It’s all about meme.

Yesterday we examined the need to do more lists. Unfortunately I have not been able to think of any interesting lists that could be done, but I have been internally lamenting the passing of the meme.

The meme (pronounced: meem, although it really should be me-me) used to be a load of questions that you would answer on your blog and then you would suggest some other bloggers at the end you wanted to answer the questions.

Perhaps now the classic meme has morphed into the hashtag free-for-all on Twitter, which is far less insightful and more biased. I had a little look on the internet for a good meme I could do to resurrect an old format.

1. Has anyone asked you to carry anything aboard this aircraft?
Er, what aircraft?

2. Has anyone asked you to pack something for them?
Seriously, though, what aircraft?

3. Did you pack the bags yourself?
Bags?

Not as fun as I remember it to be.

The list of lists we used to do.

We used to do all sorts of whimsical things back in the good old days of blogging, like making little lists.

Top five films you’ve seen, top three books you’ve read, or the top 20 things that come up on your iPod when you shuffle through it. Real crazy stuff, you know?

Perhaps I need to make more whimsical lists and that. Try and reclaim a bit of the wild wildness of yore.

Top one things to do
1. Make more lists.

Happy birthday to my dad.

It's my dad's birthday today, so happy birthday to him. I'm sure he wouldn't want me to say this too loud, but HE'S FIFTY TODAY, FIFTY YEARS OLD, THAT'S ABSOLUTELY ANCIENT.

And it is. I won't be 50 for another, like, 22 years - which also goes to show you how young my dad was when I was born. Rather upsettingly, when my dad was my age I was six years old. If I think back to the early 90s, my dad was old even back then because he was my dad. You have no concept of age at that point, just adults.

But when I was eight my dad was just turning 30. Here am I, getting neurotic about turning 30 and having crow's feet and not accomplishing anything with my life and there was a bloke travelling around the world starting orphanages and driving lorries to Romania and providing for his family.

My box room in south-west London feels at once so depressing and free. At least I'm not 50 though.

Tuppence a bag, etc.

My mum gave me a bird feeder for my birthday that sticks on the window. It's quite cool, but was the subject of much tension (once I'd finally found some bird food - no wonder sparrows are in decline when you can't get anything for the little blighters to eat anywhere) for several weeks as I agonised over how to advertise my new eaterie to the local population.

Oh, how I long for those days once again. If I fill up the tray on my feeder in the evening, the whole lot has been completely scarfled by the morning, and I mostly don't hear anyone coming or going. Given there are three shifty pigeons that have started hanging around outside the front of the house (they might be wearing leather jackets and smoking, but I can't get close enough to tell) I am getting quite suspicious of where all my food is going.

Because let's face it, you only want to feed the cute birds when you put food out, but I can't discriminate in case the pigeons sue me. It's totally against their European rights if I say I don't want them to have any of my bird food. I think it's because of all the discrimination in the olden days when people used to put signs up saying 'no Irish, no blacks, no pigeons'.

I am back.

I am back. Although I never really went away, conceptually speaking. Of course, literally speaking, I did go away. For a week. Camping.

It was mildly enjoyable, the camping. A bit of sun, a bit of rain, all those insects finding the secret entrance to your tent that you never knew about. Getting every single pair of shoes that you took with you (only the four, since you ask) completely wet.

Actually I think I'm allergic to camping. It makes my face swell up and my bones ache, like it's trying to slowly leech the very life out of me. I can't quite see the allure of walking for miles and bivvying under the stars in the middle of nowhere. If the middle of nowhere was any good someone would have built a hotel there.

I went camping with friends, which swung it to just the right side of tolerable. You have to go with friends, really - especially when you look as monstrous in the mornings as I do, and in fact behave perfectly monstrously before you get that first cup of coffee down you.

The thing with camping is that it draws you in - you can't beat that last hot chocolate before bed (but not too much, because you absolutely do not want to be up in the night), or the resplendent glory of the stars that glow in a way you've never seen them be in the city.

Still, at least that's that until next year.