Therapy, anyone?

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

2008-11-09T22:14:00.003Z

"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

2008-11-02T23:23:00.003Z

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

2008-10-19T19:24:00.003+01:00

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!

2008-10-12T22:19:00.003+01:00

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

2008-08-24T20:33:00.000+01:00

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

2008-08-03T20:44:00.003+01:00

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

2008-07-27T13:27:00.006+01:00

"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.

Paint a rumour

2008-07-20T02:40:00.004+01:00

I think Eurythmics summarised events in financial circles best when they sang ...

Paint a rumour (watch the colours spread)
Paint a rumour (see the stock turn red)
I will tell you something (promise not to tell)
I will tell you something (promise not to short sell)

... who thought eighties pop music lyrics (slightly adjusted) would so accurately predict the state of the 2008 stock market?

Wall Street is awash with stories of rumour-mongers deliberately driving down shares and simultaneously short-selling to make huge profits. Now the US regulator (the SEC) has stepped-in. They are carrying out a huge investigation and have said to subpoened a large number of investment banks and hedge funds. In addition they have cracked down on the activity known as naked shorting (shorting, like so many other activities, is legal when it is not naked).

This has revealed some interesting differences between finance and the rest of the world.

"They'll never find them."
"Yeah rumour-mongers are so difficult to find."
"Like those rumours I spread about you having an affair with Jeremy Kyle."
[Shudder] "That was you?"
"Ummm, no. Anyway, to catch them they would have to keep all their e-mails, record all their phone conversations, keep a track of all their IM and bloomberg conversations."
"Yeah. Like investment banks do."

Yes, they do. Doing the sexy realtime instant-messanger nasty with someone in the office is a really bad idea, mostly because it's open-plan ("that's not a meeting!") but also because the conversation will be recorded (it's a regulatory requirement, and is mandatory regardless of the raunch-content of the conversation): who knows what titillations the SEC will uncover when they start going through those seized records?

This is one of the paradoxes these events raise: everyone is terrified of the strict laws that govern investment banking and yet no-one expects the regulators to ever actually do anything or catch anyone (with the exception of the most blatant of acts, the French regulator fined SocGen €4m for their rogue trader, compared to the €4.9bn he had already lost it seems the only reasonable reaction would be a Gallic shrug). If the rumour-mongers exist and there was an organised campaign to drive-down prices of particular stocks it would be undetectable with any reasonable planning, but only if the organisers expected the regulators to actually do something about it. If they take the approach that everyone else takes - it's impossible to track - then they could be in a lot of trouble ... except the regulators never do anything anyway.

The SEC's other action, to effectively outlaw naked short selling, also met with mixed responses. Some felt it was propping up a broken financial system. Others of looking after the pals. Others simply thought those shoes were ghastly and puh-lease, that suit. Naked short selling (and short-selling in general) is controversial (at least, to those who give a damn) - short-sellers have been accused of encouraging financial crises ranging from the Tulip bubble to the '29 Wall Street Crash. Whether or not it is as wide-spread or as damaging as people claim is subject to debate, but it goes to show how skewed perspectives are when an attempt to stop people selling things they do not (and will not) own is seen as unquestionably bad.

Of course it's only investment banks which suffer (or profit, according to some of the news) - and what sympathy do they deserve? I wonder if people would be quite so relaxed if it happened to them?

"I'll pay for this this."
"Thanks for the meal Laphroaig. Managed to overcome all that nonsense about the credit card then?"
"Oh yes, got to the bottom of all that trouble with the credit rating."
"What was it in the end?"
"An organised campaign of rumour-spreading."
"Really?"
"Yes. Apparently everyone was sure I was about to announce massive write-downs due to the credit crunch and an undocumented exposure to the US sub-prime mortgage industry leading to an emergency fire-sale to a UK bank, probably Barclays, for $15."
"How odd."
"I asked the regulator to investigate."
"Oh I wouldn't bother. Rumours are so difficult to track down and it was only endless financial misery, hardship and your reputation."
"But ... but ..."
"Oh come, come, don't be a baby about it. Comes with the territory. And it wasn't true, so what damage did it really do?"

I may be as mad as a beetroot (surely the maddest of all root vegetables) but the world in which I operate can also seem a little unbalanced.

