Y is for You
It was always you.

I had been standing outside for at least ten minutes and you were late. I checked the watch my uncle gave me last year, even though I already knew the time. I watched a couple walk past the station, holding hands. Their faces were red from the cold and the man had part of his jacket wrapped around the woman. Their eyes were teary from walking against the wind. A picture of you laughing last February when I pretended to be a matador, flourishing a tablecloth at your charging dog appeared in my head. The woman isn't as pretty as you, but when she smiles at the man before they step into the shop, it turns her from just another person into something more angelic. He let her go first, and then shut the door hastily behind him, as though guiltily. You're still late.

I've met you in many places before: by the tube at Notting Hill, on the corner of Dover Street, in the park at Leicester Square, from Edgware bus station, and you've never arrived on time. When I met you from the bus, you were supposed to have been coming to a completely different station, but you forgot, or you hadn't listened, and I had to get a cab to meet you. My friends thought that you weren't coming at all, but I knew, and knew you'd just been confused. You just stood there and tucked a curl of hair behind your ear while you explained about the ticket prices. I hadn't listened.

You've never liked travelling much. No, that's not fair. You've never liked commuting. When you worked in that architect's office in Green Park, you would always take a different route into work so that you could see different buildings and people each time. I tried to tell you that it was a necessary part of London life to commute, but you flashed your eyes dangerously and asked me to tell you the same story I always told about the first time I was on the Underground. It was your way of getting me to shut up. I fell for it every time. You thought that the tubes were dirty, that the buses were noisy and that trains were smelly. Whenever you said 'smelly', you crinkled your nose and sometimes your glasses slipped down. I called you Miss Jean Brodie, and you'd put on your Maggie Smith voice.

I looked at my watch again, to see that five more minutes had disappeared into the cold. You knew that I hated waiting around, but you also knew that I wouldn't go in without you, so I was stuck. Earlier that day, someone had asked me if I had a photo of you. They had seemed surprised when I said no. I didn't take photographs, I explained, that was your thing. Our holiday pictures were either abstracts or landscapes or details of something interesting or amusing. Occasionally, you would make me stand in front of a monument or street sign, for contrast or context. Only very rarely would you let someone else have your camera to take a picture of the two of us together. I never touched your camera, for fear that when something went wrong, I would be to blame.

When I think of you, I don't think of a place or a photo. I see you standing, wearing your suede jacket and that horrible scarf that you hit me with when I make a rude joke, arms folded across your chest tightly and with one leg slightly crooked. I remember that I read something about how policemen learn to divide their weight between both feet while they are on duty, to ensure that neither leg tires or gets cramp. You always leaned. I don't know whether it was supposed to be coquettish, but you claimed to be able to balance a book on your head the way they do in Swiss finishing schools, so who cared if you slouched just a little bit? I said I loved you, wonky and all, and you hit me with your scarf again.

I can see you coming towards me now. You're wearing gloves, though you always call them mittens, and your glasses are slightly steamed up. I don't recognise the names of the shops emblazoned on the side of the carrier bags you're holding, but I can guess that they're expensive. Perhaps there is something in one of them for me. You've seen me now. You flash a quick smile and raise your eyebrows in half-apology, half-exasperation. I laugh. It was always you.

N is for New Year
Traditionally the time to get rip-roaringly drunk at numerous parties, flitting about the social scene like a gadfly on amphetamines, one particular New Year's Eve stands out in my memory as particularly hilarious and enjoyable. I think it was 1998, but it could have been 1997, and the fact that I can't remember which one further reinforces how good the night was. I was in London and the only other person I knew in London who (a) was my own age, (b) wasn't related to me, (c) would want to go out and get drunk, and (d) didn't have anything better to do, was my best friend and future flatmate, Mike.

Both Mike and I had been, well, if not shafted then certainly let down by several of our friends who had faithfully promised a large party encompassing the entire friendship group, only for them to up sticks and head off to some remote location for a house party only a few miles just outside of Nowhere (take the second left at Where? and then it's the exit just after Never Heard Of It). In our wisdom, we declared that we would register our protest to them (I summarise here) by having the best New Year's Eve known to humankind, all on our tods.

We were poor. Not in the 'licking the cold tar off the streets for dinner, and that was when we were lucky' poor, but nevertheless frugal. As I recall, we had about £15 each, plus a travelcard, with which to plan our fantastic and euphoric night out in good old London town. That's about six pints each and no food. And cheapish pints at that. We weren't going to stay at either of our parents' houses because I think they both had parties on and we couldn't be bothered with that. So, I went round to his and we formulated our plan of attack over several large glasses of cheap Sainsbury's own brand whisky, kindly supplied by Mike's dad, who was marvelling at our resourcefulness. Correction: for 'resourcefulness', read 'desperation'.

Several whiskies down the line (possibly around six-ish, possibly the incredibly late hour of seven), we were sufficiently enthused by the prospects which the evening offered up to us that we decided to head into town. Mike hit upon the genius plan of bringing the aforementioned cheap spirit with us, to 'enliven' our train journey, and so we departed. After standing on the platform for the best part of twenty minutes, smoking most of the few cigarettes we had between us, and finishing off the rest of Sainsbury's finest, the train arrived and we set off. We established that once we got to King's Cross, we should immediately go to Charing Cross, because that would be party central. Why we had decided upon Charing Cross, I have no idea, but at the time it made such glaringly obvious sense that we went, and we went willingly.

Jump cut to Charing Cross Road. We've been in a packed pub and managed to get one drink before deciding that the place was not quite to our liking (the word 'shithole' may or may not have occurred; I leave that to your own sensitivity, gentle reader) and that in order to hear the drummer get wicked, we should get a groove on to another licensed establishment. Most of the places were completely full to the gin-soaked rafters, and so we found ourselves in a room decorated not unlike my grandmother's lounge, above a shop where the 'bar' sold cans of Red Stripe at a reasonable rate between cost price and London rip-off standard. We stayed there, watching the unreliably flickery TV in the corner, until we could see Sir Trevor McDonald by Big Ben as the final seconds of the old year gave way to the hope and freshness of the new. Downing our Red Stripe, we hugged and congratulated each other on making it through to another year, before staggering out and into the street.

Years of conditioning told me that I had better telephone my mother to wish her a happy New Year, drunk though I most inarguably was. I found a payphone, selected some coins from my increasingly diminishing pile of change, and called her. During the brief conversation, a police car pulled up quite near the phone booth and two uniformed officers ran out from the car and into a bar or club, leaving the car doors open. Mike decided that this was the perfect time for a getaway and shouted over to me, "Let's nick the cop car!". Mum then enquired if the clarion voice she had just heard was Mike. Preparing myself for a vociferous denial, Mike then appealed to my kleptomania one more time, "Let's nick it, Mark, Mark, Mark". Hmm. Denial seemed pointless, so after wishing her a happy New Year once more, I ended the call. Needless to say, I managed to dissuade Mike from hijacking the panda car, and we continued into the night.

Mike knew of a 'party' going on somewhere in North London, so we decided that postcodes N and NW were most definitely the place to be. We boarded and ensconced ourselves on a northbound Northern line train and started to read the adverts above the seats opposite. Two of those seats were occupied by a man and a woman, clearly a couple and equally clearly a couple who were far from pleased with one another. As the volume of the their debate rose and rose, so did the conversation level around them fall and fall. This continued throughout the journey, until the station before where we were due to alight. At this station, the girl stood up, turned round to Mike, pointed at him, turned back to her boyfriend and said, incredibly loudly, "Well, I bet at least he can get it up!" and then stepped onto the platform, walking off. Mike immediately turned roughly the colour of the Central line, I burst out into hysterical laughter, the insulted boyfriend began to look daggers at Mike, and the rest of the passengers attempted, with varying success, to conceal or stifle smirks and laughs. At the next station, after utter embarrassed and mystified silence from Mike, we left the train at Finchley Central or Golders Green, I forget which.

We discussed the 'party' we could attend, the direction we would need to take, the impossibility yet remaining desirability of getting a cab there, the lack of alcohol situation, the lack of cigarettes situation and how bloody freezing it was. After walking along for about ten minutes, we came across a solution to one, maybe two, of these problems: a shopping trolley. How our drunken eyes lit up; even recalling it now, the combination of a hill and a shopping trolley reminds me of the mini-epiphany we experienced. And so, yes of course, we took it in turns to push each other down the hill, past several taxis and police cars, shouting "Happy New Year" to all and sundry, until we came close to the block of flats where the 'party' was due to be in full swing.

We made it into Someone's flat, met a few of his friends, including a particular girl to whom Mike takes an instant fancy. I ended up in the kitchen with a bottle of red wine while Mike wanders around the living room, listening to bands I've never heard about and conversing with our host about guitars and, ahem, 'jazz salt'. A few hours later and Mike's prospective squeeze was lying face down in the corridor, asleep after having copiously and loudly thrown up in the bathroom. Mike was still talking with the host about guitars, and I was still in the kitchen, proceeding smoothly with my second bottle of red wine and talking to two girls about why, exactly, their boyfriends (absent from the 'party') are bastards.

Eventually we decided that we had been there long enough and lurched downstairs in an attempt to get back to Mike's house and crash. A bus duly arrived, we shook out the remainder of our change and discovered we had just enough to get back. The bus journey passed slowly and silently. The after-effects of two bottles of red wine on top of cheap whisky and cheap lager were beginning to kick in at this point, combined with lack of sleep and the drainage of all my emotional energy from providing relationship advice (it's a habit when drunk; I think I can sort out the world) to two drunken girls. We clambered off the bus near Southgate and began the walk back.

And that's when it happened. Mike put his key in the door, we walked in quietly and saw that at around 8.00am, Mike's mother and father were up and about the house, making coffee. His mother took one look at the two of us and immediately moved into shepherd mode. We were given towels and pointed in the direction of the two bathrooms with orders not to return to the kitchen until we had shaved and showered. We were drunk, tired and drunk. We obeyed. Upon returning to the kitchen, we found that a full fried breakfast had been prepared and was steaming on the plates. Hallelujah! We ate silently, stole some of her cigarettes to have with the coffee, and then I went to the spare room and slept for what seemed like an entire year.

Not the most exotic of New Year's Eves, I grant you. I've done more exciting things, been to better parties, had great times, had terrible times (in which I was the w@nker, but I'm not telling you about it), gone out with more people to celebrate, but for the sheer force of will that led Mike and I to believe – to know – that we would have an amazing night, it has hardly been bettered. I laughed so much throughout the entire evening and morning that I still remember it as the best New Year's night ever.

H is for History
Past imperfect is future conditional. You have no history. Neither do I. We form a tabula rasa, to be written upon with a script that we define and refine for ourselves, between us. Before you, there was void. Before me, there was nothingness. In the beginning, there was not the Word. This is the beginning, this perfect now. Whatever has gone before has not. We are the alpha.

If only.

When we meet up with somebody, we are not just ourselves. We bring with us a combination of traits developed over time, and developed through our interaction with former partners. Of course, we have had the choice of whether we integrate characteristics that ex-boyfriends or ex-girlfriends have elicited, but with each new relationship we are bringing baggage (both positive and negative) with us. How much of that baggage gets used is entirely our choice, but it is definitely there.

