46 Things

1. I draw smiles in my Guinness
2. I am slightly colour blind
3. I was a finalist on The Weakest Link
4. I once said I Love You to Ian Botham
5. My favourite food is sausage and mash
6. I have a phobia about balloons
7. I can do the Rubik's Cube
8. I love the perfect stolen kiss in The Wedding Singer
9. I have tiny feet
10. I carry a Mighty Sword*
11. Technology baffles me
12. I am a blood donor
13. I speak fluent french
14. I don't like tomato ketchup
15. I love tattoos
16. I rub my nose after playing a pool shot
17. Old Trafford is my favourite place in the world
18. I drink warm milk at bedtime
19. I would like to model for a life class
20. I own a set of flying ducks
21. I have medals for ballroom dancing
22. I am terrible at geography
23. I am proud to be Welsh
24. My talisman is a tiny wizard.
25. I know how déjà vu works
26. I make great cheesecake
27. I remember everything
28. I am completely buoyant
29. I do not park
30. I love the Beatles
31. I hate shopping
32. I have no pain threshold
33. I once held a tarantula
34. I shared a lift with Brad Pitt on my honeymoon
35. I wish my teeth were straight
36. I cry at Coronation Street
37. I wear red underwear to football
38. I get cranky when I'm hungry
39. I know the secret of happiness
40. I hate being tickled
41. I can say the alphabet backwards
42. I like toy boys

43. I hate fun fairs

44. I can cure hiccups
45. I am a cat daemon at weekends
46. Today is my birthday


*Aka Swiss Army Knife

Flicking the F's

So last week, Sister in China, Junior, the Little Ducks and I were on our annual camping holiday here in Anglesey - joined at various times by Yummy Mummy and H, Mr. and Mrs. Panther Hunter and Cub, the Ginger One and Mr. Duck Senior.

At some point, the conversation turned to Welsh. Not literally - that would require a complete cultural transformation by the majority of the party and a few handy Babel Fish.

No - to the peculiarities and vagaries that constitute the Welsh language, consisting as it does of an alphabet of 28 letters and specifically to its unique pronunciation.

'We're in Benllech' - I explained.

'Benleck?'

No, Benlllllleccchhhhh - (rolling tongue and clearing throat)

'Benleck'

'NO! Ok, try this - Llandudno'

'Landudno?'

No, Llllandidno

'But it's a u not an i'

As per my 45 Things #23, I felt bound to explain as follows:

'It's simple*. In Welsh i's are y's; u's are i's; au's are i's; y's are e's; dd's are th's; si's are sh's; ff''s are f's and f's are v's. Ll's and ch's have no equivalent whatsoever in English and just are. Easy!'

The faces of the gathering began to take on that bemused look you get in Tesco's when they rearrange all the aisles and you end up with Vanish In-Wash Stain Remover instead of streaky bacon to go with your eggs in the morning.

I decided to make it even simpler.

'In short, when Welsh people are pissed off they flick the F's instead of the V's.'

I demonstrated the gesture, which looks something like a shadow puppeteer doing a pair of Playboy bunnies** and walked off in despair, a trail of ll's and ch's drifting behind me.

*Check it here for clarification
** Do try this at home - the gesture, not the Playboy Bunnies, (although feel free if that's your thing, and Hugh Heffner can spare a couple).

Permission Slip

Now, if you're 7, you will already have learned to ask permission before leaving the dining table.

You will also have heard the phrase,

'Not until everyone's finished'

Every minute lasts an hour at this age, so having permission denied can be frustrating and the ensuing wait interminable, especially if your 9-year-old sibling eats so slowly that the snails of Friendly Drive race to his plate and help themselves before he has a chance to finish.

Yummy Mummy and her family came for lunch on Easter Sunday, as Mrs Duck Senior was over for the weekend. With 10 at the table, laden with food, 'permission denied' was always going to be the answer if Tiddler asked to go and play.

'Can I go to the toilet please?' - he pipes up.

I beam proudly at his excellent manners and congratulate myself on my brilliant parenting skills. I am truly a maternal goddess.

He exits stage left and we carry on eating. After a few minutes, he has not reappeared. JP is despatched to the bathroom to fetch him.

