Some time ago I wrote a mildly exasperated post about the joys of the OCD spectrum - and really, I shouldn't complain, because it's handy for the crossword ("Nope, it can't be 'iridescent' because that's 10 letters"). However - more and more lately I've been wondering about whether there exists, in a parallel kinda way, a Tourette's spectrum that we're all to some extent on. We all, I presume, have those voices that scream apoplectically "SHIFT YOUR STUPID SLACK-TROUSERED TEENAGE ARSE" when stuck behind a foot-dragging gangly iPod-festooned 14-year-old cretin on the tube escalator - but mercifully silently, so that you get the satisfaction of having vented your spleen without the possibility of being headbutted by someone 9 feet tall in trainers the size of breezeblocks. Lately I've found to my HORROR that my lips are moving when I'm doing this. It's only a short step from that to being the ranty old lady we all cross the road to avoid. The sad truth is, I have always had a vision of myself, perhaps an optimistic one, as some kind of minor-Redgrave-esque trendily attired doyenne of subculture, dispensing bookish wisdom like some glamorous sybil. The gap between this and the real truth is rapidly enlarging - the hideous truth that in fact I'm some bhaji-haired old crone lurching wildly up and down the road screaming "NO, REALLY, PARK WHERE YOU LIKE, YOU FILTHY CHISWICK WHORE" at the innocent Jimmy Choo-ed mummy mafia. Out loud. Counting the letters as I do.
Then again I haven't had enough coffee yet today.