I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I'd almost given up hope of catching another episode of  'Jean-Claude Van Damme: Behind Closed Doors'.  Imagine my joy when flicking through the TV channels this evening I happened upon it.  There it was on ITV4+1.  Who even knew there was such a thing?  I've immediately put it on my remote control favourites.  Sadly, I missed the first 30 minutes, but I joined as JC's wife, Gladys, was restoring his hair with the Belgian equivalent of Grecian 2000, which I think is chocolate.  Now 70% cocoa, JC flew off to Bangkok to look at rushes of his latest film.  Three years in the making and featuring, I think, an Eagle in the leading role.  Apparently he funded the film himself, which I suspect is why birds were employed instead of actors as they don't have bank accounts, preferring peanuts.  I can see the sense in this, as if you take advantage of 3 for 2 offers on nuts at Aldi (there must be one in Belgium) then you're in profit before you even reach the checkout.  And if you add in the school vouchers, you can fund a pencil for a child at school in the UK.  Another shocking revelation about the film was the fact that it had no script.  This left me speechless, just like the film.

JC's next stop was Hong Kong - a place close to his heart.  I was worried for him at the airport in case there was an allowance on how much chocolate you could bring into the country, as he may have been forced to leave his hair at Customs.  Luckily, there was no such problem and we were subsequently treated to a tour of his flat in Hong Kong, including 'the room where I do my poops'.  Who doesn't enjoy a snoop in someone else's loo? I know I do.

I was a little disappointed by the end,though, as I had been on the edge of my seat for further news of JC's plans to bring about world peace. He'd been reduced to tears in an earlier episode, telling us his greatest wish was to foster world peace.  Sadly, wars have been allowed to flourish pending his further attention.

And before I go, I must just tell you that the chihuahua is safe and fully recovered from it's stint in last week's episode exposed to JC's underpants.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I suppose if someone asks you what you bought with your gift vouchers and you say, "a webcam and some underwear," there is the potential to misunderstand.  For the record, my purchases also included a lumie body clock.  And, just to clarify, not so I could wake up in time for a webcam session with a bar full of tourists in Thailand.

Anyway, the experience led me to recall some of those moments in my life where I've spoken before giving sufficient thought to what I have to say.  This inevitably results in a feeling in my stomach which can best be likened to eating a delicious meal only to be told afterwards that the bowl on the floor by the catflap was, in fact, meant for Tiddles. 

Today I went to the theatre and was seated behind a man with terrible dandruff.  The kind that wouldn't look out of place on the skip slopes of Switzerland.  I whispered to the lady next to me "look at that terrible dandruff", only to discover that my whisper resembled a banshee screaming that the poteen had gone.  Everyone heard me, except it seemed the gentleman in question. Or did he?  During the performance, we were required to stand up if we were "someone that people didn't really know".  Four people got to their feet, the ski slopes of Switzerland was one of them.  Was he telling me something? 

Afterwards, I pondered the things people have said to me which, for their sheer inappropriateness, deserve a second airing.  "You used to have a very fat face" ('I cannily increased the size of my body to make my face look smaller); "I'm very uncomfortable in your presence" (probably because we're stuck in a wardrobe); "you've got two weeks to get out" (I spend my holidays locked in a suitcase), "you've got very hairy arms" (I haven't by the way - I believe it was a lighting problem). 

In a shameless attempt to bring this blog full circle, I wonder if you can get dandruff on very hairy arms?  There must be some scientific research on this topic underway somewhere, probably by natural healing students as a part-time, organic sub-module sponsored by Veet at an 'international college' with a head office over a temp agency in Oxford Street. I may be just what they need to complete their diploma.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... this evening the man behind the counter at the local tube station kiosk reached out emotionally to me across the sea of confectionery that lay between us and said "glad I'm not the only one working Saturdays".  A simple phrase you might think, but I'd just returned from indulging myself in a £50 lunch, a lengthy analysis of the lipstick counter in John Lewis and a vanilla slice for the journey home.  I most definitely hadn't been to work.  Considering that all he'd ever said to me on previous visits was "79 pence please", I felt I couldn't throw it back in his face by telling him I hadn't been to work.  That led me to wonder what it was about me that might indicate I had been working all day and was gagging for some Snack-a-Jacks.

Did my legs appear tired after pedalling an unlicensed rickshaw through Covent Garden?  Did I look directioned-out after standing on the corner of Regent Street and Conduit Street wearing a fluorescent suit saying Hair Removal this way?  Did I smell of polished leather after extolling the virtues of shoe cleaner to customers in Clarks who 'have a lot of that at home already, thank you'?  Did I look windswept after seven hours on the dual carriageway with a bucket load of cast-off daffodils from a Tesco service station?  Did I look disillusioned from the reckless refusals by customers at Comet to buy extended insurance for their electric toothbrushes? 

I feared being a huge disappointment to this man who spent his days keeping the peace between the Haribos and the Cadburys and channelling his OCD into stacking Rollos.  He'd reached beyond "79 pence" to speak to me as a kindred spirit.  Had he been monitoring my consumption of salty snacks to discover that I had transformed into a human condiment?