He returns with a note, instead of a small blonde boy.

It's genius. Well-planned, well-executed and rounded off with a perfectly placed comma. I find it impossible to be cross - particularly when JP produces a second note.

He'd taken so much trouble finding just the right words, before settling on a final version - even to the reassuring 'P:S I'll come back' - complete with a correct apostrophe.* 

When he does eventually return, I say nothing -

other than 'Nice grammar Tiddler'

*Come on people! If a 7-year-old can, then so can you.

George II

JP is quietly developing into a pretty good footballer. On Saturday, in the unexpected post-Easter sunshine the under 10's got a crucial victory against one of the division's top sides to keep the threat of relegation at bay. JP won his fourth Man of the Match trophy of the season after an awesome performance at right back. These accolades don't usually fall to defenders, but his team mates unanimously pointed to JP, even before the coach had started his post-match review.

It's just like watching Ferdinand or Vidic (except for the height and the foreignness and the occasional cornrows). He's calm, collected and efficient. No heroics, just tracks the oncoming forwards, times his interventions perfectly and sends the ball sailing back into the path of our forwards or safely into touch as appropriate.

It's a small note of comfort in a week where United's season ended abruptly early and my trip to Madrid got cancelled. Boo.

A couple of weeks ago, as we followed our normal Sunday morning ritual of bacon butties and Match of the Day, Fabregas scored to beat Pires's record of goals from midfield for Arsenal with a strike against Burnley to make his total for the season 14.

I pointed out that United's record for midfield goals is 42, set by Ronaldo. I further pointed out that the previous record was 32, from George Best.

JP pondered for a moment and responded.

 'So he's not Georgie Best any more - he's Georgie Second'

Dominatus NotRodentia Interruptus

My suspicions about the NotRats' world domination plans proved well-founded last week when I foiled their plot to recruit and train a rodent army, capable of destroying the delicate balance of power on the planet and turning humans into evil rabbit fodder.

Masterminded by Emma, with Torres carrying out orders unquestioningly, they have been steadily amassing an army of fieldmice from the meadows surrounding Friendly Drive.

Day after day I have cleaned up food scattered about the house by Emma, mistakenly believing she was just fussy and was discarding unwanted items from the foodbowl.

How wrong I was. The food served to entice unsuspecting and innocent countrymice into the house, thence to be brainwashed, trained in the deadly arts of Rodent Dimac, and hidden away under the kitchen kickboards, awaiting the Big Push.

Douglas Adams foretold this years ago, unveiling mice as the real rulers of Earth - only to be dismissed as a brilliant author of fiction, rather than hailed as the Nostradamus of his generation. Future generations of Nobel Prize winners will worship at his teatowel.

I digress.

I was up unexpectedly early to take a train to Leicester, which required a 3-brew pre-departure strategy, so I headed for the kitchen at about 5.30am. Scuttling along the kickboard was a tiny fieldmouse, desperate to reach its bunker. Now, I've spotted them before and done my best to shoo them back out to their natural habitat - investing in humane traps, rather than poison or guillotine them and incur the wrath of animal rights activists.

But this individual refused to cross the back door, despite my best efforts with a soft broom and set off for NotRat HQ. Believe me I did try, but time was a-passing and my tea:bloodstream levels were dangerously low. In the end I took up a pool cue (not my treasured one) and Happy Gilmored it against a cupboard. Instant death.

I paused to reflect on my actions for a second.

Finding my remorse indicator at a safe zero, I brewed up and went for a shower.

Not 20 minutes later, I'm back in the kitchen and there's another one. I scanned the garden briefly to ensure that the first one hadn't miraculously recovered and fought its way back in, but the bloody corpse was still prostrate on the lawn.

I took up the pool cue and despatched the second with an equally decisive blow (unfortunately at the expense of the cue, but it's a small price to pay).

Emma looked on impassively from the lookout deck and Torres took refuge in the wheel.

The next day I rehomed the NotRats with the Cook and her Lover, to let them regroup and draw their plans against us elsewhere.

When questions are asked in the House about the origins of the Rodent War, they won't be pointing the finger at the Ducks of Friendly Drive.

