Day 2. Dust, my old nemesis.

Day 2. Pretty damn impressive, eh?

So… I’m lying in bed doing my pre-sleep writing thing last night when it occurred to me that yet again I’ve said I’ll do something that will most definitely clash with my core personality trait of “Person who doesn’t do stuff with any semblance of regularity.”
I like to think that it’s not that I’m lazy ( though in all fairness I would really, wouldn’t I? ) I just can’t seem to do actions consistently.

Take, for example, dusting. People in houses generate dust, this I know. More people, more dust. Excess dust makes me wheezy, so to stop my respiratory system shutting down for giggles I’m aware that regular removal of dust is pretty much what I should be aiming for.

Do I?

Often I can spend weeks wondering why the tv signal isn’t as crisp anymore, or come close to a skin-flake avalanche nearly claiming one of the smaller children before I realise “Hold on… it’s a bit dusty in here, isn’t it?” ( The standard retort to which is “No shit, Sherlock” in this household. )
I just don’t see it. Well, obviously I *see* it, but the response of “Hmm, you really ought to do something about that, you don’t look terribly attractive when your lips turn blue, you wet yourself in an asphixia-induced panic and keel over…” just doesn’t kick in.

Luckily, my other half is very understanding and will often go fill a bucket of water and go do the cleaning himself. This invariably kick-starts the Housewife Failure Guilt Spiral, which would be devastating to my sense of self-worth if I had any sort of functioning memory. In actuality I just end up feeling monumentally bad during the dusting process itself but have completely forgotten about it the next day. Except for maybe glancing around now and then and wondering why everything looks so much nicer, whilst being unable to put my finger on exactly why.

Incidentally, I’ve tried Googling for handy housekeeping planners and reminders but the most popular ones seem to involve such delusions as “Only 10 minutes per room per day!”, which I’m gonna have to call BS on. You can NOT clean a room in 10 minutes, hell …it can take me 10 minutes just to get a day’s worth of debris out from underneath the dinner table. At absolute very best you’re wiping crap from one place to another. Wiping does not equate to cleanliness. I wipe my arse on average once a day but that doesn’t mean it’s sparkly clean and ready for you to eat your dinner off it. Not that you’d want to. An arse-sized plate, who could possibly eat that much ??

Anyway, I digress. I thought for tomorrow I would attempt a book review. Of a book I haven’t read yet, ’cause that would hopefully be slightly more interesting than a rough outline that anyone who’s actually read it could spit out.
Plus, it seems that this blog has a bit of a running theme of general avoidance goin’ on, so it makes more sense to write about a book I’m avoiding despite forking out real actual cash for it.

I’ll go rummage around the bookcase-shaped living room dust and see what I can come up with 🙂




Mr Nobody turns out to be quite something.

Prompt : “Write a review of a movie or product”

The concept of an individual’s fate hinging on one particular moment is hardly a new one. After all, it happens every single second of the day for us. Eat an extra doughnut now, 5 years later die of blocked arteries. Take a sick day from work and miss the office typist going doolally and wiping out the entire floor with sharpened staples. If you grasp the concept of dimensional physics you probably believe that all possible outcomes are occurring simultaneously in response to every single decision you and everyone else on the planet is making in that same miniscule sliver of time.

It’s really not something you want to think about with a hangover.

So obviously, this premise is going to pop up in movies now and then to differing degrees of success. Tie it in with the whole cause & effect time-travel paradox hoopla and you’d have a hefty chunk of celluloid to wade through, though admittedly a lot of it is utter drivel. It might, therefore, come as a bit of a surprise to know that one of my all-time favourite movies deals with exactly that hypothesis .. multiple outcomes from one single achingly critical moment.

The film is Mr Nobody, and it was directed by Jaco Van Dormael, and released in 2009.

Never heard of it? I’m not surprised. It had a limited release in a handful of countries, and that just breaks my heart because the movie is truly beautiful, in my humble opinion. Of course, I’m not claiming to be any sort of expert on films, but I know what I like. And I liked this very much indeed.

A young boy is given a choice when his parents separate, to live with his mother or father, and it is this pivotal moment from which sprout the possible outcomes. How many outcomes is a matter of debate and depends entirely on your interpretation of the story. Yes, it’s one of *those* films. It’s a Thinker. But don’t dismiss it as another artsy-fartsy euro offering, the acting is top-notch and the cinematography is often hypnotising in its artisty. At core though, it’s a story about love. Love between a child and it’s parents, love between man and woman, obsessional love, commitment, loss, eternity.