Amy disapproved of eating dinner when the radio was on, so I won't do that. Beatrice liked it when I played with her earlobes, so I will do that. Clara preferred to sleep on the right side of the bed, so I will remember that.

I will continue these former habits to see whether they are to be continued. I will also learn new habits, which in turn will brought onward in future relationships, adding to the memory store. We bring this history with us, and our techniques (whether social or sexual or any other) are the product of a constantly refined catalogue of experiences, modified over the course of different emotional situations. We may currently be seeing Diane, but we are bringing habits learned with Amy, Beatrice and Clara with us.

Of course, such preconditioned behaviour only really occurs when we are at the beginning of something new, and only lasts until we become more secure and have developed our own private world with the other person. It remains in our memory, however, but it is subsumed by our newer desires to please and to respond to our current partner.

Running parallel to our own use of our history is a desire not to know about the other person's history. There can be a little voice in everyone and anyone's head saying "shhh" when the other is speaking of their former relationships. A matter of perspective, most certainly, but an area where agreeing to disagree is often the worst option: "Why are you reminiscing about past partners when I am with you now?" is the question, mostly unasked.

For those not entirely secure in the new relationship, this awareness of the other's history is unsettling. Seeing a past lover's photograph in a bedside frame, seeing an ex's name in an address book or whatever other seemingly insignificant reminder can prompt questions of commitment, of former love not entirely extinguished, of current love not entirely committed.

There is also an urge for lack of knowledge about the future. We are not 'we'. I don't want to know when you will next become a 'we', because our present 'we' will then become my nostalgia. Until the tears dry and the cuts mend, I need the bliss of ignorance. When I have insulated myself sufficiently from the fires that once raged, then I can listen and I can laugh and I can learn. Until that point, I still need to hear your heart beat for me.

And then we become history to them and they to us, awaiting a mature distance and eventually subject to romantic revisionism. Unless … unless we decide to pack away our textbooks and rewrite history. Your time starts now.

R is for Revealing
Although I consider myself to be a fairly honest and open person, I would also say that I am fairly private (though possibly not here). I don't particularly like to act out dramas in public places. Arguments are meant to be held in rooms with closed doors and no-one else present, not in a crowded pub on a Saturday. Issues are meant to be resolved between the concerned parties, not with an audience of thousands. News is meant to be imparted quietly and individually, not loudly and to all and sundry. Honesty in communication is fair and fine, but would you prefer to hear something important or hurtful from your partner around a suddenly-silent dinner table occupied by all your friends, or in the privacy of your flat? I choose the latter.

I know people who prefer to exist in public, however. Some people just can't be on their own. Their financial lives, their comings and goings, their relationships, their ups and downs, these are all subjects for common discussion; an article in today's newspaper which can be read by whoever sits down and turns the pages. Nothing is kept back, nothing is held within. Often without prompting or questioning, the entirety of a person's emotional life can be examined, dissected, analysed and historicised over a drink or two without any sense of self-absorption, irony or awareness. I find this too much; a form of mental barrage which doesn't allow me to choose what I know and doesn't allow me to pause and strain for air.

It's the attention-seeking element I find most irritating. For some people, there is the implication that the trials and travails of their everyday meanderings are so endlessly riveting and engaging that you simply have to hear them, at length, in detail. Perhaps it's some kind of performance:

You're so flamboyant
The way you live, and it's not even demeaning
You're so flamboyant
It's like a drug you use to give your life meaning
You're so flamboyant
The way you look, it gets you so much attention
Your sole employment is getting more
You want police intervention

Every actor needs an audience
Every action is a performance
It all takes courage, you know it
Just crossing the street
Well, it's almost heroic
You're so flamboyant

At worst, you feel constricted by their relentlessness and claustrophobic. At best, you can simply dismiss them as a drama queen; the person who makes a paper cut sound like fighting in the Somme, whose last argument about the washing-up with their boyfriend is comparable to Shakespearian tragedy. It could be because they wish to make their lives seem more dramatic, it could be that they naturally exaggerate (for comic effect or for conversational dominance), it could be because they genuinely believe themselves to be far more interesting than anyone else around them. I don't know. I do know that this devalues their currency: not so much the boy crying 'Wolf!', more the boy crying 'Me! Me! Me!'.

I confess to feeling conflicted about my difficulty here – I've certainly shared more than I probably should have shared in this medium, but the key qualifier is that I've been able to select what I do and what I don't want to write. Perhaps some of it has been inappropriate. Perhaps some of it has been regarded by others as too personal. Yet I feel comfortable writing it because I acknowledge that there is much more which could be written and hasn't, because those are the situations or feelings I don't feel comfortable about sharing. And so I've kept them for me, or for discussion with a small number of incredibly close friends.

I suppose it's the imposition of every facet of someone's life and their feelings and problems onto me without my permission which bothers me. Advice? I'm perfectly prepared to give it, if you believe that I can help. Shoulder to cry on? I have two, choose the one you prefer. A helping hand out of trouble? Ask, and whatever I can do, I'll do. Washing over me with a deluge of issues without asking? Sorry, you've got the wrong man. I don't think this is selfish; we all have too much going on in our own minds and hearts to be able to carry an endless capacity of empathy and counselling for everyone who crosses our path. And the enforced outpouring of drama queens, attention-seekers and (im)posers only serves to dilute the efforts I can give to my true friends. And, of course, to my own problems.

Commentary
I heartily recommend you to buy the PopArt DVD, not only for the fantastic videos (all 41 of them) but also for the hilarious commentary. Quick extract:

Chris: There's me rowing, of course.
Neil: Well, obviously. Like I could row.

Go. Buy. Watch. Enjoy.

Lack of planning
Had I thought about this more carefully, Alphabet Soup would have ended today. 26 letters today, 26 years old today. However, with true Londonmark chaos, I didn't think that far ahead. Oh well. Slainté.

V is for Vignettes
Richard • Susie • Nicky • Alexa • Tom • Kevin • Esther • Christian • Sophie

Richard

Lal is standing at a pelican crossing with his older brother, Richard.

"Richard, do you know why they call them pelican crossings?"
"No."

Richard isn't really interested. Nick is trying to get to the train station on time to meet his girlfriend from the 2.47 train. He resents having to bring his brother to the station with him because he knows that Lal will only slow him up, and he’s supposed to go and have a coffee and a talk with her. He hates these little “chats”.

"They're not named after pelic-ANs, they're actually called pelic-ON crossings. They're an acronym."
"You mean an abbreviation."
"Whatever. It stands for Pedestrian Light Controlled crossings. They've nothing to do with the birds."
"Mmmnnn."

Lal could never understand why Richard didn't seem to care about these things. Richard very rarely listened to everything he said, anyway, so there didn't seem much point in going further. But the traffic was still flowing along the road, so he continued.

"It's a bit like a heron crossing."
"Yeah."
"Because that's an acronym as well."
"You mean an abbreviation."
"No, an acronym."

Richard sighed, a familiar sound.

"Well, what does it stand for?"
"Er, Helpful Emergency Road Over … N … nnn … "
"Thanks, Lal."

Richard began to stride over the crossing, spotting some breaks in the streams of cars. Only when nearly halfway across did he realise that Lal was still standing on the pavement.

Damn, he thought to himself, then shouted, "Come on, Lal, we're going to be late."

Lal paused in his search for the 'N' of HERON and wandered across the road, narrowly avoiding a faded yellow VW Golf, whose driver slammed on the brakes and hit heavily at the car horn. Oh well, Lal thought, I suppose it doesn't matter anyway.

Susie

Susie had been waiting for weeks to get an appointment with her so-called career advisor. She had signed on with several agencies but none of them had been able to come up with anything remotely challenging or relevant for her. Ranston Kerr had been one of the few agencies that even sounded interested in finding the right work for her. And so she had waited. And waited. And then a phone call came while she was at the hairdressers of all places. Seeing a missed call on her mobile – and how much had the bill been last month? – she called back after Toni and Guy had charged her the best part of eighty pounds for making her look exactly as she had looked two months ago. Deborah ("not Debbie, dear, if you please") at Ranston Kerr had invited her in for a placement interview. At long last.

It had all seemed so easy at college. You turn up to some of the lectures, you do the amount of work which doesn't interfere with your social life, you collect a piece of paper with your name which says that you haven't spent the last three years in prison but rather have been holed up in libraries, clubs, third-rate student houses and lecture halls filled with cheap furniture. You then go out into the world and get a nice job. After a year or two, you either get a nice big bonus, a nice big promotion or change job in order to get both. Except Susie hadn't found a job when she left. And nine months later, and most of her savings gone, she still had a certificate, a fortnightly jobseekers appointment and no job.

So now she sat in her car, wearing her best suit and a shirt that an ex had bought her a few birthdays back. Her hair tied back, she had decided in the bath that morning that minimal makeup was best: businesslike, efficient, down to earth; not some flirty receptionist who would file her nails all day, but rather a woman who could get the job done. Her eyes flicked over to the rear-view mirror every few seconds to practice appropriate facial expressions. Interested. Concerned. Amused. Attentive. Thoughtful. Yes, they were all appropriate. Glancing back to the road ahead, she noticed that she was only a few feet away from some studenty type in a battered leather jacket who was crossing against the lights. She hit the brake pedal and rammed the heel of her hand into the car horn. Bloody idiot, she thought.

A few streets further on, and she was glancing around for a parking space. All residential. Typical. If you didn't have at least fifteen different permits and a letter signed by God, the Queen and Santa, there seemed little chance of being able to leave your car somewhere for half an hour without being clamped. Eventually she found a space, parked and got out of the car. Opening up the back door, Susie retrieved her handbag and her attaché case. Businesslike. Efficient. Collected. Walking into Ranston Kerr's smaller branch office, she had the door held open for her by what she thought was a rather bright, attractive young man. Beaming a smile and thanking him, she walked confidently up to the reception desk. Well, it's show time.

Nicky

Nicky had been through about eight temping jobs in the last month, all office work. It wasn't that he was lazy or useless, or even that he couldn't fit in (if he tried), it was just that his heart wasn't really in it. His heart hadn't been really anywhere since Laura had left. He was still looking for a new flatmate and had idly wondered whether he should move into Laura's room – no, the big bedroom, I've got to start calling it that.

The living room looked bare now that she had taken her pictures. It's always the things you didn't notice. Who would have thought that one woman could own so many cushions, or how uncomfortable the self-assembly sofa would be without them? The room even seemed smaller now that the big mirror had been taken down from the far wall, one of the purchases from the junk shops which Laura had dragged Nicky around on Sunday afternoons in nearly trendy parts of London.

Perhaps he should just quit work for a bit and work out what he was doing. Nicky shook his head at his reflection in the agency window as he left, walking past a smartly-dressed woman coming in. She's pretty, he thought, she does her hair just like Laura. Annoyed with himself at using her as a constant reference point, he tried to clear his mind and concentrate on where he was going. I haven't got any work until Monday, so that leaves two days and the weekend to work out what I'm going to do, he instructed himself, and I'm going to have to borrow some money from Mum.