Meeting people with bizarre true stories which they sell to Take A Break magazine or form the basis of a Channel 4 documentary #1

Yes, it's a long title for a blog post. I considered 'Catwoman' which I believe was the title of a Channel 4 documentary on the same subject, but I feared there would be copyright issues. Also I didn't want traffic from pervy Halle Berry fans finding their way here from Google, looking for images of That Catsuit and being disappointed.*

Anyway. On with the story.

Tiddler had grommets fitted in his ears last week to improve his hearing and also had his adenoids out, to allow him to breathe through his nose. He and I had an overnight stay on Jungle Ward in our East Lancs. General Hospital.

There was a 14-year-old girl in the bed opposite Tiddler who'd been in for 10 days and I was curious as to why.

So when Tiddler fell asleep, over a late brew and a flick through the Celebrity trash magazines piled high on her bed, I asked her why she was in.

In matter of fact tones, more suited to providing a stranger with the correct time or directions to the local library, she informed me that she was in to have a hairball removed from her stomach, for the third time!

She's been pulling out and eating her own ginger hair since she was two, and has twice before had to have a giant hairball surgically removed from her stomach. She even showed me the scars.

They suspect she has another one now and she was going for a Barium scan the following day to establish just how big this one is.

As I struggled to digest the information and formulate an appropriate response, she commented on the lead article of You'll Never Fucking Believe What Chavs Have Done Weekly magazine featuring a 14 year old Trailer Trash kid still breastfeeding from his 22 stone mother:

'My cousin's still breastfeeding and he's 8. And my other cousin has a club foot.'

We didn't get a chance to say goodbye the next morning because she was in with the psychiatrist!

I could have stayed forever.

*If that is you. Can I suggest you go here?

Owen and Out

Friday I wasted two hours of my life calculating the Owen Goal Update.

Minutes after publishing, I got an email saying 'you win' and linking to this.

On the positive side, it means no more Owen Goal posts (if you'll forgive the pun). POAD has given him more coverage this season than his contribution frankly deserves - although he has brought us traffic from people who google him and stumble upon my musings on the subject. So thank you to those Not Rights and Window Lickers - your medication is on the bedside table.

On the very positive side, my roll of tenners is safe and I can plan what to spend my winnings on - avoiding shopping if possible. The bookies are currently offering 16/1 on a United treble, so I'm off to scribble a betting slip and keep my fingers crossed for the Milan game tonight. 

Final tally is:

Appearances: 30/42

Minutes Played: 1160
Goals: 9
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:129
Goals Per Appearance: 0.3

Oh Tiddler, Where Art Thou?

Tiddler was in hospital for minor surgery last week*.

The nurses instructed him to make sure he took a rest every day, whilst enjoying a week off school.

So on Saturday he announces that he's going for a rest and will see us later.

Then promptly disappears.

JP searches the house and I scour Friendly Drive, convinced he's made a break for the outside world.

No sign of him.

JP and I rendez-vous on the landing to review the situation. I recall last summer's Gotcha and check above my head to make sure he's not clinging to the ceiling, about to drop down on top of us.

Suddenly JP pricks up his ears and shushes me.

A persistent, but muffled metallic tune is emanating from the spare room.

'That's Tiddler's DS' - identifies JP.

We pursue Mario's annoying little signature tune, but the room appears empty.

Just as I am about to check my wardrobe to see if Tiddler has stolen my Invisibility Cloak, JP darts forward, lifts the valance sheet and slides back the storage panel under the bed.

Inside, in the small, dark space is Tiddler, complete with pillow and duvet - taking his required rest. His nesting instincts are obviously kicking in again.

We persuade him to leave the panel slightly open to avoid oxygen deprivation and leave him to it.

* More anon about fellow patient 'Catwoman'.

Run JP Run

JP is running for the school cross country team. After his stellar performance in the Manchester Mini Run last year, I'm not surprised. A real chip off the old block. Like me, he obsessively plots his runs on walkjogrun.net and frets about his shoes. We're planning to train together for this year's Great Run event.

Even Tiddler.

Which is more problematic.

Although his performance at right back continues to fill me with pride, Tiddler still skips around the football pitch like a girl and has recently taken to Premiership-standard petulance and on-pitch swearing. In the Under 8 League, this is an automatic sending off and he's lucky the ref hasn't heard him yet. The odds on him being the first player to be sent off for the team are so short, I'd have to bet the farm just to win a pot plant.

