Pint

It is getting to the time of year when the football season draws towards a thrillingly edge-of-the-seat finale. Especially so this year, where things have been too close to call both at the top and the bottom of the Premiership. It makes for an exciting season for the fans, apart from those who fear their team is about to plummet towards the relegation black hole; or for those who expected their team to surge triumphantly towards the title but look like stumbling at the final hurdle; or for those who see their team languishing frustratingly in the middle of the table, where they have ended up every season in living memory. All in all, perhaps not that many fans do enjoy the Premiership, apart from the neutrals who don't really care one way or the other.

I am not quite in the latter category, though I am the first to admit that neither am I the most fanatical of fans, the sort who despises every other team in the Premiership with a fervent and unassuageable hatred. I like to think of myself as quite even-handed, one who can see the positive side of any particular team, one who is generous enough to applaud a decent display of skill and effort. Clearly, this attitude causes problems for me in the presence of more single-minded fans, especially the sort who bellow their support at television screens while carelessly spilling their pint over the carpet. I suppose I do my best to keep my head down at such moments, and tactfully direct the conversation towards less inflammatory topics, such as religion or politics.

Folio

– And did you get up to much on St. George's Day? Join in any celebrations?
– I find it difficult to know what to do. How are you meant to celebrate it, without coming across as disturbingly nationalistic? I'm not really one for flag waving. Don't even own a flag, anyway.
– I suppose it can seem a little over the top. Especially on your own. Perhaps you could think of other ways to celebrate the spirit of England. Our great poets, for example.
– It was Shakespeare's 450th birthday.
– There you go. You could recite a bit of Shakespeare.
– Anything in particular?
– I don't know. Something short, perhaps. It can go on a bit. And cheese, of course.
– I'm sorry?
– Cheeses are very characteristic. Their very names conjure up the magic and mystery of England's ancient regions: Stilton, Cheddar, Double Gloucester, Wensleydale with Cranberries.
– They are certainly evocative.
– To be honest, you could ditch the Shakespeare, and just concentrate on cheese. But remember the crackers.

Aubretia

Driving past the neighbours' front gardens, already bustling with the bright colours of springtime blossoms, I cannot help feeling a little saddened by the tumbling cascades of purple aubretia decorating numerous walls and rockeries. Saddened because, arriving home, I look at my own front garden and see no tumbling cascades, despite having planted some aubretia last year, precisely to be able to see its cheery lilac petals welcoming me home after a long day at wherever I spend my days.

I only noticed the omission a few days ago, when, admiring the display of yellow and violet violets in my planters, I remembered with a sinking heart that that was where I had planted the aubretia. But it was nowhere to be seen. Unlikely that some thief had snatched it in the night, I realised that I had most probably been over-enthusiastic in my preparation of the ground for the winter-flowering violets, and had cast out the faded stems of the aubretia. Possibly I had merely transferred it to an alternative location, but I have since scoured the back garden hoping to see a hearty clump, but with no success.

It is particularly galling because, being a hardy annual, I had deliberately selected the aubretia as an investment for the future, something that would appear year after year and save me a small fortune in bedding plants. Sadly, it is not to be. There is probably a moral here, something about best laid plans not gathering moss or spoiling broths. But it is little consolation.

Egg

– It's almost here.
– Sorry?
– Easter is almost upon us.
– Of course. Let's hope the weather holds up, but I think the forecast is not so promising.
– Weather forecasters! What do they know?
– Well, unfortunately, one thing they do not know is what the weather will be like tomorrow. But they do their best to predict what will happen. Hence the forecasting part of their job title.
– It's hardly a science, is it?
– I think it is. That's how they do it. By careful scientific observation. And simulations running on supercomputers. Possibly they stick their head out of the window occasionally, just to check they are not wildly off target, but I think that's basically what they do.
– And yet, for all their supercomputers, and, I dare say, algorithms, they can't manage to get Easter to land on the same day each year.
– I'm not sure that is directly related to the weather.
– It probably is: at some deep level, most things are related.

