How You Probably Shouldn’t Write a CV

I’ve applied for a job. Not, you understand, that I don’t already have a job. I have several. But this was a special kind of job. With the circus. With a company that is not run by me. I believe this will make a refreshing change. I have every intention of letting someone else tell me what to do and saying ‘yes sure’ and doing their bidding as I am bid. I may even say ‘yes, sure, boss.’ But that might be getting carried away. Should I get the job that is. Otherwise it will not be a refreshing change. Obviously. Things will carry on as normal with me telling people what to do and them saying ‘yes, sure.’ And then a completely random selection of doings will happen. Some better than I asked.

So, I had to write a CV. Now, being a person of an organised nature I of course already had a CV more or less to hand. I read it. I was not impressed. Improvements were needed:

I started at the beginning. As one does. Generally. There was an old photo of me which I cunningly replaced with a new photo of me which I had equally cunningly photoshopped out many of the wrinkles. How I expect to fool the recipients of this CV with that I have no idea since they saw me in person with the requisite amount of facial distortions only days ago. But maybe they forgot. Or didn’t look very closely.

Then I attempted to conceal my age by not mentioning it and simply describing myself as ‘of a certain age’. This again, is unlikely to fool people who know that I have a daughter who is about to embark on the high life of physics at a certain well-know academic institution of higher learning and quads. (who, by the way, don’t have normal autumn spring and summer terms but have Michaelmas, Hilary and something else odd that I have forgotten terms. Who the fuck is Hilary and why does she get her own academic term?)

Instead of enumerating chronologically my life’s works, (which would frankly take so long to read the poor recipients of my CV would die of old age, be buried, go to heaven, reincarnate as a better life form (probably a lava lamp or possibly the London Eye) and lead a lengthy and successful life as an inanimate object before they had got up to the part when I was aged 30), I made a sort of list-style CV.

I listed achievements, which included being nearly able to tango.
I listed key skills, which included writing lists.
I listed IT skills, which included being able to type quite quickly.

I mentioned a few good reasons that they might like to hire me, such as me being slightly financially embarrassed, me liking them and me being jolly interested in the circus.

CV writing is tricky stuff. I hope I get the job.

How to Get a Seat to Yourself on National Express

I’ve been to London. On a coach. A large, air-conditioned coach that was almost comfortable, aside from the seats. You know, like a large bus, not one of those people who shout at sports people. Or one of those posers who charge you a lot of money for telling you to do something you already intend and want to do, only more slowly. As a quick aside, and as I am very short of money, I feel at this juncture (having just revealed the secret) - Cecilia’s Life, Bodily and Spiritual Coaching Service only costs £30/hr.

For the purposes of this long and potentially not all that inspiring journey I took a personal stereo. Not one of those small objects of desire that hold the entire collection of the world’s music in less space than is required for a clutch of miniature fairies to have an orgy in. No, it was a battered, slightly squeaking and barely functional CD player accompanied by a battered and very granny-like box containing CDs. Now, I could even have opted for a tape player but, come on, I do live in the modern world.

So, there I was having a very jolly time. On the coach, listening to music. The joy of listening to music is that it makes me dance. So, there I was, enjoying myself, grinning, on the coach, seat dancing. Which mostly involves jigging my legs, which happen to be propped on the seat in front, and waggling my head from side to side, which happens to he propped on my neck.

Another joy of listening to music is that it makes me sing. As my family will testify I have an unusual singing voice that has a tendency to rebel against outmoded conventions of melody, rhythm and the diatonic scale.

So, there I was. On the coach, seat dancing and singing and grinning like a jolly person who loves foreign travel. Or it was probably singing. But we all know what happens to someone whose ears are plugged with earphones. The don’t exactly sing. They more go ‘waoha’ and then pause for a bit. Then they go ‘ohdble’ and pause again. This is more often than not followed by a rousing chorus of ‘eblieeel ebideeelble dooooooble’. Particularly when listening to Nat King Cole. Which I was.

It was also quite hot on the coach as we were stuck in the bus station for quite a while waiting for a driver. So, well, I thought maybe no one would notice, I took off a small selection of clothing. So, there I was having a really really jolly time. On the coach, dancing, singing, grinning and half-naked. I do love coach journeys.

