Wednesday, 24 November 2010

ROOM 101- Part 3

You asked me once, what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.


I would describe myself as a fairly safe driver. I have held a clean licence for three years and I have spent more time driving than I have cooking. I have had an endless string of bangers, including 2 Ford Escorts, a Nissan Almera, a Honda Civic, VW Polo, 2 Fiestas, and a humungous Vauxhall Cavalier. Driving is my favourite thing to do at any time of the year, night or day.
I admit, if I were lucky enough to own an expensive sports car, I would probably take a little more care, but 20 mph in a 30 zone utterly takes the biscuit. In the Valleys, where I live, there is one road in and one road out, so if Victor Meldrew is hogging the tarmac on his Sunday drive, there is no alternative but to slow down into second gear. Do these people not realise just how much juice that uses? I find it completely selfish and sometimes as hazardous as speeding. GET A GRIP!


One year ago, if you were to tell me that Facebook would be catapulted into Room 101 by no other than yours truly, I would have deleted you as a friend. Facebook was my life for three years. I have praised Mark Zuckerberg endlessly for giving me the opportunity to reconnect with distant family and friends, get to know people in my community better and spread awareness for Asperger Syndrome. I have around 1,300 Facebook friends whom, most days, I would chat to until early hours of the morning. I was completely hooked and it made the world seem like a much friendlier place to live in.
These days, I cannot bare to log in. I get a constant Live Feed of relationship issues, drunken gibberish and online squabbling, inundated with adverts and Spam and endless errors. Perhaps I have outgrown the laborious routine, or perhaps its members exploit the ability to express themselves unconditionally, but either way, Facebook needs a Jolly-Good Prozac!


To me, answering the telephone is like Russian roulette, PETRIFYING! I hate not knowing whom I could be speaking to as much as I hate not being prepared to talk to somebody. Written down, even to me, this seems strange, but whenever the telephone rings, I pray that someone else will answer it before I do.
I have a very quiet speaking voice and I hate nothing more than having to repeat myself, which I usually have to do after every sentence. It is very rare that I make a phone call myself. I avoid using the telephone like the Plague, at all costs!


This is little more than a jealousy. It is not Yummy Mummies that I dislike. At 7:30am, daily, I wake up, iron my son’s uniform, help him get dressed, sort out his breakfast, supervise him as he takes his medication and generally run around the flat like a headless chicken making sure that he is organised and squeaky-clean for school. When we arrive at 8:30am, most days, I am still wearing my pyjamas, my hair looks like a mangled Hedgehog and I still have pillow creases scarring my face. I barely have time to wipe the sleep-dribble from my cheeks.
How on earth (and it truly baffles me) do the other mothers looks so perfect? Do they wake up at 4am? Do they sit up all night straightening their hair and touching up their lip-gloss? Are they even human?


(Especially Jamie Redknap)…

I love Football. I am a lifelong fan of Manchester United, I look forward to the World Cup and, for a year, I was a tea-maid for our local team, however, I cannot stand football talk.
A couple of weeks ago, my partner was watching ‘Super Sunday - The Last Word’ on Sky Sports. I watched it for 10 minutes before I fell about laughing at the two guys, sat in a studio, surrounded by State-of-the-art analysis equipment having a full-blow debate about a football match that had been played a day before, precisely measuring the distance of the players from one another, the angle of the linesmen and the decisions made by the referee. Neither of these men were footballers or managers, the show’s presence would have no affect on the previous day and the amount they get paid for this is nobody’s business.
When watching a game on television, what spoils it for me is the halftime criticism from the likes of Jamie Redknap. They sit in their little booth in Armani suits, bitching like a cackle of witches. They publicly slaughter the effort made by the players, disrespectfully,
To me, football will always be a beautiful game. It represents team spirit, entertainment and a community get-together. It should not be a reason to dwell, but a reason to crack open a beer and enjoy sport and banter with your friends. Jamie Redknap retired years ago. It is a pity he did not take up model trains like most retired men and leave the players to do what he could not do better!

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