Before he realised where he was going, he discovered himself walking along the small and overpriced shopping arcade which had been his usual shortcut to Laura's shop. I suppose I could just pop in and say hello. I mean, we've got to be adults about the whole thing. He wasn't even convincing himself. Oh, I could tell her that she's left some of her clothes in that washing basket that we never used, she'll want to come round and pick them up. Yes, much better. He remembered, sadly and a little overdramatically, the days when he didn't need a reason to speak to her.

He walked into the shop, trying to look casual, but couldn't see her. Her colleague, Anja, was behind the counter instead.

"Is Laura working?"
"No, she's had to go to her parents. One of them's ill."
"Oh. Oh dear. I'll give her a call then. How are you?"
"Okay, you know."
"Right. Well, see you."

Perhaps he should call. But then it might be insensitive, if one of her parents were ill. Maybe tomorrow.

Alexa

Alexa watches as a nervous-looking guy in an ill-fitting suit leaves the shop, then looks over at the girl behind the counter. Lovers’ tiff, she wonders, or maybe she'd given him some bad news. It was always exciting to try and work out people's lives from how they looked. She thought he looked a bit like he did one of those boring jobs like an accountant or some other nine-to-five thing. I bet he's got a safe little mousy girlfriend tucked away in a flat in Clapham, and that they go home every night to watch TV and eat dinners for two. They met at school, went to the same university and then decided that they'd live together forever and ever, and he goes over to her dad's at the weekend to talk about cars and DIY and football while she does the ironing and watches romantic black-and-white films on video.

Satisfied with her complete character assassination of a man she has never met, Alexa returns her attention to the clothes rack in front of her. I've got thirty quid and I'm going to spend it, she determines. She looks at the vest tops, the skirts, the scarves, the jumpers and every accessory under the sun and realises that she has no idea what she actually wants, other than to spend the money. Running her fingers down one of the embroidered lace scarves, feeling the bumps and the patterns on the hems, she wonders whether she should forget the thirty pounds, and put a pair of shoes on her credit card instead.

But then I'm supposed to be buying something for the party on Saturday. Damn. She checks her watch, thinking that she has about twenty minutes of her late lunch break left, to find out that she has about ten minutes instead. Damn. She picks up the lace scarf, takes it over to the counter and buys it. The girl behind the counter seems to be on a different planet. Alexa thinks twice about asking her whether the nervous man was her boyfriend and instead just leaves the shop, returning to work.

"Hey, Tom!" she shouts across the street as she sees a colleague walking into the entrance hall of their building, "Wait up!". She likes Tom because unlike the other young men on her floor, he doesn’t keep hitting on her. She suspects that he is gay and has absolutely no justification or evidence for that suspicion, other than her instinct and the fact that if he isn’t hitting on her then he must be at least a little bit gay. But then she remembers she likes the fact that he’s friendly without being flirty and that he actually listens to what she says, rather than staring at the few inches of flat stomach showing between her belt and her shortish top, like all the other blokes do. Perhaps I'll ask him to the party, she considers, he might like that.

Tom

Oh God, here she comes. Tom waved in a manner which he thought unenthusiastic but which was probably wasted on Alexa.

"Hi, Alexa. Um, been shopping?"
"Oh yeah. Couldn't see anything I wanted, but I bought something anyway, to cheer me up."
"Cheer you up? Why, what are you down about?"
"Oh, nothing really. You know, retail therapy."
"Right, yes."

Does she actually know that there are words coming out of her mouth to form sentences, Tom thought, or is it all just one stream of consciousness without purpose or meaning? I've got to stop thinking like this, otherwise I'm just going to blurt something out to her. He tugged at the end of his tie without meaning to, and started to fuss with his cuffs. They continued walking through the atrium and straight into the lift – which was there and waiting, miraculously. He heard Alexa speaking and reluctantly dragged his attention back to her.

" … so I was thinking that you might come along."
"Sorry, come to what?"
"My sister's new flatmate is having a party on Saturday. It's a sort of housewarming, but I've been there before because my sister lives there, otherwise what kind of sister would I be, hahahaha, but no, it's her new friend's, well flatmate's, I don't know if they're friends yet, well, it's her party and I wondered if you wanted to come along."
"Right, erm, Saturday?"
"Yeah, this Saturday."
"Thanks. I'll check and see if I'm free, but thanks for inviting me. Can I let you know a bit later?"
"Uh-huh."

A party? With Alexa? Was she just asking him to a party or was this some typically hamfisted way of asking him on a date? I mean, she's nice enough in a bland sort of way but I'm really just not attracted to her at all. Perhaps that's it. I'm one of the few eligible males on our floor that doesn't bow and scrape and hang on her every word, so she reckons that I must be worthwhile. Tom tried to keep the little smile off his lips, only marginally failing to do so.

They left the lift together, Tom nearly walking straight into the delivery guy from the coffee shop. Thank goodness his coffee tray is empty, Tom thought, otherwise it would have gone all over me and I’d have ruined this tie. He looked over at Alexa. I suppose I’ll have to go to this party, then.

Kevin

Kevin has been saving up diligently for four months now. He doesn’t earn much working in the coffee shop – barista? you must be joking; lackey, more like – but he’s been setting aside as much as he can so that he can jack it all in and go travelling for as long as he can afford to. He’s been reading the Rough Guide to Mexico on the bus each day and can’t wait to get to Oaxaca. It’ll make a change from all this, he thinks, to walk in the footsteps of Cortez. He looks out of the lift as it descends through the office building. All these bloody suits pushing papers around, as though any of it matters.

Crossing the road, he tries to remember some of the things he read about this morning, but can only recall a few fragments: Zapotecs, Juárez, Nueva España. They don't make an awful lot of sense to him. Kevin reflects ruefully that he should probably have gone to university. His two A level grades were good enough, but he was young and didn't want to spend another three years in some place where they tell you not to run in the corridors, and where everything came back marked 'must try harder'. My one regret in life, he says to himself as he walks back to the coffee shop to pick up his parka and go home, it's my one regret in life.

And so Kevin is going to broaden his mind by travelling. I'm going to travel on the Golden Road to Samarkand. Kevin only knows this because it was in a Rumpole of the Bailey book which his mum bought him at the church bazaar one Christmas, but he likes the sound of it. A road paved with gold, just imagine it in the sunshine. He gets to his coffee bar, walks behind the counter and into the dingy back room which Enzio euphemistically calls the 'staff room', picks up his parka and shrugs it on, then leaves, heading for his bus stop. Another day, another shiny coin glinting in the sunlight and paving his way towards that road.

Standing at the bus shelter, rolling a cigarette – though economising, Kevin couldn't quite fully give up cigarettes, so he compromised and moved onto rollies instead – he looks at the bus map of London and sees a yellow-coloured line. The golden road! Following the line down on the spider map, he sees that far from leading to Samarkand, the number 68 instead terminates at Norwood. I've got to get out of London, he thinks. The bus arrives and he waits behind a woman buying her ticket before he can flash his bus pass at the driver and, passing her, sit down. He gazes, mouth slightly open, at the road outside. Imagine. A bus pass for the golden road. The bus moves off.

Esther

It's been a rough few months for Esther, but she's a survivor. That's what her mother, God rest her soul, always used to tell her after a brandy too many: "Essie, my girl, you're one of life's survivors. Nothing'll get you down." God only knows how I've been tested, but I've come through, and that's an end to that. Esther sits heavily in her seat next to some simpleton gawping out the window, and begins to count her change. She holds her bus ticket as though it will explode at any minute. And that's an end to that.

She thinks for a moment about her son, living in sin with that woman in Ladbroke Grove. I suppose it's my fault that I didn't rear him better. I never much liked that gang he went around with, and I should have put my foot down. Kenny could have said something to the boy. She snorts with derision. Since when did Kenny ever raise his voice to the lad? He thinks that the sun shines out of Michael's arse, he does. I'll say that he's a fine, hard-working man and a good husband, but Kenny was never one for the discipline, wrapped around Michael's little finger as he was. Esther shifts one of her shopping bags.

Esther remembers when she was a little girl and her mother used to take her around the market, pointing at the fruit and vegetables and playing at the fabric stall. She used to take the little swatches of red and green and lilac satins and silks and tie them around her head with ribbons, pretending to be a fine lady from olden times. If her mother had been paid that week, she could pick some of the ribbons and some of the cut-offs from the fabric rolls and take them home to sew for her doll. There had never been a doll as well-dressed as little Esther's. After the market, her mother would take her to the Cubitt Arms. She'd have a lemonade and would be allowed to order her mother's port and lemon. She would stretch up over the high bar and hand the money to the landlord, who called her 'princess' and would give her a bag of crisps and tell her not to tell anyone else.

The bus rolls to a stop and waits while people step out into the street. Esther looks out and realises it's her stop. The doors are closing but she jabs at the bell and shouts down to the bus driver. Although he's just about to move off, he opens the back doors and waits for her to go. The bus has missed its spot in the traffic and is just idling, trying to cut into the onrush. Esther readjusts the big handbag on her shoulder, checking that she's zipped it up safely, and starts to walk home. She passes the front of the bus and gives the driver a little wave.

Christian

Just look at this bloody traffic. They're like fire-ants swarming across a picnic blanket. Christian has lived in London for two years now and he's as homesick as the day he first arrived. It's the people, he thinks, then chides himself for being unfair. Okay, okay, not all the people, just the ones I don't know. He laughs to himself at the ridiculousness of what he's just thought but stops abruptly when he sees the lady outside waving to him. He gives a wave in return and, spying a gap in the cars coming up, starts to ease the bus out into the main road.

I could have been a contender, he muses, I could have been somebody. Is there any point in being ironic to myself? I'm the only one who can hear my thoughts and still I'm trying to be funny. Hmmm. I mean it though, I really could have been whatever I wanted and not just a bloody bus driver. Christian, though frustrated at himself, is nevertheless one of life's referees and immediately regrets putting down his not-quite-chosen profession. There's nothing wrong with being a bus driver, of course, I just hoped for something … else.

Though half-English and half-Scottish, Christian was born in Auckland and spent most of his life there, before being bored out of his mind and travelling over to the UK. He goes through his usual London list: I don't mind the city, I don't mind the weather, I don't mind the people, I don't mind the culture. I just mind what I do. I'm stuck.

He makes a mental note to speak to his housemate when she returns from her week away. She’ll be able to help me, she’s good at that sort of thing, a really good listener. Christian very much likes his housemate Sophie. Although they’re not in a relationship, they’ve had a few little flings when one or the other of them has been lonely, or drunk, or just in the mood. Christian hasn’t met her boyfriend and doesn’t really want to. It’s best this way, no commitment. Nothing long term.

The mobile phone in his top pocket buzzes twice. He waits until he’s pulled into the next stop and then reads the new text message. Speak of the devil – it’s Sophie, telling him that she’s cut her trip short and is returning today. Great, he thinks. I’ll talk to her tonight. She’s good at that sort of thing.

Sophie

As the refreshments trolley rumbles and totters its way through the carriage, Sophie debates whether to have some terrible coffee, some terrible tea or not to bother at all.