I was the only person on the coach to have a seat to themselves. That was an incredible piece of luck really. Because there are a lot of weirdos that people can potentially sit next to on coaches.

My Fridge Eats Bagels

There are many mysteries in life. Things like why? Who? When? And What the fuck is that? One of the mysteries that mystify me and many others are disappearances. Mostly objects. Mostly objects that one needs. Things like pens, keys, hair bobbles, hair brushes, children, cars, houses, husbands, sanity etc.

Well, here in our house (which thankfully only disappears infrequently) the latest thing to disappear is food. Mostly bagels. From the fridge. One moment I have bought three tubular packaging thingys of onion bagels and stored them for safekeeping and freshness in that little drawer in the bottom of the fridge that you are meant to keep heaven knows what in. You know the ones, sort of plastic and always just a little bit dirty no matter how much you clean them. The next moment, when youngest daughter needs her bagel fix, the bagels are gone. Completely. Not even the packaging left. The daughter’s boyfriend, who has been sent downstairs in order to complete the bagel mission without the daughter having to rise from her bed, confirms the situation. The bagels are gone. We are mystified.

We consider likely suspects:

The boyfriend himself, unlike many chaps of his age, does not suffer from constant and devouring hunger that leads him to constantly devour all the food in the house including the bagels. Aside from which, incurring the scorn of youngest daughter by not producing the requested bagels by having eaten them is a terrifying prospect which a man of his sensibilities would not contemplate. So boyfriend is innocent. Of bagel theft anyway.

Could it be the physicist? Well, she does not really like onion bagels, but maybe she has been using them for obscure experiments. If it works for custard could it equally work for bagels? We cross-examine her. She denies that bagels or any other bready products are non-newtonian liquids and therefore do not interest her. She suggests that other non-newtonian liquids in the kitchen, ketchup and mayonnaise for example, may be of interest to physicists – but bagels phshaw!

Could the culprit be the beloved? Yet he too scorns bagels as a strange Jewish foodstuff that good Scotsmen like himself will not even consider actually exist. And if they do exist then only folk of a Jewish descent could possibly actually consume them. Like youngest daughter. But she is the bagel-less victim in all of this.

So, maybe it was me. I like onion bagels and am also of Jewish descent and I know where the bagels are kept. This sounds pretty likely. It must have been me. Yet, despite being menopausal, forgetful, and slightly irrational surely I would remember eating three packets of bagels. And I do not. At all. Even remember eating one. I declare myself innocent.

This leaves only the cat. He fulfils no criteria whatsoever. He is not Jewish, nor does he like bagels, nor does he experiment (much) on foodstuffs. Nevertheless we do question him. He vehemently denies any knowledge of bagels and simply asks that, if we are not busy, could we feed him again. We are busy.

All that is left to do is examine the scene of the crime. The fridge. The empty fridge. The bagelless fridge. It makes a slight belching noise. Enough to give it away. The obvious answer comes to us. The fridge has eaten the bagels.

Dancing Reggaeton – Or the Official Name for Waggling Your Hips

The teacher said that she had a lot of requests from people wanting to learn how to dance Reggaeton. So she was going to teach us. Fair enough, I thought. Frankly I had never heard of Reggaeton but I’m always willing to learn. We had been dancing Salsa for the last two and a half hours and maybe a change would be as good as a rest. And frankly again it couldn’t be any harder than Tango. Which is hard.

With the now wisdom of hindsight I understand why they named that fizzy orange chemical after Tango. The fizzy orange awfulness is even harder to drink than the complex loveliness of actual tango is to do. Did that sentence make any sense? You know what I mean.

As it turned out Reggeaton was the easiest dance I have learnt in my short and dangerous career as a student of the various methods of having sex to music without actually doing it. Reggaeton was my sort of dancing. It is OBSCENE. And simply a matter of an awful of a lot of hip wiggling and body rolling. I can do that. I can do that in my sleep. Mostly I do it in bed whenever I’m not alone. I can also do it in nightclubs, village halls, pubs, festivals, and alone in my kitchen. No, actually, I mostly do it alone in my kitchen. And stop when the children come in.

