The Pop Singer’s Fear of the Pollen Count

Cold or hay-fever? That is the question.

It’s not a great question. It’s not even a mildly average one. Yet, every year it seems to rear its ugly head once more and we are left trembling in its wake at our inability to provide an answer sugar-coated in certainty.

The problem – just to clarify – is that the symptoms are remarkably similar but I’m afraid the issue does not end here (however much you might like it to so that you can avoid what’s coming up). One day, when scientists finally cure the common cold rather than spending their working hours discovering how to explode balloons using wine gums, the parity I seek will at last be here and the hierarchy of illness will be well and truly flattened out. Pills will solve all and we will go forth into our lives without even a token tissue tucked inside our trouser pockets. But, until that glorious day arrives, the inequality remains: a cold is an incurable burden that is quite rightly weighing us down and earning us that long-overdue time off work, but hay-fever…well, hay-fever can be solved by taking the right tablets or spraying something up your increasingly-red nostrils, can’t it?

Actually, no. If anything, hay-fever is worse and I would rather settle down with a good old-fashioned cold for a few days than suffer the pollen’s attack. Yet, not only is it something we should be able to control, it’s also the most pathetic fight in the history of mankind…

The Old Testament tells heroic stories of a few hundred Israelites destroying armies of thousands when the odds seemed completely stacked against them, but that’s nothing when it comes to the death-match that is Pollen v Human. We have bodies, we are strong creatures with well-developed defence systems. Pollen is…well, pollen is…(*runs off to Google…*) a fine to coarse powder containing the microgametophytes of seed plants (*thanks Wikipedia*). Or, to put it another way, pollen is rubbish. Pollen is weak, a mere powder floating in the wind. How…how exactly can it win? If that’s not an argument against evolution, I don’t know what is…

The song that gives the title to this blog entry is one of my guilty pleasures from the 90s, by the way, and was always the one I would have chosen had I been given the chance to lead the ‘House Shout’ at my school. Sadly, the opportunity passed me by and we found ourselves singing ‘Wake me up before you go go’ instead. By such decisions are years in counselling made…

The Intimidator

I had a major breakthrough recently that might just change the way I think of myself forever more. You see, in a recent feedback survey conducted at work to discover whether or not I was scarring for life all the students I encounter on a daily basis or providing them with life-changing experiences of intellectual and inspirational brilliance, it turns out that one student – that’s right, an entire one – considers me to be intimidating.

I laughed, I cried, I raised a glass to the great god of teaching in the sky and I whispered the words I’ve been longing to whisper for almost twenty-eight years: ‘At last!’

This was quite a triumph. Far from taking this as a negative slur that I was in someway unapproachable and generally discouraging in my demeanour – all of which may well be true on occasion – I found myself fascinated by the prospect that I, one of the world’s most intimidated people, might somehow be transformed into an actual intimidator, someone so terrifying that cowering in the corner becomes a common response when I’m on the prowl.

I haven’t seen the latest charts but I’m sure I’m probably still in the top 10 when it comes to the ‘People who are most intimidated by others and who live trapped in a world of paranoid fear that everyone around them is about to beat them up’ list. It’s a bit of a mouthful so we haven’t worked out an acronym for ourselves yet – in fact, we’re not entirely convinced we could cope with the pressure an acronym would bring – but we’re a group that exists, don’t you worry about that, and I’m well and truly up there with the best/worst of us. Being beaten up is not a possibility, it’s an inevitability and it’s one that I am afraid of on an almost daily basis. It doesn’t matter how old you are, what gender you are or whether you are even human, if you are walking past me or opposite me on my way to and from work or anywhere else that might cause me to come in contact with the general public (or, as we call them, the Murderous Legion) then I will be convinced, utterly convinced, that my time is drawing to a close. To put it simply, I will not only be intimidated, I will be the perfect symbolic presence of what it means to be intimidated.

And yet, here we are in the world the other side of the survey and now what am I to think? If I can be deemed intimidating then we might as well all give up now. Or, at least, I might as well – you don’t have to respond on the basis of events happening in my life if you really don’t want to. Perhaps I should embrace this newfound ability to intimidate and should stride down the corridor with undue swagger, nodding my head to a silent beat, chewing invisible gum and staring into the eyes of everyone who dared look me in the face? For the first time in my life I could utter the phrase ‘what are you looking at?’ without genuinely wanting to know the answer. And if all else fails I can rattle off a string of swear words bearing no relation to the topic being discussed, just because I can and just because no-one out there can tell me how I should talk.