The film doesn’t hand you anything on a plate. In the beginning it can be confusing, but as the narrative unfolds and the main character Nemo Nobody tells his stories you can’t help but be drawn in and wonder what 9 yr old Nemo means when he says “You have to make the right choice. As long as you don’t choose, everything remains possible.” It’s not a complex film, but it does require , and deserve, attention.

I don’t want to give any more details away, I want you to see it.  10 / 10 .


The Official film website.

Sign up for the New Religion. I take Paypal.

Things aren’t going well on the new religion front, and already it’s become clear that it’s going to be tough to sell the concept of undead poultry as the saviour of mankind. Strangely. A certain amount of conditioning has taken place to imprint the idea that zombies are the bad guys, based purely on the fact they try to kill and consume you.
The very same could be said for tigers, various virulent bacteria, small yappy dogs, and daytime television, yet people still love these things ( with the exception of the bacteria, who only seem to be adored by deeply unhinged scientists who’s eyes move independently in B movies ). Generally folk seem to frown on anything that doesn’t stay dead, with the exception of Jesus, who got away with it for the following 2 reasons:
1) He was a sandal-wearing hippy, and they tend not to be threatening in any way, and
2) He didn’t leap from his tomb and sink his teeth into Mary M’s forehead.

Our central deity, and I’ve decided this will be a monotheist religion, needs to be a benign figure. Poultry that attained enlightenment and achieved godly status by returning from the dead yet abstained from chowing down on grey matter. Marketing a brain-eater is way beyond my current capacity and I may have to wait until I’ve got a few more religions under my belt before I attempt that one.

The more you think about it and attempt to fine-tune the basics, the more insanely convoluted and implausible the whole issue becomes. Where does the religion stand on the issue of life after death? Or the seemingly more pressing issue of devout millinery?:

Where oh where to start?

And then, almost as if people at WordPress actually read my crap, in comes today’s prompt:
“If you were God, how would you have started it all? “
… and we suddenly have a kicking-off point.

Me, I wouldn’t want to be a God. Too much pressure, no holidays, too many complainers, and I suspect beards might be compulsory. Luckily, I’m not God though, I’m merely attempting to set up a fairly rickety platform for his / her fledgling believers to achieve… erm … whatever it is we’re aiming for but haven’t decided on yet.

Being a poultry-based religion ( Hentheism ? ) I can’t help thinking that in the beginning should be vast unimaginably huge endless nothingness. And an egg. I’ll stop here for 5 minutes while you try to get the poster for the movie “Alien” out of your head. Back with me? Good.

I even think I can get away with not explaining where the egg has come from, as Logic appears to be the spandex tights-wearing nemesis to Religion’s caped superhero. And vice versa, depending on your particular leanings. Me? I’m leaning on the fridge door hoping that Hubby will return from the shops with a huge bar of chocolate, but then I’m ( as yet undiagnosed ) cocoa dependant. Show me a religion that worships at the altar of Hot ChocFudge sauce and I’ll drop all this chicken shit in a heartbeat. I’m fickle that way.

From this impossible egg hatched, in a blaze of light and funky CGI effects, our God.. who in this case I have decided is going to be female. After all, she *is* a hen and not a rooster. And she shall be known as ….. Bernard. I’ve always been partial to the name and I’m not going to let a little thing such as gender bias ruin what is supposed to be a moment of etherial beauty.

Bernard’s years were long and lonely, with no company or cable tv, and finally in an act of divine inspiration Bernard plucked the feathers from her breast one by one and set them free. Each feather became a tree, a plant, a rock, a glimmering droplet of dew upon a newly created blade of grass.
And Bernard saw that it was beautiful and reached a state of true enlightenment.

Unfortunately for Bernard, with enlightenment came the realisation that she was, to coin a phrase, totally plucked. The combination of shock ( chickens are easily startled, and that’s why you won’t ever catch one in the queue at the cinema to see any of the “Saw” movies ) and extreme cold killed our budding deity stone dead.

She fell to her newly created Earth, where after 15 minutes ( which celluloid will have us believe is a fair average regeneration time period ) Bernard resurrected into The Benign But Pulse Disadvantaged Poultrygod we shall hopefully be devoting ourselves to in a financially advantageous ( to me ) way.

As creation stories go, it has it all. Drama, pathos, beautiful imagery and a complete void where a grounding in reality should be.

