Tra-la-la-la-la I can't hear-r-r-r-r you

"This," I reflect as the Doctor talks to me, "is deeply depressing."

The Doctor in question (there are so many of them these days) is the original one, who is far and away the maddest of them all (me included). She is lecturing me about my blood pressure. At one point she mentions impotence as a threat; I look unimpressed (why is the todger always considered the ultimate escalation when it comes to men's health?) I zone-out half-way through and ponder whether this would be more or less depressing if this was a surprise.

I am the least healthy person that I know. I don't mean this in the Charles Dickens sense, i.e. not in the consumption / swooning / limping sense that so many of his duller (but always angelic) characters appear to suffer from; in fact in the man-flu / days off work stakes I tend to do fairly well and I rarely swoon at work, however tight my corset. In general though, I disapprove of gyms, exercise, diets and just about everything which this doctor would encourage me into, while I thoroughly approve of cakes, chocolate and, for a while, cigarettes.

What really annoys me is the assumption that my lifestyle is the way it is just because I'm ignorant of the health benefits / defects of exercise / cakes (possibly together, in an exciting and messy spectacle). This leads to nagging. Currently, I'm being nagged to go to the gym.

"Yes, but I don't want to."
"Perhaps a group class?"
[Shudder] "I really don't want to."
"Swimming?"
"Doctor, how can I phrase this ...?"

It's like the whole smoking thing. Who in their right mind could have missed the fact that smoking is bad for your health? Only someone whose intellect is at a level where, let's face, the discussion could be resolved much easier by bribing them with jelly-tots rather than having a debate over the benefits to their health. Yet does this stop anyone pointing this out?

Saying "I don't want to" makes me sound like a five year old and I'm sure that in the middle of a heart-attack my opinion on these matters may well change, but I really don't want to. This is not child-like obstinacy, this is not wanting everything in life without the side-effects, this is making a choice and doing so well aware of the impact on my long-term health. I don't want to exercise for the sake of exercise and I don't want to fundamentally change my lifestyle for an extra ten years at the end of it all.

No-one seems to believe me. They lecture me anyway. I go on a diet to shut them up. I get indigestion. I can't take indigestion remedies because of my epilepsy medication (completely true - I can mix it with cocaine, ecstasy, heroin, alcohol, pretty much anything, except a Rennie - although the medical profession didn't phrase it that way ... obviously). I can't help but feel that my body is trying to tell me something.

Whiz bang wallop

I've got home from watching the fireworks.

I'm a big fan of Guy Fawkes night, partly because I always enjoyed the ambiguity of whether or not we were celebrating his being caught, or the actual act he was attempting. Political sophistication aside, there's always the whizz-bang prettiness of fireworks and besides, I'm a bit of a winter person and nothing encompasses the cosiness of the season better than fireworks night.

Over the past two or three years social anxiety has got the better of me and I've stayed in, resenting all the fun that everyone else seems to be having. But not this year.

All in all it was rather disappointing. Things always are when they're viewed with the rose-tinted lens of childhood. It's interesting watching a tradition change perceptibly in your lifetime. Bonfires are gone, the burning of political caricatures has been copyrighted by certain extremist groups. Also its fireworks night, rather than Guy Fawkes. I'd like to blame political correctness gone mad on this one, or the increasing ignorance of the young, but suspect its one of those more subtle, more complicated shifts in society (a meme, if you like that word, which personally I do not). So really it was just a bunch of flashy lights, a lot of smoke and a lot of good will - in the end it was that last point that made it worth attending.

The streets were so crowded I ended-up walking through a large chunk of East London before I had a realistic chance of getting on a bus. Standing at a bus stop in some out-of-the-way (and allegedly troubled) part of London, iPod caroling me with a deeply moody soundtrack, feeling self-assured and confident, a part of me thought, "I always wanted my life to be like this". Now that is cause for the lights in the sky.

On cleverness

A sure path to madness is to spend too much of your time wondering about what other people think of you. It's a sad fact that the people least touched by self-doubt (or at least by objectivity) are those most in need of a healthy dose of it: politicians, many celebrities, and so on.