Junk

– But think of all the positive benefits.
– Of –?
– Of having to tidy the house for the new boiler. Look how smart and spacious it is, without all the clutter.
– Only because the clutter is hidden away. Open a cupboard and it will come flying out at you.
– But this becomes an ideal opportunity to restyle your life. Chuck out all the junk that's weighing you down and start afresh.
– By junk you mean my personal possessions?
– Yes, but everyone accumulates more stuff than they actually need. Ask yourself, what exactly is essential? What can you not live without?
– The clutter. I can't live without the clutter. It's why I got it in the first place. I am very attached to it.
– What, all of it?
– I suppose there might be the odd thing, here and there, which I might be able to throw out.
– There you are.
– Or maybe for the time being I could just leave it in the cupboard in case I find I need it in the future. And then if I've not had to use it for – say – a few years, I could actually throw it out, in the knowledge that I didn't need it after all.
– That doesn't really help clear the clutter in the short term.
– Maybe not, but what price peace of mind?

Geyser

I seem to have done more than enough housework in the last few days to last an average lifetime. And yet it all needs doing again. It is demoralising. I am demoralised. It sounds as if I have had my morals physically removed, which I am sure is not quite right, but you get the point. Why someone with no morals should feel particularly fed up is a mystery to me, when you might have thought they would find it quite liberating to be freed from the shackles of polite society, but maybe there are some unpleasant drawbacks that are not immediately obvious.

It was all down to having work done on the kitchen – installation of a new boiler – which required a huge amount of clearing out of the kitchen cupboards in the immediate vicinity, along with substantial decluttering around all the radiators throughout the house, itself no trivial task. But after a day's worth of drilling and lifting floorboards and dismantling pipework (not by me, but by people who know how to do these things safely), everywhere was covered in dust. And all the old clutter is still waiting patiently to be put back where it belongs.

Stitch

I was struck, watching television the other evening, by the potential for confusion between the word sewer meaning someone who sews and the word sewer meaning a receptacle for sewage: an example of heteronyms, they tell me, being words that look the same but sound different and, importantly, have different meanings. Presumably you can usually deduce the intended meaning from the context. Thus, the television programme I was watching was all about stitching and tailoring and, not to put too fine a point on it, sewing, and didn't feature any sewage that I could see, or even more than the usual scattering of litter. So, on reflection, there was very little chance of confusion. But still, it is important to be alert to these things.

The other memorable highlight of the programme was the enormous level of skill shown by the dressmakers, which only served to haul into stark contrast my own inability in this field. Not that I have much of a yearning to make my own shirts from scratch, but it would be useful to be able to fix items of clothing that are past their best, which sadly aptly describes most of my wardrobe. Perhaps if I started by darning socks, I would one day get to the stage of designing and constructing my own garments. But men's clothes are generally quite intricate and complicated designs: even socks are a somewhat awkward shape, though I can't see why you couldn't just glue together some general cloth into a vague tube-like shape, ideally open at one end, which you could drag on to an available foot. But anything beyond that seems too great a challenge.

Dust

– You know, spending all day catching up with the housework is pretty exhausting.
– I suppose it would be. Was it all day? It seemed more like a couple of hours.
– Well, it was more than I usually manage. It seemed like a lot to me.
– It must give you a great sense of achievement, to see the house all spick and span.
– Do you notice the difference? Which bit do you think looks most impressive?
– It's hard to – pick a favourite. Which bit would you say?
– I don't know. I was flitting around all over the place, trying to getting everything into shape, rather than focussing on one spot. As a result –
– Nothing actually got finished.
– True. But with housework, nothing ever really gets finished, does it? There's always more to do. Somewhere.
– I suppose that's the way it is. It's probably an entropy thing: the house is slowly but inevitably falling to pieces.
– Really? It seems to make housework a bit pointless.
– That has always been my opinion.

Conspiracy

– So you got through yesterday unscathed?
– Unscathed?
– By the annual celebration of practical jokes and tomfoolery.
– Of course. Yes, I can't say I noticed any. It was all very quiet.
– Suspiciously quiet?
– How do you mean?
– Some things can be just too quiet, you know. As if –
– Yes?
– Sorry, it's nothing...
– You were about to say –?
– No, nothing... It's just that –
– Yes?
– Sometimes you get the feeling, don't you, of things being plotted in the shadows: conspiracies; whisperings.
– By whom?
– That's the thing, isn't it? Who indeed are they?
– That's what I asked you. And conspiring about what? April's Fools pranks?
– If only it were that simple...
– Whereas it isn't?
– Who knows?
– You don't really seem to know that much about any of this.
– Sometimes these things are impenetrable.
– Yes. I'm finding that.