But before I’m accused of being negative about technology, or ‘tech‘ as irritating people in odd-looking spectacles would say, it does make the world a better place. We’re all connected. We’re all within easy reach of each other. Information passes more easily and freely (unless you happen to live somewhere beginning with ‘C’ and ending in ‘hina’). Life is easier.

And most importantly, I don’t have to go shopping for food in supermarkets and deal with the surprises I usually encounter.

A few little clicks, and a chatty man arrives at my door the next day with all of my food in boxes. Okay, some items may be larger/smaller than I intended, or more squashed than I might have anticipated, but then I can replace those when I pop to the greengrocers or the butchers or the bakers (sadly Chipping Sodbury has, so far as I can tell, no candle-makers).

But I have been too busy lately to click, and had to venture in this morning. On my own. On a Sunday.

‘Do you need help with your packing?’ asked the boy operating the till, who I noted had the chair as high as it could go so he could reach the buttons.
‘No, I’ll be okay. Just go slowly’, I cordially replied.
This, the till-boy must have taken to mean, ‘Hi, that’s fine. Please talk to me instead. I want you to be my friend’.
‘That’s okay. I can’t do anything quick today. Bit of a night of it last night…’, he continued, but at this point my ears were temporarily bombarded by till-boy’s attempts to inhale deeply through a nose filled with enough snot to paint the Severn Bridge.
‘Oh dear’, I reply… desperately aware that I’m sounding like Hugh Grant.
‘Got a coffee machine have ya?’, he asks manboy-handling my coffee.
‘No. Just a jug with a plunger’, I reply deciding now is not the best time to explain the concept of a cafetiere.
‘Oh right… is it just smaller granules? I s’pose I should know that working here’, he chuckled.
He then continued to scan the items, being genuinely helpful and slow.
‘What do you do with these?’, he asked holding up by bag of red chillies, ‘do you eat them raw, like fruit?’
I think at this point I may have choked, making a similar noise to someone who has just tried eating a hot red chilly raw, like a fruit.
‘Nah, it’s for putting in curries and stuff’, I reply in my new found role as the product of morphing Delia Smith with Jamie Oliver. Please note, in my split-second reaction I made a conscious decision not to say ‘curries and chilli’.
‘Oh right. I think we used the in school once… my teachers were great, never minded be bunking off and stuff…’ he tailed off shortly after, before offering me the vouchers the supermarket encourage parents to collect to enhance their child’s education.

And as I left the store and it’s warm orangey glow, I was determined to make sure I stick to the clicking and the cheery delivery guy, but now, a few hours later, I’m not so sure. It’s given me something to talk about today, and normally, buying Shreddies, Wheetabix and washing liquid doesn’t offer much to talk about…

And even better, if you can make a poster of your own…

But my personal favourite is the front of my cello…

They are all different places. Every one unique to their thinker.

Except they all have one thing in common – you’re there on your own. It’s your space.

Now think back to some of the best times of your life. When you felt happy, content and like the world was waiting for you to discover it, and take your place.

For me there are two distinct periods. The first was VI Form college. As a musician, it meant I was working hard and making the most of performing. My teachers had encouraged me to play classical music, jazz, blues and rock. I was endlessly going to rehearsals with different people, exploring different ideas, and different skills. The highlight being a concert where I had performed in every group appearing, and shaking hands with the drummer at the end of the final piece who had just achieved the same fete of 2 hours of non-stop performing.

Then there would have to be the first year of uni. Discovering new things. Finding freedom (oh God it’s turning into a cliche). The cut-outs of Scarey Spice and Sporty Spice in our communal kitchen with daily quotes in speech bubbles fr fellow students to see, ranging from Billy Bragg lyrics to Nick Cave quotes (ah, saved it from cliche).

Here’s the thing. In both of those situations I was being independent. Yes, I was playing in an ensemble, or had my flatmate Joel to help decide the daily quotes. But I was independent in the sense that there was no one else to mess it up for me. I wasn’t relying on a third party. I wasn’t delegating. I didn’t need permission to do things.

Are you thinking of your special place? I bet you’re independent whilst you’re there. I bet there’s no one else there to mess it up for you or critique… says a lot about what’s wrong with life, doesn’t it?