As it turned out I have been dancing Reggeaton all my life but just didn’t have a word for it. Now if you are wondering, and I’m sure you are, what the hell I am going on about, it’s like Shakira in that video, this video -

http://www.videocodezone.com/videos/s/shakira/hips_dont_lie.html

Yes, I look just like that. Only my hair is shorter. And I’m in the kitchen. Really.

Taxonomy – a True Story (nothing to do with the Inland Revenue)

There was a guy who decided to name everything. He had his own name, so he didn’t actually name everything because his parents had already called him Carl Linnaeus. Cruel I know, but it was nothing compared to what he did.

Carl, rather like some people who write blogs, was obsessed with sex. So, rather like some people who write blogs, he decided to base all his naming stuff on sex. Here’s how it went:

He classified all the everything according to the number of male sexual organs it had. This worked ok for plants (he was very interested in plants) but fell down rather when it came to everything else. He therefore named everything else ‘notus plantus’. I should have mentioned that Latin was his naming language of choice.

Now, although counting willies worked well as far as it went it didn’t go far enough. (Willies sometimes have that problem). So he had to count female sexual organs as well. This is what happened:

A Lily was called ‘six blokes with one girl’
A Tulip Tree was named ‘at least twenty gay chaps’
And a Marigold was ‘a couple of guys with eversomany women’

It never caught on, although I consider an enchanting method of naming plants.

So he tried again. (By the way, this is a true story stolen directly from ‘The Garden’ Magazine, a fascinating periodical we should all read). This time he decided to give everything a first name and a last name. Thus ‘notus plantus’ became ‘notus plantus’ and Marigolds became Marigold reallyveryorangus. The surname is a clue to what sort of plant it is. Strangely this did catch on. Now it is totally socially acceptable to have a surname that describes what sort of plant you are. Famous examples include Cardinal Sin (former Archbishop of Manila), S. Marc Breedlove, who wrote on sexual dimorphism (whatever that is) and Kevin DeCock (director of HIV/AIDS at the World Health Organisation). This is true. Stolen directly from the New Scientist (another fascinating periodical we should all read).

So, my suggestion is, in line with the universal method of naming plants, we should all rename ourselves. I am now called Cecilia Mygodwhatthehellisshegoingonabout.

The Pregnancy, Menopause, Time-warp Mystery Possibly Solved

I haven’t had a period. For a long time. This, I thought, could mean a number of things:
I can't count
It’s the menopause
I’m pregnant
I’m living in a time-warp

The number of things being 4. There have been another number of things (17) that led me to think that number 4 is the most likely occurrence. I must be living in a time-warp. This is because I have turned into a teenager with strange desires to:
1. Dance
2. Think Rude thoughts
3. Sing
4. Fall in love
5. Play the guitar
6. Wonder what people look like naked
7. Speak my mind at inappropriate moments
8. Think far too much about having sex
9. Dye my hair purple
10. Wonder what I look like naked
11. Have tattoos of turbo-bees placed upon my body
12. Have tattoos of turbo-bees placed upon other people’s bodies
13. Not do my homework
14. Wonder what people are like in bed
15. Swear
16. Wonder what I am like in bed
17.Conduct my whole life from my bed
This seems to me like a LARGE number of things.

Whereas if I were pregnant the number of strange desires would be considerably fewer:
1. To sleep
2. To sleep some more
3. To throw up

If it were the menopause, from my scant personal experience and a quick perusal of Net Doctor, the collection of strange desires might only include:
1. Opening windows
2. Taking my clothes off
3. Breaking my own bones

So, the evidence above definitely led me to the time-warp conclusion because the number 17 is a lot bigger than the number 4. This is statistics for you.

But I am a woman of a scientific bent, and 98% of all statistics are made up, so I decided to use some more empirical evidence before publishing the results.