“Excuse me, could I get a cup of coffee please?”
“Certainly.”

Nursing the small, scalding hot cup of tasteless coffee, Sophie stares out of the window and works on her lines. This will take some working out, she reflects, and she considers what she will say. Her boyfriend agreed that he would meet her at the station, so she doesn’t have much longer to think through how she can approach the subject.

I think it’s best for both of us if we don’t continue to see each other. No, too wordy. I’m leaving you. No, too melodramatic. I’m seeing someone else. No, too harsh. It’s not you, it’s me. No, too clichéd, I’ll start to laugh. I don’t think we’re going anywhere. No, too open to argument. The shapes of the houses and their back gardens flashing past the window are not helping Sophie work out what she’s going to say. Clothes lines, toy tricycles and brick barbecues. Wheelie bins and metal cans. Abandoned Sainsbury’s shopping trolleys on their sides. No help at all.

It’s only been a few months, she tells herself, and it’s not as though we were going to be together forever. And it’s not as though we were exclusive. Even as she thinks it, she knows that this is something which she can’t tell him. He’s sweet, but too naïve. Too trusting. Too English. The train is now pulling into the station. I haven’t thought of a thing. I suppose I should tell him the whole thing, but I know he’ll be hurt, and I don’t want to hurt him. I just don’t want this to carry on. The train is stopping. She gathers her bag and suitcase and leaves the train.

Sophie looks through all the passengers walking down the platform and strains to look over at the gates into the main station. She then sees who she’s looking for and walks over, dragging her small suitcase on its wheels.

“Richard, we should talk.”

E is for Elton John
I have a confession to make. You're not going to like it. It was a moment of weakness while browsing through the shop. I'm not proud of it, okay, I was young, I was innocent. Well, young anyway. Right. Deep breath. I've bought the Elton John Greatest Hits album. And it's got some bloody awful collaboration with Blue on it. I quote from one Amazon reviewer: "this is the best mothers day present i gave my mum its got all his ace old songs and his new ones wicked albumn easy to get addicted to the voice of this musical lord". Oh, what have I done? Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

This connects with a conversation held with my friends T, C and A two weekends ago. We had been watching Pop Idol when the contestants were covering Elton John songs. Stop, stop, stop. This just gets worse, doesn't it? Right. Explanations. We were watching Pop Idol specifically because some of the contestants had been in our local pub during the week and had been sitting at the other end of our table. C, L and E had been chatting with, erm, some of the girls (let me just quickly check their names and I'll get back to you; right, they were Michelle, Kim and Susanne) and T and I had a quick conversation with Mark, who I am pleased to report is a very nice chap indeed and who I now want to win.

I hadn't watched an episode of Pop Idol before and so decided at the weekend to tune in, just to see whether they really were on TV or whether it was some elaborate form of wind-up. And there they were. Crikey. They were all standing around a piano and in walks Elton John. 'Media whore' was my first thought, I must admit, until I realised that they were all covering his songs and he had come in to their rehearsal room just to hear how badly they were murdering them. And, well, some of them were okay and some of them weren't. You probably saw.

So, that's why I was watching it. Afterwards, the four of us were walking into Camden and discussing the various performances and the songs which they had chosen. I was telling them that in Victoria Plaza, which I walk through every morning, they have video screens which show pop videos and that they have been playing Are You Ready For Love? on constant rotation for the past couple of weeks, to the extent that it has now seeped into my brain without me realising. I then took the bold and credibility-shattering step of admitting that I actually really liked the song anyway, so I didn't mind at all.

Pause. Silence. Cue foot-shuffling, askance looks, humming, hawwing and general throat-clearing. Then C admitted that there were a few Elton John songs that she quite liked as well. A followed suit, as even T confessed that one or two of the songs were quite good. I suddenly realised how all the Cambridge spies must have felt when they all met up and revealed that they were all working for Moscow, not MI6. In fact, we established how guilty conversations about Elton John work when you're in cool rock, indie, obscure-unsigned-bands-are-always-better Camden:

I don't like Elton John.
Me neither.
Well, I don't really like Elton John.
Yuh-huh.
Except for Rocket Man.
Oh, and I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues.
And Are You Ready For Love?
He's written quite a lot, hasn't he?
Yeah.
Camp as a row of pink tents at a pride festival, though.
Definitely.
Oh, Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting is pretty good too.
Bugger it, I like them all.
Yeah, me too.
Except Candle In The Wind 97.
Of course.
Just don't tell anyone.
Okay.

And thus, I have a message for you. There is nothing wrong with secretly liking Elton John's music, provided that you keep this fact to yourself, a few close and trusted friends and don't tell any musos you may know. Many people sing along to his songs when they are alone in their car or when everyone else has left the flat. Check any friend's record collection and look for the CD which doesn't have an inlay card or where the spine is blank. I'll bet that it's an Elton John disc. Some of the people you most admire, respect or love will know all the words to Sacrifice. I've come clean and admitted it, so you can feel a little bit better about yourself. It's okay, it's going to be fine. Just breathe slowly.

For those of you who are currently despairing, please rest assured that we slagged off Bernie Taupin something rotten, just to balance matters. Thank goodness that Pop Art Mix turns up this time next week. What's that? Eh? Oh.

U is for Unasked
There is a value placed on spontaneous statements or actions. A present given for no reason other than the person feels like giving you a present. A compliment apropos of nothing. A message of endearment from out of the blue. A text message unrelated to anything you have been discussing, anything you've been doing or anywhere you've been, simply stating "I love you". These things make us feel better about ourselves because they imply that not only have we entered into someone's thoughts for however brief a moment, but also that we are sufficiently motivating to that other person that they have acted upon the thought of us. To put it another way, we are worthy of spending time or money for no good reason other than the fact that we are ourselves. To put it yet another way, we are loved.

You may well agree with some of Camden's finest and most jumpsuited of musical denizens, The Darkness, in their lead singer's assertion that "I believe in a thing called love, just listen to the rhythm of my heart". Alternatively, you may not. Though the unexamined life may not be worth living, unasked offerings and thoughts are definitely worth living for. As I've explored before, we sometimes feel as though we shouldn't have to ask for things, whether it is because we feel that we deserve them, we feel that the other person should already know our desires, or simply that in certain situations we always opt for the same choice. However we feel about the necessity of requesting, the surprise and excitement generated by a selfless and impromptu gift will generally bring a smile.

Receiving things without having to ask for them reinforces our sense that we belong. It can be simultaneously negative and positive: at my local, some barmen start pouring my drink the moment I walk through the door because they know exactly what I always have. This is both good – because (a) it saves me having to order it, (b) I avoid having to queue or wait, (c) it implies a state of establishment within that particular establishment – and bad – because (a) I might want to change my order, (b) it shows that I spend far too much time (and money) there, (c) people who have been waiting for ages will probably get a little bit hacked off that I can just saunter in and get my drink immediately. Even as trivial an example as being a regular in a pub reflects our perceptions of what we should and should not need to say.

We may also tell others that they don't need to ask for things. If a friend is low on money when I am relatively affluent (an unlikely situation, but bear with me), then I might tell them that they can help themselves to cigarettes: "Don't ask, just take one". I do this to help him/her out, because I understand that a pint without a cigarette is like a single stick of Twix: not quite satisfying enough, and slightly unnatural. I also do this partially because I hate the repetition of people interrupting the flow of conversation with a half-embarrassed, half-whispered "Sorry, mate, but …" periodically. Not quite at the 'stop rabbiting about the housekeeping, let us talk of international affairs of importance' level, but nonetheless a factor. I suppose that, if I were to analyse the situation incredibly poorly, it's a sign of openness and even trust at some level.

Ultimately, I suppose that it is a sign of intimacy. We are somehow stating that we are close enough to someone that we don't need to ask them for something, or that we don't need a reason to give them something, because our lives are intertwined with theirs to the degree that motivation and verbal exchanges won't be questioned: we give simply because the other person is on our mind, because they are important to us, because we can.

T is for Truth
It's hard to tell the truth. From when you are a child and your father wants to know why there are pieces of a broken vase all over the carpet up to the point when you have to respond to an accusation of cheating at work, at play or on your partner, the easier option always seems to choose lies. And don't lie to yourself as you read this either: you've told a lie and you've been caught. You've faced this choice as well and you've picked the wrong option.

You've thought to yourself that perhaps you won't get caught (or get caught this time), that it was easier on the other person, or easier on yourself in those particular circumstances, if you told a little white lie. You've weighed up the pros and cons and thrown them aside to serve your own needs best. We have all done it and, on the balance of probability, most of us will do it again.

It's hard to tell the truth. It's hard to prepare yourself for whatever castigation you have deserved. It's not hard to regret what you've done, it's not hard to mean it when you say sorry, it's not hard to promise never to behave in such a way again. It's hard to put yourself into that position, to find that the entire affair has unravelled in front of both you and someone whose feelings and opinion you respect.

It's hard to see the look in their eyes when you realise that you have disappointed them, that their faith in you has been fractured, that you are not the person they thought you were. It's hard to admit to yourself that the carefully constructed network of mistruths, untruths, faintly-veiled ambiguities and omissions has all come crushing down and is pointing at you as its originator. And it's your fault.

It's hard to tell the truth. It's hard to accept that your judgement was accidentally or deliberately skewed to the point where the only way out was to pervert, invent, deny or rationalise away your decisions by creating a fiction, which then has to be maintained and nurtured by further fictions.

It's hard to realise that at any point the foundations of your story or of the life you are living are made of tissue and can be destroyed in an instant; that you are acting out an invention of your own making, a self-perpetuating other existence whereby every motivation, every moment must be explainable, consistent with the other inventions you have brought to others.

It's hard to face the truth. It's hard to accept something you don't want to hear, something that can strike at you with the speed of pain. It's hard to listen to the words forming, the concepts being slowly coloured in, the details added to the rough draft, eventually coagulating to shape a reality you never knew could exist.

The act you thought the other person could never ever commit, their underlying principles, their character, their intimations, all the things that had been said over shared coffees, between lovemaking, as jokes about others, all these were just words, but they've now harshly changed your mind into reverse gear.

It's hard to face the truth. It's hard to regard all your memories and feelings as so much evidence, to be sifted through with the precision of the detective, with the detachment of the coroner, with the impartiality of the judge. A knowing glance becomes a look of betrayal, every moment of unaccounted time becomes a conviction and, looking back over every act becomes a form of lie in itself, separate from the committal of the principal lie.

It's hard to wonder what else was left unsaid, who else has been told before you, when else they have provided explanations that might possibly be subjected to this new view, this fresh and yet rancid perspective. Every statement becomes a falsehood, and every tint and hue of the spectrum becomes a shade of grey.

It's hard to face the truth. It's hard to acknowledge that you've been duped, that the gift of faith which you have bestowed upon somebody has been treated as though it were an unwanted Christmas present, to be glanced at once and then left in an attic, to gather dust slowly over the months and years.

It's hard to realise that you have depended upon somebody so much and so badly that you have blinded yourself to any other option, placing not only all your emotions but all your spirit within their power, to have those priceless emeralds scattered about like so much chaff. It's hard to stand up to the cold hard truth that truths were lies.

