Houmous? Humous? Houmus? Hummus?

I don't do topical rants, not being sufficiently in touch with current affairs. Tom, I leave that to you. I'll tell you something I don't appreciate. the Daily Mail, that's what. Every time I read it I experience either rage, disbelief, or disgust. or all three. It wasn't the usual narrow minded short-sighted hideous bigotry this time, mind you, it was the article about Farah Fawcett, who is, by all accounts, on her death bed.

Now, the public's new-found cancer awareness in the light of the late Jade Goody's demise is no bad thing. It really isn't. But I resent coming across pictures of celebrities drawing their penultimate breath when all I was looking for was the free packet of lavender seeds and the Classical Brits CD which were the only reasons I bought the Mail in the first place (note to self, never be sucked in to Daily Mail purchase by rubbish freebies again). I know Farah is in desperate straits. I was saddened to read about it. What possible benefit is there in seeing a photo? The caption was even something along the lines of 'Farah Fawcett in her Charlie's Angels Heyday, and (inset) on her death bed'. We know what happens when people have incurable cancer. They fight for a while and try to keep going, then they spend months on end lying in bed in hideous agony, then they die. What possible benefit does a picture of a dying Farah confer on anyone or anything, juxtaposed with her blow-dried, roller-brushed 1970s self? None. I feel physically sick. I haven't been able to get it out of my head ever since. Gah.

I've been thinking what I'll miss least about London, besides the Mail. Is it Crest of London souvenir shops? Is it the scent of the 46 fried chicken outlets I walk past on my way home? No, it's the omnipresent pool of sick in the bus stop outside Argos in Shepherd's Bush. The last three times I've been there someone has seen fit to spew copious amounts of what appears to be a melange of strawberry McDonald's milkshake and houmous (is that how you spell it? - the Greek cold garlic porridge gritty sloppy stuff that people started having with dips in 2002 and thought they were very vogue). That particuar spot, outside Bagel Bite, Argos and Exclusive Jewellers (I'll be the judge of that) is the most depressing place in the whole of western civiisation. I've spent many a delightful 25 minutes freezing my knackers off there waiting for the 94 bus, wondering if there is any more to London life than bus trips and pinkish vomit. In a way I understand. I mean, standing outside Argos tests the gag reflex in the best of us, but really, of things I won't miss. that particular pool of vomit is certainly in the top five.

I'm a great believer in the old maxim 'if you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all', but we can't all be chipper all of the time, can we?

Gloria in Excelsis Deo

Well, Monday morning. What could be better than the notion that I'm waiting to go in to my land law exam. Sigh. Only moderately shitting a brick. A half-brick, you might say. Four hours of misery. Being a learning support student I am in a different building - in fact in an entirely different area of London to all of the normal people. Worryingly, the room number I'm in is 2:2. Let's hope that's not an indication of what my performance is likely to be.

It's at times like these I look to Gloria Hunniford for guidance and support. I had thought of bringing her autobiography to the exam, but as far as I could see it wasn't in the list of permitted materials. Let's just hope that the fact that I have copied her hairstyle will be enough to get me through any low moments should the question on co-ownership be a challenge.