You know when you go to a restaurant, and there are so many great options that you find it hard to decide on just one?
Well, this election was nothing like that.
Choosing a candidate this year was like being dragged to a filthy old cafe – regardless of whether you're hungry or not - and being forced to choose a meal from the board based on how offensive and/or possibly dangerous it is compared to the others. When we should have been faced with a clear-cut decision, or even a selection of subjects who equally deserved our votes, many of us were reduced to: "so who would I be prepared to vote for if I absolutely HAVE to?".
Leading up to the election our little flat has been bombarded with propaganda: Leaflets; postcards; emails; and even multi-paged publications designed to bolster one party (and destroy the others) in the guise of a new local newspaper. None of it was at all convincing, and every piece went straight to the recycling box. However, I did read every page of that little book which described all of the candidates. Then – despite having no interest in politics – I researched all of the candidates based on information that I found myself (as opposed to the facts and figures which they were pushing in their campaign leaflets).
This year, even the independent candidates were generally uninspiring. To make things worse, putting a cross next to an independent candidate is widely regarded as a wasted vote, so these options are usually overlooked by the vast majority of mainstream voters anyway.
I know of quite a few people who chose not to vote, and personally I think that's better than the numerous sheep-like voters who dutifully tick their Tory/Labour/Liberal boxes regardless of the policies, values or personality of the candidates involved. Voting just for the sake of it is not the best policy.
... And if someone is forcing you to choose a sub-standard option from the menu, just tell them that you've lost your appetite.
I noticed when I reached my mid twenties that everything seemed to go a bit soft and spongy.
The fat creeps up on you - only making its presence known when you go to put on your favourite trousers from last Summer, to find that the waistband wedges halfway up your thighs and defiantly refuses to budge.
Anyway, I’ll get to the point...
Mr Webmonkey and I are getting married in August.
The venue is booked, catering is taken care of, and the legal stuff is sorted. I've even ordered my dress (and the bridesmaids' dresses). I only tried on two dresses; both fitted perfectly and looked great, but I was still conscious of those extra couple of inches around the middle that I'm sure never used to be there.
I've always been average – but when I was 11 I shot up to 11 stone in a few months (blame puberty) – and being a fraction under 5 feet tall it was impossible to disguise. In a few years I was ecstatic when I managed to slim down and get my first pair of rigid jeans (in a size 14). A couple of years later it was 12, then 10. The funny thing about losing weight is that with every size you drop, you will look at your old clothes in disgust and disbelief that you were ever that big, though at the time you felt amazingly skinny and confident. On the way back up, it's even harder.
Size 14: "Wow, I'm a size 14! I'm so skinny!"
Size 8: "Urgh, look how massive these size 14 trousers are – how did I ever wear them?"
Size 10: (wail, sob) "I'm so fat!"
Recently I went from being a large 8/small 10 to being a large 10. So, I was standing there in the bridal shop wearing a beautiful perfectly-fitting size 10 wedding dress, and all I could think was "yeah, but I used to be an 8..."
Do you whistle in public? Do you noisily suck your fingers after eating?
Strange questions, I know – but these are activities which seem perfectly ordinary and acceptable to people with a normal hearing range.
So what about people who don't have a normal hearing range?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve suffered with a condition which nobody seems to know about, or even believe in its existence. I have Hyperacusis.
Hyperacusis is a hearing problem which makes noises within a certain frequency seem excessively loud (and even painful to hear). This means that 'normal' sounds, like finger-sucking, whistling, chewing, crunching and clicking may feel like a screw-driver being driven through the head for the average Hyperacusis sufferer. At school a boy called Gareth actually made me cry after I repeatedly begged him to stop whistling (and he carried on because he thought it was funny).
Another unfortunate symptom is difficulty with speech discrimination. The minor (and supposedly quiet) noises are amplified, but random words in a conversation may drop out entirely. Despite being able to hear tiny background noises, I often have to ask people to repeat what they have just said.
It's not an easy condition to live with, and explaining Hyperacusis to the people around you isn't much fun either. You attempt to subtly plug your ears and ride it out – but when the noise continues and the pain becomes unbearable, sometimes you just have to leave the room. When asked to explain the reason for your discomfort, the answer is often met with anger and contempt – as if you’re insulting them or suggesting that they have done something wrong. I used to get told off a lot when I was a teenager whenever I bolted out of the room or covered my ears. Maybe they just thought it was moody teenage behaviour?
I often wonder why I have to apologise to other people for my Hyperacusis, when you wouldn’t consider asking a deaf person to apologise to you for asking you to speak more slowly.
I wouldn't demand that people stop doing what they want to do – it's my problem and I've found a way to live with it without inconveniencing other people too much – I just turn my iPod up as a distraction and move away from the noise if absolutely necessary. Many people never even mention that they suffer from Hyperacusis, because it's usually easy to hide it from others – and scuttling away to another room is easier than trying to explain it.
Of course there are some noises which aren't necessary or even pleasure-giving to the person making them, but they carry on because they just don't realise (or have forgotten) that it may cause discomfort to other people.
Sucking noises to a Hyperacusis sufferer are like bright lights to a person with sensitive eyes, loud noise to a small baby, or body odour to a Vulcan. It’s easy to offend the people around you, because you’re unlikely to make allowances for conditions which you don’t suffer from yourself.