The nominations are a mixed bunch. There’s Morgan Freeman, who has spent his entire career pushing himself ever further and breaking boundaries in his new role. And then there’s Colin Firth, who as far as I can see has spent his entire life playing a public school graduate from Buckinghamshire regardless of the demands of the roles he is cast in.

But our lives are full of bit-part actors. They roll in and out of our lives. Entering stage left, exiting stage right.

These are the people we see on a daily, weekly, occasional basis for whom we don’t know names. The people who in a movie scour the credits whilst everyone’s leaving the cinema looking for ‘bank guy number 7′ or ’shopper with canteloupe’.

We all have them.

We pretend we don’t, but they’re everywhere.

For example, my house overlooks Mondeo man. A few houses away there’s ‘drummer boy’ and ‘drummer boy mum and dad’. On Sundays I tend to see ‘fluffy dog lady’ whilst washing the car. If I buy bread there’s ‘handlebar moustache chap’. The list goes on.

I know to some it seems strange, but stop and think about it. You get home, and you’re telling your beloved about your trip to the greengrocers and you say, ‘oh I bumped into…’. What do you say? ‘That chap who, now don’t think I’m a snoop, but lives at number such-and-such and puts his bin out a day early?’… No, you don’t. You pick a characteristic. A characateur. It’s not rude. It’s not disrespectful (unless you want it to be). It’s just, you know, they’re not a main character in the movie of your life. They won’t be getting an Oscar for their part in your life when you arrive at the pearly gates. They’ll be scouring the credits of your life to see if they’re listed at the end. In the smallest font. After the grips and technicians. After the movie theme tune has finished and the cheap stock-muzak has started and we head towards the technicolor(tm) logo.

So, bit part actors of our lives, stand up and take a bow.

Further to my last post, I have found a good use for large feet. The lovely Sarah and I have been looking at moving house lately, and have been trying to make sense of Estate Agents’ details for various properties. Is that kitchen big enough? Just how good is a 17ft living room?

It turns out that my foot is exactly a foot long. This comes in very hand for measuring things. Although Sarah contested the idea that my feet are 12 inches long, when she stopped laughing an appointed measuring device proved me right. Therefore I have spent much of the last few days pacing up and down the living room imagining various bits of houses whilst looking like I’m featuring on one of those Police, Camera, Brutality shows on Cable taking a drink-driving test in America.

There is an added bonus – it is widely believed that the measurement of a foot was set by Henry VIII. Therfore, I have regal feet.

Fresh in their newfound royal status, my feet were given the freedom of the coffee table, released from the confines of the sock. I’m not saying my feet should be modelling for Reebok or M&S, but I like to think they’re nice-looking feet. But again, here Sarah had a bone of contention. Or, technically, a tendon of contention.

Apparently my feet look like they are in a perpetual state of tension. They never relax. This is shown, says Sarah, by a large tense line standing out above the join of my big toe to my foot.

Being as I am, unable to move my toes they certainly can’t exercise the tension out of themselves. I’ve never been able to wiggle or bend my toes. I know I should be able to do so, but it’s like someone forgot to include the wiring to connect my toes to my brain. I can think and think until my face looks like I’m trying to calculate the circumference of a circle in my head, or fathom out why Giles Brandreth is famous, but it’s now good. They just defiantly sit there immobile.

Now, I’m no expert, but how does a foot look relaxed? A comfy chair? Nice book? Glass of Chianti?

I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that my toes are in fact too relaxed. The little piggies just won’t move at all.

8.59pm – Oh my God, this could be the most chavvy musical experience of my life. And I’ve seen The Honeyz and Bewitched

9.01pm – Yes. All fears realised.

9.02pm Mylene Klass and Alan Titchmarsh are presenting. Presumably this programme is at some point going to involve gardening whilst wearing M&S lingerie. I have to turn this off.

9.04pm It’s judged by Meatloaf???!!!  Right, that’s me hooked.

Mylene – ‘Most people train for years to become an opera star. Our guys will have just a few weeks’. Not everybody trains that long, Katherine Jenkins is giving it a stab.

