On Sunday, because I was going clubbing later that evening, I decided to buy myself a session on the tanning bed at my gym.

On the way to the gym I stopped by the pharmacy and got distracted by the vast array of tanning products on the shelf in one of the aisles. One product that particularly caught my eye was called Solarimax. It was a smallish sized pump spray containing an attractive mixture of orange and yellow coloured oils that promised to "provide a supplement to the effects of an artificial tanning session - for a long-lasting, healthy looking glow."

When I got to the gym I went to the tanning room, locked the door, disrobed and sprayed the Solarimax all over my body before lying down on the sunbed and pulling the top down. Twenty minutes later I admired myself in the mirror - I did indeed look browner than I normally look after a regular tanning session. Solarimax was indeed a miracle. I couldn't wait to tell my friends all about my discovery.

Two hours later (and three hours before my friend was due to come to collect me to go to The Fridge) I began to realise that my skin colour was gradually turning from "long-lasting, healthy looking glow" to one-shade-off-tomato. I didn't even need to look at my face in the mirror to know that this was happening. I knew because my skin was prickling like I had been stabbed all over with a hundred small, but extremely spiky, cactuses.

Panicking, I retrieved the bottle of Solarimax from my gym bag to read the instructions, in detail (for the first time.) I was especially concerned that the label read "good for ten applications", especially as I had used almost the entire bottle in one.

So I did what any calm, rational, disintegrating homosexual would do, three hours before he was about to go to a club where the chances of him taking his top off were greater that 99%. I emailed my ex-boyfriend who is an ER nurse at a large uptown Manhattan hospital, telling him what had happened without, er, telling what had actually happened, i.e.:

"I fell asleep in the sun and now I'm sunburned and I'm going clubbing this evening. How do I stop being burned?"

Fortunately he was at work and happened to be near a computer so I got a reply within a matter of minutes.

"Girl, break out the Covergirl Matte Finish foundation."

Not the surgical answer I was hoping for. And anyway, I only own a Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male concealer pen and there was no way that was going to paint down my entire torso, shoulders, arms and face. So I Googled "sunburn remedy".

One of the websites I found suggested using everything from cold tea poultices to aloe, direct from the leaves. I didn't have time to chill some tea and my housemate doesn't grow aloe plants so in the end, with time seriously running out, I broke down and did a face and body mask using fresh Greek yoghurt straight from the refridgerator.

And believe it or not, it actually worked. It really did. And I even had enough left to have a small snack before my friend arrived.

Of course, what I hadn't actually considered during this fiasco, was that it is so dark in the club that I was going to I could have been a fluorescent shade of beetroot and still no one would have noticed.

The important thing, of course, is that I experienced this so that I could pass this knowledge onto y'all. Greek yoghurt, kids! Miracle cure, I'm telling you.

Next week on Everything is Not Real: cure herpes with raw egg yolks (and make a tasty, high-protein omelet with the leftovers!)

As you know I'm not exactly a huge fan of Tom Cruise. I was absolutely delighted when I read about Tom's marriage proposal to Katie Holmes in the Evening Standard for the simple fact that it gave the editors the chance to run the headline, "Tom Proposes to Katie in Gay Paree!" Ya' gotta love a clever, yet subtle, non-litigious character inferance.

I have just spent the best part of two and a half hours watching Mission Impossible: MI2. Previously I'd only seen it once when it came out at the cinema. This was during the days when I had little opinion of Tom one way or the other.

What struck me watching it again, is that, yes, while Thandie Newton is undeniably very, very beautiful, the main crux of the movie is not actually to entertain the viewers at all, but create as many opportunities as humanly possible, within a 180 minute window, to make Tom look as virile and handsome and clever and sultry, all in slow motion, than you could possibly begin to fathom. On second view all that this epic vanity project served to do was to irritate me beyond belief and I even *gasp* even began to hate Tom more than I did prior to switching on the TV. I mean I really, really hate him! And it also made me hate the fact that he is, in all likelihood, a fellow 'mo. He makes me want to become an anti-gay, right-wing Christian fundamentalist.

Now you might argue that it could be considered slightly odd that I have this opinion when I admit that I would certainly not pass up the opportunity to have le gay sex with him.

But I am, after all, a bit of a slut with very few morals, so it doesn't actually mean anything.

Ok, so it's a few weeks after the fact, but would you like to see some pics from the trip I took to Rome with my Mum? Yes? No?

Well you're going to see them anyway.

To set the scene, here is a picture of me and my Mum, so you know what she looks like:


Almost every time we got someone to take a picture of the two of us she would only remember after the picture had been taken that she hadn't removed her sunglasses. Almost*.

This is a picture of me in a Christopher-has-a-halo thang goin' on, with the occulus of the Pantheon above me:


Directly below the occulus, which is literally a hole in the dome, is a hole in the floor, presumably for the rainwater to drain away through.

Mum: "Hmmm ..."

Christopher: "What?"

Mum: "Why don't they just put in a proper stainless steel plughole?"

Christopher: "What?"

This is a picture of a traditional Italian ice-cream:


We ate a lot of these. Now, if you ever visit a Roman ice-cream parlour you are more than likely to be completely befuddled by the vast selection of every flavour and colour under the Sun and in the rainbow, respectively. I mention colour, because regardless of the fact that the flavour might actually be prawn, the pinky colour can be deeply seductive. Anyhoo, I can reliably inform you that the perennial pistachio flavour is still the best. Despite the fact that the colour looks like mould.

One time, while we were eating something like our twenty ninth ice-cream, my Mum turned and said to me, "Do you think Italians really eat ice-creams? Do you really think they eat pizza and pasta?"

Christopher: "Er, well ... I don't know. I imagine so, because they're Italian, aren't they."

Mum: "Well, do you think they're just for the tourists? I mean the British don't all eat fish and chips, but that's what we're famous** for."

Christopher: " ... "

This is a picture of my Mum and I inside the coliseum:


* Almost every time.

After looking around for about twenty minutes my Mum turned to me and said, "The Romans ... they were a lot like the Greeks really."

Christopher: "Why do you say that?"

Mum: "Well, you know. Because of Hercules."

Christopher: "I don't think you've really thought this through properly."

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a horrible person. I love my Mummy very, very much. Hell, on Friday she put £200 in my bank account! But sometimes, just sometimes, I really question my parental / genetic authenticity.

But I will give her this. As a nurse / hairdresser, she may well have missed her vocation, because it was she who was responsible for taking this awesome picture of me sitting on the base of a column (!) at the front of the Pantheon. Marvel at the long-exposure setting! The composition! How cute I look!!!


** Someone please tell me that us Brits are not only famous for our fish and chips.

I'm not particularly into comic books, but I'm really into Superman. It was the first movie I ever saw at the cinema. So I'm highly anticipating the new Bryan Singer Superman movie, which is coming out on June 30th 2006.

This is a link to one of his video blogs - I think it features CGI prep for the flying sequences in the actual movie, but I guess it might also be for the video game. Not sure. Either way I have goosebumps.

But seriously, how HOT is Brandon Routh?

He's *this* hot .

Or maybe he's *tttthhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiissssss* hot?

Mercy.

This morning, at approximately 9.30am, I began to receive wafts of what seemed to be the most putrid case of halitosis, ever, in the history of history.

Now usually it's not possible to smell your own breath (unless you do that "lick forearm, wait ten seconds and sniff" thing.) However, because the team were all out at meetings and the nearest person was sat over 20 feet away from me, I could only deduce that it was indeed I who was responsible for manufacturing this revolting odor.

For the next two hours, as I ploughed through a beautifully prepared, 80-page document featuring statistical information garnered from an omnibus survey company, I felt mortified that I, the freaking self-appointed arbiter of good grooming, had developed a case of bad breath that would no doubt be sought after study fodder by the British Dental Association.

After I had completed my analysis of the survey information I closed the document and lifted it up to put it on the opposite side of my desk. As I passed it underneath my nose I received a great torrent of the afore mentioned foul-smelling effluvium and I instantly discovered that it was not myself who was emitting the breath-smell of a doddery, 80 year-old vicar, but the heavily lacquered document! You can only begin to imagine my relief.

Nonetheless (and because I always like to err on the side of caution), the incident has prompted me to book an emergency appointment to see my dental hygienist. It has also prompted me to make a mental note to never, ever use that particular survey company again, for no other reason than they actually made me doubt my grooming skills.

Yesterday that man and myself were sat in Soho square, with another friend, having lunch.

At one point he offered me a [insert name of round confectionery made by international chocolate conglomerate] which I readily accepted and chowed down on with much satisfaction.

However, after I had thoroughly enjoyed the small chocolate treat, I felt that it was both important and necessary for me to harshly berate him and make him feel guilty for buying the confectionery in the first place, as everyone knows that its parent company promotes and sells its powdered baby milk to mothers in poverty stricken countries for extortionately high prices. By the time that these mothers have run out of money to buy the product, it is too late for them to breast-feed their babies which, as a result, often die.