Thus I found myself in the medical sort of aisle of my local ASDA. As is usual with these sorts of experiences I stood gazing at the shelf containing far too many products. I eschewed the fluorescent pink mouthwashes, cures for cystitis and unknown, unknowable and unpronounceable herbal remedies. Finally I narrowed my choices down to:
1. A pregnancy testing kit
2. A menopause testing kit
3. A Mars bar
At a loss as to what to choose I turned to my sixteen-year-old daughter.
‘Buy them all, you’ll need them,’ she said. Ah, from the mouths of babes…
‘Do you want anything from here?’ I asked. I may be in a time-warp but I am nevertheless a concerned mother. She added to our basket a large packet of condoms, a medium sized packet of tampons, a smallish packet of aspirin and another Mars Bar.

The boy at the checkout had the decency to look a tad embarrassed as he bleeped through this comprehensive and totally confusing collection of items of a womanly nature. Anyone analysing the contents of that basket could only conclude that I was about to give a demonstration of everything of a messy nature that could happen to a woman in any given lifetime. Oh, except we didn’t have any breast pads.

So, arriving home, there was nothing left to do aside from piss on various items, wait three minutes and inspect them for thin red lines. Sadly there was no test available for the time-warp theory so I had to invent one.

The results are in:
1. No I am not pregnant (thank God for that)
2. Yes it could be the menopause (thank another God for that)
3. Yes, I am living in a time warp (thank a God that used to exist (but may not any more) for that)

Of course unless I got the little sticks mixed up due to the time-warp effect…

Novel Editing – How Probably Not to Do It

I have spent the last a lot of days trying to edit my novel. And trying to add another 20,000 words to it so I can finish my MPhil and win the (and I am ashamed to say this but this is a sign of my obvious desperation) Daily Mail novel competition. The prize is a lot of money. Which I could do with. Mostly to buy time. Mostly to write. Mostly to avoid getting a real and proper job instead of running a real and proper publishing company which makes no real and proper money.

Editing a novel is HARD. Editing a novel you have written is REALLY HARD. Mostly because you already know what happens.
Here’s how it goes:

Read some bit. Think, well that’s ok. But it needs more. Add some bits. Look at the word count. It has crept up a bit. Good. Read another bit. Think well that’s crap. Delete that bit. Look at the word count. It has gone back down to what it was before. Damn.
And so it goes on.

Days and days later nothing much seems to have changed. Except a lot of time has gone by. So the house is still filthy, the cat is still hungry, the children are still wondering where their mother is.

How to Rule the World

The physicist is a top contender to be voted ‘Most Likely to Rule the World’. I feel democracy is on the up with this sort of poll. Fuck ‘Prime Minister’ or ‘Welsh Assembly Personage’ or even ‘person to represent a very small lane with only nine houses on it’. We need to be more forward looking in our voting habits.

When she rules the world she has a cunning plan to stop wars forever. This is it:

The earth will no longer be divided into countries according to geographical location, land mass and where they happen to be. It will be divided into regions consistent with political, religious and musical belief. Hence all the Liberal Democrats will live in, say, what used to be Switzerland, and all the Baptists will live in, for example, a place that has lots of water for baptismal purposes and all fans of folk music will live in a place with lots of folk. Consequently, the physicist believes, everyone will be happy surrounded by people of agreeable views, dispositions and slightly dodgy taste.

This, I think, is probably why physicists don’t rule the world.

She has no other policies. Except that custard must be freely available to all for the purposes of running on.

The beloved, on the other hand, should he be in the position of ruling the world, has a very strong raft of new innovative laws that he would enact immediately, forthwith and without a moments delay. When I say raft, I mean one. This is it:

Ban cucumbers.

This, I think, is probably why academics don’t rule the world.

Of course now I am thinking, should I be in such a position of power, what would I do? How could I make this place I have complete sovereign over a happier, more contented and generally jollier corner of the universe to live in? The trend so far seems to be that just one solution is needed. A bit like the idea that strings are the answer to the mysteries of the universe. Or that bioyoghurts in quirkily shaped containers are the secret to eternal life. So this is it:

Ban Rulers of the World.

This, I think, is probably why writers don’t rule the world. They already have.

How the Earth was Invented

There are many and various theories as to how the earth was invented. The most popular of which is that it evolved. This is Darwinism. Darwin was a guy with quite an interesting beard who thought a lot about stuff. He would start with quite a small thought and it would grow and change and mutate and grow and change until it was a very big thought quite unlike the first thought. Yet somehow connected.