Owen Goal Update

19 games have come and gone since I last reported and it's perilously close. Despite maintaining unusual fitness levels and a frankly unnecessary hat trick at Wolfsburg which skewed all the figures, Owen's appearance rate and average minutes played haven't improved at all and he remains a bit player.

He compensated for the hat trick with a barren spell of 9 games without a goal, but popped up in the last week with one against West Ham and one at Wemberley.

His fitness isn't that surprising given that he's only played 1 full game since the last report, played less than 20 minutes in 6 and not appeared at all in 7. Sure enough, he picked up a hamstring injury on Sunday which puts him out for a week or two. A third of the remaining possible games are Champions League, and the projected goal tally assumes we'll reach the final. After the performance in Milan last week, I'm optimistic. He hasn't featured in the recent big games against Arsenal, Villa and City, and we still have the Rent Boys and Mersey Reds to play again at home, with his selection unlikely.

Appearances: 30/42
Minutes Played: 1160
Goals: 9
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:129
Goals Per Appearance: 0.3
Projected Season Tally*: 12

* Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (39 mins), goal frequency (every 129 minutes or 3.3 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (10 Prem games and c5 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 71%). So 15 games x 71% = 11 appearances. 11/3.3 = 3 more goals

Your Very Good Health!

The Manchester Run is less than 3 months away and my target of 55 minutes for this year seems enormous at present. After breaking my ribs and getting swine flu last year, my running regime has been somewhat sporadic and I find myself carrying a few extra pounds and horribly unfit again. Boo.

I can't do diets - my maths is too dreadful for counting calories or points and I'm colour blind, so the whole red days/green days malarky is a non-starter.

I don't think I could do slimming pills - the TV ad for the leading brand is enough to put me off. They're called 'Adios', the soundtrack is Burn Baby Burn and the active ingredient is Fucus.

Adios, Burn and Fucus.

Seriously?

It sounds more like the executive committee of the Assassins Guild than a diet aid.

Speaking of diet aids, I was in Holland and Barrett last week for dried blueberries and Dead Sea Mud (tagging along, not shopping).

They really need to rethink their marketing strategy or at least employ doormen to vet the losers trying to gain entry, in the same way posh clubs only allow beautiful people in.

It promotes itself as a health store, yet its customers are the very worst advert for their products. The shop is packed with fat, wheezy pensioners, dragging their tartan trollies while they stock up on prunes and cod liver oil; or pale, obese men eyeing up the instant muscle powder.

Everyone's a before, not an after*.

No, it has to be running for me - and soon - before my clothes start to protest even further.

It could be worse. JP and Tiddler were having a oneupmanship contest in the back of the car recently - largely involving threats of exposure to school mates, regarding valentines, love and girls worth kissing. It was about even, until Tiddler stuck the knife firmly in with:

'If you do, I'm going to tell everyone at school you're secretly fat!'

Game, set and match, Tiddler. There's no comeback to that.


*although if they're taking Adios, they may never reach after.

Tags 'R Us

Whilst I continue to hate shopping, I have discovered a hidden, shopping-related talent which I am considering as a career change.

I am excellent at tagging along.

Yummy Mummy and I recently spent a Wednesday and Friday out (with lunch obv.) looking for curtain and blind fabric for her dining room. The dyslexic leading the colour blind.

I tagged along.

It's relatively simple. You trail about a yard behind, hold shopping bags, alert shop assistants, nod in agreement in all the right places and feed parking meters. Oh and go in search of suitable candidates for purchase, having been given a very strict set of instructions.

As a bonus by-product, you also make purchases - three dogwood trees, 3 must-have-because-they're-perfect-for-your-kitchen-and-you-like-them-and-you-just-broke-your-favourite-anyway-mugs, new school trousers for JP and a place to get curtains made (finally!)

So the shopping also gets done without you even noticing.

It's Brilliant.

But that's what husbands/boyfriends are for, aren't they? you counter.

Yes, but here's the thing. They complain; can't gossip and tag along at the same time because that's multi-tasking; won't share a pain au chocolat and not everyone has one.