Of course my decision not to disclose the fact that this company is currently a client of mine was very important. Had he been aware of this information my argument would surely have fallen flat on its face.

Two weeks ago I bought my third iPod. I lost the first one in a fairly gay manner: I left it underneath a copy of Vogue that I discarded on a plane. Oh how I cursed Anna Wintour for not making that edition a collectors issue.

The second iPod, which I replaced last week (not enough room for my vastly-expanding music collection), did not receive such a odd fate (being found by some American Airlines cabin cleaner who will, no doubt, by now be singing along badly to Busted's What I Go to School For.) Well, perhaps it did. I don't know yet. With pure benevolence I gave it to my friend, this man (but not before discovering that I was not going to make more than twenty pounds by selling it on eBay.)

Before I continue it is important that you understand that prior to my bestowing upon him the afore-mentioned second-hand illustrious tune-playing gadget, he had always rolled his eyes any time I ever happened to drop it into conversation (which was, admittedly, fairly often) and had firmly resisted any attempt on my part to get him into the Apple store to, you know, check out the graceful, industrially-designed interior (not to get him to buy one, you understand.)

Of course, like so many people who have always declared loudly and proudly that they "never want children", he has taken to "parenthood" like Michael Jackson to [insert inappropriate analogy here]. Just the other day he proudly informed me that he had memorised the track numbers for a variety of Coldplay and Damien Rice ballads, and I admit to having felt slightly proud. (I also admit to having felt slightly smug over the fact that he had been so easily seduced by the iPod's sleek, shiny white facade.)

In addition to this I can now rely on him to email me, first thing in the morning, with the latest iPod news or hot tip. I'm sure you'll all think that this is quite sweet, which it is. But it also forces me to think something else ...

iPods have so had their day.

Anyone who visits my little blog with any regularity will know that I'm not very good at picking up threads from previous posts. From now on I'm going to try to be a bit better at doing that.

I haven't posted yet about my Grandma's funeral because I haven't really known what to write. After all, it's was a funeral. Unlike celebrations funerals are only ever, overarchingly sad. I managed to read that section from The House at Pooh Corner without sobbing, although my voice did falter on a number of occasions when I happened to glance over at my family for a just moment.

Anyway ... it was a funeral. 'Nuff said.

Over the past few weeks I've been doing a lot of thinking about Grandma. The main thing I can't get my head around (and I guess that this is true for everyone who is left behind) is the fact that for as long as I live I will never, ever see her or speak to her again. It's so obvious, but when someone has been a part of your life for over 30 years it's really quite hard to get your head around.

We all know that death is the only certain thing about life. So why is it almost always come as such a surprise?

At last ... it's official! Mark Feehily, the gay one from Westlife, is officially gay! I'm so glad because I always fancied him and clearly now that he is definitely a 'mo I am in a much better position to have a long-term relationship with him.

A question though ... is it "brave" to come out just as your star is irretrievably dipping out of sight on the horizon? In the meantime, I'm off to listen to "Against All Odds" and imagine that he's crooning to me.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I was sat on the upstairs bench infront of the Genius Bar in the Apple Store on Regent Street feeling as cool as fuck.

A few minutes after writing yesterday's blog post my iBook spontaneously expired infront of the technician and I was instantly down £180 and over a year's worth of photos, documents and really, really good porn, Godamnit.

Today I am sat in a a dingy, basement internet cafe in Soho, which smells like catpiss and furniture polish. I am wearing a pair of jeans which are too long and keep getting caught underneath my trainers and a T-shirt with a hole under the armpit. I am sipping from a lukewarm bottle of Volvic. I am writing my blog on an ancient "blueberry" iMac, which is, no doubt, secretly laughing at the fact that it has outlived my sleek, white iBook, by several years.

I want to kill someone.

* Not retrievable, unless I am prepared to pay £1,500 to have my old hard drive broken open and cloned.**

** If anyone would like to do this in exchange for sex, email me.

There was a time, not so long ago, when the idea of sitting and waiting for my computer to be checked over by a techno-geek would fill me with intense feelings of dread and uncool paranoia.

This morning I am sat on the upstairs bench infront of the Genius Bar in the Apple Store on Regent Street. I am wearing a vintage purple T-shirt, camouflage Abercrombie combats and Calvin Klein flip-flops. I am leisurely sipping a Starbucks mocha. I am writing my blog on my iBook, using the store's free wireless broadband.

I feel as cool as fuck.

My Mum and Dad were very young when I was born and didn't have an awful lot of money, so both often had to work during the day: my Dad as an engineer and my Mum as a hairdresser. Subsequently, Grandma, from only eight weeks after I was born, used to look after me, and a couple of years later, my brother a great deal.

When I was very young (you'll see what I did there in a moment!) one of my favourite things was to be read to, and one of the books I would always take to Grandma's house to be read to from was The House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne.

At Grandma's funeral on Tuesday I am going to do a reading. At my Granddad's funeral, a few months ago, I chose to read a chapter relating to death from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet, which, as an adult, is one of my favourite books. Obviously I can't read the same section out again and I really don't want to read out one of those Hallmark-sentiment, copyright protected standard funeral readings, either.

So this week, while I was at home, I dug out my old copy of The House at Pooh Corner. The very last page is what I have decided to read on Tuesday. It seems kind of appropriate for more than a couple of reasons.

********

Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world with his chin in his hands, called out, "Pooh!"
"Yes?" said Pooh.
"When I'm, er ... when I'm ..."
"Yes, Christopher Robin?"
"I'm not going to do Nothing any more, Pooh."
"Never again?" said Pooh.
"Well, not so much. They don't let you, you see."
Pooh waited for him to go on, but he was silent again.
"Yes, Christopher Robin?" said Pooh helpfully.
"Pooh, when I'm ... you know ... when I'm not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?"
"Just me?"
"Yes, Pooh."
"Will you be here too?"
"Yes, Pooh, I will be, really. I promise I will be, Pooh."
"That's good," said Pooh.
There was a short pause and then Christopher Robin said, "Pooh, promise you won't forget about me. Ever. Not even when I'm a hundred."
Pooh thought for a little while.
"How old shall I be then?"
"Ninety-nine," said Christopher Robin.
Pooh nodded. "I promise," he said.
Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh's paw.
"Pooh," said Christopher Robin earnestly, "If I ... if I'm not quite ..." He stopped and tried again, "Pooh, whatever happens to me, you will understand, won't you?"
"Understand what?"
"Oh, nothing." He laughed and jumped to his feet. "Come on!"
"Where are we going?" said Pooh.
"Anywhere," said Christopher Robin.

So they went off together. But wherever they go and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

Just a quick post to say thank you for the messages and emails you have sent to me over the past couple of days. They have been very much appreciated.

I will admit that it's slightly surreal to think that, during times like these, there are people, all over the world, who are thinking about you. But it really means a lot to me and I am really touched.

Despite having been blessed with a healthy dollop of intelligence, I am not always the sharpest tool in the box.

For instance, you might think that because I have been sunburned on a number of occasions in my life, one of those occasions being so severe that I had to go to hospital, that I might be more than just a bit clued up on sun-protection.

But, no ...

Today my friend Helen and I went to Studland Beach (real name - even has a gay nudist beach!) to catch some rays, except that our plan was thwarted by an overcast sky that did not diminish as the day wore on. Regardless of the fact that I knew from first-hand experience that you can still be burned through cloud, I rebuffed Helen's lotion-ed advances and chose to lie out, au naturel, as it were.

Several hours later and I am forced to sit upright, cross legged, in the middle of the floor because I can't bear for the skin on my back to touch anything.

The only fortuitous thing about all of this is that I have just finished watching the pilot of Lost and I would have been on the edge of my seat anyway.

What's that expression? Something about not raining, but pouring?

I actually had, for the most part, a really lovely weekend in Rome with my Mum, but my relaxed mood was kinda ruined the moment I stepped off the plane. Shortly after switching my cellphone back on I got two calls.

The first was from one of my recruitment agents. I haven't blogged about this yet, but last week I accepted a job with a PR company which, for all intents and purposes, offered a working environment and a position that seemed to be the perfect match for me and my experience. The call from the recruitment agent was to tell me that the company had retracted the offer. It turns out that when the managing director informed the rest of the company that I had been hired one of the members of staff enquired why they hadn't been given the opportunity to apply. The long and short of it is that they ended up placing the internal candidate in the role and dropped me.

To say that I am mad is an understatement. On the one hand I am angry because I turned down second interview opportunities with a couple of other potential "suiters" as well as a couple of interim freelance placements. I was supposed to start work with this company on Monday. I am now without any kind of work for at least the next two weeks. And cash is not exactly abundant at present.

On the other hand I am relieved that I am not going to work for a company that does not understand basic professionalism, such as being really sure about the situation your company and your staff are in before offering someone a permanent job.

The second call I received was from my Dad telling me that my Grandma had died earlier in the day. It turns out that she had taken a turn for the worst over the weekend and what with everything that has happened to her over the last three weeks her body just couldn't handle it anymore and shut down.