And I will believe every word, every act, every sentence if you tell me. Because I will gladly put myself into that place, believing that the day will never come when you would say that you didn't tell the truth. I will believe that I will never have to face a lie. I will believe this because I am who I am and you are who you are. And for me this place, this moment, this now, this day is true.

C is for Confusion
Ever get that feeling that you don't know exactly what's going on? Ever have that nagging voice at the back of your head which indicates that the sum total of your knowledge at this point, right now, right here, is not exactly up to par with everyone around you? Ever have a sneaky little suspicion that you only have part of the story in your head? Hmm. Thought so. You're confused too. I've just been in a work meeting where the sentence "pro-actively leverage cross-functional skill sets" occurred. It occurred as a joke, but it still occurred. That, to me, is confusing.

I get the impression that I live in a semi-permanent state of confusion, seemingly always missing out on the one line of dialogue which would make the entire conversation make sense. Recently, it's been happening a lot. I've been getting the wrong end of the stick or, on some occasions, completely missing the stick entirely and even getting hold of a different stick. And boy, do I get stick for that. I mean, I get different stick from the one whose wrong end I have already got, or not, as the case may be. Sticky, eh? Is it that I am just getting the usual November stupidity virus (caught just as easily as a cold, but a lot harder to get rid of) or is it something far more fundamental?

Everyone has a different reason for disliking confusion (if, indeed, they dislike it at all). For some their minds can be likened to their office, where they can't bear the confused clutter of mental scribblings spread out haphazardly: the teeming ashtray of uncertainty, the half-full coffee cup of doubt or the unemptied wastepaper baskets of our feelings. Perhaps others don't like to admit to 'not knowing'; it's a weakness in their intellectual armour. Others again may embrace and encourage the confusion around them as reassurance of their own certainty. And others too may find that they way they live is constantly shifting, and it would be nice to have a few fixed points in the sky, so they can steer the ship safely.

Confusion is, I believe, a fairly natural state. We can't all be experts on everything all the time and thus certain situations, instructions or eventualities are bound to leave us feeling a little out of our depth. Starting a new job is the perfect example: we need to take copious notes, familiarise ourselves with our surroundings, get to know the new people, try to understand the new procedures and processes, remember all the little foibles and intricacies which every office and workplace bring to us, all in an effort to avoid unnecessary confusion. We don't want to appear as though we are clueless so we make every effort to appear informed, and if we can't manage that, then we try to look as though we are quick learners.

A work environment simultaneously lends itself to utter organisational chaos as well as to the order which will negate that chaos. There is both poison and cure. It's the rest of life where bewildering conversations or situations don't offer up their answers as conveniently. Misheard conversations are probably the most frequent for me; personal pronouns are particularly tricky. He has apparently being seeing her for a while now, but she doesn't know about her and she doesn't think he's all that great anyway, he said. Eh? Pardon? Gimme some names, for the love of God.

This goes some way to explaining how terrible I am with gossip. I keep forgetting the important parts (such as names, what happened, why it is scandalous, etc, etc), which is a bad way to transmit gossip. No-one ever got excited about the illicit communication: "You know that bloke? Well, he did something with someone. Saucy, eh?". No 3am girl, I.

It's not just gossip, though. There are also those conversations where you're trying to work out what the other one is saying and you're just not quite getting a handle on the whole thing. There's just that little bit of data missing. Or there may well be too much information for you to sift through and work out what the hell is going on. Or there might be contradictory information which is further confusing the whole matter. Or you might not understand the other person's motivation. Or you might not understand your own motivation. Perplexing. Perhaps it's a lot less baffling just to lay one's cards on the table. Or perhaps not.

I'm not sure there's ever a point at which I can lessen my confusion at life generally. Work, play, people, news, friends, the bus drivers on the 24 route … the list of things which make me unsure seems endless. There are times when I can't decide whether being sure about something is even worthwhile: aren't most decisions just shades of meaning rather than absolutes, anyway? Which might be a bit of a circular argument: "I'm confused by why I'm confused". Great clarity of thought there, Mark. Well done. Gold star.

Immune system: abort, retry, fail?
Four days off work, the complete loss of voice for one of them, the lack of sleep due to coughing oneself awake, the varying pitch from gravelly tones to merely smoky ones, and the attendant cold shivers, inability to swallow properly, rejection of foodstuffs when they finally are accepted by the throat, and the irritating 24/7 sniffing … these are not the signs of a happy Mark, nor do they enhance one's ability to post.

Apologies to the Audi Man about that. Current health status: approx 65% and rising (slowly). More alphabet soup later. Keep suggesting for the jukebox, please.

J is for Jukebox
In our local, as well as the usual amenities of pool table, widescreen TV, … erm, beer, we have a jukebox. For a mere one English pound, you will get to put on your own choice of five superb songs from their wide, wide selection. For 'wide, wide selection', I of course mean 'relatively narrow selection'. The pub's in Camden and boy, does the jukebox reflect that. As the drummer of The Darkness is a regular, we naturally have Permission To Land on there, we have quite a lot of Blur (as Food Records people still drink there, even though Blur don't bother any more), we used to have Finley Quaye, until he got barred, at which point his CD became barred as well. Plus Chili Peppers, Smiths, some 'hard rock', some 'indie' and, inexplicably, some ABBA.

Our little group has come up with a plan. We drink there quite a lot (ahem), and regard ourselves as good, loyal customers. We don't cause trouble, we leave when we're told to leave, we explain the pub rules to others, we try to watch out for people who might cause trouble or who are up to no good, we spend a fair bit of money there (ahem), and we know all the bar staff personally. We're regulars. And it's coming up to Christmas. So, my friend Tim came up with the idea and I'm the man with the plan. The pub is going to give us all a Christmas present.

We are going to replace one of the poorer CDs on the jukebox with one of our own creation. There are about fifteen of us signed up to do this, and we each have to choose one track – which is not already on the jukebox – based on some criteria:

• It must be up-beat: we're not having any depressathon anthems on our CD, thank you.
• It must somehow represent you: either through the choice of artist, the choice of song, the subject matter, or because it's one of your favourite songs ever, ever.
• It can't last longer than about four and a half minutes: we've only got one CD, so you can't hog all the time on it; learn to play nicely with the other children.
• No hardcore anything: be it trance, heavy metal or any other genre, it has to be a song that stands a reasonable chance of being played by someone other than you.

I'm compiling the list of tracks which people have chosen and we have to supplied a burned CD by the first week of December, so that we have time to get it on the jukebox and working for when Christmas and New Year's Eve rolls around. So far, about eight people have instantly known what they want (Jerry, for example, has chosen Superstition by Stevie Wonder, at which point we all rolled our eyes and groaned, wishing we had been able to choose it), with the others still debating. I'm one of the ones still working out which one I should choose.

I have a few ideas but am still not sure which individual song is best. And so, I come to the audience participation bit. I'd like you to suggest two things:

1. Which song should I choose, and what reason can I give?
2. What should this compilation be called?

Although prizes are always thin on the ground in Londonmark Towers, I can faithfully promise that if I use one of the potential titles for the compilation, I will buy a pint for the person who suggested it. Can't say fairer than that.

P is for Pest
'Pest' was how I referred to my sister when I was younger. Had I owned a mobile phone, doubtless that would have been the name under which I stored her number. It wasn't a serious name, more a recognition of the fact that, at times, she was … well, a pest. Fortunately for both her and I, the name 'pest' is now a reminder of the fact that even when we were young, we were close enough friends that such a moniker was meant affectionately, rather than representative of any form of cat-and-dog infighting. In fact, we've always been friends.

My sister Louise was, according to my cunning mother, my fifth birthday present. As I never tire of relating, I had actually asked for Meccano. What I received instead was a rude awakening in the early hours of the morning after my fifth birthday party (jelly, ice cream, balloons, the works). I was bundled into a car and, to the melodious strains of my father and mother arguing, was driven to Edgware General Hospital, whereupon I waited with my dad and, setting a pattern that would remain with me throughout my life, promptly fell asleep.

When I was awoken, I was taken into the maternity ward to see my mother holding a tiny little object wrapped in white blankets. This tiny little object was holding an even tinier little object: a box of three miniature Matchbox cars. Mum said words to the effect that I now had a new baby sister, and she had bought me a late birthday present. Appealing to my venal nature, Mum had successfully managed to ensure that I was on-side with the whole 'having a younger sibling' experience.

Somewhere in my parents' home, there is a photograph from my sister's christening. I am sitting on the sofa in our living room (decorated as I remember it before the house fire, but that's another story), dressed in a suit, holding baby Louise in my arms and looking down at her, apparently adoringly. She is just lying there, again wrapped in blankets. I have a smile on my face, and she has the whole serene infant thing going on. It's a great photograph, setting the tone for nearly 21 years of good friendship and brotherly/sisterly affection.

When she had grown up a bit – and I, being a boy, had aged but not actually grown up at all – she moved out of her nursery and into her own room. My room was diagonally opposite hers and, when I was bored or just feeling mischievious, I would wait until she had gone to bed and then slowly commando-crawl into her room, taking extreme pains to ensure I was completely silent. Once I had crawled just under the lower of her bunk beds, I would begin to growl quietly, in the manner of a lion. The growling would get progressively louder until I had ensured that she had woken up, squealing. I would then leave the room, satisfied that I had successfully terrified my little sister. Yes, I now know that it was mean, but after a while she began to like it, and then find it funny. She occasionally still asks me to do the lion roar, just as a reminder of what a beastly child I was.

During my teenage years, I don't remember any stand-out moments between the two of us. I was busy at school and with my friends, she was busy with her school things, and we didn't have family dinners every night to catch up on all the gossip or news. We ate together on Saturday nights and Sunday lunchtimes, but even then either Louise or I could take our plate of food to our room and listen to music or read or do whatever we wanted.

I think it was when I went off to university that I realised that I missed having the little pest around, except that she was no longer so little any more. Since hitting the age of about sixteen or seventeen, Louise has been beautiful. She is slim, blonde-ish and has a great laugh. And I missed having her around. I had moved into my own flat, sharing with a friend from college, and I invited Louise up to stay with me for the weekend.

She came up on the train on a Friday night and, before my then girlfriend and I cooked dinner, all three of us went out to the pub for a natter. Not knowing whether Louise was much of a drinker, I asked her what she wanted. Her choice was a Bacardi and coke. I berated her for a few moments as to her girlie choice, but she insisted that this beverage was her usual drinking fare. Sighing, I went up to the bar to order. When I returned with the drinks, she was in hysterics with my girlfriend. I placed the glasses down, sat down and asked what was so funny. She replied that she didn't drink Bacardi and coke at all, but wanted to make me go to the bar and order it, knowing that I would hate to do so, just to wind me up. I believe my response went something along the lines of "little cow".