I could hire myself out. Yummy would give me a good reference I'm sure - especially since I spotted the purple, silk fabric she eventually bought (gold star for me). They'll be queuing up to hire me.

This could be my millionaire idea. I could start a matching agency - pairing shoppers with suitable taggers-along.

Watch this space. Oh, and email me if you have shopping plans. I'll check my diary.

Festive Spirits

On Saturday we decked the halls with boughs of holly for the annual PTA Christmas Fair; the highlight of which is usually the fire alarms being set off by the bacon butties cooking in the after-school-club kitchen, necessitating a visit from the fire brigade - complete with uniforms, helmets and a big red engine. Whoop, whoop.

Sure enough the bacon sizzled, the alarms clanged and hundreds of mums eagerly trooped outside to await the firemen. Unfortunately, the Headteacher had the foresight to warn them in advance this year, so they didn't turn up. Boo.

I manned the plant stall - baby cyclamen, miniature fir trees sprayed with glitter and snow, poinsettas, begonias, azaleas

and two large trays of grave pots, complete with plastic flowers and ribbons.

For a children's Christmas Fair?

I may as well have rung a large bell and shouted 'Bring out your Dead'.

Turns out they were hugely popular and outsold everything else on the stall. There were animated discussions as to whether Uncle Ernie would prefer white plastic carnations or yellow silk dahlias; sulks when we ran out of pink roses and a heated and serious debate over green holly with berries or variegated holly with purple ribbons for Grandad.

It  definitely raised my spirits, if not theirs.


Owen Goal Update

The figures are looking better this week and my roll of tenners is safe again. The goals are coming from elsewhere in the squad and the City fans will be miserable after doing us a favour beating the rentboys yesterday. It doesn't bode well for Owen when he can't even get a run out in a Carling Cup game or against bottom of the league Portsmouth.

Appearances: 18/23
Minutes Played: 725
Goals: 4
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:181
Goals Per Appearance: 0.22
Projected Season Tally*: 10

* Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (40 mins), goal frequency (every 181 minutes or 4.5 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (23 Prem games and c10 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 78%). So 33 games x 78% = 25 appearances. 25/4.5 = 6 more goals

Man in the Mirror

I was followed to work this morning.

That is, the same car was behind me for most of the journey - not actually stalking me.

Looking in the mirror, I could see the female driver giving her male passenger a tongue lashing of epic proportions - and not in a good way.

She never stopped for the whole journey. Every time I glanced back her hands were gesticulating wildly - finger pointed accusingly about four inches from his face.

At each traffic light, I braced myself for the impact of her pink Honda Jazz on my big-ass Megane's big-ass bumper. She clearly wasn't focused on the road ahead.

She kept taking her glasses off, waving them in his general direction, then replacing them on her sharp, narrow nose, all the while keeping up the tirade of abuse.

I was fascinated by his response, which was to remain completely impassive and unresponsive. I checked the mirror again to make sure he hadn't committed suicide on the way - death being a preferable alternative to spending another second being harangued by a Professional Harpy (First Class).

Or that maybe he was one of those inflatable car buddies women carry around in their cars so as not to look like they're travelling alone.

It was only when we neared the city centre that I spotted it.

The tell-tale white cord, surreptitiously snaking up out of his collar and into his left ear - out of sight of the harrassing harridan.

He was tuning her out by tuning into his iPod.

I'm guessing it was 'Every Day I Love You Less and Less' by the Kaiser Chiefs

Immortalised

The fabulous Notkeith has once again come up with a brilliant, original illustration to accompany the more bizarre of my posts.

Thanks NK.

If you haven't already checked out his wonderful drawings, go over and take a look now.

From last week's Bike Shed goings-on:

Owen Goal Update

Owen's projected tally has dropped but is still on my bet threshold - just.

6 minutes against Chelsea and 90 minutes against Everton and no goals - so business as usual.

His golfing pals on Match of the Day highlighted the excellent positions he gets himself in as a positive. Surely that should have been a negative - i.e. with all the chances, why did he fail to find the back of the net? Once again they touted him for inclusion in the world cup squad. When asked if he would take him to the world cup, Lineker said 'Yes, IF he stays fit, IF he starts regularly for United and IF he gets goals'

So that will be no then, will it Gary?

