Brain Drain

Missing: 28 years of accumulated memory. Identifying characteristics: paranoid fantasy; half-baked feminist deconstruction; lyrics to Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals (I’m not proud); no geographical knowledge whatsoever. Reward for information leading to its return: eternal gratitude. And a bun.

In explanation, I was in the local on Monday evening (start the week as you mean to go on), and ‘assisting’ Amy Tree and Karaokie Blokie with various games on that devious time-wasting contrivance, the pub quiz machine. More like a psychological torture device that charges you for the pleasure of mocking your ignorance, I quickly became disenchanted with the idea of feeding precious gin money into its sneering maw. Not, however, before I had seriously begun to doubt the existence of a section of my brain which is supposed to store information, some of it acquired at great expense over 3 years at university. At best I was able to assist with answers to the blindingly obvious questions, along the lines of ‘Who directed Star Trek V: The Final Frontier?…A) William Shatner B) Andy Pandy C) Nitrous Oxide D) Marxism’. More commonly, I would gaze quizzically at the rapidly decreasing timer as if the questions were in Cantonese, perhaps mumbling “I think maybe….” as if the act of speaking would summon something, anything, resembling knowledge from my mind, which had at this point turned its back and was pretending to examine intently something very interesting on the other side of the room.

I’m not saying I’m stupid. I have been known, on occasion, to make useful, possibly even engaging contributions to conversation, and hold down a job which often requires me to contribute some sort of intellectual effort. But the lack of ability to access anything resembling trivia, general knowledge or, that thing of which I am most envious, a joke, is starting to cause significant social problems. I would be very happy if someone could tell me the medical term for the inability to recall information on demand in a competitive environment, preferably in Latin so I can intellectualise it. And promptly forget it.

The Great Divide

I have been pondering on the recent demise of the Icelandic quiz-show demi-god Magnus Magnusson. Having been briefly in his presence, when he unveiled what I seem to remember was a large rock commemorating the 2000th anniversary of the Viking invasion of Cornwall*, I scoured the inner reaches of my mind, trying to recall some inkling of a tangible experience of the man himself. I was right out of inklings (don't they sound like tiny creatures that steal biros?). I did however stumble across what I feel may be a signifcant cultural dividing line between generations of Brits: those who, when asked to identify a famous Magnus, would obviously answer 'Magnusson', and those who would answer 'Powermouse'. One could probably delineate whole new marketing subgroups based on this vital information. However if anyone wishes to do so please note I hold intellectual copyright of the concept; you can have it for a fiver and a cup of tea.

*this is probably wrong

Winners and Sinners

Today, I feel like a winner. Far from having achieved anything specific (it IS only Monday), this is due to the fact that, unlike a large percentage of the population I have encountered in the past week, I have not made any of those nasty little guilt-inducing new year’s resolutions. You can spot almost instantly those friends and colleagues who have already disappointed themselves by failing to curb their smoking/cake-eating/compulsive sex habit (alright, those ones don’t look so disappointed), their faces crumpling when they confess their newly-minted sins, 2007 already a write-off.

My defects, failings and nasty habits are, I am proud to say, well and truly in tact. Suggestions for new and interesting vices will be seriously considered.

This was one of the many Sunday night work-induced insomniac thoughts that occupied me last night as I was slowly absorbed into my beloved memory foam mattress, a sleeping companion that knows the contours of my body more intimately than any lover (and is significantly lower-maintenance).

Another niggling thought was that, despite my anti-resolution stance, I must admit to feeling a need to do….well, something other than being-at-work or not-being-at-work. I decided that my sometime leaning towards making a mess on canvas (clear lack of confidence in the idea of calling myself an artist) should take the route of Vegetable Variations. Striking celery, inviting avocadoes, inexplicable onions; these mute models will be my new focus. And they’re perfect subjects – cheap, quiet, and you can make a casserole out of them when you’re done. This interest in depicting the mystery of fruits and tubers was prompted by a flashback (wobbly lines) to myself at the tender age of 15, explaining to my longsuffering mother why I needed her to acquire a colourful variety of veg which I would leave on my windowsill to deteriorate into a soggy, smelly and potentially health-damaging mess, to be documented by myself in a variety of media over the course of 6 weeks. Her growing concern as spores were gradually released and a foul smelling liquid was exuded by my motley collection of aubergines, apples and mushrooms can only have been assuaged by the fact that her eldest progeny was one step closer to teenage cliché – impenetrable sulks and wild mood swings would now be accompanied – joy! – by rotting food in the bedroom.

Snap back to the present: it occurs to me that I should make amends for these recently remembered tests of my mother’s fortitude by being a Model Daughter for the year. But doesn’t that sound a bit too much like a resolution?...