Throughout her sixth form years, and when I moved back to London, we've both been regulars in the same pub in Camden. It's been interesting at times, such as when she had to put me to bed after my twenty-fifth birthday when I got so drunk I injured myself, though it's slightly worrying when your own younger sister beats you at pool. To prove that although I am older, and therefore decrepit and senile according to her, there are still some areas where old dogs don't need to learn new tricks (the tricks we have right now are fine, thank you very much), we once attempted to settle the issue of age versus beauty through the most sensible method available: vodka shots. Five vodka shots were lined up for each of us, and so we started. I won, thank goodness, but not by much. Louise then challenged me on tequila. I demurred. As far as I'm aware, this is probably the only time we've been directly competitive since she was born and even then it was for nothing more than vodka. I think that's pretty good going.

I've collected her A level results with her, I've picked her up after she's crashed her car, I was there the first time she was ill through drinking too much, we've spent birthdays together, we've had a 'sushi and white wine' Christmas Day at my flat, I've helped her revise, I've met her from flights, we've been drunk together after one or the other of us has broken up with a partner. She's clever, funny, tough, sarcastic, street-wise, beautiful, and for me she's a god-send. She is my closest female friend, she's helped me through some difficult decisions and complex situations, and, by the end of November, she'll be 21 years of age. The little pest has all grown up and become an amazing and wonderful person.

So, this is basically a really long-winded and overly verbose way of saying: Louise, you're quite simply the best thing that has ever happened to me, I'm lucky to have you, and I love you.

D is for Doorway
I used to think I was quite lucky. Not lucky in the sense that I could safely predict the pools scores with a good degree of accuracy, nor lucky in the sense that I kept finding ten pound notes in the street. No, lucky in the sense that I had never been mugged in London despite twenty-five years (minus three and a bit) of living here in some nice and some not-so-nice areas, and hanging around in what we could fairly describe as 'less-than-classy' areas. Although not quite at Gotham City levels (mainly because that's fictional, Batfans), London can be fairly unsafe in certain places at certain times of day or night.

And so one Sunday, while in the pub with my friends A and T, I realised that I needed some more cash. The cashpoints outside Camden Town tube station are hardly hidden away and are generally well-lit, so I told A and T to hang on where they were, to look after my drink and my coat, so I could run across to the bank and get some more of my hard-earned wages to fritter away on wine and song. A sensible plan, I'm sure you agree.

Cashpoint etiquette in Camden is quite a tricky proposition, due to the popularity of Camden market at the weekends. A rough rule of thumb for Sundays is to skip NatWest completely (it's next to The World's End/Underworld, so all the money will have been taken out on Saturday night), skip the Royal Bank of Scotland point on Camden High St (opposite the tube, therefore most people head there first) instead using the RBS point on Parkway (it's around the corner, so the morons don't spot it), and you might be able to gamble on one of the two HSBCs working (Kentish Town Road one is probably your best bet). If you're feeling particularly energetic, you could walk further on to the Lloyds TSB, which is a useful safety net.

I had chosen HSBC because it was close to the Camden Tup, the establishment where I had met up with A and T. I went there, extracted some cash from the bank while watching my ever-depleting balance sink further into the extremely red, and then proceeded to saunter back to the pub. Just as I was about to walk into the pub, I found myself to be spinning around, propelled by the rather large arm of a man whose instructions were simple: "Give me the money or I'll cut you". Clearly a man of Hemingwayesque brevity and clarity of purpose.

I was pinned up against the (glass) doorway of the Tup while trying to get hold of the guy's arms, not knowing whether he actually had a knife, which hand said knife was in, or indeed whether the knife was of the Swiss Army variety or something more machete-like. Grabbing both his arms seemed the safest way of ensuring that he didn't manage to exercise his option two. We struggled for a little bit and I felt myself being rocked forward by something and rocked backward by the man. After what could have been a few minutes, a minute or a few seconds, his enthusiasm waned and he ran off.

The 'something' which had been rocking me forward turned out to be one of the bar staff who had been trying to push open the door to (a) get out, (b) knock me into the other guy to knock him off his balance, and (c) help me. My would-be assailant, though quite strong, was no genius, as his decision to mug me for money had been directly in the doorway of a glass-fronted, glass-doored, brightly-lit, semi-busy pub. The Australian barman asked me what had happened and I tried to work it out in my head, eventually coming up with something so poetic, apposite and moving that its beauty still touches me: "Guy jumped me". I suppose descriptive ability is the first casualty of war.

You wonder what success rate he had estimated for this particular mission, though when you factor in that his opponent was a skinny, badly-dressed, bespectacled white guy, I suppose he thought that on balance, he'd probably come out on top. As it turned out, the whole exercise was pretty futile for both him and me: he neither got any money nor did he cut me effectively; I didn't get back into the pub on time nor did I completely escape his bladed ministrations.

When I got back inside the pub, A and T looked at me and asked what the hell I had been up to. I explained, briefly, and rubbed my forehead to find that I was bleeding. I went to the bathroom, cleaned myself up a bit, checked out that I had grazes/minor cuts on my hands and one or two on my forehead and cheek, but was otherwise in peak fighting condition. I then went back, lit a cigarette, had some more of my pint and starting wondering whether I would be able to calculate precisely how stupid I had been to resist the mugger rather than just give him the bloody money and avoid any potential harm. Still, I guess that I was just a bit lucky.

L is for Lyrics
I was in a band once. There were three of us and we played acoustic indie-type stuff. 'Stuff' is most advisedly the word to describe us, as 'music' might be going a little bit too far. A, the guitarist, was accomplished and wrote very good, catchy guitar chords and riffs. J, the violinist/pianist, was technically very good but lacked a certain natural feel for playing; I think she was better at playing other people's songs than contributing ideas to our own songs, but she brought a certain sense of discipline to the group. I was the singer and lyricist. Although I have virtually no stage presence (is there such a thing as 'stage diffidence'?), I was a competent enough singer. The one problem was the lyrics.

The music I've listened to and loved has always been strongly lyrically-driven; I basically like music I can sing along to. I would be flattering myself vastly to say that I sing anywhere near as well as the singers in my favourite bands, but if I can at least get somewhere near the notes they are reaching, then I consider that to be a minor success. As already stated here, I've been listening to Absolution an awful lot recently. I don't have Matt Bellamy's range, but I can get close-ish, and that's good enough for me. Fortunately, Neil Tennant sing-speaks many of his songs, so I don't have to strain too much, apart from in the upper register, to sing to them. Neil Hannon again has a wide range, but I tend to hum along to those anyway, and Brett Anderson is fairly good to mimic, apart from when it all goes operatic on Dog Man Star.

The easy part is that they have already written all their music and their lyrics. I can remember the words to songs within a few listens, as I have a fairly good musical memory. When I was in a chamber choir, this came in very handy, as I was the only person out of the twenty who didn't play an instrument and who couldn't sight-read. So, I just listened to the pieces beforehand and worked out how to do the tenor line. And that worked. It was when I had to write my own lyrics to songs which A and I had co-written which proved slightly more problematic. A, though a good songwriter, unfortunately couldn't sing to save his life. He wrote lyrics to some of his own songs, but needed me to sing them. Again, not a problem. Our co-operative songs, though … ah. Oh. I'd best get some coffee and work out what I'm going to write.

As seems to be the case with many people I know, I am incapable of conducting an evening's worth of conversation without including verbatim quotations from films and songs. There's a character in one of Kinky Friedman's novels who only speaks in song lyrics, which Kinky himself finds infuriating. Although I sympathise, I'm probably the other side of that particular divide. I don't know whether it's because I find it easier to express myself in the words of someone else, whether these little couplets, verses and choruses stick in my head and are available when I'm lost for words, or whether it's because music is so important to me that it's started to take over some of the verbal cognitive processes in my brain, swapping original thought for a back catalogue of pop libretti. Probably some combination of all three.

This is, I think, the basis for the old 'our song' idea. As well as a song bringing back memories of the first time people met, their eyes meeting across a crowded blah blah, it's also a substitute for saying things that we are otherwise too unwilling or too inarticulate to say. In Nervously, there is the line "We don't talk of love, we're much too shy, but nervously we wonder when and smile". Quoting someone else's thoughts and words makes it easier to express ourselves coherently, but also allows a certain remove from what we're saying. Maybe that's why more people make compilation CDs for the object of their affections than write original poetry for them: it's less exposing to use the art of others to convey our message than to bare our own hearts.

I make no pretence to be unique – I like what I think everyone else likes in songs: a little bit of humour, a little something that tugs at emotions, a reference which I can understand or which I notice, and maybe a little bit of cleverness or wordplay. Neil Hannon is particularly good at satisfying these criteria. One of my favourite Divine Comedy songs is Commuter Love, a love song written to someone he has seen on the train but never actually met:

Freezing Monday morning
She is waiting for her train to come
I brush past her, smell her perfume
Watch her hair move as she turns to go

She doesn't know I exist
I'm gonna keep it like this
I'm not gonna take any risks this time

She's not like the others
With their papers and their headphones on
She reads novels by French authors with loose morals
She can do no wrong

It's not just lyrics, of course; the actual titles which artists give their songs are often wonderful in their own right. If I Were You (I'd Be Through With Me), You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk, Thoughts Of A Dying Atheist, Protect Me From What I Want, I Don't Know What It Is, Don't, Don't Tell Me No, Not So Manic Now, How Can You Expect To Be Taken Seriously? – if you go through your own music collection and collate song titles and lyrics, you might never need to speak an original word again.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #5
INT. The Matrix.

Agent Jackson: I am knackered.
Agent Brown: Tell us about it, we spent the first film running about like you wouldn't believe.
Agent Jones: I really hate it when we have to morph into people.
Agent Brown: Uh?
Agent Jones: It's not the morphing, it's more when we have to take over ugly people.
Agent Brown: Why?
Agent Jones: I just don't like it.
Agent Jackson: Yeah, well, I've been trying to track down Smith all day.
Agent Brown: Oh, yeah, he's gone a bit crazy.
Agent Jones: Yeah, I read about it in the office.
Agent Brown: Hang on, trying to track down Smith? How the hell can you miss him?
Agent Jones: You mean 'them'.
Agent Brown: Yeah.
Agent Jackson: Well, he keeps monkeying about with that human.
Agent Jones: I love that guy.
Agent Brown: Oh, he's good.
Agent Jones: Yeah, can you get his autograph for my daughter? She's a big fan.
Agent Jackson: I'm slightly more concerned about the whole war between humans and machines.
Agent Jones: But if you could …
Agent Jackson: Okay, okay.
Agent Jones: Thanks.

[Agent Smith enters]

Agent Smith: Good af-ter-noon, gen-tle-men.
Agent Jones: Hi.
Agent Jackson: Hello.
Agent Brown: Hey.
Agent Smith: You app-ear to be con-spi-ring here, gen-tle-men.
Agent Jackson: Us?
Agent Brown: No way.
Agent Jones: Well …
Agent Brown: Shut up.
Agent Smith: Do you have some-thing to say to me?
Agent Jones: Erm, okay, well, the thing is, we wanted to wait …

[Pause]

Agent Smith: Wait … for what?

[Neo enters]

Agent Smith: Mi-ster An-der-son, I will des-troy you.
Neo: Wait up, Smithy.
Agent Jones: Yes, there's just one thing we have to say first.
Agent Smith: Yes?

