I'm a Greggs pastry, get me out of here!

Monday

It’s not just MPs who have found their names on unwanted lists. My name appears to have been handed over to a marketing campaign that is doing nothing for my general sense of wellbeing - something that is fragile enough at the best of times. For the last three weeks I have been receiving regular mailshots inviting me on exclusive tours of sheltered accommodation for elderly people. The latest, which arrived this morning, was for Cheviot Gardens in south London and billed itself as “independent living for the young at heart”. I’ve seldom been made to feel older, but Cheviot Gardens have that taken care of because there appear to be extra care facilities on site. To add to my sense of gloom and depression, if I wanted to buy one of the flats – which admittedly look quite attractive – I could take advantage of the Older Person’s Shared Ownership scheme for the over-55s. So I wouldn’t even be one of the youngest people living there.

Tuesday

Stanley may not be the Johnson most people would have wanted to go on I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here! but Boris’s dad is the one off to the Australian jungle for this year’s TV show. What we haven’t been told is just how much Stanley is getting paid to be tortured and humiliated, but I doubt he comes cheap. Though not as expensive as I would come. I’m sure I probably do have a price, but one doesn’t immediately come to mind as the whole prospect of being cooped up in the jungle brings me out into a cold sweat. For a start, I suffer from severe vertigo and would be unlikely to even make it into the compound in the first place, as contestants are often expected to make their entrance by leaping out of a helicopter. But even if I was allowed to walk in, there’s no way I’d last more than a few days at most. As I’m terrified of snakes and would rather starve than eatlive worms or crickets, I’d be a dead cert to be picked on by sadistic viewers for every bush tucker trial. Until such time as they got bored of me and booted me off.

Wednesday

Advent calendars got an unusual makeover when Greggs launched its effort with a photoshoot of a half-eaten sausage roll replacing the baby Jesus in the manger. Mary and Joseph appeared to have done a runner from the scene but the three kings pictured in the calendar look happy enough to be donating gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to an over-sized sausage roll. When you’ve travelled that far you’ll probably eat almost anything. Predictably, there was a backlash from some Christian groups who thought the whole thing was in bad taste, and Greggs has now apologised. It has also presumably abandoned plans to branch out into the communion wafer business. You can take “the body of Christ” a bit too literally. It’s also put a damper on Greggs’ publicity campaign for next Easter, which was due to feature a giant pasty being crucified alongside a couple of bad-lad granary rolls. Probably just as well. The last thing anyone wants is a pasty that comes back to life on the third day. In the meantime, Spurs are rushing out their own advent calendar with Harry Kane in the manger.

Thursday

Opera is a high-wire act that can go badly wrong. A singer can have a bad night, the production can be mediocre and the orchestra can be a bit off-key. I’ve had my fair share of those over the 35 years I’ve been going. More often, everyone is more than good enough for everyone in the audience to go home satisfied. Just occasionally, though, you get a performance that far transcends the sum of its parts and is so overwhelmingly beautiful and powerful that you can scarcely breathe. A stillness falls over the house. These are the shows that stay with me and keep me coming back for more. Lucia di Lammermoor at the Royal Opera House last night was one such show. Donizetti’s opera can be high melodrama, but Katie Mitchell’s intelligent and coherent production made it viscerally real. The real star, though, was the young Cuban-American soprano Lisette Oropesa, who is making her Royal Opera debut. Not just for her singing, which probably won’t be bettered in Britain this year, but for her acting. Even when she wasn’t singing, I found it impossible to take my eyes off her. I was not alone. Oropesa got a lengthy standing ovation from the entire audience. Even if you think you don’t like opera, try to get to one of the remaining performances if you can. It might be life-changing.

Friday

A review of 56 separate studies by researchers at Glasgow University has found that grandparents are killing off their grandchildren by feeding them too many sweets and burgers. In short, they are being too nice and over-indulgent. So a brief thank you is called for to my own grandparents for helping keep me alive by ignoring me whenever possible and making it clear they much preferred their other grandchildren. I can’t say I blame them. They were born into a Victorian age when children were always kept at arm’s length and, besides, I wasn’t a particularly interesting boy. Still, I will try to be a bit more involved with my own grandchildren should I have them. Though not too much. Having spent much of the past 25 years losing sleep, worrying about and trying to look after my own children, it’s now rather pleasant to have some time to myself. So I’m not in a great hurry to become an unpaid and unthanked childcare service for someone else. Even my children. There are limits.

Digested week, digested: The Brexit Mutineers.

Picture of the week