The Final Forming of a Person's Character Lies In Their Own Hands.

I am trapped in my second floor flat. I am sitting hunched and still, desperately hoping that I won't be discovered. I wish that this would pass, but the sounds from the stairwell outside get louder and closer. I contemplate an escape through the sash window, navigating the climbing frame of drain pipes and windowsills to the yard below and freedom, but know that this would ultimately be folly for one so unsure-footed.

That noise, that terrible noise is just outside the door to my flat now. I become frozen, hoping to fall into some catatonic state that would render me undetectable. 

The noise reaches its crescendo, and then begins to fade. The danger is passing. The vacuum cleaner and its owner are retreating.

We've owned this flat for about four months. On the first Wednesday after we received the keys, I am carrying some boxes up the stairs through the common area. On the landing closest to my flat, I meet a middle aged lady in an apron. She is surrounded by the paraphernalia of cleaning. 

I introduce myself and she responds in kind. She explains that she is the cleaner for the communal areas. She comes once a week, on a Wednesday. She likes the man upstairs but isn't so keen on the couple downstairs. She's sad to hear that the lady who owned the flat before we did has left. I instantly begin to worry about how she is evaluating me. I don't want to be an object of her scorn, like the couple downstairs.

She tells me that she has cleaned this building for 17 years. I express my admiration. I'm genuinely impressed, but I probably overdo it. I'm trying to win her over with exaggerated flattery.

She mentions that she cleans private homes, including the one of the man upstairs. She asks if I would be interested in her cleaning my flat.

I am thrown into a quandary. I have terrible angst about the idea of someone else cleaning my home. Maybe it's my working class upbringing, or maybe it's ideological, feeling uncomfortable at the precedent set by one human being subserviently cleaning up another's filth. 

However, this is not my quandary. I've somehow been able to stave off this angst by employing a succession of once-a-week cleaners for the best part of a decade. Because I'm very, very lazy. And never underestimate the power of laziness. Laziness trumps most things, including integrity, for me, for most of the time. It's ironic that laziness is such a great motivator.

The lady in the apron looks at me expectantly. She wants to clinch a deal to clean my new flat, once a week. She's pitching hard. She tells me that she's very good and thorough.

 

My dilemma is this: I've had the same cleaner, Marichu, for the best part of five years. We have a good relationship, we exchange presents at Christmas and on birthdays. I value her and her hard work. I'm loyal to her, of course I'm not going to just cast her asunder in favour of someone new.

'So what do you think then?' asks Apron Lady.

Why can't I just tell her? It's perfectly reasonable that someone moving house would want to bring along their existing cleaner, it's not a slur or a snub. But I don't want her to tar me with the same brush as the couple downstairs. I don't want her to write me off as some nose-in-the-air snob who has to bring in his own people because the in-house operatives just aren't up to scratch.

I take a deep breath.

'That sounds great. Can we talk about it next week? I've got my hands full just now.'

I've been in hiding every Wednesday ever since.

postscript: I have just hit upon the solution. Next Wednesday, I am going to wait for the sound of the Hoover, take a deep breath, fling open the door, smile at Apron Lady, exchange pleasantries and then broach the subject, explaining that my girlfriend insisted on using another cleaner. I will then roll my eyes and tut in the direction of our flat.

Don't Believe the Hypochondria

Here are some ailments I've wondered whether I'm suffering from within the past 24 hours:

The common cold

Stroke

Flesh eating bug

Restless leg syndrome

Fractured skull

Brain hemorrhage

Skin cancer

Meningitis

Deep vein thrombosis

Arthritis of the neck

To be clear, except for one of the above, I've only considered them fleetingly. I've not gone as far as to look up the symptoms of any of these afflictions on the internet, nor have I thought about consulting a medical professional.

I know in my rational mind that I'm not suffering from any of them. I'm not worried, but these have been my initial reactions to various sensations and anomalies in and on my body. I quickly moved on, after a few seconds, to more logical self-diagnoses. Which, as any doctor will tell you, is the absolute best form of diagnosis.

This is a fairly typical day's worth of afflictions for me. I can't work out whether this makes me a hypochondriac or not. To assume that a bit of indigestion after a spicy curry is, say, a heart attack is pretty normal for me, but the assumption is long gone before I've given it enough time of day to say it out loud. 

Thinking like this is to live your life in the shock of averted catastrophe: 'OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO DIE! ... Oops! False alarm! Sorry about that everybody, nothing to see here, carry on.'

It could be life-enhancing, living eyeball to eyeball with your own mortality, cherishing your health, realising that it could forsake you at any time. Or it could be crippling, mulling over how each discredited diagnosis might only be a temporary escape.

I don't think either end of that scale encompasses my brand of harmless hypochondria. It's merely that I like to consider something exciting and dramatic might be happening, before facing the fact that it's just the same old same old nothing. Just like life.

Conversely, the one time my mini-hypochondria might have borne fruit, I was oddly pragmatic. 

In 2005, I was rushed into hospital when a neurosurgeon though there might be something wrong in my brain. I was having debilitatingly painful headaches, and upon examination they found some blood in my spinal fluid.

It was just before Easter, and my girlfriend and I were about to spend the holiday at a hotel in the Cotswolds. All of a sudden, I was holed up in a hospital bed, surrounded by family and close friends. They tried not to, but through a veil of bravery they spoke to me differently, as if every conversation might be amongst our last, and our words were imbued with love that usually bubbles away invisibly, through fear of embarrassment.