I am, I like to think, clever. I also like to think I'm handsome, although I like to think it in the same way I like to think I'm the secret boyfriend of Anton Antipov, i.e. it's a daydream, albeit a very pleasurable one, which can only last until Mr Reality comes for a visit. Fortunately on the cleverness front, other people sometimes agree with me (they are tactfully quiet on the handsomeness front, and as for Anton, well, no-one is supposed to know so I tend to keep it in the category of unconfirmed delusion). But I wonder if they're wrong.

I've just finished watching a BBC screenplay, Blue/Orange. A charming, charming play. You see, I watch things on BBC4, hence I am clever. I can't, however, claim to understand it. I often wonder about people who are able to say things like "oh the consultant represents the establishment's view of racism, he is pragmatic but often found lacking, while the younger doctor is more caring but at the same time judgemental and angry at the lack of appreciation", whereas my summary is more along the lines of "there were two doctors, right, and a black patient who was a bit nuts - no, I don't know him - and they, erm, talked a lot about whether or not to section him and they got really quite angry". Blue/Orange is not the only play I do not understand.

If it were just cereberal drama which manages to elude my heightened IQ then my claim to cleverness would surely be undisputed (although, I am sure, sneered at by a lot of drama critics). Anyone making claims to cleverness should be capable with a cryptic crossword (and alliteration), and I'm sorry but those are not anagrams, some of the letters are missing. Also, most "literature" bores me to tears, and even though I remain unconvinced that anyone has ever fully read Ulysses I really should see more beauty in Shakespeare.

I'm beginning to think I'm an idiot savant: someone with a few, highly elevated skills in particular areas, but otherwise, well, an idiot. And with my skills being around computers and what-not, I'm hardly going to be the subject of an oscar-winning, heart-stirring Hollywood blockbuster. Ah, lack of Hollywood appeal, yet another talent I appear to be lacking.

On the other hand, perhaps I should take BBC4 dramas a little less seriously. And that young doctor did look ever so handsome.

Oh! My! God!

How ironic that at a time when I've been most sociable, I've had my lowest electronic presence. Further evidence for Fuld's hypothesis: there is an inverse relationship between your social life and electronic life. I have started using those fancy online social network things - linked in and facebook - the latter with some guilt, since I've always dismissed it as something for 12 year olds (although I'm not entirely convinced that I was wrong).

Unfortunately this is not a happy turnaround in my condition, but a matter of necessity. The credit cluster nut crunch has claimed me as its victim; having surrounded three rounds of redundancies, the entire organisation went all-in and declared bankruptcy. Looking on the positive side proved difficult (no pay cheque, no job, and a few thousand other people competing with you for roles where no-one was hiring). Still, this time has taught me some very interesting things which I thought I would share with my vast readership ...

#1: I'm good in a crisis. Despite feeling run-over by a bus I had made a plan. It was not a terribly sophisticated plan (pay off all bills now, cancel unnecessary expenses, keep in contact with people senior enough to have discretion to hire in their next role, etc.) but it was better than standing around all day saying "oh my god".

#2: People are kinder than you think. I often look on my fellow man with a mans-inhumanity-to-man cynicism, and although I still hold that view, the genuine emotion with which people reacted when I told them came as a surprise.

#3: Your workplace can be your family. I was always told to save enough money to deal with times like this - and I have - but it was upsetting to see the grim situation of those who had not, or had not been in work long enough to do so, and my initial efforts were to find these people jobs and help them (a story repeated across all levels of maagement). Similarly, the actions of the most senior people and their lack of loyalty was gut-wrenching, and the actions of their immediate subordinates - negotiating as one group for all their teams - was heart-warming.

#4: I will be OK. In the end I got a new job, in fact I fell on my feet.

#5: Recruitment agents are scum.

"Well, Laphroaig, you aced the interview."
"Great."
"They're going to offer you the job."
"Super!"
"There's a 10k pay cut and at a junior level."
[Silence]
"I could try negotiating them higher. But I suggest you take it. It would be great for your career. Good prospects. And the mindless nature of the work gives you time to think about other things."
"I see."
"And I'm not saying that just to get my fee."
"No, I'm sure you're not."