Truly, what more could a religion wish for?



Lead me not into temptation. I know a shortcut.

It’s probably best we don’t mention I took a 3 month “sick day”, yeah?
Good. I just *knew* I could trust you.

Today I’m going to write about religion. It’s not something I write about often ( if at all ) because in all honesty I don’t know much beyond the basics. This is quite possibly why I scribble the odd ( very odd, occasionally ) entry or two about zombie chickens. It’s so much  easier to appear authoritative when nobody else knows what on earth you’re talking about, and whilst I’m a hopeless liar I’m also an olympic – standard bluffer.
“Reanimated poultry flesh? Yeah man, bane of my life… ”
See? Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Props to me for being the only person on the planet to still be using that phrase.

So, religion.

For a long time I proudly declared I was an atheist. It was a new word I’d learned ( Remind me at some point in the future to tell you about my Schroedinger’s Cat obsession. I was am such a strange child ) and nobody was going to take it away from me. Not that anyone wanted to. Religious preference amongst the average pre-schooler tends not to carry much weight.
Kid 1 : I believe in God!
Kid 2 : I have Dora The Explorer knickers…look!
Kid 1 : Cool !!!!!
Spiritual analysis over. Pink lace trim 1 : Faith 0

Nobody really cared what I thought did or didn’t exist, so my skepticism went ignored. Just as well really, because once I gained access to an adult encyclopedia I discovered I was in fact agnostic instead. I would have felt very foolish had anyone been taking any notice of me beyond “There’s that strange, quiet, long dark-haired girl with the huge collection of fruit-scented erasers..” Such is my legacy.

Now, I’m not entirely sure whether my agnosticism is a natural extension of my inherent apathy. And naturally, I can’t bring myself to care. But I do know , whatever your religious views, I’m cool with it. I’d just like more folk to be nice to each other. And for cakes to be given free to hormonal women. But that’s another matter entirely.
Therefore, it was a little unusual to be discussing religion and money with my dear insane friend, Shelley, a few months back. Unusual because our conversational topics in rough order of frequency are :
1) Her genitals.
2) My constipation.
3) How kids in general are driving us crazy, and our kids in particular.
4) Her lack of beer.
5) Men, and how they can be dreadfully silly sometimes.
And so on. You know, girl talk.

Then she set me a task :
“shit.  it’s nearly 11pm.  tell you what,  you design a religion – its rules, major belief points, do’s and don’ts, etc.  don’t forget that each religion has a miracle of some sort in there, and a god that occasionally speaks to followers and maybe appears in different forms for proof of existence.
do a blog.
i don’t do well in yellow, so cross that colour out, btw.”
…and being my friend and knowing me very well, she never mentioned it again. I’m not good with deadlines, pressure, or commitment, so dropping the whole issue was the best possible way to get me to do it.

Then today’s prompt crowbarred itself into my mailbox:
“Do you prefer to lead or follow? Or neither? “
and my deranged chum’s directions sprang to mind. Obviously if you’re going to be starting up an entire new system of belief you’re going to be the leader. You’d have to be 2 cartons of coleslaw short of a KFC Family Feast not to, cos let’s face it… that’s where the big shiny piles of cash are. Besides, being an agnostic I might choke on the “following” part and I’m slightly more likely to sign up if they’re my rules.

Then it gets tricky. Try it yourself. Think of one thing you’d have as a written-in-stone rule ( see what I did there? Hahaha. ), and it will quickly dawn on you that’s it’s probably featured front page on a whole bunch of slightly more advanced religions, and your little one now seems the Faith equivalent of own-label store cola.
Suddenly you start to realise that to found an entirely different way to worship is going to take considerably longer than one blog post. And you, my lovely fluffy subscriber, realise I’m going to fob you off in installments again like I did with the whole zombie chicken thing….


The Holy Church Of The Resurrected Poultry!


Alas, I’m seeing yellow-feathered robes though. Sorry about that, Shelley.

A Fishy Tale

I like to think that I have a lateral thinking approach to logic that embraces a certain amount of flexibility and adaptive freedom. Hubby, on the other hand, thinks I’m bonkers. Not stark-raving lick-the-bus-windows doolally, but certainly disjointedly chaotic. In turn I consider his logic occasionally flawed and often mistakenly rigid, and whilst neither of us is either right or wrong I tend to lean towards thinking I’m the one with a firmer grip on reality. But then I would really, wouldn’t I ?