Obviously, I survived. The doctors were confused as to what had happened, but were confident that I was in no danger. After five days in a hospital bed, being probed and examined and discussed, I was given the all clear, late on the Thursday night.

Tears were shed. And I was so relieved. That I wouldn't lose the deposit on the hotel room. 

The Closet Naturist

I didn't really get dressed yesterday. I did cover myself with a dressing gown, because my brother is staying with me. When we were little boys, we'd be bathed together, but aside from that, we were never one of those naked families, and despite circumstantial evidence to the contrary I still find it hard to believe that my parents have genitalia.

I like a dressing gown. Room to breathe. Long and flowing is a good thing for me. I'd have made a good druid, sartorially at least. I think I'd have liked the ritualistic group sex, too, but as the problem pages often tell us, the fantasy is usually much better than the reality.

If my brother wasn't here, I'd be permanently naked whilst at home. I know that this is neither pretty or hygienic. I just feel more comfortable without clothes. Except when there are other people around, when even if I were dressed in a beekeeper's outfit, I'd still feel exposed.

On holiday, in plus 30 temperatures, I still keep my T-shirt on until the very last minute before getting into the water. I wish for a swimwear fashion U-turn towards the full body stripey bathing costume. 

I can't pinpoint the time when I started feeling like this, it seems to be something that's always been there. Had my mind been cognisant, I'm sure I would have sprung from the womb at loggerheads with nature over her intentions. 

As an adolescent, I was mocked in the P.E. changing rooms for my painfully skinny physique, and then as soon as my twenties hit, my metabolism went into  s l o w  m o t i o n  and although my arms and legs remained thin,  I developed a huge belly, and latterly breasts. Not a good look. Naked, I resemble E.T.

I know that it's strange to feel so conscious about other people seeing my body, but to be comfortable undressed so often whilst alone. It was a difficult process, but thanks to a combination of covering up all mirrors at all times and never, ever looking down, I've learned to be happy with my own nakedness.  

Twenty Three is the Magic Number, Yes it is...

I took a walk in the park with my friend Tony yesterday. As we neared the end of our stroll, Tony was surprised to see that a bus went directly from the park's exit to his neighbourhood, some way across the city. The bus, the number 19, was one he used frequently, but he had never followed the route this far, it being much further along than his regular commute. He was intrigued that it wound its way down to this park.

We got to talking about how you become oddly attached to 'your' bus. Mine is the number 23, I use it to travel to and from work most days. Even when I'm not at a bus stop, I always feel happy to see it when I'm out and about. If I'm ever watching the TV news, and I catch a glimpse of it in the background, I feel proud of it. If I'm on the other side of the city, and I see it far outside the realms of my usual journey, it's a bit like seeing a teacher in the supermarket, disconcertingly out of context, but strangely exciting.

I told Tony about how I think of my bus as a kind of friend, and then when I see it beyond the parameters of my bus stops, I think of it leading an exciting double-life, like a duplicitous cat who lives with several oblivious owners. Tony mentioned that he'd thought about buses having split personalities once they became night buses and added the 'N' prefix, taking strange detours and changing from single deckers to double deckers.

We said our goodbyes, and Tony crossed the road to catch his number 19. I waited for a number 52, as my beloved 23 didn't come this way, day or night. In a way, it had been a strange conversation, ascribing personalities to public transport, and sharing emotions felt for bus routes. And yet in having the courage to share these obscure and seemingly geeky thoughts, we'd enjoyed a lovely human connection. 

Later that evening, and I am in a basement club night where my friend Carolyn is playing some records. I am making small talk with some of her friends. I've never met them before and although they are friendly and affable company, I am a little intimidated because they are young and good-looking and play in a band and have good hair. The conversation is struggling to transcend platitudes and pleasantries. Then one of them mentions that he works for London Buses. I leap in:

'Don't you swell with pride when you see your usual bus when you're out and about?' I ask the group. 'And then when you see it on a completely different part of the route to the one you usually use, don't you think it's, like, having an affair or something?'

The nods of agreement and laughter of recognition don't come. 

I am Judas

I went to the pictures to see 'Semi-Pro'. I laughed, but not enough to justify the price of the ticket. It cost £9.60. 

The lady in front of me at the box-office was unhappy at the ticket price. She said she had no idea it was so expensive, as her husband usually pays. She told the cashier that it was a ludicrous price to pay, especially since it was only around 5pm, which she considered to be off-peak. She became impassioned and said that it was no wonder that people chose to watch pirated DVDs instead of going to the cinema, and rose to a crescendo, protesting that she certainly would not be paying that much for a ticket, and would be surprised if many people would.

The assistant looked at her without sympathy or antipathy, just blankly. 

A second passed. A look flashed across the lady's face. It wasn't defeat, because no battle had been engaged in. It was mild embarrassment at having spoken up in the first place. She let out an 'Okay... bye' that didn't know if it was supposed to be apologetic or staunchly unapologetic.

She left.

I agreed with everything she had said. Maybe if more customers spoke out like she had, our voices would submerge into a choir singing a protest song too loud and impassioned to be ignored. 

'One ticket for 'Semi-Pro' please.'

With my facial expression, stance and tone, I screamed;

'Don't worry! I'm nothing out of the ordinary. You won't get any trouble from me. Why can't these people just follow the script? Weirdos. Please like me!'

'£9.60 please'

'Here you go'. 

I gave the assistant a friendly, knowing smile as I handed the ten pound note across.

The assistant looked at me blankly.