I had pretty much already accepted that this would happen the last time I saw her. She was really, really not very well and I knew with 100% certainty that she wasn't going to make it. You know when you just know? So Dad's news wasn't as shocking as it might otherwise have been. The really sad thing is that because she died as a result of an accident, from falling over and hitting her head, there has to be a post-mortem examination, which means that the funeral can't held until next week sometime.

The good thing in all of this is that because I had accepted that job I was never supposed to be working this week, which means that I can spend a bit of time with my family.

Small mercies and all that.

I won't be blogging for a few days because I'm off to Rome tomorrow morning for a long weekend.

It should be an interesting trip, primarily for the reason that I'm going there with my Mum. When she received her inheritance from my Granddad I originally agreed to go on a two week holiday with her, to someplace exotic (I had my eye on Rio - no prizes for guessing why.)

However, I soon came to realise that two weeks in my mothers company would lead to either one of two eventualities: a) the murder of my mother at my own hands, or b) me, going insane.

So as a compromise I agreed to go on a mini-break with her. I'd like to say that we mutually decided upon Rome because I have had a life-long interest in the ancient Etruscan empire and because my mother would like to see, firsthand, where ecclesiastical bureaucracy bought about la Rinascimento.

But the real reason is that we have both read Dan Brown's Angels and Demons and we want to see the alcove in the Vatican where the anti-matter was placed.

As you know, a couple of weeks ago my Grandma had a nasty fall and had to have brain surgery.

In the subsequent 16 days since she had her accident, we, her family, are as much in the dark with regards to her overall prognosis as we were at the very beginning. Now clearly where brain injuries are concerned you have to allow for a greater degree of overall uncertainty than you do with other injuries or illnesses.

Admittedly, the fact that Grandma now has MRSA complicates things. Infections are not conducive to great lucidity at the best of times, especially in an 85 year old woman who has recently encountered major head injuries.

That said, I simply do not buy the "we don't know what is going on" spiel that the doctors are feeding us. But the most annoying thing is that we only receive that spiel after we have asked several times to speak to someone. In the past two and a half weeks we have only been able to speak to the doctors on only three individual occasions.

I feel really guilty for dissing them because I do genuinely think that they do a good job, but the doctors really need to be more forthcoming with information, especially when the patient concerned is not able to ask the pertinent questions. In their professional opinions there must be a number of avenues they can expect Grandma to go down, each with their own varying degrees of recovery / deterioration. All we want to know is what those avenues are, so that we are just a little bit prepared. My Grandpa especially needs to be prepared. He is currently deluding himself that she is going to make a full recovery and it is clear to the rest of the family, even with our lack of medical knowledge, that this is not going to happen.

One of the things about being gay is that you tend to forget that it's not out of the question that the opposite sex might find you attractive.

This afternoon, while I was working out at the gym, I happened to notice that the very attractive tall, blonde woman, doing bicep curls on the adjacent Swiss Ball, was checking me out. (Seriously! I was as surprised as you are!)

I have to admit that while I was most definitely flattered, the notion that she may have been having even the mildest of lewd thoughts about me did bring on a feeling of slight awkwardness.

Is this how straight men feel when they catch us gayers checking them out in the changing room? I guess the difference is that an advance on my part is coupled with the risk of being messed up real bad.

Whereas the worst the afore mentioned attractive woman could have expected to get from me would have been a slight knock-back, but accompanied by the feel-good factor of my telling her that she looked fierce in her hot pink Baby Phat velveteen track pants and white Calvin Klein sports vest.

The other day my housemate told me that the previous weekend she had plucked up the courage to tell her boyfriend that she was in love with him. However, she quickly added that she wasn't ready yet to say "I love you."

This confused me greatly. I asked her what exactly it was she had told him.

"I said to him, "I'm madly in love with you.""

"Not, "I love you"?"

"God, no! I'm not ready to say that yet!"

What followed was a very lengthy and annoying conversation about the differences between saying "I love you" and "I'm in love with you". Apparently all my life I have been completely oblivious to the fact that the latter is much less intense.

I'm still not entirely convinced that there is a difference between the two at all, but it's hard to argue the semantics of amour with an opponent who thought she was Pippi Longstocking as a child and as an adult models herself on Ann of Green Gables.

It makes me realise how lucky I've been ...

Ever since I failed one following a job interview I have not really believed in psychometric evaluations. I mean, how do you "fail" a psychometric evaluation?! Just because I'm a raging sociopath doesn't mean that I'm necessarily a lesser person.

That was until yesterday when I got the results from another psychometric evaluation from yet another job interview.

I particularly agree with these strengths:

• Exhibits poise
• Highly competitive
• Diplomatic and sensitive to other's points of view
• Highly intellectual and investigative
• Accomplished verbal communicator

I do not like the following weaknesses:

• Energy often wasted by too much personal involvement
• May be too critical and fault finding
• May over-estimate his own abilities from time to time
• Sets too high standards
• Prone to procrastination

[One of the weaknesses was inability to accept criticism, but I left that off, because it is so very clearly complete nonsense.]

I only realised that I had a mojo about seven years ago. I was at Popstarz with some friends and my friend, Ann, asked me who in the club I thought was attractive. I looked around and pointed at some impossibly good looking, ripped guy at the end of the bar.

"Him," I said. "But he is SO out of my league."

"No he's not! Don't be stupid. You're really good looking!" Ann replied, completely oblivious to the secret gay code that decrees that one must not deem to step outside one's own genetic pool.

Later on in the evening, after quite a lot of drinks and with a bit of dutch courage, I managed to brush myself up against him on the dancefloor. Unbelievably, one thing led to another and it wasn't long before I was in a cab with him, heading back to his place.

Fortunately for me, it didn't turn out to be a one night stand and a few days later we went on our first date. I already knew this (obviously, or not obviously) but for your sake, his name was Phillipe. He was French and for some years had worked as a model, before becoming an actor. I've already said it, but he was handsome in that way that you are just forced to think to yourself, "What are you doing with me?"

During dinner we asked each other a few innocuous questions. One of them, from me, was "What's your star sign." A stupid question coming from me, as you faithful readers will know, because I don't really care.

"Well, when do you think I was born?" said Phillipe.

I looked away for a second, as if deep in thought, and took a guess.

"December 17."

A pause, and then, with the most serious of expressions, "How did you know that?"

All the blood drained from my face. "Oh. Er, seriously. I didn't. I just guessed."

That was all it took. From then on he wouldn't return my calls. And that is the story of Phillipe and I. And possibly of the worst date I have ever been on.

Yesterday lunchtime I was in Boots with my flatmate, Vix, buying grooming products. I went up to the counter to pay for my goodies while Vix went outside to call her boyfriend.

While I was at the counter I decided to ask the assistant if she could recommend a product that would minimise and dull any T-zone shine. She told me that she did sell something like that, but that it was in the stock room. While she was more than happy to go and grab some, I told her not to worry as I couldn't really wait.

"Why? Do you have a train to catch?"

"No, I just have a meeting to attend," I explained.

"Oh, that's ok. Because you know there have been some more bombs on the tube. They've closed down a load of the stations again."

I looked at her, aghast. "No! Seriously? That's awful! Has anyone been hurt?"

"I'm not sure. I guess so," and we both shook our heads, mournfully.

After a respectful pause the shop assistant said, "You know I can give you some samples of the product I was telling you about?"

"Great!" I replied.

I left the shop and gleefully showed my twelve, free, mini-sachets of Clinique Oil Control Hydrator to Vix.

Later on I was forced to consider that I am either shallow beyond belief, or that the terrorists have completely and utterly failed to inspire any real feelings of terror within me.

An email exchange with my friend Zach (a fellow iBook owner):

Christopher:
I REALLY need your help. Please respond to this email as soon as you can! I have hardcore gay porn stuck in the CD drive on my iBook and I am using it at work and the computer guy is due to come in to do something to it at 4pm!!! Usually there is a little hole you can stick a paperclip in and it ejects the disc, but I can't find it! I tried the Apple support website, but to no avail. Help me Zach! You're my only hope! (Note that I could have asked you to "help me find my hole" but am far too mature.)

Zach:
Oh gosh ... I don't really know. Did you try turning off the computer and restarting it? I had that happen to me once and that seemed to work. I think I was hitting the eject button before the computer was fully re-booted and it ejected. Good luck! If that doesnt work, just blame it on an intern...

Christopher:
No! I tried that! IT DOESN'T WORK!!! Rudy (IT guy) is going to learn that I like watching DVDs called "Anal Intruder 5".

Zach:
Tell him that it's from a new client of yours ... that you're doing the PR for Bel Ami.

Christopher:
I'm going to have to call Apple Support. This is too humiliating for words. Not least for the fact that I can't work out how to eject a DVD, regardless of the fact that it's bum-porn.

Zach:
Oh Christopher. You've done it again!

Christopher:
Shut up.