#6: I would make a terrible recruitment agent. I have a little graduate here who needs a job. Who deserves a job. Despite my strenuous efforts I have been unable to make any progress. (Quite why I'm trying so hard is beginning to confuse me, I feel oddly paternal. I seemed to have adopted him in the same way some people do lost kittens.)

#7: Morality is difficult, and management decisions should weigh heavily. If you can save the jobs of one person, and you have two candidates, do you give it to the person best for the role, or the person most in need of employment? And are you able to deal with that second person's tears?

Out of every crisis, they say, comes a winner. I wonder if I will fall on the winning side, and how my new employer will shape-up. And, distantly and uncomfortably, I feel guilty for those - such as "my" graduate - who look likely to fall on the losing side.

Credit cluster nut crunch

I started to write a blog about the credit crunch, but it was too boring ... even for a blog. What it came down to was that the term "credit crunch" is being used by a whole bunch of people who don't know what it means. That includes me, although more worryingly it seems to include a lot of journalists as well.

Journalists have me over a barrel. Not literally, of course (barrels are such an awkward shape), and not really metaphorically since I am not a vapid, artless, dim-witted, publicity-hungry celebrity who needs the journalists whilst simultaneously despising their intrusion into my private life. Or ... am I? Well, no, when I last checked Britney Spears had not hidden from publicity by taking a technical role in an investment bank although they assure me that Paris Hilton pulled her weight in the UK and Domestic settlements team, they decided further celebrity internships were probably a mistake. The problem with the press is that on one hand you suspect they're a bunch of good-for-nothing ignorant buffoons who spend most of their time trying to fabricate conflict where none exists or willfully misunderstanding it where it does exist, but on the other anyone who tries to regulate them is clearly an I-am-not-mad-but-those-investigate-reporters-were-really-rude-and-deserved-to-be-hung good-for-nothing dictator who is overly sensitive to ... well, usually everything. But, really, shouldn't someone be able to ban the Daily Mail?

"Lord Vader?"
"Ah, my spin doctor."
"I prefer the term communication analyst."
"As you wish."
"Well, Lord Vader, we've been rather high profile, haven't we?"
"High profile? I destroyed the planet Alderaan and all its inhabitants. I have crushed the rebel alliance beneath my heel. I have total dominance of the galaxy."
"The Sun has this whole thing about you having an eating disorder."
"An ... eating disorder?"
"Yes. I know, I know. But they're calling you Lard Vader."
"Lard Vader? Surely no-one believes these lies?"
"The Independent is running another story about the budget for the Death Star. Calling it a white elephant. Said the trial run was unconvincing."
"It is the ultimate weapon in the galaxy!"
"Fortunately the papers were all distracted by this Lindsay Lohan thing."
"Ah yes, the Lohan."
"Off the wagon again."
"My jedi mind tricks have more uses than you can possibly imagine."
"You convinced Lindsay Lohan to get drunk?"
"It was not hard."
"I ... see. Well, we needed a distraction. Now, if we could just organise a photo-shoot? You and a lettuce? Lord Vader tucks in to a healthy salad before crushing the rebel crisp-eating scum? That kind of thing?"

Although I hesitate to use the term "insider" (I'm as close to the problem as the tea-boy is, and speak with a similar level of authority), I do sometimes wonder if the whole point isn't being missed, or perhaps willfully missed.

"So, Laphroaig, these toxic assets."
"They're not really toxic."
"Well perhaps from a health and safety point of view, but an accountant may disagree."
"No, really. I mean when you think of these securitised mortgage-backed thingies ..."
"But you didn't think, did you, you just saw greed!"
"No, I mean, maybe, but I mean they're just bonds, really."
"Bonds. Zzzzzzzzzzz."
"The payments on the bonds are made from everybody's mortgage payments."
"Ah ha! The collapsing mortgage market!"
"Are you just trying to provoke an argument?"
"Panic!"

