Top Ten: Things I can't live without

I know that I can't live without food or water because, well, I'd be dead. But this isn't that kind of list. This is more of an 'I could live without them but I wouldn't want to' list. Indulge me for a moment and read on...

1) Sleep:

As evident from previous posts, readers will know I have lived without sleep for days, many times. The results? Not pretty. Hallucinations, holes in memory and angry tirades directed at innocent family members. If you value friends and sanity, make sure you get your 8 hours while I try to get mine. 

2) Music:

Music is my best friend. She's there when I'm happy or sad. She's at the gym, urging me on for just five more minutes. Within the same breath, she can inspire and move me to tears. She drowns out the silence on long car journeys and is as much a memory as the memory itself. I can't see her but I'd be lost.

3) Books:

Learning to read opened the door to my imagination. All the stories - the hundreds of world's I've visited without having to move - has enriched my life and the way I see the things. As long as I have a book - I don't care what it is - I'm content. 

4) Memories:

Memories make us who we are on good days and fuel us on the bad. Idle insignificant moments of my life where I am lost in banality, stress or sadness, can be altered by the recall of a distant memory. The smile, the happiness evoked, flicks the switch. Without memories, life would be very poor. Just ask patient H.M. 

5) Pen/Pencil:

We might live in a technological age where handwriting is that swirly thing kids learned in primary school (and left there) but I would hate the inability to write things down. I don't even need paper -  the skin on my arm is sufficient. I might not be Shakespeare and his quill but I have the right to try, damn it!

6) News:

Reading it, watching it - I'm not fussy. Good or bad, I'll take both. The thought of going a couple of days without access to the news gives me palpitations. Not knowing what's happening in the world? Excuse me while I go get my Sky News on. It's for the good of my health...

7) Internet:

How else can one watch TV, book a holiday, buy a new wardrobe and read a list of the most unusual deaths (and anything else weird) without leaving your desk? Impossible!

8) Passport:

I might not like the picture inside but my little burgundy book represents a wealth of opportunity. The instant access to hundreds of destinations provides untold possibilities. All I need is my passport. Money helps too, of course, but that's another matter. 

9) Laughter:

Handing out smiles makes me feel like a decent human being. Nothing else will remedy a bad day (or an awkward situation) that laughter. My mum taught me to laugh, particularly at myself, no matter what the occasion. So I do. A lot. Most people laugh at me too but I can deal with that; as long as they're happy. 

10) Writing:

I suppose I could have put this with number 5 but writing is so much more than the physical act of using a pen. It's a whole process; thoughts, creativity, imagination. I can't bear to think of a life without the time or opportunity to write. It's a fun, sometimes cathartic, activity that prevents my brain from exploding. Needs must and all that...

So reader, what things can't you live without? 

Confession

Reader, a whirlwind caught and carried me away. A burst of creative energy assailed me and I could not, would not, fight it. But then, who would?

For those new to my blog, eighteen months ago I started writing a novel. It began as a piece to pass the time. A pithy little thing, five pages long. And yet, some days later, it was ten pages. And some time after that, it was twenty. My character had not finished telling her story and so I listened to her pleas. What started as a short story soon evolved into something far more complex. The Novel.

I'd always wanted to write a book. I'd read a lot of them, which helped. Liked the feel of words as they played and slipped from my mind. A blank white page never scared me. It tempted, with possibilities and promises. What could I do with it? Who knew? I'd certainly have fun finding out.

Other people recognised my eagerness to write. In my Year 6 leaving book that I got from primary school, aged eleven, an old teacher had written: 'Be sure to send me the first copy of your book.' Over the years, every so often, my Granddad would ask me: 'So, when are you going to write this book of yours?'

It's been a struggle. There have been days when I could not bear to look at it, think or dream. I've grappled with distrust; of my own imagination and my possible talent. At times I've loved it so much I envisioned marrying it, settling down and having kids. I'd stroke the pages on the screen like it was my precious. Other times I've hated it so much I'd print the whole thing just to rip it up and throw it in the garden, praying for rain to wash it away, from print and from memory. And then I felt bad for wasting a tree.

But through all that, the days of love and hate, the weeks of missing motivation, the months when inspiration left me in the lowly pit of despair, somehow, it has happened. I have finished. I have written a novel. I am full of accomplished glee, like I've reached the top of a mountain and my lungs are full of the freshest air. I'm just like Maria in The Sound of Music, without all the singing.