On the other hand, I could just assume that the student in question has made a grave mistake and that they clearly have no idea what the word ‘intimidating’ means. They probably thought it meant ‘helpful and smiley’. Surely that makes far more sense really? And, just to make sure I get the right response this time around, I think I’ll ask them to stay behind afterwards and sit in the flimsy plastic chair opposite me while I fold my arms, lower the tone of my voice and put on the biggest frown I can muster. We’ll see who’s intimidating then…won’t we?

Won’t we?

I said…won’t we?

Consistency

OK, so I guess I should have seen it coming.

Hot on the heels of a blog about my treacherous right shoe (pun definitely intended), not only did I not have a single problem with loose laces as I marched to work this morning but, as if insulted that I had given it such poor coverage in my script, instead my left shoe decided that it would take up the baton and struggle to keep it together for more than a few hundred yards at a time. In an alarming act of transferred consistency between shoes (a neglected area of research, I feel), it was now my right that strode secure, safe in the knowledge that it had been tied beyond all doubt, fastened into place with the precision looping of a consummate professional. One day, I told myself, one day there will be unity between shoes. We will all march together, each as tight as the other, and not even a pouncing pebble will spoil the almost spiritual beauty of the moment…

No…no, I don’t know what I’m talking about either. I’m with you on that one. But what I am interested in this evening is consistency. And I have a simple question for us to ponder as we wonder why we’ve just allowed ourselves to read another paragraph about shoes: is consistency really the golden ratio – to borrow a Maths metaphor to spice things up – we should be measuring our lives by? In football, referees are praised for their consistency, even if they’re consistently poor in their decision-making, whilst errors made in work find themselves downgraded in severity because ‘at least they’re consistent’.

I’m not so sure I’d like consistency in everything. Do I really want to correct the same spelling error 12 times in the same essay, or would I rather see 12 valiant, albeit wrong, attempts at stumbling across the correct version? There’s something quite gloriously post-modern about it, I feel. No mistake is more wrong than any other but all mistakes are equally valid. In fact, perhaps mistakes should even be celebrated as ‘diversity’, stepping out of the mould and demonstrating a freedom of spirit that we should cherish not crush?

No…no, I still don’t know what I’m talking about either. Perhaps I should go back to writing about shoes. Solid, consistent shoes.

On a rather more ‘popular culture’ note, the new album from Bruce Springsteen is definitely worth checking out. Preferably while writing a blog. And trying to follow the Chelsea match in your left eye while your right eye follows your fingers skipping across the keyboard typing these words…

This blog has been sponsored by Bruce Springsteen’s Wrecking Ball.

If the shoe fits

Sam and his shoes are walking to work. Quite naturally, they move into conversation.

SHOE:  Looking good up there.

SAM:  Why, thanks. I’d like to say the same about you but -

SHOE:  Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s not my best day. I’ll give you that. To be fair, your balance was a little faulty when approaching that last puddle.

SAM:  Sorry, which one are you again?

SHOE:  Do I look like a left shoe?

SAM:  No…no, you’re quite right. I just wasn’t really expecting this conversation, to be perfectly honest. I’m not used to you speaking.

SHOE:  Perhaps that’s your problem? Did you ever stop to think that I might have some tales to tell? That I might have opinions I’d like to share?

Sam notices the laces have come undone on his right shoe.

SAM:  Is this you sulking?

SHOE:  If you can’t do them up well enough, I don’t see why I should put in the effort to keep everything together.

SAM:  Look, if you want to open up, you can open up. Just don’t hold me up any longer, OK? I’m running late.

Sam does the laces up as tightly as he can.

SHOE:  Nice to see you showing some strength at last.

SAM:  What are you suggesting?

SHOE:  Oh, nothing. Just an observation. A simple observation.

SAM:  Great. Just what I need – a loose-tongued shoe.

SHOE:  Fabulous. A shoe joke. Just what we need to liven us up at 8.45.

SAM:  So now you’re adding mockery to your repertoire, I see.

Sam notices that the laces are loosening.

