I spent much of my life as a scientist measuring things. To quantify stuff within a mix of other stuff, you measure the [stuff]unknown against a standard curve of [stuff]known – I’d put the “unknown’ and “known” in subscript if I knew how to. The measurements were quality controlled within and between assays using other samples of [stuff]known and the whole thing would be ditched if it fell short of expected minimal standards for precision and accuracy.

Standards are great: without much thought, we assess each other and things against our own standard curves, but those things or people that fail the assay can simply be rejected rather than promoting further investigation to gain further insight into why they don’t fit within the acceptable normal ranges for “stuff”. Life isn’t a scientific study, thank goodness.

In many aspects of my life, I’m difficult to please, so I like to surround myself with things and people that fit within my own narrow normal tolerances for stuff. Maybe I don’t have narrow normal ranges, but I do have high thresholds. No, that’s incorrect. I have high thresholds and low tolerances.

When I consider the things in my life, they have to meet certain minimum criteria. Foodstuff aside, these are:

You can apply these standards to any range of things, from gadgets, to houses, cars, even girlfriends.

Certain things in life can be compromised on. So for example when it comes to my car, it’s useful, affordable, it does what I want and it’s reliable. It also sort of makes me happy because it means I have freedom of movement whenever I like, but ideally I would prefer it if it had four doors, that it was black, had a bigger engine, was newer and that it had height-adjustable seatbelts.

My house is another good example, and this ticks nearly if not all the boxes.

When it comes to romantic partners, who knows? As I get older, and carry deeper emotional scarring from previous encounters with evil bitches from hell women, I think I’m just not willing to compromise at all. Should I ever find myself in a relationship again, and at this point in time it’s looking unlikely, I’m not going to settle for somebody who doesn’t meet my expectations. Why should I? Why should anybody? Anybody apart from any future girlfriend of mine of course. She will have to meet the following criteria:

In addition to these though, she’ll need the patience of a saint, the ability to deal with my strange obsessive habits and have no personality disorders of her own.

I’m expecting a long wait.

I always claim that I detest “going out”, maintaining that the thought alone of leaving my home for a few hours to be in the company of others is enough to give me a fit of the screaming ab dabs. On reflection, I realise that it’s just the thought of going out that gives me an anxiety attack, rather than the actual going out and spending time with people. I love spending time with people, I revel in it. Being with people gives me the opportunity to… do what humans are supposed to do: interact with each other; share stories, conversations, experiences; recall misguided features on Blue Peter about people with cerebral palsy; get silly; be serious; have fun.

The stress of going out stems from the days when going out was something special that meant dressing up in a frock. Dressing up. In a frock. Being somebody with a very negative self image, I’d always shy away from things that attracted the attention of others, be it an outfit that was unusual for me, a new haircut, or a dazzling sombrero (even thought sombreros are the ultimate in high fashion, we all agree). Any situation that stimulates the “what should I wear?” conversation with myself = BAD. Very bad indeed.

Considering the recent adoption of American-style school proms here in the UK, I am so very glad that I grew up in the 1970s and 80s. Putting somebody like me in that situation would have had me in therapy. It would have been like Carrie, only so much worse, in my own mind at least.

On the other side of the coin, put me in a situation with friends, where I’m allowed to carry my usual appearance of somebody who’s just crawled up an embankment after a train derailment, and I LOVE IT. I do not excel at introducing myself to new people and I find it uncomfortable to strike up a conversation with a total stranger unaided by the presence of a mutual friend. There’s that strange awkwardness of the first few minutes while you try to suss them out, well for me the strange awkwardness of the first thirty seconds in which I suss them out, decide that they don’t interest me, and try to find an excuse to leave that particular conversation and move on to the running buffet.

Then there are the conversations at parties that you strike up with total strangers about fridge freezers. To come across somebody admiring a fridge freezer (substitute with any appliance, gadget, car) with their partner automatically sets the “this person is safe and normal” lights flashing and I feel at ease enough to throw in a banal remark that will either go nowhere but cause no offence, or help to strike up a conversation and a booze-fuelled interaction between my then girlfriend and the female partner in the fridge-freezer couple. And thus a friendship was born.

Because I feel uncomfortable with myself, I think I hide behind a multitude of layers in social situations. The top layer is generally “tit”, which allows me to act the goat and act as if I don’t really care whether people like me or not. Do I care whether people like me or not? Probably not actually, but not in way that I’d be deliberately offensive to a complete stranger, just a little odd I suppose.