But now, dearest reader, comes the hard part: the dreaded edit. My lungs are suddenly empty, I've tripped, tumbled down the mountain side and I've hurt my head.

What. Have. I. Done?

The Book of Love

The Book of Love is long and boring; no one can lift the damn thing. It's full of charts and facts and figures, and instructions for dancing. Apparently, it also contains music, flowers and heart-shaped boxes. A highly original book, I may add.

I did not make this up. All credit goes to The Magnetic Fields- the band- not the electric current.

With all the red-love heart-shaped mess occurring in the world today, it got me to thinking. What if there was a book of love? Would it be of help or hindrance? Let us imagine...

The book is red and pink and the letters 'o' are shaped like hearts. Cupid's soft profile peers from the back cover, his wings embossed gold. He wrote it when his career hit a rough patch; his bow and arrow deemed a dangerous weapon and confiscated at Airport security. Still, the silver lining was a spot on the New York Times Bestsellers list. Every year for eternity. In bookshops it sits between 'How to get rich for life' and the other big seller, 'Instruction manual for Babies, Children and Unruly Teens.'

Every home has one. Pages dog-eared and scuffed from years of reference. When a guy doesn't call, the girl flicks through its wisdom searching for the answer to her prayers. Chapter 5: 'what to do when a man isn't interested' is especially scruffy in most households. When a man can't understand his other half, chapter 11 often comes in handy: 'reading between the lines: a woman's prerogative.'

With this modern age, there is even an e-reader copy of the book available for download, as well as an iPhone 'Love' App. On dates around the world, men and women flick through phones, hoping to avoid a disastrous dinner, just as their dates excuse themselves for the restroom.

Hmm. This alternate reality sounds too Stepford Wives for my liking. Where would our conversations be without date disasters and love woes? Hearts are meant to be bruised and broken sometimes. Love isn't always supposed to be easy. It's dirty and messy and can screw with your head. Much like life. On that note...

Happy Valentine's Day, readers.

Top Ten: Pet Peeves of the 21st Century

Everyone has a pet peeve. People, situations, habits that grate, like nails down a blackboard. Things that get on nerves and put backs up, whatever that means. Wait, what does it mean? Answers on a postcard.

1) The iPhone:

So called smartphone. Do we really need one product to make calls, send emails and take photographs? What if you wanted to make a call whilst taking a picture? Not possible with an iPhone. Massive fail. I also stand by my earlier comment: it looks like it's been made by aliens. Who knows where they've hidden the probes. Beware.

2) Facebook:

Hailed as the social networking place to be, Facebook has lured 350million people to waste time staring at their computers. Whether updating your status (yeah, I really wanted to know what you ate for breakfast) or uploading photographs (oh look, she's vomiting over that guy in the club-good times) you're not exactly being sociable. It's also a place rife with stalking and spreading lies. Nobody has 1000 friends. Unless you're Heidi Fleiss.

3) Twitter:

Advertised as 'the best way to share and discover what's happening right now' by microblogging in 160 characters or less. If what you've got to say is that small, it's not worth sharing. Witty or not.

4) Climate-change bandwagon jumping:

Environmental issues have existed for hundreds, if not millions, of years. Buying bags for life, recycling and less car usage do not change the fact. If you've only just started giving a damn about the environment for your great-great-great grandchildren, well, you're a big fat bandwagon jumper. Not cool, people.

5) X-Factor/Britain's Got Talent/America's Got Talent/Pop Idol/American Idol/Popstars the Rivals:

For years I've endured people who can't sing/dance/sing & dance and, listened to people discussing those who can't sing/dance/sing & dance. I don't care if Jedward make you laugh. They don't have talent, or the xyz factor, they don't pop and they're not idols. I may end up in rehab- the first breakdown caused by Simon Cowell's money-making machine. Susan Boyle got there first? Oh well.

6) Botox fever:

Popularity of Botox has increased considerably in the last decade. No longer a seedy little beauty secret, women (and men) are sticking needles of fat into minuscule lines that even magnifying glasses can't see. The result? Fish faces. Permanently stunned/scared expressions. Grow old gracefully, fish face.

7)Twilight:
Not the time of day. I like that. I'm talking about those books about the vampire, the werewolf and the pale girl. However poorly written, they killed a few hours. But they're certainly not worth all the screaming hype. Four words for you, Stephenie Meyer: Bram Stoker, Ann Rice. Let them show you how it's done.