Appearances: 16/19
Minutes Played: 617
Goals: 4
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:154
Goals Per Appearance: 0.25
Projected Season Tally*: 12

* Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (39 mins), goal frequency (every 154 minutes or 4 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (25 Prem games and c12 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 84%). So 37 games x 84% = 31 appearances. 31/4 = 8 more goals

Behind the Bike Shed

Illustration by Notkeith

A secure bike shed has been erected behind our offices, next to my parking space. Electronic passes, locks and cameras have been installed to assist the green-conscious in their bid to offset the carbon footprint from my big-ass Megane.

Despite the security, there has already been a theft from it, so the powers-that-be have turned to more extreme measures to protect the contents.

The Megane is a very duck-friendly motor. No keys, just a card that has to be about my person, which in proximity to the car, opens and locks doors, windows, sunroof, activates alarms and immobilisers and switches wipers, lights, CD player and engine on and off - so no fumbling about in handbags in the rain looking for keys.

Brilliant.

However, in the last three weeks, when accessing or exiting my car by the bike shed, the Megane has failed to respond to the card signal. Mmm. This has meant standing next to it, trying all the doors and windows, shouting, jiggling my handbag and even in desperation, fishing the card from its depths and waving it about in the general direction of the car. 

Still nothing.

It's definitely not the card, because it's functioning normally at every other location the car is require to pass time. Nevertheless, I tried bringing along the spare card and waving the two together in a bizarre, synchronised ceremonial car-activating dance, with appropriate swearing as backing music.

Nothing

Now, bear in mind that it's usually cold, dark and rainy when I arrive and leave work, so hanging about by the bike shed, arguing with a stubborn red car is not my first choice for recreational activity at the beginning and end of the day. I've even resorted to removing the little battery disc from the card, licking it and putting it back*. I probably would have been better pointing it through my head à la Clarkson.

I can only conclude that a spell has been cast over the bike shed, or an invisible forcefield placed around it by its owners. Either that or it's a time portal for bees to return to their home planet, and the Megane is cleverly resisting its gravitational pull.

Either way it's unstoppable, so I've thrown in the towel and moved spaces. Now at a safe distance of 20 yards, normal service has been resumed.

Although I fear for the little Fiesta, still parked there, at the mercy of whatever demon is at work.

*This did actually work a couple of times.

Virtually There

The Little Ducks did their Christmas lists last week and I communicated my innermost desires and wishes to Mrs. Duck Senior, for general circulation*

You all know what a fan of shopping I am. Not!

So you will be pleased to know that I completed my Christmas shopping on Sunday. All done.

Not only that, every item I have chosen is brilliant and perfect and will take me to the top of the Best Christmas Present charts in every Duck family residence. I am a Retail Goddess.

Smug doesn't being to cover it.

Until I realised on Monday morning that my shopping expedition was the stuff of Sunday night dreams and not only that, I cannot remember what ANY of the inspired and wonderful gifts were!

So contrary to my previous post and my 45 Things, I do not remember everything.

And the shopping remains to be done.

Bollocks.

• * A new coat for Local Walks for Local People;
• a new #1 hat, as I've lost my beloved United beanie;
• new speakers for the big-ass Megane - I've wrecked mine playing super-loud music (the only way to enjoy music IMHO);
• a Moleskine Notebook (on my list for years and never received - take note Santa);
• NO chocolate - I'm the one person in the world who doesn't like it;
• a Philadelphus bush for the Purple Garden;
• a phone number for someone who can make curtains.

Typo

I have realised that I am gradually working my way through explanations of my 45 Things.

Today #27 - 'I remember everything'.

These days that's not quite as true as it has been in the past, and so I resort to leaving myself aide-memoires in my phone - especially for blog material. If I don't make a note straight away - exact wording of the Little Ducks' entertaining observations, for instance, then I can't recall them perfectly and the moment is lost.

However, the prompts can sometimes be a little obtuse.

I try to keep them short, especially if I haven't got my glasses on and can barely see the screen - never mind press the right keys on the miniscule Nokia E71 keypad. So from time to time, I cannot for the life of me remember to what they refer.

This is compounded by predictive text.

