I Never Was Very Good At Physics

EXT. INVERNESS AIRPORT - DAY

PATROCLUS, MR BC and the BLUE KITTEN are disembarking from Easyjet flight EZ393 from Bristol.

ME: Well, that went well. I'm glad Sylvia advised me to feed the Kitten on the ascent and descent, she didn't seem to get earache at all.

MR BC: No. And you coped with the breastfeeding in public thing very well.

ME: Only because I was sitting by the window, and you could hide me with the Guardian.

MR BC: Yes.

Shortly:

ME: Of course if we do the same on the way back, we'll have to sit on the other side of the aisle.

MR BC: Why's that?

ME: Because we'll be travelling the other way.

There is a moment's silence, during which I reflect on what I've just said, and the Nobel committee hastily revise the shortlist for this year's Prize for Stupidity.

Eventually:

MR BC: I think you'll find it doesn't actually matter what side of the plane we sit on.

ME: No.

Doh

One thing I've noticed about having a tiny helpless baby is that you spend a lot of time holding the tiny helpless baby in your arms, thereby confining yourself to a small patch of sofa opposite the television.

Under these circumstances, it would take a stronger will than mine not to turn the television on and spend the entire day watching repeats of Property Ladder, Grand Designs and other fetishistic pre-Financial Apocalypse property shows.

Last night, while watching a repeat of Relocation Relocation, I felt a sudden stab of jealousy as Kirstie and Phil found a nice thirtysomething middle-class couple a fantastic stone-built cottage in a pretty village beside the estuary of the river Exe in South Devon.

"Ohhhhh," thought I to myself. "If only I could live in a lovely old stone-built cottage in a pretty village by a lovely river estuary in the West Country. How much more pleasant life would be. How much calmer, and more fulfilling, and less stressful."

It wasn't until much later, as I lay in bed waiting for Mr BC to return from London, baby sleeping peacefully in her cot as a CD of tropical lullabies played softly in the background, that I remembered that I *do* live in a lovely old stone-built cottage in a pretty village by a lovely river estuary in the West Country.

I am an idiot.


IN OTHER NEWS: The first time the health visitor came round to inspect the Blue Kitten, she wrote 'Lovely baby' in the Kitten's health record book. I don't know if this is actual medical terminology, but going by this recent photo of the infant, I don't think I can really argue with it:


Fig 1. Medical experts have detected loveliness in this specimen.

Mannequin Pis

Given that Elle Decoration comes out with a 'small spaces' supplement on average about three times a year, I often wonder how they keep coming up with ideas to fill it.

I mean, there are only so many ways you can fit a desk under the stairs, or drawers *into* the stairs, or a mezzanine bedroom into the achingly fashionable live-work space that you created from a disused shipping container.

But this time, the Elle Deco team have surpassed themselves. They've located a tiny Belgian house in which the toilet is next to the bed, and the bed is next to an uncurtained plate-glass, shop-style window:


I know our Continental friends are more relaxed than us uptight Brits, but even so. Would you *really* want this kind of arrangement in your home? (Think carefully, now.)

And more to the point, would you really want to be one of these people's neighbours?

Brrr.

'Intelligent Glass'

INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT


MR BC and PATROCLUS are in bed (not in that way).


ME: I think they've over-engineered that bathroom door.

MR BC: Hmm?

ME: Well, earlier it was opaque. Now it's see-through.

MR BC: -

ME: It must have some kind of special sensor. So it knows when someone's in there.

MR BC: -

ME: Like the bins they've got in my client's toilets, which sense when you're approaching, and open automatically.

MR BC: -

ME: I always thought that was a total waste of money. I mean, who can't open a bin?

MR BC: Mm.

ME: Their paper towel dispensers do the same - they sense your hand going up to them, and they dispense a paper towel. Ridiculous.

MR BC: -

ME: You'd have thought Radisson would have better things to spend its money on than 'intelligent glass'. Bigger rooms, for a start. This one's tiny.

MR BC: Patroclus.

ME: Mmm?

