The Comfort of Horror

Ok, so maybe this is coming from a somewhat depressed place, as I've felt homesick for Sweden all day and can't understand why I don't live back in my comfy Stockholm life. So, as I was about to drown my sorrows in my usual manner - watching something tense and unsettling on tv - I realised a fundamental truth.

While I would love nothing better than settling in for an entire Sunday evening of CSI (Crime Scene Investigation - but strictly Las Vegas or New York, no Miami please), my flatmate would much rather waste a good two hours of her life watching Gwyneth Paltrow or worse, "Made of Honour", or in fact any 'romantic' comedy - absolutely guaranteed to leave her disappointed with real life when she emerges half a box of tissues later. I just don't understand why people are under the illusion that romantic comedies or light-hearted drama make you feel better about anything. What you actually need is a good dose of horror- preferably from the 60s or 70s, or else involving teenagers far too beautiful to survive.

In these gloomy economic times, I'm perplexed at what Hollywood has to offer - glancing at the film listings for London right now, you could be forgiven for thinking that everything is hunky dory. "He's Just Not That Into You", "Marley & Me", "Confessions of a Shopaholic" - saccharine, lighthearted crap which, let's face it, is not going to make us feel better about our own mundane lives - particularly Shopaholic, which in my case, may even serve as a horror movie in its own right, and not in a good way.

Where's the all-night Stephen King marathon, the depressing (both on and off-screen) Roman Polanski sagas, Poltergeist, Amityville...I'd even go so far as Alien or Jaws... basically, I need to forget my own petty life problems and concern myself with the pressing perils of witchcraft, merciless beasts or ancient evil for a good couple of hours. Or something like Halloween, where I can substitute my own faceless horror for the masked face of Michael Myers, and feel jubilant as he is slayed - at least until the sequel. I am convinced there are far more relevant life lessons to be learned at the hands of a knife-wielding maniac than anything Renee Zellweger or Hugh Grant have ever uttered.

There's just something undeniably comforting about watching other people face unspeakable horror, something that makes your credit card bill and shattered dreams seem practically pleasant by comparison.

Give me Satan's child over yet another grinding commute on the District Line any day.

Lessons from a kitten

Today we let little Simon Le Bon outside for the first time (Simon the kitten, that is. Not the guy from Duran Duran, as obviously we haven't tied him up in our apartment or anything...honest).

Anyway, little Simon was overwhelmed by the new world he found himself in. He stepped tentatively across the grass as if it was snow, reluctantly chewed some flowers, and followed a mysterious cat through the undergrowth as if he'd just discovered that he wasn't the only one of his species on earth. Which I guess he had.

His reaction gave rise to a weird and scary thought ... what if we also live in our own little apartment worlds, and unbeknownst to us, there's a whole different dimension outside. I mean, it's not beyond the realms of scientific possibility that there are things we don't understand. We don't even really understand quantum physics. Some people still don't believe in evolution for chrissakes. I think the current state of the environment goes to show that, as a species, our understanding of the natural world is pretty pathetic.

So, while I have no idea what this other world might be, it just made me think, that maybe we shouldn't take everything for granted. Scary, but kind of comforting. And that's what I learnt from a small cat.

The Case of the Disappearing Man

I am starting to suspect I have a latent super power. It is one I believe I share with Kylie Minogue, I don't care what she says about this new Spanish model boyfriend. I have the ability to make people - well, male people - completely disappear from my life. I am afraid that my full power has yet to be unleashed, as no-one has died yet, and so far, I have managed to sustain a surprising number of male friends. The monster is only awoken when I try to *date* the man in question (or, in one case, actually fall in love with them).

I am considering offering myself to the Japanese mafia. If there was some thug bothering them, all I'd have to do is start dating him and he would instantly vanish without the need for any dirty money to change hands, or anything requiring pesky forensic investigation. The Yakuza could then hand their hitherto dodgy casino profits to me, in exchange for me painlessly dispatching their enemies to a mysterious place where - according to experience - they cannot possibly email, phone or text message. Win-win. Except.... that I would be in Tokyo, in close proximity to a former disapearee. Which means the universe could implode or something if we happened to cross paths. But I suppose we could cross that bridge when we came to it, no?

I have considered the possibility that there is some subconscious thing, some Kryptonite I am not aware of, which initiates the Disappearing Effect. I have also considered the possibility that it is something inherent in the type of guys I choose to date (I apologise for the Americanism but in matters of romantic vocabulary, I think they have the market cornered). I fail to see how this can be the case - in the recentish past, I have disposed of a terminally single British bank employee who admittedly it would never, ever have worked out with and I have no idea what I was thinking, a recently divorced Swedish paramedic who my close (male) friend said was worth moving back to Sweden for, and a British designer - also vouched for by a male friend, making the advice of said friends slightly suspect .

None of these made it past the third date, although the Swedish encounter did include an invite for me to stay at his Stockholm apartment for an entire weekend, which I politely declined - but not before I noted we shared the same taste in films (someone else DOES love Rosemary's Baby!), politics, travel destinations and local bars.

So what gives? All of these men had baggage, I guess - but who in their late 20s/early 30s doesn't? So back to the kyrptonite theory. There must be something about me, something I do or say or unconsciously reveal, that produces this result. But within three dates how do they know this? Are we that quick to judge each other? Oh for the days of long and uncomfortable British courtships, those Victorians were onto something.

I am starting to wonder if they get an inkling of the fate that awaits them, the fate of a twilight world where there is no email or means of contact, and where they must stay until they suddenly decide to get married to someone and, three years later, email from some faraway land to tell me this (true story!). Until further scientific discoveries prove otherwise, I will tell myself it is my power to banish them to this place that scares them away. Either that or my Japanese mafia connections, of course.