All I ask, is that next time you suck your fingers after eating a bag of crisps, could you consider whether the noise is really necessary to your enjoyment?
Many years ago, my (now sadly departed) Auntie Audrey was given a commemorative teaspoon. Not wishing to offend, she left it out on display. When someone saw it, they thought "oh, she must like spoons – I’ll get her one too". When someone else noticed that she had two commemorative spoons, they thought "Two spoons and nowhere to display them? She needs a spoon-rack!" On spotting the half-empty spoon rack on Audrey’s wall, other people assumed that she must be an avid spoon collector, and decided to help out. Those spoons came and others followed – until she had two full racks of commemorative spoons on her wall.
She hated commemorative spoons.
I was reminded of this story this Christmas, when I found myself in a similar situation.
Now, cow-print stuff is kind of cool. I like it – or at least I used to.
Last year I used sticky-back plastic to make my MacBook look like a Friesian cow - not because I’m obsessed with cows - but because someone I was living with at the time had bought the same model, so I personalised mine to avoid confusion. My MacBook had previously earned the nickname ‘MooBook’ when her cooling fans were faulty and she kept making a mooing noise, so cow-print made sense.
I also have a velvet cow-print duvet set, but my brother has a tiger set and a leopard set, and he isn’t bombarded with cat-themed products. I have a cow ‘Fluff Friend’ on my facebook profile (I liked her face), but my friend has a Monkey, yet doesn’t receive piles of monkey-themed presents - so why do people keep giving me cow stuff?
For Christmas I was given cow-themed gifts from five different people. A short list off the top of my head:
Mr Webmonkey also fell into this trap, buying pretty much the entire catalogue of bovine.com and wrapping everything in cow-print tissue paper. He took photos of his achievement:
I think that he may have considered this to be his proudest moment – right up until I cried "it’s the spoons all over again!!" and proceeded to wail and rant for the next three days. The sad thing is that the cow-related stuff had cost him rather a lot, while I would have been very happy with just the DVDs and books which he had also given to me.
I have never professed to be obsessed with cows, but as the spoons fiasco proves, going along with it just to keep people happy may lead to a serious problem. A tolerable smattering of slightly misguided gifts can easily mutate into a lifetime of miserable birthdays and Christmases. So, in memory of my dear Auntie Audrey, I am going to spread the word.
Stand up for yourself, or you’ll be branded as the ‘mad spoon lady’ for the rest of your life.
On the 22nd of December, Mr Webmonkey took me to see Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds at the O2 arena.
Our seats were very high up, but even though I suffer from vertigo, it hasn’t been a problem until now. Earls Court was fine, the Palace Theatre (though a bit cramped) was quite alright. The O2 arena is absolutely terrifying. Never before have I been so high up without a hint of a safety rail. The seat rows are arranged in such a way to allow minimum foot room, with the seat in front providing a handy tripping-height obstacle to the narrow ledge.
Our seats were somewhere in the middle of the row, but luckily we got there quite early - so we could shuffle along the ledge by gripping onto the empty chairs. We sat down on the slightly too-springy folding seats, and stared down at the many rows of seats below – and then we noticed the very distinct absence of safety rails. Had we tripped over the seat-back in front (which was highly likely), we would have rolled down at least 4 rows of seats before tumbling over the metal safety rail at the bottom and falling to our (probable) deaths. Mr Webmonkey muttered "this just feels wrong...", as I leant as far back as I could and gripped the sides of my seat. At this point we realised that it had been difficult enough to get into these seats when nobody else was there – what would it be like when all the seats are full?
Anyway, Mr Webmonkey took me down to the help desk where we were assigned different seats – on level ground – where the view was just as good, but somehow we didn’t have the feeling of impending death. During the concert we kept glancing up at the nosebleed seats, where happy music fans seemed completely oblivious to the danger.
Am I just a wuss?
Ps, the show was really good.
If you’ve been to the O2, I’d like to hear about your experience. Leave a comment below:
Every morning I wake up at 7.15, press snooze twice, throw my clothes on, ram in some Coco Pops and then run around performing some (or all) of the usual household tasks: taking some meat out of the freezer for tonight’s dinner, putting on yet another load of washing, folding yesterday’s laundry...
I digress.
Every day I leave the house at 8:02am - having turned off the heating and lights - and I double lock the door behind me. I come out of my gate and approach my first obstacle – a cluster of disinterested youths in school uniforms. They huddle around the post box on a fairly narrow section of the pavement, blocking the path of anyone who is unfortunate enough to live nearby. Most days I have to walk in the road to get past, or scrape through the overhanging hedge of a neighbouring garden. The other day I saw a man apologise to them as he asked for permission to post a letter.
As I pass this group, other herds of kids walk towards me, again spread across the pavement in a quest to cause maximum inconvenience. In a rather weak game of chicken, I try to hold steadfast – but inevitably I end up squashed into a wall or walking into the path of a car. Maybe it’s deemed to be uncool to be polite and step aside so that people can pass. On the other hand, I’m quite a small person – do they just not see me?
Well until I can find a solution (perhaps fitting the post box with one of those new sonic crowd-dispersal devices), I’ll just have to walk in the road and only post letters at weekends...
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