I came to the conclusion that things were best left unexplained between us.  It was for the best.  We shared a moment of savoury snacks, "Brief Encounter" style.  And, as in the film, I left without looking back.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

..... I was deeply moved this evening by "Jean Claude-Van Dame: Behind Closed Doors".  Not sure what TV channel it was on, but should be the programme of choice for any man approaching 50.  Jean Claude wasn't to be found wearing cardigans, filling out his subscription to Readers' Digest, fondling bulbs at the local garden centre, or stocking up on Werther's Originals.  No, Jean Claude had booked himself a fight against an Olympic Gold medallist in Boxing.  That's how they described the guy, but when we caught a glimpse of him, he looked very much like the bus driver on the 123 from Wood Green to Ilford.

Anyway, JC (that's what his family call him) was obviously in peak condition and I'm sure the MRI scan he had after agonising hip pain was nothing to worry about.  Bizarrely, he must have been attended by a hairdresser rather than a nurse, as when he emerged from the scanner, his thin light brown hair had grown dark and lush.  Let's hope this crossover of occupations doesn't result in someone at the hairdressers being treated to an enema.  Note to self: get hair cut before I visit Belgium.

The next stage of JC's intensive training programme involved him visiting Ukraine Fashion Week.  An essential stop for anyone due to fight an Olympic Boxer/Bus Driver in two weeks' time. Kiev welcomed him like a long lost son and he explained he was there to enjoy the clothes. Ironic as he was in his underpants for much of the programme.  He was so keen, he made his way directly to the models' dressing room to see the clothes before the naked girls had even put them on.

And, should there be any chance of the viewer nodding off, then every five minutes we were treated to a shot of a tanned JC in his underpants, cuddling a chihuahua to his left breast and punching the camera with his right fist. I recognised the chihuahua. It's now dyed pink and living with Paris Hilton.  

Over excited by the clothes and throwing caution to the wind, JC invited all the Press from the fashion show to his 50th birthday party later that night.  I presume he didn't think they'd turn up (although it's Kiev, right?), because when they did he begged them to leave him alone.  Inside he sought anonymity by sitting directly in front of a female singer dressed in a net curtain body stocking singing Happy Birthday. Think Eurovision Song Contest, the Ukraine and Martin McCutcheon's 'This is My Moment' and you could be there with him.

After returning to Brussels, it was time for reflection.  His son, Christian, summed it up.  "I'm glad I'm here for him and hmmmmmm, he's here for me."  I was there for both of them. Having seem JC in his underpants at last 20 times during the past hour and a full frontal of his chihuahua, I was family.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

..... I don't want to be the only person in the country to have completed and returned their census form.  Admittedly, I started it on the assumption that it was The Times cryptic crossword and spent several hours trying to solve the anagram 'What religion are you?' Clearly a hazard of completing the crossword by torchlight under the bedclothes. On a previous attempt, I woke up in the morning to discover the supposed anagram was, in fact, a reminder from Specsavers for my eye test.

What worries me the most is that the government might only have my census form on which to plan future services for the country.  In 20 years' time we could therefore be living in a country where the national religion is 'Gok Wan'; the average level of educational achievement is successfully completing a tube journey despite engineering works, reduced escalator service, decomissioned trains, and abundant passenger alarms; and the average householders's job is captaining the USS Enterprise.  In addition, historians will be intrigued to discover that on the night of the census I was joined by an Eskimo on a mini-break from Greenland and Father Ted (on a night off from being a fictional character and being dead).

But never mind the future, what did I do yesterday, I hear you ask?  Well, I went to the theatre. This involved, in no particular order, being blindfolded, getting into a makeshift car with a projection of a Spanish-speaking clown, led through dark corridors by invisible strangers and climbing under a bed to join a woman dressed as a squirrel.  Which leads me to the conclusion that the present is bizarre enough, so why worry about the future.

I wouldn't mind, but ....

.... I spent a lot of time today appearing inadvertently as background in tourists' photos and it gave me the idea of becoming the most photographed woman in the world.  I don't mean in the 'look at me, I'm gorgeous' type of photoshoot (although I'm assuming there must be someone out there with poor eyesight and a love of low lighting for whom I could be that elusive beauty).  No, I'm thinking more of the enigmatic stranger in the background.  The potential is limitless.  London is abuzz with tourists throughout the year.  Where do most of them hang out? Zones 1-3, of course, and I'm packing an oyster card.

Imagine, for example, a German tourist (Boris) who returns home to Munich and invites his best friend (Claus) round for another evening of beer, cold meats and holiday snaps.  Browsing through the photo album, Claus exclaims, "Boris, that frauline is in my photo of Carnaby Street too".  Boris calls his cousin, Helga, and she comes round with photos from her London city break.  And there I am again. A pearly queen hybrid of the travelling gnome and 'Where's Wally'.   Before you can say "these snaps are inappropriate for people under the age of 18", I've got a record deal and am topping the German charts. It doesn't have to be Germany, it could be anywhere. I'm not Eurovision, I'm universalvision.  Granted, I'll need to put some extra money on my oyster card, but I think it'll be worth it.

Of course, I'll also have to adopt some typical London poses for authenticity.  I've already got some in mind, depending on the location:

1.  Saturday night in Leicester Square, I'll be kebabbed up.
2.  Thursday late night shopping in Oxford Street - in the gutter under Primark bags.
3.  At the British Museum, I'll be looking as bored as a centipede at the chiropodist.
4.  In Trafalgar Square, I'll be climbing the lions and putting my k******s on their head.
5.  On the london Eye, I'll be shouting "There's me 'ouse, just over there".

My campaign begins.