I'm sorry for not having written about my Grandma sooner. Forgive me if I don't go into too much detail here. It's not that I find it particularly upsetting, per se. It's just that I have dissected every minutiae of her condition with almost every member of my family over the past week and I am starting to get a little tired of the subject. That sounds awful, but you don't know my family (although I'm sure there are enough of you with your own dysfunctional families to be able to sympathise.)

Grandma is 85 years old, but in excellent health. She takes two walks a day, doesn't drink or smoke, eats incredibly healthily. She even rides a bike from time to time.

Last Monday she went to the beach with my Aunt and Grandpa. She walked along the beach, paddled in the sea. Apparently she had a nice day. When the three of them got back home, Grandma went around to the back of the car and as she was pulling something out of the boot she fainted and fell backwards, hitting the back of her head, apparently very, very hard.

A brain scan at the hospital confirmed that she had three hemorrhages: one between her skull and her brain, one on the surface of her brain and one in her brain. Initially the surgeons didn't want to operate on her because of her age, but because she is so healthy they eventually decided to go ahead.

They removed the first two hemorrhages, but because of it's depth, left the third with the hope that it would not get any bigger. A scan conducted a couple of days after the surgery revealed that it had indeed not grown, which was good news.

However, she is not out of the woods. Because of the head injury Grandma is required to be resting horizontally, or almost horizontally, so that excess blood can be drained from her head. This means that there is a likelihood that fluid will build up on her lungs. If this happens she will more than likely develop pneumonia. Once again, because of her age, there is a possibility that she will not pull through that. That said, if anyone can pull through at her age, Grandma can.

In terms of how she is in herself, she sleeps most of the time, which is normal after brain surgery. When she is awake, she is still very dopey, but for the most part she makes sense. She does lapse into occasional dementia, but again, this is normal for someone who has recently had brain surgery. The other day she kept talking about a little black boy standing at the end of the bed. I was a little bit concerned that she was being politically incorrect and that I would have to berate her, but then I realised that a black gas cylinder was confusing her (she hasn't been wearing her glasses.)

The weird thing about all of this, from my perspective, is how well I am dealing with the whole situation. When I first heard the news from my Dad last Tuesday I was really tearful and upset. But then when I saw her and spoke to the doctors and felt a lot more philosophical. She may pull through and she may not. If this is her time to go, then we can all feel good about the fact that she has a good life, with great family and fabulous (fabulous!!!!) grandchildren. If it's not her time to go, then she will get through this and she will have more days on the beach and chats with friends and relatives over cups of Earl Grey tea.

I hope it will be the latter.

However, through all of this, I have been struck by the complete randomness of life. All of us know that we will "end" at some point. For some of us that end will be sooner than for others and will come about in a variety of different ways. In Grandma's case the doctors think that it is possible she fainted because it was a hot day and she was dehydrated. That could have happened to anyone, regardless of their age. I mean, people jump into swimming pools and emerge paralysed from the neck down.

In particular I recalled a Phoebe-ism from Friends:

"Yeah, it's just so strange. I mean, she probably woke up today and thought, 'Ok, I'll have some breakfast, and then I'll take a little walk, and then I'll have my massage.' Little did she know God was thinking, 'Ok, but that's it.'"

For me, anyway, it re-illustrates the age-old phrase, "Live each day as if it were your last."

After the events of the past week I needed to start this week off on the right foot. Arguably, dancing into the first early hour of the morning with Drew at Horsemeat Disco probably wasn't the best way to bring this about, but miraculously I woke up this morning feeling as fresh as a daisy and as chipper as Chip the chipmunk.

Things felt good as I walked out of the tube station at Old Street. I felt at one. I had just finished a "fiendish" Su Doku puzzle on the train, cute Hoxton-y guys and girls walked by, glugging from bottles of Evian and giggling into their mobile phones. The sun was beating down and for once I wasn't evaporating.

And Nina Simone sung "Here Comes The Sun" on my iPod.

Perfection.

I haven't posted for a couple of days because I have been back at home in Wiltshire. My Grandma had a really nasty fall on Monday evening and as a result had three brain hemorrhages. She had surgery to remove two of the three bleeds early on Tuesday morning, but we do not yet know if the operation has been successful.

I may post infrequently over the coming days, just so you all know. We'll see how things pan out. Fingers crossed that she gets better.

Christopher
xxx

Books

Jef tagged me with this book meme:

1. How many books do you own?
I'd estimate on about two to three hundred, the majority of which are at my Mum's house in Wiltshire, where I stored them before I moved to NYC. That figure counts for every book I've ever owned. While I may have loaned books out, I've never thrown any away.

2. Last book read?
The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. There are only three books that I have read that have actually made me cry (shut up, Drew) and this is one of them (one of the other two is listed below). It's a story about a man called Henry who suffers from a rare disorder where his genetic clock occasionally resets itself, flinging him from the present, back and forth through time. On his journeys he encounters Clare, his wife in the present, at various points in her life. On the surface the premise might seem rather fantastical, but the author makes it entirely believable. This is an old fashioned romance that had me hooked from the first page and literally sobbing by the end.

3. Last book purchased?
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I don't really know what it is about. I know it's based on a true story and that one of my friends read it and greatly enjoyed it. I'm also very intrigued by a book called A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. All I'll say is that it had better be just that, or I'll be consulting the Trading Standards website.

4. Name five books that mean a lot to you.
Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Coupland. There are so many reasons why I love this book (it was one of the three that have made me cry). The first is that Douglas Coupland is my favourite author in the whole world and I've read all his books. He could write an obituary and I would love it. The second is that it contains one of the most moving scenes I've ever read in a book. I can't tell you any more about that point, because it would ruin a surprise. The third is that it includes some really clever references to huge cultural landmarks from the late 90s - the kind that give you goosebumps. I frikkin love this book! Go out and buy it now!

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. I'm probably hearing a bunch of you distantly yelling "Why?! Why?!" at me right now. Well, on the surface it's a pretty formulaic tale of conspiracy and the like, written in an absorbing, non-boundary pushing manner. I don't care for all that backlash nonsense - it's a bloody good read. And to question whether or not the "fact" is, indeed, fact is to thoroughly miss the point. For me the "fact" is that the Christian church is built on a fundamental lie. This realisation encouraged me to ask myself some really important and fairly profound questions about my faith and as a result I do not believe that the God I was taught about in school really exists. So while I wouldn't say I'm now an atheist, I'm definitely agnostic. That might seem rubbish - that Dan Brown made me question God. But then we can find truths in the most unlikely of places.

Alexander and the Magic Mouse by Martha Sanders. This is my favourite book from when I was a kid. An old lady lives on a hill with various animals that she has collected on her travels around the world: a yak from Tibet, a Brindle London Squatting cat, an alligator called Alexander and a magical mouse. The mouse has a premonition that the local town will be washed away by a terrible storm so the old lady sends Alexander to the town to deliver a letter to the mayor so that he can warn everyone of the impending danger. After his efforts Alexander catches flu and is deeply depressed that everyone in the town was scared of him. In the end the magical mouse gives him a tiny pink cake and overnight he gets better. Shortly after they learn that his mission was successful and the whole town comes up the hill to thank Alexander.

A Room With a View by E.M. Forster. I initially read it because I loved the movie - Rupert Graves, Julian Sands and, er, Simon Callow, naked and wrestling in a bathing pond. Sadly the book was less homoerotic than the movie, but I still enjoyed it very much. In fact it encouraged me to read all of Forster's other books, including a Passage to India, which I was supposed to have read for A Level English, but didn't. Still, better late than never.

Untitled by this man. I haven't read it yet because it's yet to be published, but as long as I get expensive Christmas and birthday presents as a result of his handsome royalties, it will forever be a book that will mean a lot to me.

5. Tag five more people.
I have had bad experiences of tagging people, so I'm going to leave it up to those who have not done this to decide if they want to do it.

Christopher hurts himself (again)

When something truly awful happens there is this inclination to just sit in front of the TV and absorb, absorb, absorb until you're as much of an expert on the goings-on as the anchorperson you've recently become best friends with. This was very much the case in my office yesterday, as the TV was on all day and no one was really doing anything apart from congregating around it.

At lunchtime I decided not to eat my low-carb, home-prepared bean and tuna salad at my desk and instead ventured down into Wimbledon town centre to meet Lindsay for lunch.

Because Lindsay didn't have much time to spare we decided to grab a quick bite and a drink at Coffee Republic, next to Wimbledon tube station. As Lindsay ordered our beverages at the front of the shop, I located an area at the back for us to sit down. As I reclined into my leather armchair, the back of my head connected heavily with the extremely sharp edge of the counter behind me. You know when you hit your head so hard that it doesn't actually hurt? That's how hard I hit my head.

As I pretended that I was actually completely fine to the cute guy sat adjacent to me I reached my hand behind my head to check out the damage and was quite shocked to discover that I was actually bleeding quite profusely. Without trying to draw too much attention to myself I got up and went to the counter to tell Lindsay what had happened and to grab some napkins from one of the baristas.

