I was recently introduced to the art of Sudoku. It’s an art rather than an activity because there is nothing remotely active about being sat still and staring in utter confusion and frustration at a little grid that’s part-filled with the numbers 1-9. I had resisted joining the massed throngs of the confused for many years – in fact, this is what I had to say on the subject in 2005:

Soduko
These number puzzles have got the Guardian and Sunday Times-reading masses rushing for their pens. There are even whole puzzle books devoted to them – a bit like Take a Break only without the top tips and prize money. Apparently, it’s all about counting from 1 to 9?

These things are even worse than cryptic crosswords. Completely bloody pointless.
If people are that bored, why don’t they just go and have half an hour sorting themselves out?

…until my girlfriend told me that she thought I’d enjoy doing them.

“But no, you don’t understand!”, I pleaded with her, “I have an extremely addictive personality and things like this affect my fine neurochemical balance really badly. I should really avoid them.”

“Nonsense, T. You’ll enjoy them. I can’t believe somebody like you, with your intellect and borderline personality disorder isn’t already addicted to doing them. Stop making excuses and give it a go.”

So I did, a couple of months ago. I started with the easy one in the Times, and moved up to mild and difficult fairly quickly. I complained that fiendish were too hard for me. “Oh, I can’t do fiendish,” she responded. I questioned this and said that if something had a solution, you can solve it – it just takes time.

Three hours later, we were still staring at the little grid of numbers that had been partly filled in in pencil. I was on the verge of taking my mechanical pencil and stabbing myself in the eye with it when the solution started coming to me. And there it was, my first completed Fiendish Sudoku!

I can do the Super Fiendish now, they’re great. So what do you move on to next; just a blank grid that you fill the numbers in yourself? I’m going for the easier option of a lifetime addiction to crack cocaine or crystal meth.

Of course, I get quite competitive with sudoku these days; never allowing anybody to look at the puzzle I’m working on. My sister tried this on the other day as I was working on the puzzle in my dad’s paper. She’d been telling me that I had the wrong method, that I should try to solve one grid at a time (??? – think about this one for a moment). Anyway, I completed it once she’d departed and took pleasure in showing her how it was done:

I love mechanical pencils.

Anyway, puzzles and riddles irritate me. I’d never be able to be a heroine in a magic kingdom where you can’t even go to the toilet without solving a riddle that has been set by some hag or goblin or some such. Could you imagine? Imagine living with hogs, goblins, trolls and the like. It’d be like living in… well, where I grew up in Salford I suppose.

Facebook stalker
But no, riddles aren’t for me, I like a simple life. But here’s one: why would somebody who certainly shouldn’t know my full name (other than through extreme naughtiness) and who claims to have never heard of me block me in Facebook? How can you block somebody if you’ve never heard of them?

While having two Facebook profiles can be confusing at times, it sometimes has its advantages. People ought to remember this, and consider who they might be dealing with, before they think about causing mischief.

Illness
Another puzzle that’s been plaguing me of late is my general lack of wellness: I’m on my second nasty cold in four months; I’ve been suffering from migraines; I can’t walk for more than two miles without my toes feeling like they’re falling off; my back constantly aches; my knees click; I often experience Bristol Stool Score Number 1s (with extreme urgency) in the evenings.

I think it’s something to do with almagam fillings, or being sat without natural light under an air conditioning vent in a workplace full of sick people (as you’d expect in a hospital, I suppose), and I’m absolutely certain that Gordon Brown is at the heart of the blame. I’d go to the GP, but I don’t like them and they always come out with some crap about me being nearly forty, obese, with the most terrible diet known to man. Personally, I don’t think there’s much wrong with a diet of pickled vegetables and Bendick’s bittermints, but there’s some evidence about balanced diets… blah, blah, blah.

My current illness started on Sunday afternoon. It’s nothing remarkable – just a cold that’s resulted in a few nights’ sleep being lost to aching, sweats, shivers and coughs – but it produced the BEST sinus goo I’ve ever seen or experienced. I swear it was an undiagnosed siamese twin. It was about 3x1cm, and it had its own skeleton, teeth, nervous system and anus. I’ve entered it as an independent anti-Labour parliamentary candidate for the upcoming election. With a better grip on real life in 21st Century Britain, more personality, and less slime than Peter Mandelson, it’s guaranteed to romp home to victory on 6th May.