So this is how the earth evolved according to Darwin:

It started with something very small. Possibly a bit of fluff. Possibly from a tumble dryer. Then it grew and changed over a long period of time. A very long period of time. Longer than that sort of time it takes for a number 34 bus to turn up. Longer than the sort of time it takes for innocent two-left-footed people to learn to tango. And even longer than the sort of time it takes to write a novel that encompasses all of human life and has a lot of sex in it (hard to believe I know, but that’s science for you).

The earth grew and changed into a large rock with lots of exciting features like water, land, sky, gadgets to open difficultly packaged gadgets, small beings growing and changing into large beings, unlikely poetry and fluff from tumble dryers.

In turn the fluff evolved into intelligent fluff that began to question the very nature of life itself. This is how the fluff did it:

Two bits of Fluff Looking at What May or May Not Be a Banana
(Borrowed extensively and totally from http://turboart.blogspot.com/)

The highly evolved fluff then went on to conquer the world:
Two Bits of Fluff Having Eaten What May or May Not Be a Banana
(again borrowed extensively and totally from http://turboart.blogspot.com/)

I think this is something that not even Darwin anticipated.

Don’t imagine that this is the only theory of how the world was invented. There is another fairly popular one. Creationism. That means that someone, and it is always a celebrity, actually put pen to paper, or clay to chopping board, or glue to fluff, and with their own two hands (given that they had two hands and that isn’t necessarily the case) made the world. God is a popular celeb often attributed with this feat. Some people think that it was Donny Osmond (mostly women of a certain age, my age). Others have proof that it was Dolly Parton. This is the proof (an actual picture of her doing it):
(once more borrowed extensively and totally from http://turboart.blogspot.com/)

We in the school of Aardvarkism believe it to be (obviously) an Aardvark:

Superman Came to Visit Today – Or How to Make Your Own Man into a Superman

Superman came to visit today. He was smaller than I expected. But he could fly. So I was impressed. The fact that he was only 4 years old did surprise me somewhat.

The story of just how he came to be Superman rather than just an ordinarily bouncy 4 year-old led me to ponder some exciting possibilities. This is what happened:

Superman’s mother (a wise and intelligent woman), before the boy in question was endowed with superpowers, said to him –
‘If you sleep all night in your own bed verily you will become Superman.’
And lo! As such things happen in great works of fairytale and religion IT WORKED! Just by doing what his mother suggested he was endowed with superpowers and became Superman. And the mother was verily grateful and so was the superhero.

Now I’m thinking that could we not use this idea to make all our itinerant men into superheroes? How handy would that be? Not only could these formally more or less mortal men satisfy beyond all flights of the imagination they could probably even solve some of the great mysteries of what doormats are for, what that odd electrical device that pairs up with the folding table-thingy is, and, I know it sounds unlikely, incredible and a daring flight of fancy - fix broken taps!

I’m thinking that if I simply said to my itinerant man ‘If you sleep all night in my bed then you will be Superman.’ Of course, I’m not meaning ‘sleeping’ here in a literal sense. Not like in the case of the rather younger Superman. You know what I mean. Just imagine the outcome. This is what might happen:

Itinerant man makes love to me all night. Fun.
Itinerant man turns into Superman, complete with Superpowers.
Superman makes love to me all night. With his Superpowers. And presumably all that is inherent in having superpowers. Much more than fun.
Superman therefore becomes Supersuperman.
Supersuperman makes love to me all night…you see where this is going.

Why has no one ever thought of this before? Possibly they have but never lived to tell the tale. Personally I am willing to take that risk. Should this blog never have another entry you know that I died happy. And Superman – I love you.

Novel Writing, or How to Write a Novel, and How to Write Poetry Too. In Fact How to Write Stuff.

Firstly, sorry to have neglected my loyal readers. I was busy. This is why:

I am writing a novel.
I am also writing a collection of poetry (which means lots of poems. The collective noun for poems is a ‘collection’).
I am writing a novel and a collection of poetry and doing an MPhil.
This is more cunning than it sounds because I am writing a novel and a collection of poetry for my MPhil. Cunning eh? And somewhat unbelievable too. Who in their right mind would award someone an academic qualification for simply making something up as you go along? For this is the essence of novel writing. And very much more the essence of poetry. The other essence of novel writing is that it is long. Very long. Extremely long. Longer than a piece of string. Longer than an ocean liner. Longer than waiting in the hospital to have an ultrasound scan when you are required to drink pints and pints of water and NOT allowed to go to the toilet. (You can see how time distortion works when in such a situation.)