The manager of the shop, who was at this point standing behind the till, saw my bloodied hand and swiftly went into lifesaver overdrive. "Oh my God! Did you just come out of the station?!" he asked, hurriedly, grabbing a dishcloth. "Do you need some ice? Don't worry, it's ok!"

Realising that the manager had thought that I was walking wounded from the events that occurred earlier in the day, I felt a brand new rush of blood sweep through me , this time depositing itself firmly onto my cheeks. "Erm, no. I just hit my head on your counter."

Of course, Lindsay thought that it was extremely amusing that I had to include myself, however unintentionally, in amongst the overall melee.

I guess it was only a matter of time.

I've had a bunch of calls today from concerned friends and family checking up on me. "Are you ok?" they ask. "Yes." I tell them. "Good," they reply. The conversations have been brief and on the whole there seems to have been less 'talking' and more 'listening'.

Yesterday I wrote that I am proud of my country and proud to be British. Today I feel even more proud, if that's possible. I know that us Brits often get ribbed for our sometimes rather rigid sobriety, but I have to say that I think that it is on days like today that our true spirit really shines through.

Earlier on, for some reason, I remembered that scene in Elizabeth, where Cate Blanchett's infamous monarch confronts Richard Attenborough's Lord William. On the surface this quote is not entirely relevant to today's events, but for me it speaks volumes about my nation's character and spirit.

"I am my father's daughter. I am not afraid of anything."

For one of the few times in my life ...

... I'm feeling really proud to be British and even more proud to be a Londoner!

Run, London! RUN!!!

A good / bad date

Last night I went on a date with Paul.

I met Paul very briefly on Friday night while out drinking with Drew. It was a case of eyes meeting across a crowded pavement. At first he seemed to be leaving with some friends, but as he walked away he carried on glancing back at me. I smiled. He dumped his friends. I told him that I wasn't in a position to dump my one friend. He gave me his digits. I texted him. Last night we went on a date.

As I walked down Clapham High Street towards Kazbah (if it ain't broke, etc) I spotted Paul walking towards me. Even though I had only spoken to him briefly I recognised him instantly, but the thing I was most struck by was not his handsome good looks (which he has) but by how he was walking like a slightly deranged, homeless man who has just downed a quart of vodka.

Anyway - he didn't recognise me and as this wasn't where we were supposed to meet - on the street - I decided to play dumb and carry on to Kazbah, order a drink, grab a free gay rag, decide which dance tents at Big Gay Out I would grace with my presence and try to forget that disconcerting walk.

Paul arrived a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, apologising for being late. Knowing very well that I had just walked past him on the street I said, "Did I just walk past you on the street?" on the offchance that he had also seen me and wondered why I hadn't said, "Hello!" He hadn't, but apologised for not having seen me.

The next two hours went without hitch and as time wore on we started to inch closer and closer and we began to do all the little physical things one does when one finds oneself more and more attracted to the person sat opposite - resting your feet on the footsteps of their stool, the occasional brush against a leg, grabbing their shoulder during the middle of a really funny story. "Yes," I'm thinking, "I actually quite like you." Oh, and we agree on stuff, but not in that "Oh, yes, I also like James Blunt and I'm just saying this because I think it's what you want to hear way." More of the excited, "So do I!!!"

Eventually I looked at my watch and saw that it was 11.15pm. I explained that I was up a little bit past my bedtime and while I was having a great time, I really should be going home. It turned out that he lived not too far from me, so I agreed to walk some of the way home with him. We finished off our drinks and left.

And then, suddenly, all of the warm, fuzzy, "I think I quite like this guy" feelings instantly dissipated as he started doing that walk again. What the fuck was that shit? Again, slightly deranged lunatic. Definitely flat footed and upper body leaning forward. All I could think was "patient" and the overall illusion was ruined. As quick as it had arrived, it vanished. No more dates for me and Paul.

Now you might think that after having spent two hours on what was essentially a really good date, I would be really disappointed. But if you did, you'd be wrong.

All I could feel was massive relief that I would not be spending my ever-after with a guy who made me cringe with embarrassment every time he put foot to floor. It is for important reasons like these that I am not willing to compromise. It makes the idea of an eternal singledom entirely bearable.

I am recovering from a slightly hectic weekend.

(Incidentally - before I continue if you spot any random puntuation marks or copyright symbols in my text, please ignore them. I write my posts in Word, before copying and pasting them into Blogger. For some reason Blogger has stopped recognising punctuation transferred across and gets confused. Very annoying, but it raises less suspicion when blogging at work if I spend two hours writing a post in a Word document, as opposed to the Blogger compose window. The bloggers amongst you will understand what I mean.)

I spent Saturday with my Dad and my stepmom, doing the tourist "thang" around central London. Despite Live8 taking place just under half a mile away in Hyde Park, the city was eerily quiet - more so than during a quiet week day, which was actually brilliant for dragging parents around.

We had a nice lunch at a small cafe in Piccadilly and then we walked down South Bank, next to the Thames, to the Tate Modern to see the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Dad messed it up and went through the exhibition the wrong-way-round. I met him half way through and he actually said to me, "Her painting style seems to get worse as she got older."

Anyway - I learned a couple of things. I learned that Frida Kahlo had an affair with Leon Trotsky while he was staying as a guest at the home of her and her husband. How fabulous. I wonder if he was hot?

The other thing I learned, or rather I realised, is that regardless of whether you live a life of pain, whether you enjoy your life (as, for one reason or another, Frida generally didn't seem to) you can live a life which has a profoundly positive effect on other people – making you realise that you’re never alone in how you feel and / or you can understand and empathise with someone elses pain without the need for words. I'd always thought that it was kind of narcissistic of Kahlo to feature herself so prominently in her paintings, but what I now understand is that in her case she felt that it it was essential in order to create an emotional connection with the theme she was conveying.

Oh – another thing my Dad said to me (with absolute seriousness), "She was very good at drawing fruit and vegetables, wasn't she?"

Saturday night / Sunday morning were spent gaying it with my friends at clubs in Vauxhall. Action, which occurs once every fortnight, was followed by Beyond, a weekly after-hours club night, just around the corner at the Coliseum. As usual I had a great time with my friends. There was not much drinking, a little bit of boy-kissing at Action, a couple of compliments from guys significantly bigger than me on what a good body I have (bring this one on as much as you like) and a tired trudging through my front door at midday on Sunday.

I remembered this morning that my friend Kelly (a girl) demanded that I take her through the sex maze at Action. While I was, at first, hesitant about performing such an action at Action, I eventually relented, on the proviso that the only thing she grabbed was my hand. Later on in the evening she joked that she thought she might be pregnant. I am undecided whether to tell her that it might actually be wise to buy a pregnancy test.

Score!

Last night, while I was working out at the gym, my friend Richard walked up to me. Looking vaguely concerned, he whispered, "Have you been taking steroids?"

While it is true that, of late, I have been attending the gym a lot more and working out harder than I ever have before, it's not true that I have been taking steroids.

It is, however, an appropriate indication of the type of world that I live in that I took Richard's question as the best compliment ever.

Tom talks rubbish

As many of you know, I have been subject to extensive psychiatric treatment for the majority of both my teenage and adult life. Last year, for reasons I won't go into again, I decided to take myself off my prescrition medication. If you are a regular visitor here, you will know that I feel that the change in my overall mood and my ability to deal with everyday problems has been quite remarkable. Infact I believe that the years spent taking those drugs was, in actual fact, detrimental to my overall mental health and really responsible for much of my anti-social behaviour.

However, while I feel very strongly that anti-depressive medication is definitely not for me, I do believe that psychiatry and the appropriate medication definitely has it's place in the world. Probably more so today than at any other point in history. Modern life is, emotionally, very taxing, so sometimes we need some help to get through the dark, dark times that almost all of us will experience at various points as we plod on through our worlds.

I am really beginning to dislike Tom Cruise. Historically I have had very little interest in him. As far as I'm concerned, he's kind of bland. He definitely has some kind of screen presense, and there is no doubt that he is very good looking. As to whether or not he's gay, I didn't used to think so, but recently his declarations of love for Katie Holmes, well ... perhaps the "lady" doth protest too much?

In an interview with NBC-TV's Matt Lauer, Tom denounced psychiatry as a "pseudo-science" after being asked about his stance against anti-depressant drugs. A couple of weeks ago he criticised Brooke Shields for taking anti-depressants after the birth of her daughter in order to counteract what was apparently a severe post-natal depression.

A fellow blogger wrote about this interview this week and asked why Lauer, upon hearing Tom's tirade against the psychiatric extablishment, had not pushed him to explain why psychiatric patients should follow the advice of an actor and not that of their qualified doctors.

While, in my mind and a in a few others, there is a question mark over the mental sanity of anyone who jumps up and down on a sofa, on international TV, declaring his love for someone he only met a couple of months prior, Tom's comments don't appear to be a prompted by a personal psychiatric condition. We all know that he is a dedicated follower of the Church of Scientology, which, as far back as the 1960s has been rabidly against the institution of psychiatry. This belief is key to the overall mission of the church's founder, Ron Hubbard.