It’s just about the anniversary of the breakup with my ex. It hit me terribly hard and I guess I’m only just about at the acceptance stage of the grieving process, it’s taken so long and I still yearn for revenge. Saying that though, I’m OK. I’m actually OK when I never thought I’d get through the year. Mine is not the sort of family that talks about “feelings” and things, we just shout at each other a lot most of the time, but Mum engaged me in conversation this evening. I didn’t really listen to what she was saying because my instant reaction to that sort of thing is to go into a blind panic, cover my ears and “la-la” to myself. One bit I did hear though was her suggesting that I join some sort of social group in the area. “There’s lots of stuff going on around you,” she offered, “the church magazine advertises all sorts of activities”. Yes, like setting gay people on fire, which actually might be interesting to see whether they scream more about their clothes being ruined or being in agony from dying on fire.

Even in obvious jest, I’m probably not supposed to make comments like that. I should save them for the next party I go to in Chorlton, but that would hardly provide a mixed demographic for measuring offence levels since people in Chorlton are humourless lefties who take everything so bloody seriously. They actually believe in the Guardian and the BBC in much the same way as young children believe in the tooth fairy and Father Christmas. And I certainly don’t think any mention of Blue Peter would be wise: “Blue? Tory, more like! Tory and sexist too! Why not just call it Thatcher Rapist? It should be non-gender specific like Rainbow Bod. Actually, I’m going for artificial insemination next week and I was going to call my child Sky Mandela, but I might go for Rainbow Bod instead.” Still, I’d like to see their reaction to the mention of the word Joey.

But at the other end of the scale, what sort of social activities might be on offer in the suburbs of Bolton? EDF “knit against Islam” evenings? The Radcliffe “Ooh, I’m really not sure I like the sound of that” club? The Prestwich “Let’s fill all the parking spaces at Tesco with trolleys” collective? Or maybe even the Bury “Drive your way around Bury without getting lost and/or writing off your car” society.

I like going out, the being out bit of it… so long as I don’t have to get dressed up… or meet too many new people… or do it more than four times a year. I’m also happy staying in. Surely this comprises a healthy balance of social interaction?

It’s very late. I’ve been up watching the tellybox, of all things! After a couple of episodes of The Killing, I’d been ready to turn in when I happened across a Big Bang Theory double bill on one of the 4s. I identify with Sheldon Cooper, or should I say, twenty year old Tina would identify with him. Back then, in the last century, I was pretty amazing academically, but my social skills left an awful lot to be desired. These days, I’m not amazing anymore.

During that period from studying for my A levels to my first degree, I was so intensely into every piece of knowledge on offer that ignored just about every other aspect of my development as a person. I was a geek when geeks weren’t cool, when cool wasn’t cool. I had a mental ability to shrink myself down and be part of mitochondria and nuclei – to be there in the rough endoplasmic reticulum as proteins were synthesised from mRNA. I was a ribosome and proud! The Krebs cycle was a dizzying roller coaster, but cyclic AMP always confused me.

But it was outside of the world of biochemical reactions that I felt most at home, chemistry was my thing, all those photons getting excited and throwing out all the delta G whatever. And then there were the electrons. People who haven’t studied chemistry much won’t realise that it is comprised of a multitude of disciplines. There’s physical chemistry that just makes normal people cry: anybody who’s studied chemistry as part of a biological sciences course will shrink in terror and rage at the mention of Chang. I am in my happy place, I am in my happy place. Then there are the much more elegant subjects of inorganic and organic chemistry, the latter being my absolute favourite.

It was while studying organic chemistry that I learned that electrons were red and that they danced a tango with others, being drawn this way and that, doing their thing. (I mentioned earlier that I’d lost all academic aptitude).

Then there were the practical classes: eugenol from cloves that left its aroma on labcoats for an entire semester; lignocaine that actually worked and deadened gums. The absolute ecstasy of getting a 99% yield and a high purity IR spec beat any joy that could be achieved from recreational drugs… I’d add, “or sex”, but it just wasn’t on my radar at the time.

I never thought the joy of learning and achieving would stop, but it did… when learning became hassle and the achievements were replaced by a constant struggle to get shit to work, just fucking work, while I was doing my PhD. I finally grew up too and noticed the world around me: “so what if this transcription factor is switched off in this tumour cell line? My dad’s been diagnosed with a hideous cancer and I’ve realised that I’m gay and I don’t know what to do about it”.

