prominently. Their promotional material states that Taylor St Baristas was founded as a response to the dire state of London coffee, that Australians can do coffee better.

Unfortunately this is all completely true and I’ve learnt over the years not to point that out to over-sensitive Londoners. But there is still something irksome about this kind of patriotism, its just… unAustralian.

We do make a good cup of coffee with those Ethiopian beans though.