[Pause]

Agents and Neo: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Agent Program Smith, happy birthday to you.
Agent Smith: You rem-em-bered!
Agents and Neo: For he's a jolly good program, for he's a jolly good program, for he's a jolly good program, and so say all of us.
Agent Smith: That's so sweet. I love you guys.

[Pause]

Agent Smith: But I must des-troy you.

[Pause]

Neo: Oh, shit.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #4
INT. The Matrix.

The Merovingian: Bonsoir. I am very French.
Persephone: And I am chè bella.
Trinity: I don't like you.
Morpheus: I still prefer Niobe.
Persephone: But I want to kiss Neo.
Neo: Suits me, Monica, you're well fit.
Trinity: Don't even think about it.
Persephone: If I don't get to kiss Keanu, then the whole film ends right here, right now.
The Merovingian: I am still très French.
Trinity: And I will get really mad if she kisses Neo.
Neo: I'm game.
Trinity: Shut up.
Morpheus: No, Trinity, Neo's right.
Trinity: You always take his side, don't you?
Morpheus: He is The One.
Neo: I'd give her one.
Morpheus and Trinity: Shut up.
Persephone: No kiss, no Keymaker, no rest of trilogy. Simple choice.

[Pause]

The Merovingian: Did I mention that je suis French?
Morpheus: Yes. I mean oui. I mean yes.
The Merovingian: Bon.
Trinity: Alright, you can kiss her. But no tongues.
Neo: Dude!
Trinity: You heard me.
Neo: Okay.
Persephone: But you must make me believe that you are really in love with me.
Neo: How about I make you believe that I really fancy you?
Persephone: Close enough. Let's go, big boy.

[They kiss]

Persephone: You are lucky, Trinity, but such a thing cannot last.
Trinity: Not if he goes round kissing every woman in the film, no, it bloody well can't.
Morpheus: Will you take us to the Keymaker?
Persephone: Okay.
Trinity: Neo?
Neo: Yup? Oh, sorry, I was just wondering whether I'd convinced her enough. I could try again.
Trinity: You wait until we get home to the real world.
Persephone: Are you ready?
Morpheus: Yes. I believe that what this night will bring is what Fate has destined for … oh, come on, let's go, I want to get back to Niobe.
The Merovingian: Oh, l'amour.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #3
INT. The Matrix.

Agent Smith: Mi-ster An-der-son. Sur-prised to see me?
Neo: Well, not really.
Agent Smith: And why not?
Neo: We have to meet up. And it's raining, which means I have to fight you.
Agent Smith: I see. Do you un-der-stand what con-nects us, Mi-ster An-der-son?

[Pause]

Neo: The fact that both our voices are easily parodied, dude?
Agent Smith: Pre-cise-ly.
Neo: Whoa.

[Pause]

Agent Smith: You see, when I tried to kill you, you died. And then you did not die. And then you made me die. But I did not die. I came back. To make you die. Or you make me die. In ve-ry short sen-ten-ces.
Neo: Awesome.
Agent Smith: And I get to say in-ev-it-a-ble an awful lot.
Neo: Yeah, I know that.
Agent Smith: But do you know why we are here?

[Pause]

Neo: The Oracle told me some stuff, but I think she put something funny in the cookies.
Agent Smith: We are here, Mi-ster An-der-son, because you can-not be trust-ed. You can-not be trust-ed with imp-or-tant di-a-logue on your own. You need me, Mi-ster An-der-son. Or else no-one would un-der-stand what goes on. There would be con-fu-sion. Because of you, Mi-ster An-der-son, because of you and your all too poor act-ing. Pur-pose, Mi-ster An-der-son, is what con-nects us, what drives us and, ul-ti-mate-ly, what will make this fran-chise millions of dol-lars. Pur-pose. Just as a pro-gram was written to go-vern Joel Sil-ver, so was a pro-gram written to govern geeks and phi-lo-so-phers into think-ing that this is more than a gun-fest.
Neo: Bogus.
Agent Smith: Your poor thes-pi-an skills are like a vi-rus, Mi-ster An-der-son. I fear they will in-fect me soon. I fear that something of you will imprint on me. There is no escaping rea-son, no de-ny-ing pur-pose, because as we both know, with-out pur-pose, WB would not make money.
Neo: Hey, at least you got in the Lord of the Rings franchise as well, man. You're raking it in.
Agent Smith: Even Hob-bits act better than you, Mi-ster An-der-son.

[Pause]

Neo: Fuck you and your receding hairline. I'm going to kick your ass.
Agent Smith: Not with-out wire work, Mi-ster An-der-son, or green screen.
Neo: And I'm in a rock band, too.
Agent Smith: I hope you're unplugged.

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #2
INT. The Nebuchadnezzar.

Link: Captain Morpheus?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: You know this Neo guy?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: Well, you believe him to be the One?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: You believe that he will bring balance to the force?
Morpheus: Er, what?
Link: Neo has the highest mitichlorian count you have ever seen?
Morpheus: Link, have you been drinking Dozer's special brew again?
Link: All I'm saying is that you believe that the skinny white guy is going to be the saviour of humanity. Right?
Morpheus: Indeed.

[Pause]

Link: You know that thing where he blows up sentinels with his outstretched hand?
Morpheus: Yes.
Link: Jedi powers, man.
Morpheus: Link, I am relieving you of your duties.
Link: Oh, come on. Even those little sentinels that roll out and then unfold look just like the ones in The Phantom Menace.
Morpheus: Shut up.
Link: And you're a little bit Qui-Gon Jinn yourself there, buddy.
Morpheus: What?
Link: You know, the big Irish fella.
Morphus: Link, I want you away from those controls right now.
Link: Oh, come on.
Morpheus: You're only here for the comedy double-takes and pop culture references anyway. Get out.
Link: Dammit. But I promised Marvin Gaye's daughter that I'd drive the ship.
Morpheus: I don't care.
Link: [hums a bit of 'Sexual Healing']
Morpheus: Stop it.
Link: You ain't got no soul.

[Link leaves in a huff]

Morpheus: [over comm] Trinity, please report to the bridge-like ship-steering room.

[Morpheus waits]

Trinity: Hi, Morpheus.
Morpheus: Trinity. I want you to pilot the ship.
Trinity: I can't do that.
Morpheus: Why not?
Trinity: Well, in the real world, all I get to do is shag Neo, or look worried about him and mop his brow.
Morpheus: Oh.
Trinity: Sorry.
Morpheus: Well, I guess I'll have to borrow Will Smith's wife instead then.
Trinity: 'Fraid so.
Morpheus: I was in Apocalypse Now, you know.
Trinity: I have to go now.

[Trinity leaves]

The Matrix Trilogy – Deleted scenes #1
INT. The Matrix

The Oracle: So you've come back, Neo.
Neo: You knew I would.
The Oracle: Yes, I did. Cookie?
Neo: You know whether I'm going to take one.
The Oracle: Yes, I do.
Neo: No, thanks.
The Oracle: Suit yourself.
Neo: Okay, then, yes.
The Oracle: All right.
Neo: I mean no.
The Oracle: That's fine.
Neo: Er, I mean yes.
The Oracle: That's fine too.
Neo: Did you put hash in these cookies?
The Oracle: You already know that.
Neo: Cool.

[Pause]

Neo: I fancy Trinity.
The Oracle: I know that. You don't have to be an Oracle to know that you are exactly the type to go for a bike-riding, PVC catsuit-wearing tough chick.
Neo: Oh.
The Oracle: I suppose you want me to explain the plot to you.
Neo: It'd be nice.
The Oracle: Well, I'm not going to.
Neo: Go on.
The Oracle: No, I'm going to be cryptic for another ten minutes and ramble about choices.
Neo: Do you have to?
The Oracle: Yes.
Neo: But why can't you just tell me what's going to happen?
The Oracle: You already know the answer to that question.

[Pause]

Neo: Because that way Morpheus doesn't get to gabble on about believing in me?
The Oracle: Bingo.

[Pause]

Neo: Where's that little bald kid gone?
The Oracle: To pester Uri Geller.

[Pause]

Neo: Figures.

G is for Grandmother
My gran is a remarkable person. Most grandparents are, at least in the eyes of their grandchildren, but my gran is especially so. She's Irish and came over to England with four of her seven children (oh yes, she's Roman Catholic too) in the 1960s. I don't know whether it was the appeal of swinging Sixties London (baby, yeah), but I very much doubt it. She's done a wide variety of mostly low grade jobs, bringing money in so that she, my long-suffering and mostly silent grandfather – whom she refers to as her 'toy boy'; she is 81, he is about to turn 80 – and my uncle can live in modest comfort in their Hackney council flat. And she is remarkable.

Exhibit A
She is bionic. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but she had a hip replacement operation recently and, during the procedure, her heart stopped for a few minutes. For an eighty-one year old this is not necessarily a good sign, yet she was successfully resuscitated and, within days, was causing merry hell in the hospital by criticising the quality of the food, berating my sister and aunt at any given opportuntity and attempting to sneak out despite the obvious problem that most prison breaks are not made by octogenarians on crutches. She is, both metaphorically and literally, unstoppable. They make 'em strong in Galway.

Exhibit B
Every year, the family make it a point to telephone Gran on St Patrick's Day; along with Christmas, Easter and her birthday, Paddy's Day is one of the most important days of the year for Gran and so we all have it flagged in our calendars with a big note reading 'Ring Gran'. Two or three years ago, my mother attempted to ring Gran in the early evening to wish her a happy day, to find that no-one was answering the phone. My sister had tried. I had tried. No answer, until the small hours when we all gave up. Naturally, worry abounded: perhaps Gran had hurt herself and couldn't get to the phone? Perhaps someone had burgled the flat? Perhaps aliens had abducted her? Wild theories spun round, until we managed to get in contact with her the next day. What happened? Where were you? Are you alright? Gran's answer: "Sure, wasn't I at the ceilidh!" Not only bionic, but also an over-70s party animal.

Exhibit C
Gran makes it a point to visit family back in Ireland as much as she can. About eight or ten years ago, Gran went on one of her trips back to the west coast of Galway to see the folks. Although flights are easier and more convenient, Gran tends to get the Rosslare to Fishguard ferry and be picked up by someone the other side, once the usual passport checks and customs palavers are all done. After this particular trip, we met Gran the day she came back and she seemed inordinately proud of herself. "You'll never guess what I have," exclaimed our clearly excited grandmother, "but didn't I only bring back one of the biggest rainbow trout you'll ever see." A. Rainbow. Trout. My gran, the international fish smuggler. Not drugs, not booze, not rare artefacts. No, … a fish. So: bionic woman, party animal, and global law-breaker. There's an FBI list with her name on it somewhere.

Exhibit D
Reading matter over at Gran's flat is fairly standard and, I should imagine, has been that way for years and years: The Daily Mirror, The Connacht Tribune, Ireland's Own and The Irish Times. Yes, there's a definite bias there. She also avidly watches television news, showing no real partiality to BBC or ITV and is frighteningly well-informed. Although of advanced years, she has her finger on the current affairs pulse most definitely and shows no sign of wishing to be less of a media junkie at all. Her only weak spots in news or political conversation are Oliver Cromwell (bad), Princess Diana (good), Prince Charles (bad) and her willingness to believe any health scare involving chicken, beef, eggs or, indeed, any foodstuff whatsoever.