That said, I do do something regularly every 2 weeks that even makes me wonder if the cheese has finally slid off my cracker, ‘cos it seems to plainly illustrate that I’m not packing a full picnic at best…and at worst I’m a babbling idiot.

Every fortnight I do the “Walk Of No Sushi.”

This is the Sunday afternoon jaunt back from dropping off my eldest son at the centre he’s currently staying in, and it involves a 30 minute torture session where I heatedly debate with myself why I should or should not buy myself a box of sushi once I reach the train station.It goes a little something like this :

Me 1 : Hey ! How about buying a small box of sushi from the station ?
Me 2 : Oh Sod OFF! Do we really have to do this Every Single Time ?!?
Me 1 : Yes. So how about it ?
Me 2 : You know I’m not going to, so just give it a rest and look at the nice flowers or something…
Me 1 : Flowers aren’t as nice as sushi…

And so it goes on for 30 long minutes that ultimately culminates in me pissing myself off with my irritating persistence. And not buying any sushi.

Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some exotic Asian eatery that wafts enticing aromas at hungry commuters, offering them fishy wasabi goodness. No. This is pre-packaged supermarket sushi squeezed into the space on the shelves between the tiny bags of takeaway chopped fruit and cardboard-encased sandwiches. I know it’s not high quality, yet I want it and I want it bad.

So why don’t I just buy some ?
Well, the reasoning behind it is thus ( and don’t bother attempting to make sense of it, you *will* fail.)  :
1) For : It only costs 2 – 4 euro.
Against : Money shmoney, a penny saved and all that jazz.
2) For : It’s only a small amount, you’d spend that on a bottle of drink.
Against : Drink doesn’t count. If I dehydrate I get migraines. That pretty much qualifies that bottle of Pepsi Max as medicinal.
3) For : It will stop you being hungry…
Against : I’m only hungry because I’ve been obsessing about sushi for an hour !!
4) For : Nobody will ever know…
Against : I will ! And if I eat some I won’t be hungry when I get home and the dinner Hubby has been preparing for the last 3 hours will be wasted. I might as well throw the plate in his face!
( The voices in my head have a flair for the dramatic )
5) For : You probably have the money in spare small coins at the bottom of your bag right now… go have a look…
Against : True. But this is money that I had to ask for. It’s not mine. It’s travelling money. It’s let’s feed the kids and pay the bills money. If I waste it on sneaky Japanese treats then exactly what sort of thief AM I ??

And so on.

I’m prepared to admit I quite possibly might have a few issues. About practically everything, as it turns out. One thing is crystal clear though, I either need to resolve my money hang-ups or skip the train and start taking the largely pickled-ginger-free bus home…


I could, as per today’s prompt, “Pick something you don’t like, and choose to accept it.“, let it go, and focus my energy on something really, truly important. Make a difference to my world somehow with all that repressed tension and embrace my newfound liberty.

Nah, I still fancy the sushi. *sigh*


Shit, as the quaint old saying goes, happens.

Black, white, rich, poor, gay, straight… Shit doesn’t care or discriminate. It’s an equal opportunities Bastard.

Like unexpectantly rising rent payments, the sudden appearance of a single smug-looking grey pubic hair, and unknowingly walking out of the ladies toilet with the back of your dress tucked into your knickers ( And not even the good “WhooHoo, I’m gonna get me some, peel these babies off with your teeth!” knickers, no… we’re talking back of the underwear drawer forgotten to do the laundry bellywarmers ) Shit is inescapable and randomly thrown at you to test how long it will take before you snap, buy a sniper rifle, and start picking off the seagulls flying past the balcony at 4am.

Now, before I get into exactly why I’ve been absent recently I think I should make it clear that pain is personal and mostly incomparable. Often pain is put on a sliding scale. You frequently see this in action in online forums where disagreements arise and eventually someone plays the “Cancer” card, which as everyone knows is supposed to trump all counter arguments and send the opposition to the Corner Of Shame. And to a certain extent that’s true.( Not the them having Cancer bit, that’s invariably a whopping big fib and reserves the Fibbee a nice stage-side dining table in the Restaurant Of Eternal Damnation ). You would have to be a Grade A moron to genuinely feel that snagging your tights on your nails and having to buy a new pair in any way or form compares to snagging a leg on some heavy-duty machinery and having to spend the rest of your life shoe shopping and saying to the assistant who is pointedly attempting not to stare, “No, I’ll only be needing the one, thanks.”

