Preoccupied

I've found myself preoccupied and suddenly realised I haven't posted anything for ages. In the words of the cult film song - time is fleeting, and while madness is not taking its toll or taking control (forgotten what the lyric actually is) the real world has been pressing in on my mind.


So we had the local elections. I vote because I feel its a civic duty, and because it was a hard won right. I watched the first Iraqi elections with admiration for the people who came out determined to cast their vote despite facing grave dangers to do so. But I haven't actually felt the urgency of voting since the days of dying Thatcherism and the fall of the Tory Party who held power for the whole of my youth. Since the labour party won I have found I'm not actually voting for anyone as much as against those I perceive as greater evils. Long gone are the days when ticking the box of a-labour-party-in-opposition felt like a mark against evil money grubbing politics that cared little for its populace. All sides have merged into one big blur, and none of them on the side of centre I prefer. The further we get into soundbite and knee-jerk politics the less I want to actively choose anyone on my ballot paper. I don't feel comfortable with a right of centre labour party, can't vote for the conservatives (ghost of thatcher lives long in the mind), and am not convinced that the lib dems have any particular passions. So voting and the election hooplah falls way short of real excitement. So to the aftermath, braying for Tony to name the day, the prospect of Gordon Brown at the healm leaves me feeling somewhat nauseous.


After that was the last-day-of-the-premiership excitement which really did have me feeling nauseous. I've learned to be a football fan. I've developed my understanding and passion, I say passion and mean it loosely - not to be confused with the obsession of life altering proportions that afflicts the boyfiend (mantra: good girlfriends understand their partners interests). The success for the last game of Highbury historically fitting. The joy only marred by continual speculation about the future of Henry. So the joy passed and nausea has set in again. Will he, won't he, will he, won't he. How any long term fan copes with the level of insecurity is beyond me. I'm contemplating giving up fandom (but have found its a tricky habit to kick).


I've also been looking into buying a house. Overcame the fear and stepped over the threshold of several estate agents. Did decide I didn't really want to be sold a house by a man in a black shirt and white necktie (what image is he trying to portray - out of date out of shape mod or gangsta in the 30's Chicago style). And while they aren't all as bad as the Foxton's programme portrayed the fact that its a sellers market is apparent by some of their distinct lack of interest. Perhaps an estate agents would be a good addition to my portfolio of businesses-which-need-a-new-approach. Buying, selling of houses done by humans not salesmen. Fits with the mobile phone shop not staffed by fast talking mobile phone salesmen (thick ties and matching shirts wearing bluetooth headsets more interested in the sound of their own voice), and electricals departments where women are seen as serious purchasers, even if they can't join in the bamboozling technospeak.