Perhaps we cancel each other out? So, at work, that makes me ... sane?

Summertime and the living is easy

2008-07-13T13:27:00.003+01:00

Summer brings an abundance of that migratory creature: the intern. They swarm, bright-eyed and slightly frightened with dreams of mega-bucks deals clearly visible in their eyes. Usually they get sent to me.

"What's your job, Laphroaig?"
"That's a very good question."
[Expectant silence]
"Let me know if you ever find the answer."
[Slightly dumb-founded look]

Then we get them to do some filing.

Roles and responsibilities, job titles, performance-measurement ... all these things are important; if an employer attempts to change your title from "Project Delivery Manager" to "Convicted Fraudster" it should, in general, be resisted - such titles can be quite unflattering on a CV - and is a sign that either you've really annoyed someone in HR, or that they're on to you, or that they're trying to prevent you from leaving without that tedious expense of higher salaries.

Fortunately my current job title is of no help at all. Electronic Client Person, is fraught with ambiguities.

"So, you're electronic?"
"In a sense, yes."
"Does that mean you're a creature of pure energy?"
"Ummmm, no."
"Ah, I see. Electronic Client ... Person. Your clients are creatures of pure energy?"
"Ah, no."
"Probably for the best. Not much of a market I suppose?"
"Ah, I suppose not."
"Can you shoot electricity out of your hands?"
"Well, no."
"That's rather disappointing. I have to say, Mr Laphroaig. This job title is blatantly misleading and fraught with ambiguities."

This could work in my favour. I could do nothing all day, turning away all work by adopting a Dick Van Dyke Cockney accent and saying "love to help you, guv'nor, can't do it I'm afraid, not my job you see, boss would go maaaaaad if I took it on". Alternatively I could just attach myself to the project with the best-looking men on it and use meetings as a sort of mini speed-dating. Perhaps not the best idea with redundancy in the air.

And so I have become something more esoteric.
NB - The ninjawords definition of esoteric concludes with "and without obvious practical application".
I flit from project to project as instructed. This, of course, means they're rubbish projects typically in trouble. I have started to lobby HR for an official job title of Trouble-Shooter as part of a five-step plan to allow me to bring guns into the office and shoot anyone who annoys me.

"You ... you ... you shot the lead deveoper!"
"He was trouble. So I shot him. That's what I do."
"But ..."
"You ain't givin' me trouble, are you?"

However, they made the excellent observation "who the hell do you think you are?" and I do suppose that such a job title has an inherent ability to insult.

"We've drafted Laphroaig on to your project."
"I didn't realise we were in trouble."
"Well the project is late. And he writes dreadfully nice e-mails."

And so with one mega project done and dusted, it is time to move on. And while I love to complain about my odd-job man role, at least I get the variety (i.e. a constant state of change, not the entertainment magazine, investment banking has not yet reached the levels where compensation is in the form of glossy magazines) and with it the challenge and, no doubt, the lack of recognition at the end of year promotion bout.

"So, Laphroaig, what's his job?"
"I can't say for sure, but he's very useful. That's why we thought of promoting him."
"Yes, my secretary's very useful. Shoots lightning bolts out of her hands. Is he a secretary?"
"Could be. Sort of greases the wheels."
"So an odd-job man?"
"Don't think so."
"Bartender?"
"Maybe. He sorts of looks after problem projects, but then they always get better by themselves so we have to move him on again."
"Oh, a vagrant?"
"Could be. He looked after that mega project."
"Oh that one. What happened to that?"
"It went live."
"I didn't notice."
"You weren't supposed to, I think."
"Should we be promoting people for things we don't notice?"
"Maybe next year."

Would I have it any other way? And so I smile at my interns.

"Sometimes we need ambiguity in job roles. It's a good thing."
"Really?"
"Yes. It ensures gaps are filled and it gives me variety."
"Oooo, can I borrow? There's a really interesting article about Angelina Jolie."

Afraid of showing your brain in the changing room?