While there is no denying that some patients have occasionally benefitted from the church exposing cases of extremely poor psychiatric care, this doesn't mean that the overall Scientologist argument actually stands up upon closer inspection. Scientologists are most often irrationally opposed to scientifically supported treatment in the forms of both therapy and medication, which have been life-saving for millions of people all over the world.

The inherent problem with psychiatry, in all it's many forms and treatments is that it is not an exact science. We all know that and I think that most of the scientific community would agree. It's well documented that the human brain is the most unchartered and indeed the most mysterious part of the human body. Because of my own negative experiences at the hands of the psychiatric community in both the UK and the States, I, for one, welcome intelligent debate on the subject. But what really annoys me most about Tom's comments was his inability to provide alternative treatments for people suffering with mental illnesses: what treatments does the Church of Scientology suggest using? Does it run hospitals for people suffering from clinical depression, bipolar disorder, personality disorder, etc? Will it take legal responsibility for patients care? Do they have indepent proof that it's methods are effective?

However unlikely, maybe Tom has done his homework and he does know what he's talking about. But someone with a high-profile voice is being entirely irresponsible and not doing anyone any favours when they publicly denounce treatment that is widely held to be the best that we have available. If Tom can't outline what treatments he would recommend and show us evidence that they would work, then he really should stick to what he's best at - publicising his new movie.

Christopher considers charity

Two of my friends owe me approximately £20 each. This morning, as I drank my cup of tea, a wave of benevolence swept over me and I considered taking heed of the advice Bob Geldof is proffering to the various leaders who are soon to attend the G8 summit in Gleneagles.

I thought to myself, perhaps I should cancel my friends' debt?

Then I thought that maybe I should not only cancel their debt, but also offer them monetary aid. In line with the agreement signed by world leaders at the 2002 Monterrey Financing for Development Conference I should offer them aid packages constituting 0.7% of my annual salary - amounting to £158 each.

And, quite frankly, this isn't going to happen.

So then I realised that it would be much more fortuitous for me to listen to the World's banks. Therefore, as of today, I will be heaping an inordinate amount of interest onto my friends' debts. I feel that it's important to make them understand that borrowing is a serious matter and one not to be taken lightly.

As Thatcher once said, "If you can't afford it today, then leave it out." Or something like that. And what a wise woman she was.

Christopher's Fashion Advice 101 - sunglasses

(via an email exchange with my friend, Katie)

Katie: Do you know where I can get pink sunnies??!!!!

Christopher: Why the hell would I know, bitch?!

Katie: I'm shocked to the core you BITCH!!!! I think of you as a style guru! Given that colored sunnies are so this season, thought you may know! God some people!!!

Christopher: Oh! I thought you were implying that I would know because pink is the international colour for dudes who like taking it up the wrongun. But in that case (me being a style guru), Chanel has some really great, candy-pink, plastic sun's with tortoise-effect temples (arms to you.) But if you're short of cash I could russle a pair with an old pair of 3D cardboard glasses, some cling-wrap and a pink Crayola?

The most depressing email ever

As my last post stated, I am currently working in Wimbledon, which is an unusual location for a PR company to operate from, most of them preferring to be relatively positioned around central London, as that's where most of the media is situated.

I am doing the PR for financial services. Given the fact that my professional background is steeped richly in fashion and grooming PR, I'll leave it up to you to decide how bored you think I am right now.

I am on the books of about five recruitment agencies. I have little experience of any other kind of recruitment agency, but I can reliably inform you that PR recruitment agencies are not a whole lot of cop when it comes to, er, PR recruitment. I guess if I was an actor I would have only one agent. But in my line of work it seems to be wiser to throw the net out wide. I should point out that I have never acquired a job through an agency, always managing to snag one myself.

One of the companies is unbelievably rubbish and even though I have been on their books for about eight months they have yet to send me on an interview or even tell me that a position is available ... anywhere.

However, on Friday I received an email from my agent at this company. Given that the title read "Hello!" and that I had not spoken to her in about four months, I could only assume that she had found me some to-die-for position in the most global PR agency in the world, directing the international PR for Gucci, working closely with Tom Ford.

It was an invitation. To her birthday party.

The idea that my poor agent was so short of friends that had been forced to invite me, someone she had only met once for about five minutes and spoken to only three or four times briefly on the phone, to her birthday party was so depressing that I almost wanted to attend.

But then I read that it's happening at O'Neill's pub in Putney. I don't think so.

New balls

I just had an "ick" moment. Kind of.

I am working a few hundred metres away from the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Association which, as you may or may not know, is currently holding its annual grand slam tournament.

So me and my friend Lindsay, who also works in the locale, were sat outside the Dog and Fox pub, eating panini, nursing pints of cold cider, soaking up the summer sun and gossiping about stuff n' shit. All of a sudden I got distracted by the sight of six immaculately groomed, Wimbledon ball boys, casually sauntering past us, dressed in head-to-toe white: white cotton pants, white tennis shoes and white cricket sweaters.

The overall effect was quite mesmerising and I began to imagine myself in a gay tennis-porn, locker-room showdown with these white-clad hotties. Picture it - "Excuse me, but I think you just dropped your balls ... " etc, etc.

Lindsay stopped talking, looked at me and then followed my line of vision and clocked what I was checking out.

"Chris! That's disgusting," she exclaimed. "They’re about 16 years old!"

I tried to reason with her that they looked at least 18 and even if they were 16, they were still "legal", but she wasn't having it.

So, for the first time in my life, I was made to feel like a dirty old man.

Girls are dumb

Well, ok ladies, I know you're not really dumb, but you have to admit that you are very slightly "special" (pejorative) when it comes to technology, aren't you? At least, that has been my experience, especially of late.

Three examples:

1.
Yesterday morning I noticed that one of my colleagues who sits across from me, well call her Pam, was slowly getting more and more frustrated with something that her computer wouldn't seem to want to do.

After a few minutes of watching Pam inching closer and closer to throwing her rather sexy, slimline Sony Vaio laptop out of the window in an explosion of super-colossal rage I eventually leaned forward and, so as not to feel the full extent of her wrath, whispered, "What's wrong?"

"It's my laptop," she explained, the vein in her temple waving at me. "I'm trying to open someone's CV and my computer won't let me!"

I leaned forward a bit more and pulled her laptop round towards me. "Show me what you're doing," I told her. So she moved the mouse cursor up to the "File" dropdown and clicked on "Open", by which point I had already ascertained what the problem was.

"Pam," I say, trying my best not to be patronising, because Pam is technically more senior than me. "You're trying to open a Word document in Outlook."

2.
Just over a month ago I persuaded my Mum to buy a new Mac Mini to replace the ancient iMac I gave her about three years ago.

Unfortunately I wasn't there when she tried to set the thing up, which meant that I got called with a zillion and one stupid questions like, "The booklet tells me to put the CD into the hard drive. What's the hard drive?"

Now don't give me that spiel about it being harder for people of my mother's age to learn even the rudimentary aspects of modern technology. Besides, she's only 53. It's been proven that there is no physiological reason (aside from actual ailments like Alzheimer's or senile dementia) why old people should suddenly become stupid. It's not that they can't work it out themselves; in my opinion it's because they're lazy. They have grown up children or grandchildren to rely on to install their new microwave. I'm not afraid to call my Grandma an asshole if she can't figure out how to plug in her brand new toaster. Yeah! I'll kick her in the shins too, the bitch.

Regardless, I let my mum off the first few dumb questions. But I did lose my temper with her when she called me during a client meeting. Normally I won't answer my mobile during a meeting, but when I saw my mum's number flash up (especially given the fact that my Granddad recently died) I figured that it must be something important. So I quickly excused myself and slipped outside to take the call.

"Mum, I'm in a meeting. What's wrong?"

"It's the computer."

"Mum! I'm in a meeting! Can't this wait until after I finish work?"

"Well just quickly then. The new flat screen I just bought. It won't turn on. I've tried everything but it won't work. Do you know what it could be?"

Upon further investigation, my mother and I established that the monitor was not plugged in to the power. No joke. Her logic was that she thought the "hard drive" (see, she learned one thing!) provided the power for the monitor, but I explained to her that would be like assuming that her DVD player provides the power for her TV.

3.
This morning my housemate informed me that she had not been able to listen to any music on her iPod for almost a week because someone had locked it and she couldn't work out how to un-lock it. Handing the offending item over to me she asked if I could fix it.

I flicked the "Hold" switch off and handed it back to her.

Being gay affords me a closeness to women that many straight men don't have. For that reason I believe that I have a good grasp of the mysterious machinations of the female mind. But I just don't get why the vast majority of you are so unbelievably rubbish with technology. I'm sorry if that sounds all superior and offensive, but seriously? What is it? Do you like us boys to patronise and rib you endlessly for being dumb? Are you secretly masochists in this respect? And surely it can't just be laziness. I mean, why would you walk around not being able to listen to music for a week, just because you're not prepared to spend ten seconds analysing all the surfaces of your MP3 player for signs of a switch which could be construed as being a lock?