Which is fine with the credit-crisis nonsense, but how many other areas of news reporting are being misreported? Georgia? Darfur? China? How many politicians / aid-workers / scientists / experts in their field scream at the TV screen "you've completely missed the point"? How accurate is my perception of the Georgian crisis (summary: Russia is nasty)? How many of those reports "critical of the government" are no such thing? It places an intriguing perspective on life when you start reflecting that most current affairs reporting might be, at best, a heavily distorted truth (or, more likely, a heavily distorted press release from the most friendly government).

The problem with that kind of thinking is it rapidly leads to the conclusion that the royal family are a bunch of alien serpents. Sometimes a little conformity is no bad thing.

Dive right in, the therapy's lovely

The therapist raises the idea of role play and its evident by the gratuitous rolling of eyes that role play is not for me. I can't be an easy patient: for a start, I am guarded, and not in that intriguing dark-secrets-lurk-beneath-the-surface way that marks a really good television drama; more in that "hello I'm Laphroaig and I am totally normal" sort of way, which is a bit of a barrier when you've chosen to receive therapy. My other issue is that I am far too polite, "what do you think about that?" he often asks to my pointedly interested although vaguely skeptical expression, as if he is the patient and I am the therapist trying to be encouraging.

"And of course your job is very demanding."
"Well, it was."
"And that leaves very little time for your personal life."
"Well, it did."
"And leaves you very tired."
"Well, I was."
"So perhaps we should look at your hours. What do you think about that?"
"Done that. Been there. Didn't help. Good idea though."

After a couple of weeks of disagreeing in a polite but mildly patronising way it began to dawn on me that I had a larger role in this relationship than acting as a psychological rubik's cube. Perhaps I'm supposed to help. This is not as easy as it sounds. While there's a definite narcistic appeal to whittering on about yourself constantly (blog, anyone?), like many other forms of self-pleasure it is considered impolite in company. There's also the disappointment of discovering that you're more day-time TV than classic mini-series.

"I think it might be ... my father."
"I see. Your father."
"Yes, resentment of my father."
"Which pop psychology textbook did you get that from?"
"Erm, one given to me by my mother?"
"Your mother? Christ, what is this, a quick tour of psychology cliches?"

It's hardly the dramatic tension of a Cracker interview, is it? Really, you've got to start ringing alarm bells when your own therapy bores yourself. Although, coming to think about it, being less interesting might be just what I need ...

Small is beautiful

"A little bit of what you fancy does you good," as grandmothers like to say. Therefore I snorted cocaine, insulted my boss and cut the finger off that intern I fancied (I always feel guilty about finding any intern attractive, although at their age of 20 it is hardly a criminal offence - except in certain countries where it is a criminal offence regardless of age). Perhaps certain advice should not be interpreted too literally.

Similarly, "less is more" is a good piece of advice in many areas: Powerpoint presentations should be brief (my first act as grand dictator of the world would be to introduce legislation restricting them to one page); one piece of chocolate, suitably relished with toe-curling intensity really is as good as, say, fifty gobbled down with lightning pace; and people should speak less, apart from me, since I have powerful wisdom to convey. Disney has clearly taken this message to heart by releasing a film (WALL-E) in which people hardly speak at all - clearly they have heard the prayers silently wailed by many a viewer of a Disney film, "please, please, please speak less". (WALL-E is very, very good.)

Those who doubt the impact of brevity should consider PostSecret - a site where users post their secrets from shameful, to sad, to bizarre. "I don't smile anymore," someone says, a secret which speaks of despair and sadness and regret more completely than I can imagine. Or One Sentence, which does something similar: "It happened in a closet," one story says darkly, and "I saw two monks bowling in Seoul," says another, more bewildered. On Thursday I went out with work colleagues. A bit of beer here, a bit of conversation there. Hardly an unusual event. I don't think I've done that for, oh ... two years? So maybe not an event to toast, perhaps not Tony Blair making winsome speeches on a historic achievement, but still ... a connection. And all the things I've missed without realising it: drunk conversations of alarming frankness; the I-really-should-stop-but-I'm-not-going-to feeling as I accept another bottle of beer, dancing to hypnotic, important-feeling music and the strange eyes-closed intensity I have to dancing. You see, it's the little things. It's always the little things.