The world is made up of subatomic particles, doing their thing, but our lives are comprised of far more than this. You can’t fit family, feelings, relationships and love into an equation, but it’s always nice to be able to tell people that electrons are red.

It’s amazing the information you can get from complete strangers just be talking to them. In Asda just now, the lady on the till told me that after years of having all her family of 18 people around for Christmas Day, she was keeping this year to just her close family. Apparently, her sisters just sit around and wait to be served on instead of helping out. She serves Christmas dinner on her best china and insists on washing up after their starter before dishing up the main course.

A three course meal for Christmas dinner eh? In our house, breakfast was selection box and sherry and starter was cheese balls and Twiglets.

Her favourite drink is port.

For my part of the bargain, she could have gathered that I’m single, that I have a brother, a sister, a niece and elderly parents, and that my mother has had a recent knee operation.

Today in work I had a meeting with my boss in which I happily told her about the gradual recovery from my mental health problems, but in which I volunteered other information about my health and my personal life.

It’s odd how so much emphasis is put on confidentiality and privacy, yet most of us are more than happy to discuss the minutiae of our lives with just about anybody… apart from those closest to us.

And today came the distressing news that a health professional had taken her own life because she’d been conned into passing on a call from some radio show hoaxers who were conducting a prank and enquiring about the health of a member of the Royal Family. Such a duty is placed on healthcare staff about the personal information and privacy of hospital patients, yet most individuals are more than happy to tell any old person about their health issues; the representatives of celebrities even provide information to the press about their clients’ health.

We’re naturally a trusting sort and this can be the downfall of so many. I’ve never been the victim of a con artist, but in the past I’ve happily provided my bank details to charity muggers who convince me that it’s a good idea to pay a regular charitable contribution to whatever cause they’re being paid to promote. MUG! And I’m supposedly quite intelligent. Then again, I have no common sense and I see my contribution to Shelter as a not too bad price to pay for this.

I do worry about my parents though. These are the people who insist on paying their utility bills in full as they come in rather than setting up a potentially money-saving monthly payment scheme, yet they pay people who knock on the door in cash for gardening services or repairs to their shed roof. I’ve told them not to hand over any cash or sign up to anything unless they discuss with us lot first…. because I obviously have the track record to be trusted!

Do I care if complete strangers get hold of my health records history? No, not at all, but I’d absolutely DIE if my mum ever saw them and found out that I smoke.

I’m sure I’m not alone in my love for squeezing spots and blackheads but I’m quite (un)fortunate in that my skin is actually quite good and that I’ve never been afflicted with acne, or even many spots. What’s frustrating is that, when I do get them, they are rubbish: just painful lumps that rarely develop into anything that can be squeezed with a satisfying pop and a trail of goo splattering up the bathroom mirror.

There’s clearly a lesson in “leave it alone” to be learned from scalp spots that take you by surprise when you scratch your head.

From experience, the most painful spots are situated:

• in the ear
• lip margin
• scalp (these have a direct line to the occipital lobe)
• chin
• that thing that separates the nostrils

Much of my time as a teenager was spent looking at the faces of my peers and marvelling at how they were so heavily pitted with so many blackheads. Just how did this happen? I suppose the greasy hair was kind of a giveaway, but my obsessive little brain wondered how those blessed with such entertaining skin could resist spending hours squeezing their faces off (or failing that, having a wash). If they had, would it have changed the actual structure of their face? I doubt I’ll ever find out.

It’d be great if cats and dogs got blackheads, the little dog has the perfect temperament for having his spots squeezed. They may not get blackheads, but cats do get abscesses. These are things that you tend not to notice until the day that you’re petting the poor thing and notice a lump, with a scab, that you can’t resist picking at… BOOM! An erupting mass with its own blood supply and nervous system oozes out from the poor beast under its own force and it just doesn’t stop. You think it’s done, go to clean the wound and it starts all over again. Amazing!

Cats and dogs
My recent thoughts of getting a cat have nothing to do with any prospect of dealing with abscesses I might add. They’re different from dogs, obviously, in that they’re… nice. I do love Rocky, but I miss having a feline companion – a tabby one, called Max, with big ears, and a limp. I guess I’m missing my old cat Max and although I know no other animal will ever come close to him, there’s no harm in trying out a few to see what they end up like. Then I think about all that fur, litter trays, smelly cat food, vets’ bills, the road, the possibility that it’ll be as psychotic as my dog, or eaten by him, and the answer is no, you’re not getting a cat.