9.06pm – Lawrence Ll-B ‘When opera is done really badly, it makes me angry’. Me too Lawrence… Let’s leave now.

9.10pm – The lovely Sarah: ‘If I had to make a programme about music that had to be really s*!t, this would be it’

9.11pm We meet Donny Osmond. Meatloaf and a Mormon? Can this get any better?

Now he’s singing. Oh yes, it’s the one from the cornetto ad – good call ITV, best not alienate your audience too early. Maybe all the songs will be from adverts. I look forward to the live final, where some B-list celeb does a rendition of ‘You can’t get quicker than a Kwik-Fit fitter accompanied by full orchestra.

Meatloaf: ‘That dog was hunting, fella’… Ummm a bit Deputy Dawg maybe.
Kathryn reminds me of a teacher I met once…

9.15pm Ooh good. Ad break. Some pop-idol-does-bar-lounge-diva cd, then adverts involving ska music. My head is exploding with cultural cross-over.

9.20pm Kim Marsh… Didn’t she do something once? She appears to be composed of mosty eye-liner. I’d say she’s 90% eye-liner, 5% hair, and presumably 5% pure musical talent…

Ooh. It’s that one from the Stella ad. Brilliant! Hmm, it’s like Edith Piaf meets the woman from the Boddington ad. What’s worse than her French is the fact that she has a look on her face that suggests she’s only on this programme because the producers have kidnapped her kittens. Still, I can see her singing this on an advert at some point… The Wigan Worbler

What’s with all the clapping whilst she’s singing? Is there a golf match going on in the next studio?

9.24pm Wooohooo, it’s Alex James. He’s a puncher not a stroker? Sorry? You’re from Colchester, I think they’re all punchers from my time there… Alex always looks like a little lost puppy who’s been left out in the rain. It’s kind of like Boris Johnson on Vallium. Still, cheese-maker to operastar…

Hmmm. You know that bit where the kids pretend to sing on Aristocats… Actually, I think I’ve accompanied worse… But if he continues shaking his head like that, I’m worried it’ll fall off, especially dressed as he is as Mr Creosote from The Meaning of Life.

9.34pm Alan T ‘The only programme where stars perform for a tenner’ [Awkward pause]. Even Tommy Cooper would’ve thrown that one back!

9.36pm It’s someone from 90’s two-hit wonders Shakespeare’s Sister. Didn’t she hit the high notes in that song? How did it go… ’staaay, wiiiithh, meeeeeeeeeee’. Yes, she can probably hold a note or two. My money’s on her being voted out this week.

I can’t help thinking when the ITV1 viewers go to the opera with their tokens cut out from The Daily Mail, they’re going to be surprised that the average ’song’ lasts more than 60 seconds… I predict a riot.

9.40pm Oooooh. It’s Dannnnnnyyyy from McFly. And tonight, trying to make his transition from English Hanson member to genuine celeb, Danny from McFly.

Three notes in and we’ve got a wild pitch already… And why’s he dressed like a ‘pink lady’ from Grease? This is how I imagine opera at Glastonbury would go. I hope the orchestra aren’t too closely mic’d – there’ll be a few expletives from the orchestra as they try to fit in their notes before he decides to end a phrase…

9.46pm. I’ve officially made it more than halfway through (by 1 minute), and I have a choice now – either continue watching, or risk having to spend tomorrow replastering the bit of wall where I’ve been repeatedly banging my head for the last 46 minutes.

A quick scan of the ITV website, and I’ve seen who’d coming up over the remainder of the show. Bernie Nolan - she’s in the mood for dancing, romancing, and she’s giving it all tonight… Ummm: Pass. Vanessa White: Whoooo? And Darius – didn’t he take part in some ITV talent contest a while back? The only reason to keep watching is to see if his ponytail has grown legs and run off with the other rats…

So, Popstar to Opera Star? Big Fail.

Turning off: Click.

There are also things in life that are made more difficult because of things beyond your control. Like wanting to be a trapeze artist but you have vertigo. Or wanting to be a Bobby Davro impersonator, but you have a cracking sense of humour and speak in received pronunciation.

Or you try to do something sporty but are 6′3 and have size 13 feet.