I can guarantee that if a guy asks me to help him with something technical it will be something genuinely complicated. I have never known a guy to announce in the middle of the office, "I can't print!" It will be something like, "Can you help me configure this POP server?"

So what is it, ladies? C'mon! Give me something to work with here!

One. Of. These. Days.

I think I might have anger management issues. I am liable to do some really ill thought out things as a result of being on the receiving end of genuine stupidity, irrationality or poor service.

The other day I went to an appointment at the hospital to see a consultant about this. Upon observation the consultant told me that while there is still every chance that it will go away by itself, it might be worth operating on anyway.

"Rosie?" he called out to the nurse working at the station opposite our booth. "Can we fit Christopher in for an [insert name of unpronouncable surgical procedure here] this afternoon?"

The response was in the negative, so my consultant wrote me up an appointment request and sent me back to the main reception desk to get myself booked in for another day.

Imagine my consternation and frustration upon being told that the next available appointment would be on Tuesday, September 27. I told the receptionist, in no uncertain terms, that this date was totally unacceptable to me, not least because September 27 is my birthday and I'll be buggered if I'll spend the day having my eyelid splayed, scraped and sewn back up again. But more than that, five minutes previously my consultant had been under the impression that appointments in this place were so freely available that procedures could be carried out as quickly and easily as by calling out to the nurse in the station opposite.

This line of approach didn't really get me anywhere. The fact that the receptionist was a gay man with really bad highlights probably didn't help. No doubt my own gorgeous hair made him feel inferior.

Anyway ... I kinda lost it.

To cut a long story short I caused such a fuss over having to live with this hideous deformity barely noticeable lump for three and half more months that I managed to get the receptionist to agree to leave his post in order to discuss the situation with my consultant all the way back at the booth.

After a short, heated exchange I realised that the only way I was going to get these fuckers to concede to my demands was by threatening to go private - because clearly the possibility that I might unburden myself from an already overcrowded NHS waiting list would surely put the fear of God into them.

Cut to me walking out of the clinic with no appointment and very little dignity.

There was a time when losing your rag actually got you somewhere. Even if you made little or no sense, people would be so keen to get rid of you and your ranting that they would bow to almost any demand you made.

I can reliably inform you all that those days are gone. These days you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't.

Dumbass chicken agreement

Yesterday I accepted an invitation from someone at work to attend a brainstorm to think of media ideas for what was cited as "a breakthrough in snacking!"

This morning I learned that the breakthrough was nothing to do with potato chips which make people thinner or chocolate chip cookies that increase emotional empathy. No. The breakthrough is pre-packed, pre-cooked chicken pieces.

Aside from the fact that the likes of Tesco, Sainsbury, Asda, Marks & Spencer, et al, have been selling similar products for two or three years it is not an easy task to concoct credible story hooks to encourage the tabloid press to write about chicken pieces (which, incidentally, taste like processed cocker spaniel chunks. And yes, before you ask, I do know what cocker spaniel tastes like) unless you’re prepared to pay for Abi Titmus to wear a bikini made out of them.

(Which is, actually, not such a bad idea.)

But get this - I actually had to sign a confidentiality agreement to prevent me from talking about this unbelievable revolution in cooked chicken outside of work! Apparently it has never crossed anyone’s mind that by making me sign a confidentiality agreement for a new processed meat it might actually encourage me to talk to people about it.

Existential question

Why is it that even though orange cordial tastes nothing like real oranges, we still know what it is supposed to be? The same goes for almost every other* flavour of cordial: blackcurrant, lemon, apple, strawberry and especially fruits of the forest, which is actually how Radox Essence of Peach** shower gel might taste if you licked it off a Formica work surface.

The thing with orange cordial - is it because it looks kind of orange in colour and the bottle tells us that it is orange in flavour that our senses are convinced? Is it all another example of corporate conditioning and deception?

Either way, I am assuming that I could, hypothetically, concoct a brownish coloured, watery blend of charcoal and twigs and call it “Chair Leg Squash”.

It’s pretty profound, really.

* With the exception of Passion Fruit. Anything that has been artificially flavoured to taste like Passion Fruit, does indeed taste like Passion Fruit. Think about it! It’s true!

** Actually smells like Yardley April Violets eau de toilette***

*** Actually smells like old ladies****

**** Actually smells like Yardley April Violets eau de toilette*****

***** I think I’m in a K-hole

Fashion stock is down

For the last two days Sam, the account executive who sits opposite me, and Rachel, one of my fellow account directors, have been ploughing through various style websites in order to find out what “the” fashion item will be for Autumn/Winter 2005/2006.

Never missing an opportunity to demonstrate my extensive sartorial knowledge I have been helpfully reeling off trends such as “Big! Big! Big!”, “Ethnic” and “Capes!”

Now I should point out that neither Sam, nor Rachel (especially Rachel) are the types of cosmopolitan women who realise that metropolitan gay men are, quite simply, the frikkin Oracle when it comes to sound fashion advice. Sam and Rachel both live in Croydon. Nuff said. Therefore my advice has been met with mistrust, poorly disguised as surprised graciousness.

This morning Sam presented her final list of “must-have” items to Rachel. Cue lots of cooing from Rachel - “Oh, yes! Lovely, oh lovely!” – while I sat there and gnashed my teeth.

Finally Rachel gets to the bottom of Sam’s list and screams in delight, “Absolutely yes! Ponchos! Yes! Everyone is wearing them!”

I very, nearly spontaneously combusted.

The very point of a must have fashion item for Autumn/Winter 2005/2006 is that no one in Summer 2005 is wearing the bloody thing (which they aren’t, actually.) Also, ponchos had their time, which, with those in the know, finished at the close of winter in 2004. Ponchos have evolved … INTO CAPES!!! I said that, remember??!!

And if that wasn’t enough I just logged onto vogue.com and saw that Anna Wintour, the frikkin arbiter of conservative, yet deeply fashionable taste, wore this monstrous Vera Wang “thing” to the CFDA Style Awards in New York:



Still, all is not lost. Linda Evangelista still looks as damn fine as ever. Just look at the way she brings her left foot in at that perfectly jaunty angle. Perfection!



That was quite a gay post. I'm off now to chop some wood.

New vocation

At the weekend, because it was my friend Lucy's birthday, I went up to Birmingham to accompany her and my other friends to the dogs - a British expression for going to see greyhounds race around a mini-stadium, chasing an electric rabbit.

I discovered three important things about myself at the dogs:

1) I am not a born gambler I put down a total of £17.00 on the various races and I won a total of £0.80. So actually I didn't win anything. I lost £16.20.

2) My new favourite dogs are greyhounds. They are, apparently, very loving and contrary to popular opinion, don't need that much exercise. So my two bedroom, narrow, 1st floor apartment is the perfect living environment.

3) I am naturally gifted at sports photography. Look at the picture, below - see how I communicate the great speed of the greyhounds by not actually capturing them while in the frame. Cunning, huh?

The verdict

Ages ago, one of my friends said to me, "What if Michael Jackson is telling the truth? What if he didn't do anything?" I considered it for a few moments and then brushed the idea away. After all, grown men simply do not share their beds with young, unrelated boys.

This evening I'm asking myself a different question.

Have we all become really cynical? If he really, truly is not guilty, which is what we should now believe, I guess, then I suppose I should feel a little guilty for judging him. Although I'm not sure that I do.

Another thing struck me this evening for the first time. Not guilty. It doesn't have quite the same ring as "innocent".

"You're a drunk and a bad mother!"

A little while ago I heard on the radio that a Hollywood studio is going to make an all-star feature movie of Dallas. Fortunately it won't follow on from where the series and the three abismal TV movies left off and will start afresh, using just the basic plot and original characters.

Dallas was the first TV show I religiously watched as a young-un. A few years ago it was repeated on BBC 1 on Saturday mornings and you could watch three episodes back to back. I think over the course of six months my housemate, Alison, and I watched every single episode. I remember feeling a pang of something kind of like brotherhood upon realising that Pam and Bobby's offspring, Christopher, my namesake, was infact, when compared to John Ross Jr. ("Swellen" and J.R.'s sprog), a little bit poofy, even if he was only about 8 at the time.

The other day I was checking out the IMDB message boards for the movie and I saw that someone had put together a "dream team" of actors who they thought would be perfect in each of the roles. This got me rather over-excited and for the past few days I have been paying very careful consideration as to who I would cast in each of the infamous roles. Bear in mind that I have tried not to be influenced by who played the character previously. Because that's what good casting is all about, dontcha know?

