- The lady doth protest too much, methinks -

You wouldn't think anyone could be inured to life at the age of 21, but lately I've had my reservations about that. The warmth in London has disappeared very suddenly - not that you'd expect that it ever existed, from the people living in the city - and with it, it seems, any creative spark I ever had. It's beginning to look like the temperature is not the only thing that has dipped in these parts.

My recent spate of inactivity here stems not from selective reticence, but rather more a lack of feeling. It appears I have slowly become numb inside, but not from the freezing cold that has laid siege upon my house like moss that insidiously creeps onto the walls of your bathroom.
Perhaps nothing much has been happening to have stirred a violent response of late, no grievances that require redressing, a welcome consequence of virtually having a 5-day weekend.
Not that nothing has happened at all, mind. My first foray into the hitherto unchartered and reportedly nefarious waters of yob country ended in the England U21s and France U21s playing to a 1-1 draw at White Hart Lane. To be fair, therein lay an opportunity for an upturned nose accompanied by a vitriolic diatribe on this site, what with the abject standard of football on display in the first half, ensuring that showing up at the stadium with a ball of yarn and knitting sticks would have yielded a more productive 45 minutes. Unfortunately for my niggling blogging instincts that had been screaming in pain up till then, however, Anthony Le Tallec popped up and scored at what 30,000 chanting fans felt was the wrong end of the pitch, and the game exploded into life. Darn.
Midway, I joined in with the partisan crowd as, the consummate hosts that they were, they graciously welcomed their neighbours from across the channel with chants of "You're French, you're French, you're French and you know it". The referee was also offered a tribute when he brandished his first yellow card of the night, inevitably to an English player. His song sounded a lot like "The referee's a banker", though I'm quite sure I misheard one of those words.
Friendly people, these Brits.

Speaking of explosions, I actually sat down to observe one of Londoners' many displays of their alacrity to ignite incendiary material last week in the aftermath of the Lord Mayer's parade, when I watched a scintillating firework display that lasted all of 20 minutes and probably cost the city nigh on 20 million quid. The math is supposed to work out somehow.
Missed it? No worries, there'll probably be fireworks on show next week. And the week after. And the week after that.....

That aside, my (admittedly rather lengthy) weekends have been spent in the company of the Wall Street Journal, though the only reason for that is that it's free. Yes, that I have taken to reading newspapers to while away time is an indication of the state of affairs. I have scoffed at the arcane information provided by the frankly mind-boggling figures in its pages. With the usual rhetoric about the Fed being worried about interest rates and the Germans needing to cut their budget deficit, silver isn't the only kind of bromide that goes into newspapers these days, apparently.

I have watched, in mock interest, the debacle that is Refco unravel, leaving a trail of destruction in the form of JC Flowers, Man Group and Bawag, in its wake. I have observed the contrasting fortunes of Toyota and Daimler-Chrysler and the likes of Ford and General Motors, the latter of which now seems increasingly likely to file for bankruptcy protection.
And I have followed with vague concern the situation in France as their restive and dissatisfied minority groups trawl the country looking for cars to burn. I would too, if my national U21 team played like theirs. The performances of those French cars probably had something to do with it too.

My numbness has led me to make some pretty dodgy decisions too. Take for instance, the fact that I have just become the unwitting subject of an onslaught of conflicting flavours from a budding chef; by 'budding' I mean 'amateurish'. My taste buds, for so long accustomed to epicurean treats, are to be subjugated to the oldest form of torture in the book in a few weeks. Perhaps I could lose my way somewhere in Bratislava on my trip next week.

It all happened so quickly, I don't even know how I was felled. There I was, riveted by the compelling and (I mean this) simply mind-blowing financial news from the WSJ that made as much sense to me as that damn Biology book did in JC, when I was importuned to sample some fare by a eager but perhaps maladroit friend. And in the manner of one surfacing from the depths of fascinated cogitation I relented - anathema to those wishing to retain the services of their sense of taste, might I remind you.
I'd expect that, emboldened by this imprimatur, my friend is now dreaming up concoctions to cut a swath with. I suddenly have deep sympathy and a great affinity for lab rats. It isn't just the cold that's giving me the chills. If I were French, I'd torch myself. Sacre bleu! Ze 'orror!