The last few days was where these two activities (writing and MPhil not lack of urination and ocean liners) have come together in a feast of workshops, bad coffee, reading other people’s very long novels and staying up very late pretending to be clever and literary. I say pretending because, although writing may have been mentioned in passing, in fact we were drunkenly singing such delightful ditties and ‘Twist and Shout’ (a lyrically profound song) and ‘House of the Rising Sun’ (a ballad so lyrically disastrous that has previously killed many a patient listener).

The actual workshops, attended by actual academic staff, were, of course, much more serious. A great deal of time was spent discussing the literary significance of the erect vs the flaccid penis as featured in Anne’s story. Another topic of equal profundity was how to write a good sex scene without it sounding clichéd. Here is the answer – don’t. It takes some clever people to come up with this sort of thing.

Many things were learnt by all participants about how to write a novel. Here are a few:
It has to be long (as mentioned above).
It should probably have a plot.
If it doesn’t have a plot be sure to put a lot of clever words in.
If you don’t do clever words and still don’t have a plot then rearrange all the chapters/paragraphs/words such that either of the above magically emerge.
It should have a title (mine hasn’t so it will never be published).
If you ever want to get it published don’t hold your breath.
Holding your breath can be bad.
Holding your sanity is a waste of time for a novelist.

Not all my fellow Mphillers are writing novels. Some (including myself as I swing either way and have never been the least bit skilled at making decisions) are writing collections of poetry. Here are a few things that poets need to know about writing:
Poems are short.
They can be very short.
It needn’t make any sense as long as it sounds clever and you can quickly make up what it means if asked.
If it appears to actually make sense then rearrange all the words and lines until it looks a tad confusing and thus ever so clever.
The lines are not meant to reach the other side of the page.
If the lines reach the other side of the page you are writing prose and therefore have to write a fuck of a lot more than that.
If you ever think you will be published you are living in cloud-cuckoo land and stand a better chance of actually discovering a land made of clouds and cuckoos.
Sanity is a very bad thing for a poet. Don’t bother.

The Welsh Elections – High Tech or What? (What)

There is election fever here in Wales. Or at least perhaps election slightly under the weather. Well, some people have a vague awareness that there is an election, that we do actually have what we call an Assembly, and it has something to do with Wales. Most people, although not all, do know that if they live in this fine country of fluffy white things that sometimes say baa, green ground covering and damp air covering it is called Wales.

The election is tomorrow. I had a talk with the Minister about her campaign so far: It is very high tech and glamorous. She has some people who have volunteered out of the goodness of their souls to help her. One of them called me under the mistaken impression that I was one of the aforementioned volunteers and said to meet them under a certain cherry tree. I declined as I have a cherry tree of my own, and frankly I couldn’t see how that was going to win anyone an election. She also has some bits of paper, and a sound system that involves a microphone that I had to lend her, some random wires, string, a loudhailer, a husband, and a dog (that frankly had a disinterested look upon its face).

So far, as far as I could make out, she has walked more miles than is possible in South Wales without finding yourself in Australia putting the bits of paper through more letterboxes than exist in this space-time dimension. She really knows letterboxes now. Some of these letterboxes had cherry trees near them. She has spoken to tens of millions of confused bodies that wondered about where this Wales place was. She has gotten into an argument under a cherry tree with someone who was planning to vote for her anyway and managed to persuade them out of it. The dog quite liked the cherry tree.

I have already voted. By post. In case I forgot. I suspect that a large number of people who have not taken this cunning and artful precaution will forget. Mostly because no one told them. No one has mentioned it on the TV. No one has mentioned it on the radio. No one has mentioned it from passing alien spaceships. The only clue we were given that our fine nation was about to go to the polls were these bits of paper that foot-sore messengers have battled their way past cherry trees and bored dogs in order to deliver. We probably ignored these choice diatribes as we mistook them for the usual appeals for credit-card abuse that arrive through our well-guarded letterboxes.

