I haven’t even left France and already I’ve been through a turbulent landing (lots of green faces, including mine) a bomb scare at Charles de Gaulle airport (possibly the most unpleasant place on earth apart from Abu Ghraib) and an hour and a half delay. Things can only get better.
To amuse myself I have been thinking about something I read in the paper this week. Apparently there is a new kind of addict; the e-mail addict. This is a person who cannot walk past a computer without checking his or her messages and if there aren’t enough of them will even resort to sending a few to himself. An e-mail addict cannot go for more than a few minutes without hitting the ‘send and receive’ button, it is as compulsive as breathing for them. There is even a woman in Pennsylvania offering e-mail addicts a twelve-step “detox” plan which includes first of all admitting that “your e-mail is managing you”.
What I find funny is the thought of these addicts pouncing on other people’s computers to feverishly see if anyone has bothered to send them anything. As I write there is a man in a white cotton shirt and black trousers (they probably wear innocuous clothes so as not to attract too much attention) next to me looking highly suspicious. I shall be holding on to my laptop tightly throughout the flight, assuming we ever get air-borne.
Nowadays it seems you can get addicted to anything; and of course it’s never your fault. Articles rave about the danger of women becoming addicted to plastic surgery and other treatments like Botox (now renamed something I can’t remember to separate it from its links with lethal toxins). Frankly if women are stupid enough not to know when to stop, that’s their own fault. There are lots of things available we shouldn’t do to excess, and it’s up to us to use some self-control.
But back to Ralph Fiennes and that encounter with the air hostess. Do you think he could possibly be a sex addict? I mean, she was OK, but of a certain age and by no means a looker. In fact I’d say she was actually quite plain and very common looking. About as far away from the elegant Francesca as you can get. I wonder whether his addiction didn’t get the better of him and he just couldn’t control himself. I just don’t understand why else he would have gone for her. Or maybe she had a Blackberry tucked up her skirt.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007