MR BC: The door's open.

It's Our Kitchen, But Not As We Know It

The house that Mr BC and I are renting is on the market at the moment, which means that every so often an estate agent turns up at the front door with some hapless individuals he's talked into having a look at it.

I can tell they're hapless stooges because they usually spend less than ten minutes looking around, and sometimes they don't even look in all the rooms. (This is fortunate because one of the rooms contains the cat's litter tray, and it isn't usually a joy to behold.)

Yesterday, though, the estate agent brought round a bunch of people who seemed hell-bent on looking into every nook and cranny of our beautiful home. The lovely Mr BC and I arranged ourselves prettily in the living room and pretended to be part of the furniture, while the estate agent reeled off his spiel about lovely light rooms, easy-maintenance flame-effect gas fires, and so on.

Having craned their necks up the chimney and down the backs of the radiators, the viewers then filed off into the kitchen (glorious limestone floor, underfloor heating, state-of-the-art range cooker, blah blah blah).

'All these things are staying,' we hear the estate agent say, 'including the dishwasher'.

Mr BC and I look at each other.

'What's he on about?' say I. 'We haven't got a dishwasher.'

'Probably desperate to sell something,' agrees Mr BC. 'Credit crunch and all that. They're just making up any old rubbish.'

Later, after they've gone, Mr BC and I go into the kitchen to start making the dinner.

'I can't imagine where he thought he'd seen a dishwasher,' I say.

'No, quite,' says Mr BC. 'I mean, this is a cupboard, this is a cupboard, this is under the sink, this is the fridge, this one's just a false front...'

He tugs at the false-fronted cupboard to prove his point. To our amazement, it swings open, revealing two slide-out plastic shelves, a plastic cutlery holder, a slot for a dishwashing tablet and a control panel.

We both silently contemplate the hours we've spent over the last four months washing up acres of plates, mugs, saucepans, cat's saucers, clagged-up roasting dishes, food processor components and the like. Hours that we could have spent playing Bioshock, or watching Boston Legal, or making beautiful love.

'You still have to rinse the stuff anyway,' says Mr BC eventually.

'Yes, and you have to buy powder and salt and things. It's a hassle.'

I put on the washing up gloves and start running the tap.

Patroclus And Mr BC Discuss...Incunabula

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

PATROCLUS and MR BC are watching woeful climate-change disaster movie The Day After Tomorrow. The film's young heroes are holed up in the New York Public Library, weathering the sudden onset of the new Ice Age.

YOUNG HERO: I found a copy of the Gutenberg Bible downstairs, in the rare books section.

MR BC: Rubbish. The Gutenberg Bible is in the British Library. Where it belongs.

ME: Surely it belongs in Gutenberg.

MR BC (charitably overlooking the fact that he is clearly going out with the middle-class Jade Goody): I think it's called that because it was made by a Mr Gutenberg.

ME: Well then...er...in Germany somewhere.

MR BC (consulting Wikipedia): Hm, it says there are actually 48 copies, in libraries around the world.

ME: I suppose that was kind of the point of the whole enterprise.

MR BC: What was?

ME: To have more than one copy.

MR BC: Apparently one of them *is* in the New York Public Library. Bugger.

On screen, a wave of super-cooled air descends from the troposphere, causing a skyscraper to turn instantly into a massive block of ice.

ME: I think you've uncovered the only realistic plot point in this entire film.

Proof, If Any Were Needed, That I Am A Div

INT. QUINQUIREME/BLUE CAT TOWERS - DAY

The phone rings downstairs.

ME: (answering it) Hello?

WOMAN: Hello, is James there please?

ME: He's out I'm afraid, can I take a message?

WOMAN: It's [insert name of estate agent] here. James wanted to make an appointment to a view a house in [insert name of recently slightly poshed-up harbourside village].

ME: Did he? I don't know anything about that. Shall I ask him to call you back?

ESTATE AGENT: Yes please. It's 373595.

ME: But that's well out of our price range!

ESTATE AGENT: That's our phone number.

ME: Ah.