I’m sorry, but I’m just too far away from my feet to make most sports workable. The broadband that you are using to read this will be slower the further your router is from the wall socket. Similarly, the response of my feet and legs is slower as my head is further away than with the average person.

Cycling works well for me. I can jump, go for miles without hands (including cornering) and do all the tricks the average 12 year old can do on a mountain bike. This is where my feet work perfectly. They just take it in turns to push down. And they only occasionally rub against the front wheel going round corners because they’re so stupidly long.

As a result of all of the feet I have, it’s very rare that I’ve owned a set of trainers. Walking shoes: yes. Trainers: no.

But it’s been sales time in the shop – the happy time for all us clothing freaks. The tall, the short, the fat, the thin – all of the extremes of body shapes can proudly approach the sale rail and find an Aladdins cave of great deals. So too those of us with big feet.

It was the end of the trainer sale in the sports department. Only the shoes on display were left, with only single sizes left over. As a result, the sales assistant seemed surprised to see someone trying trainers on – there were only size 7s and 12/13s left.

And now I own some running trainers. I am going to run. I shall be a runnist. I only mention this because, if you happen to see someone moving fast with legs flailing around, with an expression on his face like he’s trying to do really hard maths and an army assault course at the same time – it’s probably just a 6′3 person with size 13 feet trying to make his feet do something they haven’t done since he was 16.

Be nice to the freak feets.

The problem with playing board games with the entire family is that you’ve already reached rock-bottom before it’s suggested. You’ve listened to everything on your Ipod 10 times in a row. You’ve searched every tv channel, discovered the QVC shopping channel hour-long special ’scrap-booking with Candice’ is the best television has to offer and are now watching it again on QVC+1. Perhaps the batteries have run out in every present you’ve been given, and you’ve done every square foot of carpet in the house with a lint-roller. Traditionally there is nothing else to do but break out the boardgames.

The thing is, when you’ve hit rock bottom, board games are the only thing that can unlock another level to sink to.

There’s the inevitable build-up. One person has a brilliant idea to play one, and then chirpily encourages everyone else to join in. A little flicker of hope out the boredom lights in every eye.

Everyone rushes around the house. Drinks are got. Biscuits and Quality Street opened and put on the coffee table – the next couple of hours are going to be action-packed, and there won’t be time to go and make a sandwich…

One person, normally the one who owns the most number of pocket calculators, explains the rules to everyone. Then they explain it two more times for granny or grandad, before granny or grandad exclaim ‘I’m sure I’ll pick it up as we go along’. We know they won’t.

For the next 10 minutes there is action. Everyone’s scrutinising the role of the dice, the spinning of the spinney thing on the board. You’re all planning a winning strategy. The living room is filled with people taking on the mindset of the illegitimate offspring of Alan Sugar, Bruce Willis and the guy who invented the electric can-opener. It’s just like the advert. Who’ll be the first one to break?

Of course, the first one to break won’t be the loser in this situation. Far from it in fact. Since the dawn of time, no attempt to play a board game has ever lasted more than 20 minutes before one person cracks. They get bored. They start taking their turn slowly. The inevitable line, ’sorry… who’s go is it? Oh, it’s mine’, is uttered from stage-left. The phrases ‘is this game nearly finished’, or ’shall we just say x won?’ signal the end is nigh.

Within 30 minutes the living room has gone from all the thrill of the fair to the closing moments of The Italian Job. I know this – I’ve played ‘Absolute Balderdash’.

And in many respects the ’snow event’ (didn’t it used to just be called weather?) is exactly same. The news of oncoming snow creates a little flicker of hope in peoples’ eyes that we’ll be taken out of our routine. We sit around for a few days marvelling in its snow-white glory. We have good, childish fun. Everyone pitching in together with a real sense of community spirit. And then the doubters start: ‘Productivity down’, ‘feeble Britain beaten by snow’. And people want out.

I’m always sad when the board games is put away having not reached its true potential. And right now, I’m sitting watching the snow melt realising that pretty soon everything will be back to normal – the grumbling downers will have us back out of our British Blitz spirit and packing away the sledge boxes in no time.