Mark the Coach

I heard a great item on Radio 4′s Today program yesterday. Wayne Hemingway, of Red Or Dead fame, and some other worthy were discussing tie wearing. Wayne – always given to the outre and unconventional when it comes to getting dressed, as any fule kno – is plainly vehemently tie-averse, while the other chap was quite relaxed about the whole issue. The latter ventured the opinion that, since his school never required ties, or indeed any uniform, to be worn, the whole thing was a complete non-issue for him and he was just as happy in a tie as out.

This all made me think about choice, particularly since the debate, while never acrimonious, did get pretty heated. Passions clearly abounded about school and neckwear. The thing is, doing the opposite of what you’re told is just as narrow as doing exactly what you’re told. Choice isn’t about having to wear a tie at school and therefore refusing to do so for the rest of your life, just because you don’t have to any more. If that’s how it is, you still haven’t left school. Choice is freedom – including the freedom to wear a tie, even though it’s what someone else wants you to do.

I should mention, by the way, that I have a LEGENDARY collection of ties, many of which ended up in my wardrobe as a result of being banned from that of their former owners by some nameless third party.

There’s a sound I’ve been hearing a lot lately, and it’s a very evocative one: the sound of eleven-year-old hands digging around in a large box of Lego pieces in search of exactly the right component for the latest construction project. People often say how smells trigger powerful memories and instantly transport them back to childhood. I don’t really get that with smells – it’s sound that does it for me. And for me, the sound of Lego digging takes me back to when the eleven-year-old hands were my own.

I recall the moments of triumph as I found the essential part – the part I was 98% certain was there, yet whose crucial importance lent a marvellous thrill to my search. After all, it’s in the nature of Lego that it gets lost. There’s natural wastage. The hoover, the sofa, and the bottom of the garden all claim their portion, and you can never be quite sure the piece you require is in the box until it’s in your hand. That’s all part of the fun. It’s what Lego has over Meccano. Somehow, you always keep Meccano sorted into boxes and compartments. You just have to. It doesn’t lend itself to all being slung chaotically into one big box. Meccano is in many ways superior to Lego, but you can’t deny that Lego’s got anarchy.

I’ve been very grumpy about sharing myself with people lately. It’s the school holidays and Fred’s staying with me, and suddenly it seems like everyone wants a piece of me and I can’t cope. Actually of course it’s me that wants to spend time with them, and the real issue is time management. I faff. I waste time, I hover around trying to figure out what to do next. I read spam emails and do Sudoku. Cut the faffing, and there’d be loads more time for everyone. Not that much of a biggie really.

Last weekend Kat and I had a pretty big evening at our friend Dan’s birthday party, complete with run-in with a weird drunk old man on the way home and dancing to Shakira till 4am. Suffice it to say the next day provided fulsome reminders of the fact that hangovers can include grumpiness.

So I guess you could say I’ve had a faffing hangover. Where drinking too much dehydrates you, overindulgence in faffing robs you of not water but time. Either way, you can end up being like a bear with a sore head. Not much fun to be with.

Ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of those you love, please faff responsibly.