Little Miss Muffet

What does September mean to you? In our house it means it's the start of spider season. It's the time of year when spiders that have been hiding under the floorboards growing fat decide to come out and party. The garden spiders also seem keen to join in as their large, bulbous, brown bodies suddenly appear in your shrubberies and conifers overnight.

My dearly beloved doesn't like spiders. In some households the little dark demons are left alone to wander about, but not in our home. No mercy is shown to the spindly fiends if they present themselves in the open. They are carefully captured, taken outside and stomped on. I have made the mistake of killing them indoors by squashing them against the walls but, unfortunately, the evidence remains for all to see until the next time I decorate. I have also tried to take them outside and release them but I am certain the little buggers run back in again. I believe I have had to capture the same large spider three or four times before now. Hence, the death sentence is mandatory. In the mornings I find myself checking all the likely places such as the in the bath and the sinks, on the stairs and in the corners of ceilings to prevent my honey getting a nasty surprise. She has been known to get me out of bed before now and I have even been called home from work for a spider in the linen basket on one occasion.

My lovely wife is not alone in her fear of the eight legged terrors. According to a particular statistic I read, 50% of women and 10% of men suffer from arachnophobia. Personally I think that's rubbish, it's much more than that. Fear of spiders is most common in European societies which is odd considering all the dangerous ones live on the other continents. According to the sages who are supposed to know these things, it developed as a survival instinct against the little critters. They also suggest it is so strong because spiders are small, common and adept at hiding in your house and therefore potentially more dangerous than some of the larger animals we have developed defences against.

There was a study where a wolf spider whose fangs had been covered in wax so he couldn't inject venom was allowed to hunt crickets in a tank. The crickets were then allowed to breed and the offspring put in the tank with the spider. The offspring of the crickets who had been exposed to the spider were much more likely to hide from the predator than crickets with no previous exposure. Eureka, shouted the scientists, that proves that fear of spiders can be passed from a mother to its unborn foetus. Unfortunately, the figure they claimed was 113% more likely which, as everyone knows, is a very unscientific figure. It tends to throw a shadow over their findings in my opinion.

They have developed virtual spiders now to assist in the treatment of arachnophobia. Personally, I think they should just make the patients watch the film of the same name which is so laughably ridiculous that it would cure anyone. Of course other things do happen in September, it's also the month of my brother's birthday but I don't think the two are connected.

Habitual Criminal

That well-known Russian wag and comedian Fyodor Dostoyevsky commented, 'it seems, in fact, as though the second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has accumulated in the first half'. I'm afraid to say that in my case he's correct; I am definitely a creature of habit. This is particularly annoying because I studied to be a secret agent in my early years by reading all the James Bond books from cover to cover several times. One of the basic rules mentioned is ' don't form habits' because it makes it easier for evil megalomaniacs bent on world domination to kill you. Fortunately, I haven't come to their attention yet.  

I've formed habits over the years because I'm fundamentally lazy. I can't be bothered to waste time looking for keys or scraps of paper with telephone numbers on so I make sure everything is safely stashed in its proper place. I have carried my wallet in the same back pocket for the last 30 years; not the same trousers though I might add. I have filing systems so I can lay my hands on any bill or receipt at the drop of a hat. I tend to buy the same things and eat the same things based on dietary decisions made years ago, all to avoid making tricky choices.

I'm fortunate that I haven't picked up any bad habits, well, none I can be arrested for. I don't follow little girls home from school or steal the neighbour's lingerie off her line. On the other hand, I do have a propensity to tap my hands and feet to an imaginary rhythm which can be fantastically annoying to those non-tappers amongst us. As far as shocking and bizarre habits go it's definitely in the minor league.

Not for me those sudden acts of impetuousness or spontaneity; those spur of the moment decisions or devil may care leaps into the unknown. Not only do I look before I leap, I make sure I have a ladder so I can climb back up again if it all goes pear shaped. Does this make me a boring person? Yes,it probably does. 

Rain Rain Go Away

When I was but a wee bairn I used to have a picture book. The little boy featured in the book was called Charlie and the only other thing I can remember about it is a picture of Charlie looking out of the window with a sad face watching the teeming rain. He was bored and wished he could go outside. Today is just such a day.

There are many things to commend the rain, it's good for filling reservoirs and making plants grow, it's particularly efficient at washing man-made pollutants out of the air and putting them in the ground. Where would those big, green garden water-butts be without the rain to fill them. There's a time and place for everything but mid-morning on a Saturday is definitely not the time for rain.

There are many quotes and sayings relating to rain along the lines of those motivational posters you see. There are people who suggest that 'those who have never danced and sang in the rain have never lived.' That may be true but you can only do it for 10 minutes before people start asking questions and the police are called. Another one is 'be grateful for the rain because it brings rainbows', however you can't see the rainbows because your hood is up and you are trying not to get rain in your eyes. Anyway, they look just as pretty from inside a car. I'm sure there are many hardy souls who don their rain gear and rush out to tramp through the countryside regardless of the weather, but, given the choice between rain and no rain, I would guess most of them would vote for no rain. 

