Ennui Go, Ennui Go, Ennui Go...

It's true. There are no good reasons why I shouldn't paint my arse blue and take up Mongolian throat singing either. But that in itself isn't going to make me... Ah, hello. I think you've probably come in in the middle here. Some explanation probably needed. What's happening? Well I'm back, after a dour and German essay laden summer and wait a minute! Yes, here it comes. Ooof! Yet another dilemma with its horns right up my jacksie.

Life when it happens as trailed, pretty much as discussed in all those novels, movies and soap operas disguised as serious drama about thirtysomethings on BBC2 (who's that fooling?) is boring and predictable. Life when it isn't as described and endlessly discussed is sometimes exciting but mostly just plain terrifying. And this isn't just some little detail like how hard it is to get a wet-suit off if you're a fat bloke, or how when two people romantically involved get real, real close and stare into each others eyes like they do in the movies, all that they see is a blurred jumble of eye-sockets in cheeks and noses in foreheads, this is a biggy. I really wasn't expecting this.

I expected stiff joints, wrinkles and flabbiness. I had steeled myself ready for the irregular shape of my head being revealed to the world through male patterned baldness. I understood that in time things will shrivel, fall out and fall off. Yup, I've got used to that. What I didn't understand was the sheer unexpected horror of the other stuff. I'm still not quite resigned to it. Like instant hard-ons in the presence of anything female (Ages 12-14) and unexpectedly shitting myself (Ages 6-7 and that fortnight in Egypt) I'm still, perhaps forlornly, hoping it's just a phase.

The boredom. The boredom and the shopping. The marrying and the multiplying. The knot-tying and the nesting. The DIY. The exotic travel poker (I'll see your week-long stay in an authentic moot house in Vietnam and raise you a Machu-Pichu). It's as if most of the people I know have been the victim of some inverted, metaphysical, Mafia-style punishment - they've had their heads set in concrete. Same old opinions or no opinions. A look of fear and panic in their eyes when you talk about anything that doesn't come flat-packed for self-assembly or can't be bought with a cash-back mortgage. And do you know what I think causes this? Too much money and regular sex.

Argh (there go my balls and any regularity I ever had)! What have I said? No, no! Wait just a minute, I wish I hadn't said it either. Forgive me please. Maybe it is a rosy glow of nostalgia, but weren't people actually just a little bit more interesting when they were penniless and weren't fully coupled up with kitchens to paint? I don't know what I'm fretting about anyway. Statistics keep telling me that a good proportion of these happy couples will be suing the pants off each other in five to ten years, furtively shagging other peoples spouses or running off with seventeen-year-olds and arguing endlessly over who gets to take little - insert trendy middle class baby name here - to didgeridoo lessons. I'm looking forward to it. It has got to be more interesting.