Last week I left myself a note that reads:

Obituary Want Knobs. Marilyn Monroe. Mismatch

I kid you not. I have been wracking my brains trying to fathom this all week. WTF? - seriously.

Facebook came to my rescue this lunchtime when the photographs from Saturday's Hallowe'en party were posted and there is a great one of a friend , dressed as Marilyn Monroe

with her partner Obi Wan Kenobi.



Owen Goal Update:

For the first time, Michael's projected tally is over my bet threshold.

11 minutes against Blackburn and once again, no goal - business as usual.

BUT. 90 minutes against Moscow and an important goal.

He must be due an injury about now....

Appearances: 14/17
Minutes Played: 521
Goals: 4
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:130
Goals Per Appearance: 0.21
Projected Season Tally*: 13

* Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (37 mins), goal frequency (every 130 minutes or 3.5 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (27 Prem games and c12 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 82%). So 39 games x 82% = 32 appearances. 32/3.5 = 9 more goals

Run That By Me Again

I know how déjà vu works.

Look away now if you've heard this before.

Or don't.

Because you probably haven't.

No matter how you set them up, Scalextric cars never perform equally. You know the track length is exactly the same in each lane and it should be a fair race, but the design is fatally flawed.

The track comes in pieces that clip together and the joins are never perfect. Unless you devote permanent space to it, you are constantly dismantling and remantling so bumps, gaps and imperfections appear and the yellow car always loses.

And so it is with how the brain processes new information and how it stores long- and short-term memories. Robert Efron tested an idea at the Veterans Hospital in Boston in 1963 that stands as a valid theory today. He proposed that a delayed neurological response causes déjà vu. Because information enters the processing centres of the brain via more than one path (your imperfect racetrack) it is possible that occasionally that blending of information might not synchronize correctly.

Efron found that the temporal lobe of the brain's left hemisphere is responsible for sorting incoming information. He also found that the temporal lobe receives this incoming information twice with a slight (milliseconds-long) delay between transmissions -- once directly (the red car) and once again after its detour through the right hemisphere of the brain. If that second transmission (the yellow car) is delayed slightly longer (the ill-fitting join after the cicane) then the brain might put the wrong timestamp on that bit of information and register it as a previous memory because it had already been processed.

And that explains the sudden sense of familiarity.

Ta da.

Misery Loves Company

I rely on iPod Shuffle Karma to tune in to my moods - good and bad - and select the appropriate soundtrack.

You know - when it just seems to know what to choose, so that you nod in approval at each fresh track and never reach for the skip button.

It's particularly important for those times when you're closer to oblivion than Heaven and it's all you can do to keep breathing in and breathing out and get through the days.

I'm no Julie Andrews. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens don't perk me up and I definitely don't punch the air in delight at wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.

I have a theory about misery. If it's there, you should go with it, rather than fight it. The last thing you need is conflict. If you're down, happy music just makes you feel worse, because it's so out of sync with how you feel. Miserable music on the other hand, is the aural equivalent of having your hair softly stroked, your temples massaged and soothing words murmured gently in your ear.

It fits.

So when karma lets me down, I hit the Misery Playlist:

Clash - Bankrobber
Smiths - How Soon Is Now
Beatles - Hey Jude
Cure - In Between Days
Alanis Morissette - Mary Jane
Portishead - Glory Box
Pogues - Rainy Night in Soho
Simon and Garfunkel - Wednesday Morning 3am
Peter Gabriel - In Your Eyes
Space - Money
Joan Osborne - One of Us
James - Laid
Andreas Johnson - Glorious
Muse - Blackout
Stranglers - Midnight Summer Dream
Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb



Owen Goal Update:

17 minutes at Anfield - long enough to get booed by the beach balls but not long enough to score. On to Oakwell on Tuesday and an excellent goal but in a mickey mouse cup that barely meets the bet qualifying criterion of being 'competitive'. Way to pick your moment, Michael.

Appearances: 12/15
Minutes Played: 420
Goals: 3
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:140
Goals Per Appearance: 0.25
Projected Season Tally*: 11

* Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (35 mins), goal frequency (every 140 minutes or 4 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (28 Prem games and c13 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 80%). So 41 games x 80% = 33 appearances. 33/4 = 8 more goals