Blank Generation

Dave got the keys to the new place. Now he's worrying about how he's going to pay for it. 'Direct debit', I suggested, helpfully.

I went in there with Dave, Mat and Rhys. Mat is Dave's 'interior design consultant'. Unpaid, of course, which is useful since it means Dave doesn't actually have to use any of his ideas. The principal one of which is that the whole place should be painted entirely white in a tribute to the early George Lucas film THX1138, set in an oppressive world of the future. That's exactly the kind of atmosphere I look forward to living in: oppressive.

But perhaps we already live in this oppressive world of the future, since, as a number of visits to Wickes has made clear, there are plenty of shades of white available, with names like Blandness, Who Cares? and Unlikely To Offend Future Buyers. I was more struck by a colour called Sugarplum, but Dave refused to have any truck with that, instead firmly directing my attention to a battleship-grey shade called Steel.

I have an urge to paint my room lilac, but aren't sure if I can endure the homophobic abuse this is bound to entail. Perhaps I shall ask the Shilson's dachshund, Lulu, for advice. She has already expressed a critique of the lounge carpet in the form of a lengthy turd. Or perhaps I shall paint my room in Indifference - a popular shade of white, I believe.

unreality TV

At work Lorraine was googling quangos. Luckily it seemed that we weren't one. Nevertheless when George Osborne was dishing out the spending cuts on Tuesday, I half-expected that we would be mentioned by name (I used to work with GO at Foyles, and the less said about that, the better). Nothing happened anyway, except the office nextdoor split up, due not to the economic situation but to what was described as 'a poorly-worded e-mail'. It's true - half of them suddenly relocated to work in the office down the end of the corridor, where the sink is. This was the day before I went on five day's annual leave, so I can't help but wonder what I'll find on my return. An armed siege?

I have been attempting to watch The Only Way Is Essex. This has attracted a lot of adverse comment locally for not representing 'the real Essex'. Having seen a couple of episodes, I'd have to agree. It doesn't seem to be on nodding terms with reality at all. It is a 'docu-soap', but that only describes what it isn't. It is not a documentary and it is not a soap. The people in it are not acting but neither are they being themselves. They are nominally in Essex but they could just as easily be floating in space. And it doesn't help, of course, that they are orange.

I find it oddly hard to focus on, possibly because by the time it comes on on a Friday night, I have normally consumed half a bottle of wine. The only thing that grabs my attention in the midst of this glistening void is the sudden appearance of a sight I see almost every day in real life - the back entrance to the Sugar Hut. This doesn't make the programme seem any more real but it has got me questioning the authenticity of my walk to work.

the new people

So Dave has exchanged contracts - or at least, he got a letter informing him that he had. I had expected some kind of ceremony, perhaps something along the lines of an old-fashioned duel, with the participants pacing towards each other, contracts in their outstretched hands. Perhaps solicitors performed this ritual in their stead; it's hard to know.

Potential tenants have already been round to look over our place. I consider it my duty to put them off, so that Colin, unable to let it, is forced to let me stay for a nominal fee. In order to create the right unsettling atmosphere I answer the door in the nude, and offer them plum tomatoes from Sainsbury's. 'They're Taste The Difference', I say. You'd be surprised how sinister that phrase can be made to sound.

I have Resonance on loud, and - with luck - they're playing a symphony of industrial noise and synchronised vomiting. I tell the visitors that I recorded these sounds last night, from nextdoor.

Then - getting desperate - I try to rope in the fact that we ran out of milk that morning - 'It's not a good property for milk.' A brief word about our landlord ('He makes us do things!') and then they're out the door, never to return. Job, hopefully, done.

Don't it make my brown eyes blue?

I finally had my Equality and Diversity course. Now the office will no longer be subjected to my boorish racist rants. It used to be a one-day course, but now it lasts half a day and is described as 'fast-paced'.

We were read a story about a builder admiring a nurse's legs and were invited to answer questions on it. Since the story failed to specify the sexes of any of the characters the correct answer turned out to be 'Don't Know' in each case. I got top marks. This wasn't because I'm careful not to make traditional sexist assumptions - I just wasn't listening.

Then we were shown a DVD about a teacher in Iowa in the 60's who separated her class into brown-eyed and blue-eyed children, and taught them that the blue-eyed ones were superior to the brown-eyed. This was a two-day social experiment, by the way, not just her belief. I've no idea what happened to the green-eyed kids, if any. Perhaps they were taken outside and shot before filming started.

Anyway the film certainly impressed upon us the ease with which prejudices may be fostered. On the feedback form where we had to write what we'd learned I put: 'Brown-eyed people are stupid.' And I'm brown-eyed! I certainly had gained some insights.