Consideration has also been given to getting another dog, but luckily I’ve been rescued by winter and the reminder of how appalling Rocky is at walking on his lead. Having to take another out at the same time would have me abandoning them and throwing myself under a passing truck.

So it comes back down to me and him and here we are at bedtime, him snoring away, me on the point of joining him. This will do just nicely.

It’s midnight on Saturday and I’m in bed drinking coffee. Madness, I know, but sometimes I let the crazy take over.

Today was a bit of a waste, having spent most of it nursing grogginess and a headache that resulted from enjoying 730ml of strong red Italian wine last night. As I left a small amount undrunk in the glass last night, I was proud at the restraint I’d shown in not going for the whole 750ml. At 9am today, I cursed that my restraint hadn’t kicked in further up the bottle.

It’s always been like this, the first two glasses of wine are lovely and warming, cuddling me with their giddiness and I always know that this is when it’s time to stop and recork the bottle. The flavour changes with the third glass and the enjoyment of the drink itself evaporates, but by this stage, I lose all sense of sense and drink for the sake of finishing the bottle.

Utterly stupid.

So it’s a proven fact that alcohol and me don’t mix and that’s why I stopped drinking so many years ago.

End of story.

Interview
I had a job interview yesterday. It’s odd when people ask “how did it go?” because I can never tell, apart from there are always OK bits, not bad bits, and bits that left me wanting to punch myself in the head in front of the panel.

To say that I don’t care whether I get the job would be untrue. If I get it, it will put me on the next rung of the ladder and I’d find myself in a job with more responsibility, possibly less mither and the opportunity to offer a different level of support in the field in which I’ve found myself. Plus with final salary pensions in mind, it’s good to move up. Saying all this though, I have the advantage of being in a good job that I’m finally enjoying; I work with some fantastic people and I’m never short of things to do.

At this stage, I’d be kidding myself to think I’ve been successful in my current quest to move on, but it’s always good to put yourself through these ordeals on occasions to help figure out how to achieve that next step.

Chicken
I’m quite nostalgic, always referring back to my childhood. This is because I never wanted to grow up. Being an adult is basically shit. There’s a magic about being a kid and with each passing day, the fairy dust just turns to dust and one day, when you’re a grown up, all there is is dusting. Philip Pullman clearly realised all this when he penned “His dark materials”, the metaphor for children losing their innocence being the point at which they can see dust.

When I was young, my parents would drag me around places either on foot or by public transport. I disliked this during the winter months because they’d always find somebody to stop and talk to on the mile walk home from Swinton and, being short and close to the frozen ground, I’d have to stand there in silence getting colder and colder as they talked grown up stuff with other grown ups.

We’d go to the local market some days and Mum would buy a rotisserie chicken to make a curry from. These things were divine with proper crispy skin and a full flavour that oozed out of the shopping bag all the way home.

All the supermarkets do rotisserie this or that these days, but none produce anything like those we had when I was a kid. Yet still I buy them in the hope that they might one day find the secret recipe that the stall on Pendlebury market used all those years ago.

December shall be magic again
So, it’s finally December and I’ve not even bought my sprouts for Christmas dinner yet. There’ll be riots in Stoneclough if I get them wrong, so I’d better get a move on and get them boiling by next weekend at the latest.

I recalled last Christmas to somebody when I was drunk, maybe more than one person, maybe on more than one occasion. Anyway, last Christmas was the most hideous time I’ve ever had during my hideous life: I’d had my heart ripped out; I’d started medication for depression that stopped me sleeping and made me feel like I was being chased by a pack of wolves; I spent most days exhausted, starving and hungover. I went to my parents’ for Christmas dinner, my entire being suffering from tremors and thoughts of murder, desperate to be anywhere else, but needing to be near my family. As I pushed what remained of a sprout around my dinner plate, and just as I thought things couldn’t get any worse, my dad exclaimed “we’ve forgotten the parsnips!”.

So this year, dear family, there will be parsnips aplenty, roast potatoes without rival and enough sprouts to fuel a small town for a month. There will also be stabbings if my brother insists on watching anything on TV other than the festive offerings on the main channels. I refuse to spend another Christmas Day being subjected to the Discovery Channel.