They say that nothing in life is free and this even extends to precipitation. Instead of going down the park to kick a ball about or walking along the canal you end up indulging in pocket bruising activities such as the pub, bowling or the cinema or, in the worst case scenario, DIY. You can always stay in and watch TV or a DVD but Saturday mornings is bit early for such things in my book, however, a rainy Sunday afternoon is a different matter entirely.

I intend to write a strongly worded letter to my MP regarding the continued anti social behaviour of rain and suggest liberal precipitation should only be allowed between the hours of midnight to 5:00 AM. Light showers may be permitted during the day up to a maximum of 2mm and 10 minutes duration just to annoy those people who hang about in public places drinking. I don't expect anything shall come of it though; those coalition governments can't agree on anything. On the other hand, heavy rain is quite handy for blog writing.

MInd The Gap.

On the wall in the gents toilet in my local pub there's a condom machine. These days they don't just sell condoms, there's a whole range of exotic, titillating items to be had. I must confess my ignorance in these matters and admit that I don't know what they all do but it must be something fantastic judging by the accompanying pictures. There's a sticker on the front of the machine giving a number you should call if you have any problems with the machine such as not dispensing the requested goodies. The office is open Monday to Friday during normal office hours but there is an ansaphone you can leave a message on should you have problems in the evenings or over the weekend. That's a job you wouldn't want.

No doubt these machines work fine most of the time but, like most things in life, they don't always deliver as promised. I can only feel sympathy for the poor person who has to pick up the messages on Monday morning. I would expect they comprise a tirade of abuse from extremely drunk, belligerent young men who think they are on a promise and been thwarted in their good luck by a machine which has taken all their change.

It can be extremely frustrating when things don't deliver as promised, I often cycle to work in the morning and have a coffee from the machine in the canteen before starting. On several occasions I have been delivered milky water instead of the cup of steaming goodness promised on the machine. Another example would be my expensive broadband which promises superfast buffer free delivery. It's fine at 2 o'clock in the morning but I don't even bother trying anymore at 6 o'clock in the evening.

Advertisers are naturally the worst culprits for smearing fiction and fact. Where do they find all those empty streets to advertise cars? It's hard to show off a car's finer qualities in a traffic jam but it's closer to reality. Then there are the furniture shops whose displays assume we all live in cavernous mansions. Some of those fitted kitchens advertised would take up the whole ground floor of my house.

It's a well known fact that if you start going to the gym three times a week you will lose lots of weight and look like a film star. Not true, whilst there are undoubted benefits they are limited. I work with people who go to the gym and some who don't and you certainly can't tell by looking at them.
The problem being that if people realised the truth all the gyms would close down.

Those good old Buddhists that I mention from time to time have a philosophy that states all life is an illusion. They mean that because of our ego and social conditioning we are blind to the real world. That's what enlightenment means, to see things as they really are. This illusion is what causes unhappiness. Hence you buy car because of its promise when it's really a tin box that fits in nicely with all the other tin boxes on the M25. That's why Buddhists drive Ladas.

Division of Labour.

Who does the Hoovering in your house? An emotive question if ever there was one. Whilst it all goes on behind the proverbial closed doors I am willing to bet that the household division of labour is the cause for many a domestic tiff. There are many hues of politics and most of them can be found in the microcosm of the domestic household. Perhaps your house is run as a socialist republic with everyone taking an equal share. Maybe it's a despotic dictatorship with you giving the orders, or possibly a democracy where you think you have a say but you don't really.

Our house runs roughly on the socialist republic model. We both do the housework and the shopping generally although my lovely wife does the greater percentage. We both do our own ironing. She normally does the washing although I have been known to put a load on from time to time and we sort of split the cooking. This socialist ideal falls apart here though as anything to do with decorating, the garden or the car fall very firmly into my camp. As a work colleague of mine once put it, 'there are pink jobs and there are blue jobs.' Strangely the pink jobs are mine as well.

Other people I know have a different system. A friend of mine lives in a dictatorship and it's not him giving the orders. My friend receives an allowance  from his partner who manages his money for him. She writes lists of jobs for him to do and has been known to text extra jobs as he is on his way home from work. It's not clear how much work she actually does, it's not really polite to ask but his jobs list includes both pink and blue varieties of tasks. My friend seems perfectly happy with this arrangement.

Alternatively, the wife of another friend of mine flatly refuses to do any housework at all thereby it falls to my friend to complete the chores. Unfortunately he's not very good at it either. They manage to bumble along although the place could do with a really good dust. It's not a political system, more like anarchy. My wife worked with a chap who also did all the cooking, cleaning and just about everything else, I trust his house was sparking and dust free unlike my friends.

I have other friends who live on their own and so have to do everything whether they like it or not. My Dad also lives on his own now since he was widowed and he confessed to me the other day that he had no idea how much effort went into basic housework. My stepmother was one of those domestic goddess types who could do needlepoint at the same time as cooking a Sunday roast, cleaning the house and entertaining guests. He has installed a water filtration system now because he is fed up cleaning the lime scale off the taps. He wouldn't have thought of it before. You can't have a political system with only one person in it and this is where my theory falls down but at least there is no one to argue with.