However, there’s a huge grey area in between Moderately Crappy and Holy Cow It’s A Diarrea-O-Rama! and those in the middle are at the mercy of perception.
I’ve been wallowing in that grey area for a while now. It’s not much fun.

Firstly, I almost lost my eldest son to suicide. Then I almost lost my youngest boy to diabetes. And a couple of weeks ago I almost lost my daughter to pneumonia.
I’m starting to feel like there’s a bit of a pattern developing here. Someone is definitely tuggin’ my chain.

And tuggin’.
And tuggin’.
And you know how that makes me feel?

I feel lucky.
I could have lost my beautiful, smart, funny, caring children, and Lord knows that would pretty much finish me too, but I didn’t. It was a close thing, and Christ it was painful each time ( and still is ), but it could so easily have been end-of-the-scale pain. The sort of pain you don’t recover from. Deep black not-a-speck-of-grey pain.

So that’s where I’ve been, showering off the excrement and feeling very grateful it was just a light shower as opposed to being pushed into a bubbling hot tub of the stuff. You can thank me for the mental image later 🙂

If it’s ok with you I’d rather go without the crap in my slippers, thanks.

Imagine, if you will, a small kitten sitting at the feet of its owner, largely going without any sort of attention. It’s small, cute, warm and furry. And it knows it ( cos cats are smarter than they let on. See a “working cat” on a regular basis? No ? I rest my case. ) And yet, despite the fact that the owner *chose* the kitten, they’re not spending 24 hours a day in adoration and they’re way behind on their daily quota of stroking, ear scrunching and sly nuzzling when nobody is looking.

Kitty isn’t happy.

Don’t get me wrong, kitty knows it’s loved. Kitty knows it will be fed, but dammit… what’s a kitten to do to get a little attention around here?
I’ll tell you what.
Kitty shits in your slippers, that’s what.
Kitty will get away with it, cos you love them. But from that moment on you’ll be keeping one eye on the cat and your slippers in the wardrobe.
The moral of this gripping tale?
Sometimes you have to crap where you shouldn’t to get the response that you should.

On an entirely related note, this is today’s prompt :
“An out of control train is about to run over a pile of happy puppies, do you…”

It made me chuckle. I can recognise kitten poop when I smell it and having had cats for a long time I keep anything I don’t want used as a latrine off the floor.

Sure as little brown nuggets usually aren’t raisins this post is going to have the following responses :
1) Outraged bloggers are going to post their outrage to the perilous position of the puppies that don’t exist being potentially massacred by a train that isn’t there. There will be indignant blogging or a pointed lack thereof.
2) Bloggers with a conscience tempered with a sense of humour will show their displeasure at the thought of implied peril, but will blog about it nonetheless with a view to tingeing it with a touch of silliness.
3) Bloggers who like to entertain will turn it into a comedy.
4) Bloggers who take things literally will attempt a reasonable reply to make the best of the situation and thereby the least possible casualties. And will feel warm and fuzzy inside as a result.
5) Tech bloggers will invent a device that manages to save all the puppies, and the global fuel crisis as an encore.
6) Surrealist bloggers will view the scenario from the standpoint of an aubergine.
7) The PostADay team will be smug about the sudden peak in blogging caused by deliberately posting a provocative topic where some cute little puppies are going to end up pate no matter whatever way you cut it.
8 ) Bloggers who like to whip people up into a frenzy will relish the opportunity and blatantly post something outrageous just cos it’ll make them giggle.

My answer to the topic then?

“An out of control train is about to run over a pile of happy puppies. You are standing at the control switch and can pull the level to direct the train onto a different track, saving their lives. But that other track has a smaller pile of equally happy puppies on it.”

Mash those suckers, scoop them up and serve them for dinner. That way you end up with lots and lots of very happy reprieved chickens 🙂

No snails were harmed in the making of this post.

When did you realise you were an adult?

Right here, right now, I’ll put a fiver on the answer, “I still don’t feel like I’m an adult…and I’m [ insert respectably high number here ]” being a curiously popular answer to this particular prompt.

‘Cos surely I can’t be the only one?

Sure, there will be those who go for the traditional The Day I Got Married / Had My First Child / First Voted / Bought My First House options… But in all honesty every single one of these milestones pretty much left me as childlike as before… And here I am, a 42-year-old woman who feels no differently than she did when she was 15.