2008-07-06T11:15:00.005+01:00

Today an e-mail arrived in my inbox: ACTUAL PEOPLE SEARCHING FOR REAL SEX RIGHT NOW! It sounds rather surprised at itself. Perhaps in the past it has come tantalisingly close to this perfect combination:

NOT QUITE ACTUAL PEOPLE (BUT QUITE CLOSE) SEARCHING ...
ACTUAL PEOPLE UNINTERESTED IN FINDING REAL SEX ...
ACTUAL PEOPLE SEARCHING FOR KITCHEN ACCESSORIES RIGHT NOW!
ACTUAL PEOPLE SEARCHING FOR REAL SEX BUT AT A LATER DATE WHEN IT WOULD BE LESS INCONVENIENT IF YOU DON'T MIND!

Despite the obvious temptations of a crowd of people lurching through the streets with zombie -like fixation on "se-e-e-e-e-e-ex, re-e-e-e-a-a-a-a-al s-e-x-x-x-x-x", and the coincidence that at work I get e-mails promising me unreal sex with just a few pills (surely this should be investigated), I decide to delete the e-mail as I have something more interesting waiting for me on my PC.

No, I am not talking about porn.

I have my brain on a CD. I went for an MRI scan and afterwards, much to my surprise, they present the results on a CD. I spend a long time looking at, searching for clues for my particular personality quirks (is that particular patch where my epilepsy is lurking, I wonder) and wonder if this is narcissistic. There is something deeply disturbing about seeing the curves and ridges of your spinal chord (it looks depressingly fragile). There is even a setting to flick through my the pictures quickly so you get the impression of floating through your own brain. It's a pretty short journey - I think Alton Towers might have the edge on it.

But mostly, I always thought my brain would be, well, without wanting to be crude, bigger. Perhaps I should contact those people bombarding my e-mail promising "massive increases in the size of my love equipment" if they have anything for any other areas.

Revenge, like chocolate milk, is best served cold

2008-06-29T17:51:00.004+01:00

On a carton of chocolate milk: "Delicious served cold". It seems a peculiarly qualified statement, as if there is an unsaid "horrible served warm" or "vile served hot" that a sly marketing manager removed. This thought has been with me all week, and I would have shared it in the real world except I'm a little embarrassed about buying chocolate milk.

This week's big breakthrough has been to attend a social event. I am gay. I was about to say I am obviously gay - which apparently I am - but it's a characteristic I do not recognise and am always a little taken-aback by: campness is a difficult thing to gauge, of course, but it's not as if I'm turning-up to work in a sequin dress and yelling "coo-eee" across the trading floor. I occasionally indulge in guerilla campness, threatening to hug people unless they deliver the work I need and on time; this is a surprisingly effect form of project management.

"Who asked for these system changes?"
"Laphroaig."
Shudder. "Best get them done else he might give us a kiss."
"But my workload!"
"That might be with tongues."
"I'll work night and day."

Tangents about my character to one side, this was a gay event. I approached it with an extra-large slice of trepidation, partly because it was for people who do not like The Scene. I do not like the gay scene either as it can be brash, shallow and very superficial - that gentleman with the lovely body is not dancing topless in the hope of a fascinating conversation about the influence of the cold war in post-modern geo-political international tensions. This is not to say that he lacks intellectual muscles to rival his (really rather gorgeous) pectorals, of course, but he's not there for a night of animated political discussion and nor is anyone else (except if they are it raises the interesting image of muting the music, shouting "let's discuss the relevance of Orwell's dystopian vision to today's society" and having the entire dance floor cheer you on in agreement). Aside from night clubs, though, there are precious few other options: online dating has gained increased acceptance, but my brief encounters with it were depressingly seedy. Then there are always gay bars.

"So where did you meet?"
"In a bar."
"I see, hang out at bars a lot do you?"
"Well, sometimes, to meet men. What is this, the 1950s?"

So this is a club. A social club for men of a certain sexuality (gay, of course, straight men who want to socialise with other men with a healthy dollop of homo-eroticism can join a rugby club), and who do not like the scene. This filled me with trepidation. I don't like the gay scene either but this is purely because I relish intellectual discourse and is in no way related to jealousy over my lack of lovely, lovely chest muscles. Not everyone's motives may be so clear-cut.

In the end, though, it was exactly what it seemed. A lunch at a pleasant enough London restaurant. I was quite disappointed by the lack of interesting anecdotes and (although I would never admit it) the failure to meet the love of my life.