Then there are the Monarchies. Grown up singletons I know who still live with mum and dad. No doubt some help round the house but there are many who don't and carry on in their merry way oblivious while the serfs around them labour. Eventually the quiet grumbling of the peasants turns into bubbling resentment and then militancy... Then comes the revolution.

The Devil You Know.

I have been stalked mercilessly for years. Unwanted phone calls day and night, appearances on my doorstep and banging on my door, bombarding me with emails. This harassment has been relentless. You have to hand it to those energy suppliers, they don't give up.

Energy companies have been trying to get me to switch for years under the guise that it's in my best interests. The truth is that it's in their best interests otherwise they wouldn't spend so much time and money trying to convert me. I have rebuffed their advances with a variety of different styles including, Mr Obnoxious, Mr Tenant, Mr Nospeakyengleesh, Mr Awkward and Mr Interestedbutchangedmymindatthelastminute. Cold caller baiting has become a sport in our house, so much so that I sometimes feel sorry for the lads and lassies who are just trying to earn a living. Now I just hang up, it's fairer on the poor dears.

The reason I'm reluctant to switch provider is that I have had bad experiences when I have tried before. I have switched both gas and telephone suppliers in the past and ended up reverting back to the original provider because of poor service, hidden costs and not delivering as promised. I have also spoken to many other people with unhappy frying pan and fire stories to tell. A few years ago I considered switching my electricity company. I did all the calculations and found I would be about £15 a year better off and not the hundreds of pounds the rivals suggested. It didn't seem worth the hassle so I switched tariff and stayed with my original provider. 

Now it's time to reconsider and look at switching to a dual fuel monthly payment. The problem with my current arrangement is that I get two bills a month apart for considerable sums of money. As energy prices rise they become even more eye-watering, therefore, I have decided pay the devil his due on a monthly basis to spread the cost.

I have visited those websites that promise to save me hundreds of pounds to check what companies are offering the best deals. Most people would probably just accept their recommendation and sign up. Unfortunately, I am much too cynical for that so have had to spend hours scribbling on bits of paper going through all the permutations and checking the small print. I'm quite the expert now. In the end I went for Scottish Power but I can't say I'm not nervous about it. They have sent me their 7 day cancellation notice masquerading as a welcome letter which is a legal requirement so the wheels are rolling. The website I switched with gave me a free case of wine for my trouble so at least I can drown my sorrows if it all goes pear shaped.

Post Apocalypse

There are some very embarrassing photos of me on Facebook... Well OK, perhaps not that embarrassing. My grandson and I were watering the garden just before I got ready for a night shift. I was unshaven and unflatteringly attired in my bright pink T shirt and blue shorts. Photos were taken and uploaded onto Facebook almost instantaneously. The first I heard of it was when I was told that my sister-in-law had commented on my legs. I playfully objected at this public display of my sartorial inelegance but I didn't really mind.

I used to be on Farcebook but I suspended my account because I became fed up reading, in elaborate detail, what my work colleague's children had eaten for breakfast and similar banalities. The only drawback with this is that you can't see what other people are putting on Farcebook about you. I am probably on it hundreds of time via people I know and as a background person in a stranger's videos or photos. In the old days when you took a photo with friends or family and there was a random, unknown person lurking in the background it used to stay in a drawer. Now, if you are that random person, you are likely to be plastered on somebodies social networking account which could be awkward if you had blagged a sickie from work that day and it gets discovered. It's a small world after all.

To take this a step further, imagine a situation where I am the object of desire for a teenage nymphomaniac stalker. It's difficult to believe I know but stick with it. She follows me round taking hundreds of compromising photos which she uploads to her website to show the world how buff I am. She could break into my house and secrete a camera into the potpourri holder in the bathroom to film me in my most private moments. Then she could put it into the public domain without me being any the wiser.

You can't delete a Farcebook account, you can only suspend it in cryogenic sleep waiting for it to be reactivated sometime in the future. Everything that goes on the Internet is there forever, just like the space junk orbiting the planet in endless cycles waiting for someone with the will and technological know-how to recover it. I once had an incident where a girlfriend discovered some letters I had exchanged with a previous girlfriend which I had kept for old time's sake. My new girlfriend completely over-reacted and a horrendous row followed but we managed to sort it out. At least I had control over those letters and what happened to them.

Perhaps there will come a time in the future when I am called to account for the fact that I was at a party twenty years previously with someone who became a radicalised suicide bomber. Alternatively, an employee may find their promotion blocked or even be sacked because of something said fifteen years ago at a student union rally. Maybe in the future people will be sued for postings they did years ago because they didn't ask the subjects permission and the subject has subsequently suffered because of it. Imagine a contemporary Ronnie Biggs character suing for loss of freedom because the authorities believe he is in Argentina but somebody's Farcebook clearly shows him partying in Rio leading to his arrest. Permission given? Not likely.

There has been much talk by the civil liberties campaigners about CCTV in our towns' high streets. No one is interested in the thousands of faces passing the cameras everyday unless you are actually doing something wrong such as stealing a bike. It seems to me that the civil liberties brigade are barking up the wrong tree, or possibly post.