8) Text Speak without the texting:

A popular peeve gets a 21st century twist. Shorthand in text messages is acceptable. But skipping vowels and consonants in emails, letters, blogs and essays is lazy, taking poor spelling and grammar to another vexing level. Learn to spell you lzy bstrd.

9) Orwellian Prophecies fulfilled:

No newspeak as of yet. But Big Brother has infiltrated every aspect of our world and not just on TV. In every shop, street and car-park, there is a feeling of being followed; a desire to glance over ones shoulder. Being treated like potential criminal whilst trying to reverse park. Annoying.

10) Celebrity Nicknames in real life:

Brangelina. Bennifer. TomKat. Spork. Cringe fest linguistics. Now non-famous people are doing it. Without the holy matrimony. It was cute. Until I vomited in my mouth.

So reader, anything you'd like to add?

Hearing Damage

Me + my sister + cinema = fun filled weekend. It is true. Betraying every sense in brain and body, I went to see New Moon. Begrudgingly. Okay, I wasn't dragged kicking and screaming. Nor were my hands tied and eyes propped open Clockwork Orange-style, forced to watch. But this is the Twilight saga. How would I describe my feelings towards this? Meh. Yes. Meh.

Sat down in our seats, I had the aisle. I like to be able to run if required. You never know when an alien life form of jelly-like substance may creep upon the unwitting cinema goer. You know, The Blob. Keep up reader, keep up.

We arrived early. Row upon row of empty velvet seats. Silence. Bliss. But it started. A slow steady hum of boots and heels in the distance. Raucous laughter and squeals of dolphin pitch that scratched ear drums twenty miles away. Louder it grew until the oxygen dwarfed and the cinema filled. From all directions hundreds of tweenagers poured in, squeezed through the gaps, marching up steps in near-darkness. Silver streaks glistened from T. Shirts emblazoned with 'Team Edward' and 'Bite Me.' Cheeks painted with uneven scrawls of 'Team Jacob' in black eyeliner. I had never felt so old in my life.

As the trailers finished, the sounds of popcorn munched and slushies slurped faded into the roar of screams from every pre-pubescent pair of lungs. A huge sallow-looking moon appeared on the screen. Screams. A green meadow filled with purple flowers. Screams. That sickly slouchy fellow with pained yellow eyes followed. Screams. 2 minutes had passed and I was deaf. It did not bode well for the next 128. I started to pray.

Prayers unanswered. Two hours of my life lost forever, snatched by evil Father Time in cohorts with Summit entertainment. Robust hearing built to withstand the toxic levels of my iPod obliterated in mere minutes. I don't remember much about the film itself. Abstain from sex blah. Vampires sparkle in sunlight blah. There was a lot of buff men running around the woods topless, dressed only in denim shorts. But I suppose I would remember that.

For the most part I stared aghast at my sister. Laughed at the madness around us. Worried about the hyperventilating teens along our row. By the time another batch of wild hysterics faded and we turned back to the screen, we'd missed about twenty minutes.

I am now scarred for life. Tweens and teens are the new enemy, riled up on sugar and desiring a man that eats animals and, oh yes, doesn't exist. I am too frightened to venture into my local cinema. They're not just under threat from The Blob. I think next time I'll wait for the DVD. Or perhaps I won't even bother. You know. Meh.

Hurling words into darkness and waiting for an echo...

It started as a smile, a glance. A flirtation with ideas. It grew into words. I dabbled; a few here, a few there. Soon they came together, merged effortlessly as one. Yes, reader. I am writing a novel.

For weeks, maybe even months, I've worked on one story. Every day I'd add a new paragraph. Change some words. Delete. Adjust a sentence. Complete a chapter. Days passed and my characters became real to me, fleshed, alive, ready to jump from the page, to give me hell if I didn't do them justice. If I didn't give them a chance.

The right side of my brain has taken over, given itself fully to my fictional world. Nothing is logical. Life's situations are no longer my own. They're my characters. As I sit at my computer, I do not exist. I am Lucille. I am Simeon. I am about to come of age.

What started as a short story has today become a novel. Lucille was babbling on about herself, recounting a flashback, when suddenly I appeared, left side of brain kicked into gear. I sat there in my fictional world and realised; there's more to this.

I am writing a novel.