I’ve largely avoided the trappings of adulthood. Some might say that there’s some deeply repressed psychological reason for that, rooted firmly in childhood trauma. Others, without lots of capitalised letters after their name, might ( slightly more succinctly ) say I’ve just lost my marbles. I beg to differ. It’s not that I’ve lost my marbles. I firmly believe I have my full complement of them, it’s just that mine are probably different to yours. And a couple are inexplicably cuboid in shape.

I have no interest in small talk at dinner parties to further my career. I sold all the shares in my “financial portfolio” and most likely spent the money on something entirely frivolous.. buggered if I can remember. I bought a house, I sold a house, and I spent most of the intervening time avoiding dusting it.

I’m not irresponsible. I’ve run a business, consulted with solicitors and been a single mother. Admittedly, motherhood *has* aged me, and continues to do so every single second of every day, but that’s only because I’m not terribly good at it. Put to a vote, however, I’d say the majority of my offspring are “moderately satisfied” with the service, or “very satisfied” after a liberal application of chocolate.

So… will I ever realise I’m an adult?

Obviously, I *know* I’m an adult right now, I’m not stupid. It’s pretty hard to avoid reality when you’re neck-deep in it and it smells like a workman’s sweat-slicked and distractingly hirsute butt crack on a sunny midday in the middle of summer. I just don’t like it. I don’t want to lose the childlike part of me that still runs to the window to look at a rainbow , or will stoop to give a snail a gentle prod in one eye just to watch it retract it and give me the snaily equivalent of a “withering curse” scowl with the remainder. Once that awe for life, love and beauty is gone you don’t get it back. Being “adult” doesn’t mean failing to stop and smell the flowers. It means failing to see the flowers in the first place.

What sort of idiot would trade that for car payment installments? Talk about losing your marbles…

Out of my mind … and into a small metal box.

OK… so this is what we’re gonna do …
YOU’RE going to ignore the fact I’ve been slacking off for weeks and are instead going to imagine I’ve been off writing an outstanding novel that will be snapped up almost instantly, filmed, make me more money than I can wave a stick at ( and believe me, I have exceptional stick-waving skills )and I’m now typing using my solid gold keyboard…
And I’M going to pretend I haven’t been off being mental and playing FarmVille obsessively on Facebook.

Sorted? Lovely.

So, where was I? Ah yes, PostADay *ahem*

Today’s prompt is :
“Who is the last person you’d want to be stuck in an elevator with?”

Hmmm. I’m a bit spoiled for choice on this one.

1) Obviously there’s the option of the numerous Ex’s that I’ve parted company with on less than amicable terms. The phrase “Hey.. let’s be friends!” is totally alien to me and frankly I’d rather pull off my toenails and skip merrily through a stream of lightly salted lemon juice than spend a single minute in the company of any of them again. Not all my ex’s were assholes, but enough were for me to sit down and seriously give myself the “What the hell are you thinking ??” talk.

2) Then there’s the option of avoiding being trapped with anybody who’s a bit peaky-looking and a touch plague-y. Anyone getting into the lift carrying a crumpled DHL package marked “Warning : Ebola virus in badly packaged thin glass test tube” who’s vomiting up their own intestines… and I’m gonna be taking the stairs instead.

3) ANYONE of any age, race, religion, gender or sexual orientation who thinks it’s fun to jump up and down and say things like “Oooh.. I wonder what would happen if the cable breaks?! I’d have to time it so that the second before the elevator hits the bottom I jump really high, thereby avoiding the shattering moment where my leg bones shoot up through my spine, puncturing both lungs, before embedding themselves in my own brain! Ha ha haaa!”

4) Folk who are dribbling and carrying a weapon of some sort, or a severed head in a carrier bag? No thanks.

5) Nose-pickers. Seriously… go get a tissue. I’m not saying I’m above a good dig myself, cos sometimes you just have to get a finger up there and see if you can strike gold, but at least I have the decency to do it out of the sight of others who might possibly have an aversion to nasal mucus. It’s not so much the actually excavation that bugs me, it’s what they do with their snot nugget that I take offence to. Frankly, I’d rather they ate it ( yes, I said it.. sue me ) than do the roll & flick. My snot = OK. Stranger Snot Ball In My Hair = Not cool.

6) Dirty pervy old men. Nuff said.

7) Conversationalists. I’m an introvert. I’m happy with my own company. I like quiet. Witter on endlessly for hours on end and you’re likely to be on the receiving end of a particularly vicious biro-ing with any number of cheap plastic pens I keep in my bag for just such an occasion.

and finally…

8 ) Charlie Sheen. Because.