SHOE:  Just say the word.

SAM:  I did them up! Tightly. I did everything I was supposed to do. Why are you doing this to me?

SHOE:  Paranoia doesn’t look good on you. You do that weird thing with your lip.

SAM:  Look. Why can’t you be more like her?

SHOE:  Her? Why do you assume they’re a she?

SAM:  Well, I just assumed. I mean -

SHOE:  Oh, you assumed, did you? And what did you assume about me then?

Sam notices the laces are flapping around wildly.

SAM:  I assumed…shoe…that you would do your job. And that you’d let me do mine. Is that really so much to ask?

SHOE:  Oh, but this is so much more fun, don’t you think? We’re really bonding this morning. It’s quite a breakthrough day, I feel.

SAM:  Why can’t you just stay tied? Like her.

SHOE:  She’ll come loose one day. Just you wait. Typical, inconsistent leftie. Not like me.

SAM:  Are you saying I should admire your consistency?

SHOE:  Of course you should. You know what you’re getting with me. Every five minutes we’ll meet again, just to check how each other’s getting on. There’s something…beautiful about it, don’t you think?

SAM:  I think you should stop thinking. I think we should all stop thinking and just keep going. It’s too early to think.

SHOE:  You always say that. When will the time ever be right?

Sam smiles at a passer-by.

-------------------

Sam would like to apologise for the quality of today’s blog. At least you got to look at a picture of a shoe. Things could be worse. They could always be worse…

Breaking Down

Apparently, problems come in threes.

I’m sure it’s not news to you to discover this as we are all well aware that, following hot on the heels of a precariously perched glass tumbling to its doom, decorating the kitchen floor in a glorious array of glittering shards, and a blown fuse casting a shadow over the once well-lit cooker, it is only right that we cower under the sheets too afraid to step outside the door in case the ceiling might come crashing down, crushing us under the merciless weight of years of neglected maintenance. And so, faced with the inevitability of a third disaster, all we can do is sit and wait and pray that we might be graciously spared the ceiling fate for another day and might instead succumb to a scratched DVD, the Sky+ recording failing or the stubbing of our favourite toe.

There’s one problem with this problem theory though: what if you speed beyond a mere three and find yourself onto at least problem 7? Do problems work in multiples of 3 and so therefore problems 8 and 9 are waiting for their moment to shine, or is 7 the new 3 and this will, in fact, be our defining glory, the proof that we are well on our way to being on a par with Job when it comes to persevering through suffering?

Masquerading as a limp-wristed washer-upper, our dishwasher is currently seeking to rebrand itself as a ‘dishdampener’, offering a token spray when faced with stains demanding so much more. I have even rearranged the items to create more space, tactical genius that I am, offering the water an easier pathway in an attempt to counter its apathetic activity. Unfortunately, as problem number 7, the dishwasher is quite happy to bide its time, to mock my pulling and prodding and take a well-deserved holiday after months of heavy labour. It is, quite simply, revelling in its role as the seventh problem to plague us in recent months…

It all began with loft-door suicide. Take yourself back to Christmas, a time of joy and celebration, togetherness and unity. Not for the loft-door. For the loft-door, this was the time to go, the time to start a whole new life without any attachments. Shearing itself from the hinges, the divorce announced its arrival with a cat-killing clatter – fortunately, no cats were around to be killed – as we sat at the foot of the stairs, naively thinking that no doors would be dying today.

The computer was soon to follow, laying down the ghost after getting a little overexcited at an unexpected power surge. And then, just when I was starting to plan my return to the monkey-bars, my shoulder decided it had grown tired of its secure location within the socket and opted to follow the loft-door in its aspiration for an alternative dwelling place. Twice.

All problems are painful but some are more painful than others.

And, while we’re on the subject of pain, does anyone know how you’re supposed to get candle wax off a carpet? Apparently, the answer is not to try and soak it up with an iron, repeatedly returning to the patch insisting that that just one more press would do it. Until I came up with the ingenious plan of ‘redecorating’ by moving the rug into place, the unsightly patch of burned carpet brought deep emotional pain to my previously-house-proud wife.

I’m going to be blog-proud for a few moments and stop before I do anything to burn a hole in the currently-untainted fabric. Stay tuned for problems 8 and 9, coming to a screen near you…