Afterwards someone phoned to find out who you liked and who you, erm, did not. The club prides itself on not being clique-y, apparently. This, I soon understood, was because they had outsourced the whole organisation of the clique to someone else.

This is hardly the stuff of romance novels ... but nor is having anxiety attacks and social paralysis so yes, I confirmed, I would be interested in attending further events. But there was one thing it confirmed: I am a class-A introvert - I was exhausted by the time I arrived home.

Or maybe that was the free wine.

So, I'm having an anxiety attack ...

2008-06-22T20:08:00.000+01:00

... it's like a panic attack but without the balls. What interests me most about it (although, I have to admit, probably not anyone else) is the cause.

Most OCD sufferers are well aware of their obsession, since it is linked to their compulsion. So people obsessed with germs are compulsive cleaners. On the darker side of the spectrum are people who suffer from obsessive thoughts (often unpleasant - sexual or violent or both), who must carry out a ritual in order to feel released from these thoughts. Of course, the real underlying cause is tucked-away out of sight: the brain chemistry if you believe in that, or upbringing, if you prefer that approach, or both, if you're a Liberal Democrat.

I don't understand what my obsession is. So on one hand I'm thinking "I see-e-e-e-e, ver-r-r-y ink-tu-rest-ink" (yes, with a German accent) and on the other I am nauseous, my breathing is accelerating and becoming shallow and I'm thinking ... well, what am I thinking? In the end I hide behind my compulsion, and run to my blackberry and take a look at work. Then I justify it to myself, call myself a liar and generally feel glum. (I may not know what my obsession is, but my compulsion is work.)

"There must have been something!" I shout at myself.
Myself mumbles something about doing the cleaning.
"You've done most of the cleaning, it's almost all done! You spent most of the week doing it without a single ****ing attack, digging yourself out of this stupid hole! You ****ing mental!"
N.B. I can have a bit of a temper, although only with myself.

Really, this makes me the worst form of hypocrite. I keep on going on and on and on to anyone who will listen how the symptoms of mental illness is not the feelings themselves - it is the lack of a rational cause. Having a panic attack is perfectly sensible if, say, you find yourself stuck in a lift with Hannibal Lecter ... or John Prescott (or both, although in that case deciding who would eat who could be quite entertaining), but you get officially filed as a mental if you have no good reason for having one.

But what was I thinking? Oh **** it, I don't know. Now ... where's my blackberry?

I'm sorry sir, but is that your capacity being diminished?

2008-06-15T09:57:00.000+01:00

I have a new mantra: it's not me, it's the OCD. It sounds a little plaintive compared to ...

From ignorance, lead me to truth;
From darkness, lead me to light;
From death, lead me to immortality.

... and certainly lacks the Buddhist mantra's ambition ("from social paralysis, lead me to a pleasant social engagement with some nice people and an ability to really be myself, but nothing too intense"), but it works for me.

The words themselves are taken from the four steps. Yes, having spent most of my life sneering at self-help as self-indulgent clap-trap I am now going through the stages of relabelling, reattributing, refocusing and revaluing. Frankly, I have no right to be cynical when I'm the one with bailiffs on my door wanting payment for a bill I would have paid except I'm, errrr, frightened of the post.

"You have to pay."
"Oh."
"If you can't pay we're able to take possessions to the same value."
"Can't I just give you cash?"
"Er, you can pay?"
"Oh yes."
"Most people can't you see. That's why they don't."
"Oh I imagine so, yes."
"Why didn't you pay earlier then?"
"Well, it's a long story, but, erm, I'm frightened of the letterbox."
"Right. Bit of a nutter then?"
"Yup."
"Seeking help?"
"I'm on this fascinating thing called the four steps. Something to do with relabelling, retiering, repaving and re-tarmacing. I think. It's all a bit new."
"The four steps. Not much of a name is it?"

No. No it isn't. It sounds a bit like a pub. Or a generic alcohol rehabilitation programme. Or an early draft of a Richard Buchan novel before the publisher got him to change the title.

"I like it, but I'm not sure about the title."
"The Four Steps, what's wrong with it?"
"Sounds a bit like a self-help book."
"How about The Thirty-Nine Steps?"
"Sounds like a really, really ambitious self-help book. But it'll have to do."