I announce this like those at an AA meeting. They say the first step is to admit you have a problem. I do. I've convinced myself I have more than a short story on my hands. Such a lethal confession. Once committed, I do not give up. The harder things get, the harder I try. Am I even capable of this? Who knows. But now I'm in this for the long haul. It'll be scary. Daunting. Challenging. It's going to be one hell of a journey.

Fingers crossed I reach my destination.

Who do you think you are?

This week I've unearthed a lot of dirt. Not literal dirt of course; the metaphorical stuff that lurks behind closet doors and under floorboards. The kind that has Forensic Anthropologists' all excited because what's in that dirt has just uncovered a hundred years' old mystery. I've also watched far too much of the TV series, Bones.

Rifling through boxes of books from my Grandmother's house, I was arranging them into three piles: Oxfam. Recycling. My Bookcase. I snatched up the complete works of Oscar Wilde, binding ornate with gold stitching, insides doused with the scent of a thousand libraries. I begrudgingly threw Rudyard Kipling into the recycling; his pages too tattered for eyes, too worn for hands. Oxfam is now the proud owner of thirty books on Marxism. (Nan, what were you thinking?!)

Mission accomplished, I returned the books to their new homes. Placing Oscar Wilde lovingly on my bookcase, a photograph fluttered to the floor from inside; hidden between Dorian Gray and some Woman of No Importance. I studied it; black and white, edges frayed, yellowed. A man I did not know.

Impatient for more I poured the books into one frenzied pile, organisation be damned. Fingers, eyes scoured every page and book. But there were no more hidden photographs. No more dirt unearthed.

Now I spend time hunting relatives, delving into the unknown depths of my family tree in search of the man I did not know. It's like I've been given a key that unlocks the door to my family history and yet I have no idea where that door is. I have a single jigsaw piece and the rest of the puzzle lurks in some muddy boot-fair with the rest of the unwanted crap. Only I want it. I really do.

The importance of knowing where you come from is as fundamental as knowing who you are. They are not one and the same. You could know that you're courageous and determined and yet not know where that courage comes from. Sometimes, certain traits that we value so highly really are passed along that family tree, branch to branch. Sometimes it's nice to know you're not the only one out there, sitting on a limb.

Reader, I know who I am. But the man I did not know; he's going to tell me where I'm from. And I cannot wait to find out...

The Library Spell

Morning seeks refuge amidst the

yellowed paper and faded print

leather bound tales of woe

and joy.

Tips of fingers trace the

pinched in curve where

page meets page

of open book.

Ears oblivious to worldly noise

I crawl inside the words,

deafened by them screaming

an enticing spell

of verse and rhyme.

My back arcs over the 'A's

and 'B's, I coil within

the 'me's and 'we's.'

Loneliness a forgotten affair,

there between the bonds of book

and I

find my friend's who make

magic with mystery,

an illusion, of poetry and prose.

When I leave my shelter

of words that never hurt me,

I stretch past.

Limbs ache from time spent

cramped between them,

eyes adjust to the change in light.

The only evidence of the

library spell?

A star filled sky.

Top Ten: Books

I'm a fan of lists. If lists had a concert, I'd be first in the queue to get tickets. Okay, so I may have overdone the metaphor for my love of lists. But it's true. I have hundreds of them. My 'what to buy just incase I win a million pounds' list. Or the 'stuff I should do today but am putting off until tomorrow' list. And my favourite, which is stuck to my notice board yellowing and slightly frayed around the edges, the 'things I must do before I die' list. I fear I've said the word 'list' too much here, so much so it has started to lose all meaning. What's a list again?

Anyways, to quench my thirst for writing random lists, I thought I would introduce a Top Ten to my blog. I envisioned a variety of the culturally specific kind; books, songs, films, places to go...etc...and my lovely readers could then debate or berate my choices. Sounds like a plan, doesn't it?

I am aware that things could turn ugly. I could be vilified. Readers could turn away in disgust at the thought that I actually enjoyed the movie 'Twilight.' I'm kidding here. It was awful. But that's another story. I don't want the Top Ten series to come between our budding blogosphere relationships. I was hoping it could bring us together. Liven debates. Share minds. Obviously, I'm seeing my Top Ten on a par with world peace.

