I think I may have to finally stop reading the blogs and online diaries of people I know personally when I’m feeling a bit down. The trouble is, if they’re writing about being sad and miserable, it’s depressing. And if they’re writing about their successes, name-dropping anecdotes and their careers soaring, it’s… even more depressing.
Well, no, of course, one really thinks, good for them; I’m happy for them, and I wish them well. But during one’s darker nights, I regret to confess the presence of an inner imp of Envy, pouting childishly and whining “how come THEY’VE got a huge house / perfect lover / perfect career / their own private elephant, and I haven’t?”
And that’s just one’s friends. Enemies get a far easier ride, because at least you know where you are with them. I really must get that imp painlessly put down.
Envy is not only a perniciously pointless and unflattering sin, it doesn’t even make sense. Not only could I be getting on with pursuing said objects of desire for myself, what’s crucial to the mix is I’m not anyone else and they’re not me. People say “I wish I could spend a day in David Beckham’s shoes”, but if they really did switch bodies, they’d lose everything Mr Beckham had in seconds. They’d mess it up. The change would be so pronounced, it would lead to the footballer being thrown into an asylum for good.
Besides, I’m as happy as can be expected at the moment. I’ll admit I have a fridge that still holds unopened bottles of expensive booze, gifts from others, which I have promised to only drink with a lover. I’ve had them for nearly a year, now. But I don’t mind. I’ll just have to find another reason to drink the champagne – the release of the Fosca album, perhaps.
(and as I type this, someone I don’t know in a country I’ve never visited sends me several times the minimum donation for the Diary Angels fund. I really can’t complain.)
What does matter is that I’m not in any physical pain. Even those various aches and bouts of mysterious localised soreness have gone away. The ointments have run out, but so have the ailments. Just as well.
***
Thing is, although I don’t have a cold of any sort, at this time of year I am likely to occasionally find myself suddenly sneezing. Just once or twice a day – not even worth buying the anti-hay fever treatments. What I would really like to know is: why am I cursed with such a loud, outrageous bellowing comedy sneeze (like something off a 1950s radio comedy), while daintier sorts get to make a noise akin to a sniffly kitten? Can I train myself to sneeze in a quieter fashion?
***
Thought when buying razors. I bridle at the Gillette latest Men’s brand – FIVE blades on one head plus a sixth tucked away, presumably for special occasions. It’s such a male kind of marketing – more of anything is meant to be better, regardless. I will never fill manly enough to buy anything from Mr Gillette, so I plump for the Boots’ own brand – a comparatively sissy three blades. When buying razors, I go by Ockham’s.
***
Innocent, the aggravatingly pretentious drinks firm, has renamed its ‘Juicy Water’ range, which is more water than juice.
The drink is now called ‘This Water’.