- yeah, but no, but yeah -

"In Herby City centre, lies the library. The word ‘library’ is derived from the Latin word ‘librus’, which means shhhhhhsh!"

"Dust … it’s actually very low in fat so you can eat as much dust as you like"
"Picture yourself naked - not nice is it, eh? Who the hell would want a great lump?"

- Make it stop -

There was an eerie sense of foreboding in the Pott household when the clock struck noon. In a quarter of an hour, Samantha would be home -- and the whole cycle would begin again.

By all accounts, things had worked out almost exactly as the Potts had planned from their first year of marriage. They had got along famously, and lived with Old Mrs Pott just as they had agreed to. Luck had also been on their side when they wanted an addition to their family. It had always been their wish to have just one child, a daughter, and she had come by just as they had moved into a new, larger, house. And they both promised the other that they would do whatever it took to give their daughter whatever it is she wanted.

6 years had passed since then, and Samantha had come along nicely. Very nicely, in fact. Beautiful as any 6-year-old could be, her parents had evidently taken good care of her -- sometimes at the expense of their finances. They had provided for her as best they could, and as a result she had come to expect all her desires granted.

It was a nice, sunny day. Well, sunny enough for the grass to sparkle just a little, but not so sunny that the clothes hanging out to dry would be bleached. As usual, Old Mrs Pott, the kindly old lady that she was, was out on the front porch having her lunch of soft-boiled eggs and Johnny Kettel, who lived across the street, was having a jolly time scrambling up and down his lawn in the innocent assumption that mimicking the noise of a lawnmower would shorten the grass, when Samantha sauntered along the pathway leading up to her house.

"Hello, dear." said kindly Old Mrs Pott, kindly.
"Wotcher." came the muttered riposte, between gritted teeth.

"Why's she always eating those eggs?" Asked Samantha, when she had stepped into her house and laid her bag down lackadaisically on the living room floor.
"Grandma's old, dear, and she's lost all her teeth but one. She can't eat nothin' but eggs, the poor dear. Them eggs ain't hard so she can just suck 'em right good." Her mother replied, looking up from her knitting momentarily.
"Well, she's doing it all wrong."

Determined to right this wrong, Samantha strode out to her Grandmother and seized an egg. Poking a small hole in one, she sipped at its contents slowly and quietly, making none of the slurping noises her grandmother was producing.
"See, grandma, THAT's how you suck these eggs." Samantha said, with an indignant but triumphant tone. "And what's that Kettel boy doing out in the sun? He's already so black as it is!"

With what seemed like a slight flourish, or however close to a flourish 6-year-olds can get, Samantha walked back into the house and began to pout.
"What is it, dear?" Mrs Pott had to hastily conceal what seemed like a four-lettered word that began with F and rhymed with 'duck' as she pricked herself on her needle.
"I want a pony." Samantha gave her most pleading look, her beady eyes piercing right into her mother's soul.
"But darling, ponies are real expensive these days, with all them Chinese people wanting to make soup with the really long parts of horses and what not."
"I wanna PONY!"
Dumbfounded, Mrs Pott let out a sigh, a long, calculated sigh that was not uncommon in the Pott household, as she worked out the cutbacks they would have to make to fund this new acquisition. That expensive chair she had bought from the fancy shop for Mr Pott with the good lumbar support to help his bad back would have to go (Ed.'s hint: think labour supply curve), but it would be so.

Two weeks later, Samantha's pony came, gift-wrapped in pink ribbons and with sequins on the side. It was truly a rather noble steed, its flesh a shiny tone of brown and its long, glorious.... TAIL glistening in the sun.
Samantha was thrilled .... until the pony yawned.
"It's teeth aren't white enough!" She whinnied (not unlike the pony). "And its tonsils are red and it's tongue's too short and it's just not got a healthy throat!"

The little girl sat in a corner as her hapless, incredulous parents were speechless.
And then something happened. Samantha Pott sat up and watched as slowly, things started moving in circles around her. It began with her lawn, then her grandmother, and the door, the table, the floor, and soon it was every bit of furniture and pretty much everything around her.

"Make it stop," she cried. "Make it stop."