The start of the series is my Top Ten Books. Now this was a toughie. I have read a lot of books. I mean, we all know about my escapades with the Mills and Boon. But seriously now, this list was hard to write! I just couldn't narrow it down. Well, that's a lie. I could. I did. I'm just scared to print it. My literary tastes will forever be known as the ten books I highlight here. Alas, it's too late. I cannot change my mind. Deep breath, here goes:

1. The Colour Purple by Alice Walker

2. The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger

3. Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell

4. Roots by Alex Haley

5. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

6. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

7. Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson

8. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey

9. Exodus by Julie Bertagna

10. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold

So reader, what do you think?

The Secret's Out!

I've been Mills and Booned. It sounds dirty, doesn't it? Trust me, it isn’t.

What is it, to be Mills and Booned? Well. It involves shuffling down the book isle in Sainsbury’s. Then one pretends to be interested in the best-selling books when really you’re looking at the bottom shelf. Shock! Horror! The bottom shelf, she says. Why yes. Those lust filled romance novels published by Mills and Boon sit there, seemingly unwanted. Because, after-all, it's embarrassing to admit you read them. Let alone buy them.

It started a few years ago. Boredom had crept upon me, sudden, without warning. I had rifled through my bookcase, longing for something new to jump out at me. Alas, I had forgotten I don’t have a library in my house. Not yet.

The Hobbit sat there. Spine bent, scratched. No. I hates it. I hates it, I does! Or there was Ulysses. Spine pristine, untouched. No. It wasn’t the time to attempt a reading marathon. I wanted light-hearted. I wanted mind-numbing fun. I wanted romance!

Jane Eyre caught my eye. I picked it up. The spine had melted. Pages, unglued, fluttered to the floor, bewildered. I didn’t have the patience to put them back together. The same problem occurred with Pride and Prejudice. My bedroom floor was suddenly littered with an amalgam of Mr Rochester meeting Miss Bennett and Mr Darcy lost somewhere in Thornfield Manor. Interesting? Yes. But wrong on so many levels.

This is what happens when you read a book a thousand times. It starts to lose its patience with you.

I mentioned my boredom to my mum. With her usual eye-rolling grace, she directed me to her wardrobe. I was intrigued. I hadn’t envisioned curing my boredom with a good old game of dress-up. That hadn’t cured boredom since 1992.

A quick tug of the doorknob, I finally saw the sense of her plan. Hundreds of brightly coloured books poured out of the wardrobe and landed in a pile at my feet. Hunky, chiselled men; their arms wrapped seductively around a woman, graced the covers. Titles such as ‘The Billionaire’s Secretary Mistress’ and ‘His Virgin Bride’ jumped out at me. I laughed. They certainly weren’t Jane Eyre. I could almost see Charlotte Bronte frowning at me from beyond the grave.

‘Don’t read that!’ she gasped. ‘It will infect your brain. It’s mindless. It’s not literature!’

Her pleas were still ringing in my ear as I sat down with a cup of tea to read my very first Mills and Boon. I can’t remember the title. It was some laughable formulaic gibberish. A bit like the book itself. I have since come to realise, they’re all pretty much the same. It goes something like this: arrogant, self-made billionaire meets woman. Said woman thinks she has too small breasts, too red hair or is too curvy for said man to find her attractive. But woman is wrong. Man loves woman but treats her like crap until she can’t take anymore and he realises what he’s missing. There’s usually an unwanted pregnancy in there somewhere. Plus a vomit-inducing cringe-worthy profession of love at the end. Because a happy ever after does exist! For Mills and Boon, at least.

My relationship with Mills and Boon hasn’t been an easy one. I grapple with the shame that comes from reading them. That’s because I’m a self-proclaimed book snob. And because they throw out all the rules I learned during my writing degree. They state the obvious. They tell rather than show. And I can pick out the times they’ve used a thesaurus to find a better word.

Still, I can’t help but love them and their uncanny knack of putting a smile on my face. I love them for their championing of happy ever afters and their 100 year belief that true love never dies. But mainly I love them for their amazing mind-numbing abilities. It’s escapism at its best.

Random Facts about Me

I signed into my Facebook account the other day to find I had been tagged. It doesn't happen very often but when it does, fear rises within my throat and my heart pounds wildly in my chest. The reason? Photographs. Of. Me. And bad one's at that. But this time I relaxed. I didn't cover my eyes in horror. Someone just wanted to know more about me. Phew!

