society

I had a week off. I saw The Human Centipede. Or Human Centipede: First Sequence, as it is optimistically subtitled. Dr. Heiter is a surgeon famous for separating Siamese twins. Bored with separating people, he now turns to linking them, mouth to anus, forming a small chain of three, only one of whom is likely to enjoy a decent meal ever again. And why not?, as Barry Norman claims he never used to say.

This is surprisingly enjoyable, largely due to Dieter Laser's performance as the good doctor ('I don't like human beings!'). He resembles a barely-human cross between William Burroughs, John Carradine and a Pepperami, with maybe a bit of Charlie Brooker thrown in for good measure. I'm sure I'd end up like that if I lived alone (still a looming possibility!)

At Frightfest I took in a couple of films and picked up a DVD of the 1968 Peter Cushing movie Corruption. Cushing plays a surgeon keeping his disfigured girlfriend's face up to scratch using Essence of Decapitated Prostitute. THIS IS NOT A WOMAN'S PICTURE, blares the poster reproduced on the DVD sleeve, THEREFORE NO WOMAN WILL BE ADMITTED ALONE TO SEE THIS SUPER-SHOCK FILM! I wonder if this was ever enforced? Did placard-waving feminists stage protests outside cinemas: WE DEMAND THE RIGHT TO SEE THIS SUPER-SHOCK FILM UNACCOMPANIED?

I'm not sure they'd have enjoyed it particularly anyway, to be honest.

I attended a barbecue on Saturday, to celebrate Phil and Vicki's baby Nicholas' christening - although this isn't actually until October. It was another socially awkward situation for me. I began by knocking (unlit) candles over, then I found the cider going to my head a little too quickly because I hadn't eaten enough. I stumbled into the room where all the food was laid out and started to load up a paper plate, before suddenly realising that, at this point, only children were permitted to eat. It was Vicki roaring 'Children!' at me that gave it away. At least she didn't follow it up with: 'For God's sake, think of the children!'

But what was I to do? Should I put the food on my plate back? That didn't seem right. But what else could I do? Eat it? Oh right yes: I did that, stuffing it into my mouth as discreetly as I could, but then I still held the crumb-strewn plate, symbol of my evil capacity to steal the food from children's mouths. Well, not their actual mouths, that would be disgusting, but you know what I mean.

In the end, after much hesitation, I brazenly strolled outside with the plate in my hand, hoping to turn the situation into some kind of joke. Then a cruel breeze grabbed the plate from where I placed it on a table and deposited on the lawn, far enough away from me that picking it up would have made me terribly conspicuous. I couldn't face the humiliation of everyone pointing at me and whispering 'He's eaten the children's food!', but from this point on was hyper-aware of that white disc out of the corner of my eye, the glowing moon of my shame.

After that it seemed that I had nothing to lose. I might as well get roaring drunk and become an honest-to-God monster, knocking over gazebos and throwing kids onto the barbecue. Luckily, things levelled off a bit then, and I left without causing any further havoc.

I think.

Dislocated

Just when I was daring to think that I might live through a whole year without having to move house, Dave has gone stark raving mad and bought a maisonette one block down from where we are. As to whether I will go with him, this is still undecided, but I will obviously have to go somewhere, unless I convert his room into a cannabis farm. This is just one of what my telephone handset at work calls my 'current options'.

I was warned before I saw the place that it 'needs work', that the decor is hideous; I also knew that it was a 'mirror image' of our current abode. The phrase carried eerie associations, as though I would be moving, not just into a new home, but into some nightmarish parallel universe.

On seeing the place, I realised that I would, in fact, be travelling back in time. On one wall of the room that would be mine, the cast of Hill Street Blues grins from a poster ripped out of the TV Times, overseeing other relics of an 80's boyhood. Since then the room has been colonised by the boy's Dad's extensive video collection - all detective shows taped off the telly with neatly printed labels - and a flock of ancient post-it notes bearing mysterious messages.

The carpets are worn and faded (which is probably just as well, since you would shudder to see some of those patterns blazing forth in all their glory). The bathroom suite is pink, the net curtains brown. Nevertheless, it's a perfectly decent house. It has walls, floors, windows, even ceilings. All more or less where you would expect them to be.

Perhaps, once deciphered, the post-it notes (which would be yellowing if they weren't already yellow) hold a key for unlocking extra space. Because in this place, as 'the lodger', I would be (quite rightly) occupying a smaller room - the spare room, essentially. This would incur a lower rent so, yes, it's all swings and roundabouts, swings and roundabouts until I'm quite dizzy with possibilities. All of them just slightly depressing.

I have had mad fantasies of getting the landlord to reduce the rent of this place, though even in the maddest of these he has not gone below £600 per calendar month. Which I have accepted. In real life, when I made an attempt to broach the topic, he had a good chuckle.

Must be the way I tell 'em.

Decentred

Another week, another leaving do at work. This time someone who has been there for 20 years - it is said that 'a lot of knowledge' is leaving the building. If things carry on like this the Centre will soon qualify as retarded.

A bigwig visited recently to talk to people in a department that is being closed down. He was supposed to tour the Centre afterwards but unsurprisingly the talk dragged on, right through the midday fire alarm test. We can only hope that this didn't coincide with an unfortunate moment in the guy's speech ('...and I'm definitely NOT lying when I say how sympathetic I am with your plight - ' WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP). That would be just awful.

There is no plan, they say, to close the Centre and I've worked for the NHS long enough that I can quite believe that there is no plan. But that doesn't mean they won't be sending in the bulldozers tomorrow, of course...

deflation

The nights are drawing in. This was impressed upon me as I walked from Ingrave back to Brentwood the other Sunday evening and found myself making my way through an increasingly shadowy and sinister forest with voices chanting 'Blood! Blood! Blood!' in my ear. It was one of those occasions where I question the wisdom of leaving my i-pod on 'shuffle'.

This weekend we had the annual Hunt family Hog Roast. Although it was as delightful as ever, Dave and I left uncharacteristically early, even before the bouncy castle was deflated, sealing another group of unlucky (?) kids inside it until next year. Ross and Christine had tempted us away into the sunset with the offer of a lift. Somehow we ended up in the Swan, which has been refurbished again. On this occasion, they have decided to make it look shit.

Ross is now Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Party! Oh alright then, the Warley branch. Although they were a little alarmed when his first action was to change his name from 'Brown' to 'Braun': they are trying to live down their Nazi past. (The Warley branch, that is - it's a long story.) Ross also revealed that he no longer goes to yoga classes since they doubled the fee and I asked him whether he still turned up to protest, heckling during the relaxation sessions. He said no, but that on his last visit he managed a 'dirty protest' when he relaxed a little too much.

I'm sure he doesn't mind me telling you all this. Especially as almost none of it is true.