But never fear, tomorrow everyone will know, will leap out past their cherry trees, past their bored dogs, and make a dash for their local village hall. They will know because, trawling the streets of South Wales will be a battered red Volvo with a strangely outdated megaphone system attached to the top which will emit a strange and indecipherable noise. And pied-piper like they will be intrigued and mesmerised by this vehicle, the exhausted husband driving it, the bored dog looking out of the back window, and the ever effervescent minister who, having lost her voice through too much canvassing, will have passed the microphone over to the dog.

All I can say is – good luck Jane, and Jess, do try and tighten up your speech, I really think it is too lengthy, the one that goes ‘Vote for Jane, she gives me food, takes me for walks, pats my head and if she is elected again might do the same for you. Or not. If you are not a dog. But vote for her anyway as she does stuff for people too.’ I believe all you will have time for, before the exhausted husband drives to the nearest rest home for bewildered souls married to politicians, is ‘Vote.’ Or possibly ‘Vo’ or even more likely ‘V’. Ok, just stick to your usual vague barking noises.

How Inviting Far Too Many Guests Is Very Good For the Home

It’s my MPhil weekend this weekend. It sounds quite intellectual doesn’t it? And it is, at times. Not all the time. We gather up at the Uni and discuss each others’ work without sounding too nasty, or too sycophantic, or too outright dumb (a particular habit of mine). Then, usually, some of us might have a meal together followed by a general dispersal to general hotels, hostels, and guest houses ready to convene the next morning. But this is Cardiff. Cardiff is a busy place. General hotels, hostels and guest houses are generally busy this weekend. So, being of a munificent and kind nature, and being that half of my family are away swanning around the upper reaches of the American continent, I invited people to stay here, at my house, chez moi. An indefinite and indefinable number of people. And these indefinite and indefinable number of fellow students have taken me up on my offer. Which is great. Looking forward to it (that wasn’t ironic).

I like having people to stay. The only problem is that my house is not so sure. In particular some particular rooms are not so sure. Rooms that are generally out of my ken. Rooms that these indefinite and indefinable number of people will have to sleep in. Rooms belonging to teenagers and middle-aged men. Rooms that haven’t been cleaned since the turn of the century.

I’m generally not a frightened or timid sort of person. Except in the presence of aliens, but neither my family or my fellow MPhillers are aliens, or at least not as far as I know. However these aforementioned portions of my house do scare me. Very much. I suspect there may well be alien life forms growing in these very rooms. Still, I have attempted to rise to the challenge.

I started with the man’s room. To give him credit, he thought that he had tidied it before he left. His thinking can be a little skewed at times. It took a LONG TIME to clean his room. But I think now it may be suitable for human habitation. Then it was time to tackle the teenager’s room. This is what happened –
room 5: Ceci 0.
Fuck this, I thought. I’ll sleep in here, keep the door very closed when people are around (it works for the teenager, it might work for me). It will be ok if I open the window and air it for the next four days, and when I have to go in I will keep my eyes mostly shut. I did however wash the sheets. There are limits. An added bonus was that I found half a bottle of Martini slipped down the side of the bed. I’m assuming she has left that there for me. Thanks.

The problem with cleaning, I find, is that once you start, you start to notice all kinds of things that are dirty. Like most things. Things that in the normal run of life seem normal. Things that, when you imagine people you don’t know quite as well as your family seeing look DISGUSTING. Strange things like banisters, ceilings, the interiors of kitchen drawers, the exterior of kitchen drawers, kitchens, rooms, houses. So, I have been cleaning. Like a weird obsessed person. As a weird obsessed person. My house is cleaner than it has been since a long time ago.

Now I have to rid myself of this cleaning bug or I will turn into one of those sad people who ask guests to take their shoes off before coming into the house, put them straight into a decontamination chamber and then make them wear white paper suits for the entire duration of the visit. You know the ones.

Should you be one of the hapless individuals coming to stay on Friday, yes, what you will see is the cleanest my house has been for a very long time. I know, it doesn’t say much for my normal state of things. But then, normal, well, at least I haven’t bought any white paper suits.