When I heard about the Alpha Course I thought "that sounds interesting, it's got the word Alpha in it, it must be very intellectual". That was until I saw the footnote and saw the "may contain traces of God" warning and decided to leave it at that.

However, the branding is only my first issue with the four steps (it's not even capitalised, what were they thinking?). The second is the way I have started blaming everything on the OCD. What's that smell? It's not me, it's the OCD! Who ate all the pies? It's not me ... And so on. At what point does this become an excuse?

"So Mr Laphroaig, these dozen dead bodies."
"Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh. I smell ... evening primrose body spray and ... fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh ... lacey underwear."
"Well don't look at me."
"Sorry, bad habit I picked-up from Doctor Lecter."
"You want to watch that."
"Sorry officer."
"And it's perfectly normal for men to wear lacey underwear."
"Of course, officer."
"So, these dozen dead bodies?"
"It's not me ..."

Not, I have to stress, that I have a dozen dead bodies. But when I sit there, desperately trying to avoid doing whatever chore I've avoided for the past six months and therefore is now a task of biblical proportions, and chant to myself "this is not me", I can't help but hear another, more cynical side of myself saying "yes it bloody-well is you lazy sod ... now I wonder if there's anything interesting on the TV".

Fortunately it's summer - there's never anything interesting on the TV. And so, if the TV scheduling allows, my recovery continues.

In a galaxy far, far away ...

2008-06-08T23:11:00.004+01:00

This is the prologue.

OK, so I'm a thirty-year-old nondescript kind of guy, working in an investment bank. All investment banks are, of course, completely evil and completely deserve the rough time they are currently experiencing in the turbulent financial markets. Apart from mine, of course. We're lovely.

All is not well. My personal life shows several signs of going completely bonkers (and has done for some time) and I, not wanting to end up in a padded-cell, decide enough is enough and resign. Quite what my plans were I can't say; I'd love that to mean that I'd got an alternative career lined-up as James Bond (would have to kill you if I told you, possibly inflicting death with an ingenious gadget) but alas, all it really meant was that desperation had reached the shoot-now-ask-questions-later point, and minor complications like jobs and money and all that could wait until later.

I explained to my lovely, lovely employers that I was on a one-way train to a nervous breakdown. The ticket was probably blue. A kind of duck-egg blue. Yes, definitely blue.

They adopted a suitably caring facial expression. Perhaps, they said, it would be good to see a shrink. And, oh, you don't have any sharp objects anywhere near you, do you?

The psychiatrist was an epiphany moment.

"You've got OCD."
"Errr, no I haven't."
"Yes you have."
"Pretty sure I haven't, Doctor."
"Pretty sure you have, actually. And I'm the qualified psychiatrist and you're just a mental."
NB - the conversation did not actually happen this way.

For those who have not spent the entire night reading everything the web has to offer on OCD, it means Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and is characterised by a compulsion (cleaning is the most frequently quoted example) driven by an obsession (so compulsive cleaning is often driven by an obsessive fear of germs). The sufferer is well aware of the totally irrational nature of the OCD, which is partly what makes it so unpleasant. Frankly, an obsessive need to clean the kitchen would be quite useful in my flat, since I tend to stand in the doorway, stare at it listlessly and then think, "maybe tomorrow". In fact all of my symptoms are around inaction, so I feel I got a rather raw deal on the symptoms front: not picking-up the phone / answering mail / ignoring the real world / not maintaining contact with, well, anyone, really. Of course, all those people who are left house-bound by their OCD may disagree.

Apparently, quitting my job would be the worst thing for me and would have seen me decline. Which was nice to know since, at the time, declining felt like walking off the balcony. It also added an extra incentive to withdrawing my resignation.

"So, you're withdrawing your resignation?"
"Yes."
"Thing is, we were kind of thinking the team did need to get a bit smaller."
"Oh."
"And it came at a handy time."
"It's just that I'll die if you don't."
"That's kind of pressuring."
"Yeah, you and me both."
NB - not this conversation either.

And that's me. In a nut-shell. Back at work, all my bosses thinking I'm a flake (as in unreliable, not the wonderfully chocolate kind, I'm pretty sure their sanity is at a higher level than mine and therefore they do not have delusions of me as a chocolate bar) and trying to repair the personal life I've somehow devastated. Fun!