Here are the rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

I read with interest the new found information of an old friend. It made me realise that, perhaps, there are some basic details about ourselves that seem so inconsequential, we never reveal them. It got me thinking; what don't people know about me? Mmm...well that list is endless and, come to think of it, completely impossible to cram into just 25 points. But I thought it wouldn't hurt to try. So here goes:

1. When I was little, I used to bite glass. Seriously. There are loads of glasses in my house with tiny chunks missing from them (illustrating that I was a freakish child who bit glass and that my mum keeps random crap for many, many years).

2. I really want two dogs- one called Harold, the other called Maude. And I did not know there was a movie called Harold and Maude when I thought of their names.

3. I love New York (most people know this) to the point of obsession. Can one have too many black and white photographs of the same NY skyline? The ‘official’ answer is yes. My answer is no.

4. If I could invite five guests to dinner (dead or alive) they would have to be: Marilyn Monroe, because she fascinates me (and I really want to know all about her and the Kennedy’s); Nat King Cole, so he can entertain us with music; Maya Angelou, so she can tell us all her life story in her amazing storyteller’s voice; Arnold Schwarzenegger because seriously, it’s Arnie and finally, my Nan because I never knew her and she sounds like one amazing lady.

5. Due to the unfortunate connotations of my name (Lou as in Loo, as in toilet) my sister called me ‘Bogroll’ for years. Tis sad but true.

6. I have been known to talk to myself. I am not ashamed to admit this.

7. When I was little I was able to see people’s auras.

8. If I happen upon a cute animal (cats, dogs, monkeys, chimps, penguins etc) I have been known to squeal to a pitch that only dogs and dolphins can hear. I can’t help it; it’s some weird involuntary spasm beyond my control.

9. I am a music buff/freak. I have over 300 CDs (all scratched and in their wrong cases) and am now on my 2nd iPod in three years after excessive use. Consequently, I MUST listen to music for at least two hours a day or I will develop a weird twitch and go insane.

10. I LOVE quotations. But they can’t be a quote of just anything. You can’t put quote marks around ‘this list sucks’ for me to like it. It has to be funny or meaningful. Inspirational works too.

11. I was very fortunate to get my own back on someone who made my life hell in school. Said bully approached me on a train and asked how I was and if I remembered them. My reply was that I had a brain condition which meant I couldn’t remember arseholes. Said bully was stunned into silence. This puts a smile on my face whenever I think about it. YAY for revenge.

12. I was in a choir at school and even had to sing a solo about Jonah and the whale. Fun!

13. I am double jointed and can freak people out with a twist of the elbow and the pulling of my thumb from its socket. As you can see, I know how to have a good time.

14. I have a fear of foxes. When I was about five, I had nightmares that foxes would climb through my bedroom window and claw my face. Even to this day whenever we see a fox in our garden, while everyone says ‘aww how cute’ inside I’m thinking: ‘die evil fox die.’

15. I am one of these people who need things to look forward to or else I lose the will to live.

16. Carrying on my mum’s tradition, I keep random crap. Movie stubs. Post-it notes. Cards. Letters. Stuff torn from newspapers and magazines. Flight stubs. When I went travelling at 19, I even stole the plastic room cards from various hotels across the USA and Australia.

17. My favourite word is ‘bollocks.’ It’s just so expressive. If I could use it in every sentence, I would.

18. I am the most accident prone person ever. If there is something to hit, fall over, fall on, I will do it. Even if there isn’t, I’d fall over myself. I’ve even caught my foot in my own trouser leg.

19. I have the same career goal now as I did when I was eight: to be a writer. Success never came into it so if I can finish my novel and write something every day, I’ll believe I’ve achieved my goal. Even if no one ever gets to read it.

20. I bungee jumped when I was 19 years old.

21. I secretly fancy Billy Idol and David Bowie. Well, I used to secretly fancy them. Now I just fancy them.

22. I silently mock the women in the gym who try to work-out in a full face of make-up. Ladies. Get. A. Fucking. Clue.

23. I get so angry at books and movies with sad endings. They lead you on with their happy beginnings and happy middles and then the ending appears where the lead character dies and I’m left feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the chest. If I wanted to feel that way, I’d go out and get stabbed. And don’t give me all that ‘well, real life is like that…real life is tough' bullshit. Books and films are about escapism. I don’t read books and watch movies for reality bollocks. I leave that to Big Brother.

24. I think Shakespeare was a genius. Yes, we moaned about reading his plays at school but hundreds of years after he died, we’re still reading. There’s only one word for him. GENIUS.

25. Obviously I cannot count to 25...