Dallas - The Movie
casting by Christopher [cue theme music]:

John Ross 'Jock' Ewing, Sr.
Paul Newman


Eleanor Southworth Ewing
Gena Rowlands


John Ross 'J.R.' Ewing, Jr.
Brad Pitt


Bobby Ewing
Christian Bale


Sue Ellen Shepard Ewing
Amber Valetta


Pamela Barnes Ewing
Catherine Zeta Jones


Cliff Barnes
Matthew McConaughey


Digger Barnes
Richard Gere


Ray Krebbs
Luke Wilson


Lucy Ewing Cooper
Elisabeth Harnois

I am not having a good day

I have fallen out with my mum over something really stupid which is, at the same, time rather complicated and serious.

Some of my friends are annoying me, which is a really unfair thing of me to feel, because they’re all actually good people and they're not trying to intentionally bug me.

But more than all of that I have written “5. Biggs” in my work day book and I can’t, for the life of me, remember why.

I just know that someone, tomorrow or later on in the week, is going to say “Blah, blah, blah, Biggs,” and I’ll suddenly remember what it referred to and it’ll signal the beginnings of an almighty catastrophe.

You know when you were young and your parents said to you that the years spent being a kid are the best of your life and you thought, “Yeah, right!”?

Oh, the pathos!

I love living in London right now...

... but when I hear that one of my friends in NYC might be watching Madonna's new tour documentary at a private preview with Ingrid Casaras and that this morning he saw Leo and Giselle smooching outside his apartment, I can't help but feel a little pang of "homesick-ness".

Throw Christopher from the train

A word of warning: never, ever get into an argument with me. I’m not necessarily saying that I’ll beat you, but either way it’s guaranteed that I will drive both of us a little bit crazy. I will, with no compunction, argue that black is white, especially when I feel that I am being dealt the short end of the stick. I will often lose all logic and sensibility to try and bring the situation round to my favour. Sometimes it works but most of the time it doesn’t.

Take yesterday for example…

On weekends and the occasional bank holiday Monday the various companies who operate the trains which run on the miscellaneous tracks which used to constitute the British rail network collectively run this offer whereby for an upgrade fee of £10 you get to travel First Class. On a Silverlink train this means that you get to sit in the partitioned section of the second carriage, separated from the plebs by a swing door that may / may not work depending on the efficacy of the vandals operating in the Willesden and Harlesden areas of North London. On a GNER or a Branson run Virgin train you get lots of leg room, very likely a table unit to yourself, a free sandwich, a cup of tea or coffee, biscuits and a copy of The Daily Telegraph or The Times if you are travelling under the steam of Mr. Branson

Because I have ideas above my station (Station! Ha-ha! Geddit!?) if I travel by rail at the weekend I almost always pay the upgrade and travel First Class. After all, £10 isn’t much money for afore mentioned luxuries.

This past weekend I went home to Bath to see my family and friends and to teach my Mum how to use her new Mac Mini (which in itself is worthy of a lengthy blog post.) Yesterday, at about 6pm, Mum dropped me off at Bath station and I hopped onto the train that would take me back to London.

As usual economy was packed, so I hauled my ass down to the First Class carriages and proceeded to make myself at home by taking over four seats and a table with my iPod, mobile phone, book, newspapers, sweater and hand luggage.

Not long after the train pulled away from the platform the ticket inspector entered the carriage and started asking us passengers for our tickets. Eventually he got to me and I produced my normal economy ticket and my Solo card and asked for the weekend upgrade.

Before I go on I need to explain, for the benefit of my non-British readers what a solo card is. How shall I do this? Oh, ok...

American Express Centurion = Versace*
American Express = Jil Sander
Mastercard = Miu Miu
Visa = Gucci
Switch /Maestro = Urban Outfitters
Solo = Target / George at Asda

* Because wealth and good taste do not always go hand-in-hand

Now, I should point out that I have, at various points in my personal life and career, been in possession of all of the above credit cards, except for the Centurion, which I am working on. I have even had a Coutts business account credit card which would have gotten me upgrades and access to premium class lounges at airports worldwide, but I had to give it back two weeks after I received it, because I resigned from my job.

The reason that I currently only have a Solo card is because when I lived in America my British bank account went stagnant or putrid or whatever the correct banking terminology is for an account which has stopped operating. As a result, when I returned to England, I was only allowed a Solo card and not a normal Switch card because the bank needed to see healthy account activity. Healthy meaning that my account should not go over the agreed overdraft facility. I’ll leave you to deduce why, after twelve months, I am still in possession of a Solo card.

Back to the story:

Inspector - “Sorry sir, but we don’t accept Solo. Do you have a Switch card?”

It was an affront to me that he was even insinuating that I would actually choose to pay by Solo if I was, indeed, in possession of a Switch or any other type of card for that matter. Also I immediately realised that I was facing the very real possibility that I was going to be made to do the walk of shame – ejected from First Class to Cattle Class, because I couldn’t pay a measily £10.

So I did what any gay man worth his salt would have done in the same situation.

I completely over-reacted.

Christopher (completely aware that hardly anyone or any company accepts Solo) - “But that’s completely ridiculous that you don’t take Solo! Besides, I’ve paid by Solo countless times before.”

Inspector - “You can’t have done sir. We’ve never accepted Solo.”

Instantly I realise that he’s completely correct and that, previously, I’ve always paid using one of my credit cards, all of which I recently cut up in the effort to streamline my life.

Fuck.

Christopher (out and out lying now) – “Well that’s just as ridiculous, because I paid for a train ticket by Solo just last week. Here, I have the receipt in my wallet."

As I search through my wallet for a non-existent receipt which proved I paid for a non-existent journey with a payment card that the company didn't accept I realised that I had pretty much lost my mind, but much more importantly, the argument.

I looked up at the inspector.

Christopher - "I'm going to have to move to economy, aren't I?"

He nodded.

Making the most almighty fuss I collected my belongings and slumped back off to economy where I was forced to sit next to some chav who was, while being scum (naturally), deeply attractive in a chav-y kind of way.

Eventually the same ticket inspector made his way up to Saddo Class and asked for my ticket. I knww that the bastard did this on purpose because his smile showed that he recognised me and he had already stamped my ticket when I was in First.

It took every micron of restraint I could muster to stop myself pouncing out of my seat and deftly cutting his throat with a quick swipe of my Solo card.

Nude

When I was younger I would do almost anything to avoid being alone. I was actually deeply insecure about it. Occasionally I would have these visions – really, really vivid waking dreams where I would be in the present but after some kind of apocalypse had taken place and I would be the only person in the world - completely alone.

That was a long time ago. As an adult, especially in my thirties, I really value the time that I get to spend by myself. The house that I live in is very conducive to being by one’s self. It’s homely and warm – alive. Maybe that’s the key – although I know I’m alone I feel that I am in the company of my home?

One of the things that I like most of all about being by myself is that feeling when you realise that you haven’t spoken out loud for hours and hours.

Last night I took the state of being alone one step further. While I am by no means a prude, I am not (always) comfortable with being completely naked (note the importance of the previous parenthetical!). Even if there is no one at home, I will generally put on some underwear before venturing from my bedroom to the bathroom to take a leak.

Last night I found myself at home, alone, wearing just a pair of tracksuit pants. For some reason I decided to be bold and took everything off to, you know, see how it felt, to see if I could just get used to the idea of being nekkid, without any sexual undertones, without feeling overly self-conscious or stupid.

So I “disrobed” and watched some TV and for a while I did feel kind of stupid. So I decided the best thing to do was to not just lie on the sofa, sans clothing, but to do stuff around the house.

So I tidied my room and hung out my washing (fortunately we have an indoor clotheshorse) and sorted through some of my clothes.

After that I was really completely oblivious to the fact that I was in my birthday suit. I decided that I would do the washing-up. So I stood there and washed the dishes and happily sang along to Fleetwood Mac.

As I finished cleaning the last dish I looked up and saw the guy who lives opposite us, stood in his kitchen window, staring directly at me. For a moment our eyes locked. And then we both scurried away with that unique brand of acute-embarrassment that is very poorly disguised as some sort of vacant absent-mindedness.

Needless to say I was somewhat mortified. So I went and put my tracksuit pants back on.

And a yashmak.

You know technology has a lot to answer for ...

... when you get invited to your friend's wedding by text!

Back in the saddle again

So the boy from DTPM and I … hold that thought. I need to give him a pseudonym. Ok, how about DT-boy? Yeah, that works.

So DT-boy and I have been rampantly emailing and texting each other for the past 48 hours. Already he has complemented me on my abs and my dress sense (which is extraordinarily perceptive of him, given that for most of the night I was only wearing a pair of Abercrombie cargo pants and a stupid grin.) As we all know, this is a sure fire way to my heart (and my loins.)

And just a few minutes ago he wrote (1% paraphrasing) “I remember enough about you to know that I definitely want to see you again.”

Phew! I haven’t been “pursued” for ages! Not since Jake! This is great!

Unfortunately we’re both incredibly busy boys and the soonest we can see each other is next Tuesday. Which is actually kind of good because it means that things are forced to move slow.

There is a small problem though.

I can’t remember what he looks like.