Exhibit E
As you might expect from an elderly Irish lady with a large family, Gran is a dab hand in the kitchen, with years of experience to prove that she can make a meal out of nothing (and that's not confined to the kitchen either). She is a baker by hobby, and occasionally by commission. Every family marriage has had the wedding cake made by Gran. Most birthdays are celebrated by blowing out the candles atop a Gran culinary creation. Cakes, scones, biscuits, gingerbread men; the list goes on and on, and I'm amazed that a childhood based on all this hasn't made me far fatter than I am. And, as you also might expect from an elderly Irish lady, she extols the virtues of potatoes at any given opportunity. One of the more esoteric meals I have ever eaten was spaghetti bolognaise with boiled potatoes and carrots. She seems unaware of overstarching. However, on the plus side, she does the best boiled bacon and cabbage this side of Ardrahan.

Exhibit F
At times, Gran seems to forget that she is her age, which is a good thing; she doesn't want to be some old doddering fool, and to be honest I think she would be spectacularly bad at it. One little weakness, though, is that she forgets people's names. Well, not quite 'forgets', that's not fair, but it generally takes her a few attempts. I have been called, in the course of being identified by her on the phone, the names of my four uncles, my grandfather, my father, my mother, my aunts and my sister. One particular phone call, after Ireland drew with Germany in last year's World Cup (Gran loves it when Ireland do well in any sport) ran for about ten minutes before Gran actually asked who I was. When I told her it was Mark, she replied laughingly, "Didn't I think it was Louise!". I'm sure that she does this to wind up the rest of the family, conning us into thinking she's losing her marbles; secretly she knows exactly what's going on and she's just toying with us. Master manipulator, that's her.

So, combining the facts that my grandmother is partly robotic, a bit of a raver, a wanted felon, a newshound, a cordon bleu chef and a practitioner of Machiavellian arts, as well as being funny, kind, loving, generous, thoughtful and generally wonderful, I have reached the conclusion that she is truly remarkable. I rest my case, my lord.

B is for Beauty
I wish I could define what it is that makes a person or object beautiful or not, but my knowledge of aesthetics is confined (along with most of the rattlings in my head) to a more personal, emotional level. I know what I believe to be beautiful and, on occasions, I can tell why I see and feel such beauty, but to be able to ascertain the precise reason or calculation is certainly beyond this bear of little brain. Perhaps it's because real beauty engages us less on a rational or clearly explored level and more in the twisting kaleidoscope of our feelings and intuitions. Perhaps I'm even asking the wrong question; should I ask not why I find someone beautiful, but how?

My friend Dave has a catchphrase: "It is for the beauty," generally said in a Spanish/Italian hybrid accent. It's become a standing gag that whenever we can't think of a reason to do something, or when we decide to have, do, or say anything – however mundane or run of the mill – the reason will simply be "for the beauty". It gets the rest of our friends laughing, for the sheer inadequacy of providing this as a rationale and also because, pace The Fast Show, repetition done well can be funny. When I write it down, though, it seems less obviously ridiculous. After all, people do many things for beauty. The Greeks of legend went to bloody, costly war with Troy over the beauty of Helen; I can't then see why we should be immune from beauty as motivation for our own lives.

People do many things for beauty, but perhaps it is the combination of beauty and love which drives them. We can see the link between love and beauty more clearly than beauty alone as a basis for our actions. The two have a natural dependency: what we find beautiful, we are bound to love, and what we love we will find beautiful. Which is cause and which is effect? I would say neither and both, because more often than not, the two will arrive at the same time; it's an intense, heady feeling, isn't it? It makes you understand why people can be said to be 'in love with love itself' – we could even bastardise Keats to say that "Beauty is love, and love beauty. That is all we know on Earth and all we need to know."

The dependency is not absolute, though. When either attribute fades, this doesn't mean the necessary demise of the other. When love ends, beauty can remain, and when beauty wanes, love may carry on. It's because the love we feel and the beauty we perceive are not just internal musings and ruminations: we transfer them to an object or person and they become part of his/her/its intrinsic being, perhaps as definable as height or weight. And so as looks fade through the years, love will remain as strong as the day it was first conceived, because they have countless other qualities of beauty to entrance us, so may the beauty of something or someone hold fast while the love felt has diminished, because our affections have dissipated, transferred or been suppressed. And of course, both love and beauty may remain together, but for the unfortunate individual, they have become distant, beyond reach.

This goes some way to explaining why we do such strange and wonderful things for beauty, sometimes going against what others see us to be, sometimes even surprising ourselves with the extent of our conviction in our pursuit of and belief in the radiance and brilliance of others. The relationship between love and beauty drives us, whether it is years of studying the same painting or statue, whether it is months of rereading the same book or poem, or whether it is weeks of striving to be with someone; our notions of beauty provide for us an elusive clue that gives us some sense beyond what we see or touch, as well as the first inexplicable and exciting spark to get us moving.

In ways, it is a romantic notion of beauty, to be sure; a little niche where sensitivity and senselessness can meld, no matter that our pragmatic and process-driven selves are constantly running to timetables or schedules, ticking boxes or crossing off items from lists. I believe that we need this sense of romance and wonder which we associate with a painting, a loved one or a sonnet, to reassure ourselves that life isn't one long 'To Do' list. The difficult part is usually to find the object or person who can inspire us so, and the easy part is our own personal appreciation of that beauty.

Z is for Zola Budd
At my school, along with acres of playing fields, a cricket pavilion, an institutionalised trend of mental rather than physical bullying, and a dependence upon Oxbridge admissions in order to recruit bright young fee-paying things, there was a House system. I think that the official purpose of this was twofold: (i) belonging to a House would bind pupils closer to their peers in their common endeavour to beat other Houses, and (ii) because it made timetabling easier for the chemistry teacher whose sad and dreary responsibility that was. My own opinion on the purpose behind a House system was also twofold: (i) divide and conquer, and (ii) it made the school more 'public school' than it actually was. Quite a difference in opinion, I'm sure you'll agree.

So, every student in the school belonged to one of six Houses, named after former masters of note. I can't remember what the founder of my House did and, quite frankly, neither I nor any of my fellow House members could care less. The origins and formations of the system didn't concern us at all; we had been given an instant identity without having to lift a finger. We had been placed into a mini-Mafia and encouraged – even organised – to compete with the other five mobs for supremacy. We had been given instant belonging.

And for a while it was good. In the first year of secondary school, we had not yet developed any finely-attuned critical faculties, never mind the essential tool which would have seen the House system as just another way to slice the student population pie: a bullshit detector. Instead, we toddled our way through all the nouveau detritus of House points, impositions, detentions, House assemblies, House ties, House colours and all the other ephemera which encouraged us in some idealised notion of British character: put your House before yourself, play a straight bat and you'll win glory for your House, remember to work together, etc, etc, bore, yawn.

I was a forgetful child, it must be admitted. Scarcely a school week passed without a cricket jumper, an exercise book, a note from my parents, a school report or some other required item being left at home, despite the fact that it would be in the most obvious place to help me remember to bring it. I was not, and am still not, capable of bringing multiple items anywhere; if an activity needs more than one bag plus a backpack, the chances are that I won't attend because I hate being encumbered by multiple bags. Just a quirk, I suppose, and it must have originated from my school days where six or so bags seemed necessary for all the different activities which schools insist on for their pupils.

Sports were a big thing at our school. Rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer were the main two, with athletics, swimming, water-polo, hockey and football also catered for. For the more esoteric sportsman, there were options in sixth form to take fencing or rifle-shooting, options which I gladly took up rather than get murdered on the rugby field. And, of course, wherever there is sport, there is competition. Inter-House competitions were keenly anticipated – by Housemasters, not the pupils of course. There were also school teams who competed against equally public school-wannabe institutions around the area, with varying degrees of flair and success.

As unlikely as it may seem for anyone who has met me, I was actually not too shabby at sports, at the Inter-House level anyway. One particular cricket match saw me score four 4s all placed in exactly the same place in the field with a sweeping square-cut, a cheaply stolen single and then my partner played a nice, solid defensive shot. The first ball of the next over was when I was bowled clean out. Number of balls faced: six. Number of runs scored: 17. This placed me as second highest scorer for our XI that day. Not a bad innings, especially for a wicketkeeper (my preferred role) but not exactly worthy of a place in the England team, either.

Rugby was another area which saw me enthusiastic but hardly skilled. I was, improbably, a full back. Though traditionally the full back is heavy, aggressive, solid and, for want of a better phrase, built like a brick shithouse, I was light, placid, slim and built like a feather quill. However, unlikelier players have been full backs (or so I was told) and so I duly took my position on the field. During some of the first few inter-House matches, things went relatively well; by this, I naturally mean that when we lost, it was not directly my fault and therefore no blame attached to me, and when we won, I could share in the team's glory. I did pick up one or two minor injuries, including a knee-knack which persists to this day, but hell, I could have been killed out there, so I don't think I did too badly.

Athletics was a bit better, however. Having a body shape at that age which a whippet would have paid a plastic surgeon to emulate was no great boon when an enraged prop-forward is motoring down at you, but proved surprisingly effective when attempting to run 400m or 800m in a circle faster than five other people. In fact, it was a downright asset. I even represented the school at 200m once, at one of those inter-school athletics meets. I didn't particularly want to do it, but my father seemed so keen that he wouldn't have to rely on my sister to be the sporty one (which she ended up becoming) that I relented for his sake. I came third or fourth out of seven, I think.

The real moment which sticks in my mind of my otherwise inglorious and grossly forgettable sporting career was an inter-House competition, however. Combining my ability to be pointed at a finishing tape and told, "Oi, Mark, scarper!" with my appalling memory led me to the school sports day where I had left half my kit at home. Although not quite at the 'shirts vs skins' level, our PE staff tended to despise the sort of boy who would leave his kit at home and thus try to dodge, evade, shirk or otherwise worm his way out of having to be supervised by sadists. So, I was lent a spare pair of shorts from the lost property office and told to borrow someone's plimsolls. Not likely. People who had brought their plimsolls were the people who were running and those without were not; ergo, no spare shoes.

So, I made the executive decision to run the race barefoot. It was summer, the grass was quite soft and though my feet are not webbed, I felt I could maintain a fairly good grip on the track to put in a decent showing. Needless to say, neither the sports master nor my Housemaster were too impressed with this idea, but they didn't have anyone else to put into the 400m and so acquiesced. I lined up with my equivalents from the other five houses, the smirks on their faces barely concealed, and got ready for the off.

The starter gun went, and so did I: once round the circuit for the 400m, a race which requires very little tactical preparation other than remembering to turn up and belt it for the finishing line. When I got to the finishing line I found, to my great pleasure and surprise, that I had arrived there before anyone else; I had won. Suddenly the derisive cries of "Zola Budd" didn't really seem to have the same mocking quality.