In today's exciting instalment, I turn around and kick the vicar in his ever-loving gonads. Seriously. I know, a vicar. You may think that merits a deeper circle of hell than someone who would kick a kitten or a puppy. But you haven't heard the rest of the story...

So I live next door to a church, for my sins. And that has caused me no end of grief. What about 'do unto others as you would have others do unto you'? If I did to the church what it's done to me, I am sure there would be no end of wailing and gnashing of teeth. So the church decides it's time for them to refurbish their derelict, old and vacant church building, which is next door to my flat. First they buy up the land at the end of my garden, and submit a proposal to build a seven storey block of luxury flats, the sale of which is ostensibly to fund the refurbishment of said church building - disregarding every single planning policy put in place by the council - and, thanks to their political clout, persuade the wretched councillors to allow this proposal to go through, despite it being rejected by the planners. Then I have to live through three years of wretched construction, right at my very doorstep, and to add insult to injury, apparently they have the right to use part of my garden to facilitate their building works, because their attempt to squeeze every single inch of use out of that piece of land means they do not have enough space to actually keep the construction on their side of the fence. So they pull down one side of the garden wall, put up some hideous hoarding, take up part of my garden for three years, make a whole load of noise, make a whole load of mess, and basically make my life a misery through their constant breach of the noise/nuisance/health and safety and other policies that were meant to protect my civil and human rights. Then they breach the planning permission even further because the flats, when built, are actually HIGHER than the elevation set out in their planning proposals, oops, so sorry, naughty us, but what are you going to do about it?

Then they finally finish the wretched flats, which is nothing short of a miracle, but then start construction on the actual church on the other side of the flat, so that's another two years of construction, noise, dust, nuisance and a gigantic pain in the ass right there. And then they discover that they can't actually do what they planned to do (again, planning permission, natch) without having to pull down and rebuild the other garden wall between my flat and their building, which means that over the last four years I will have had construction on two out of the four sides of my flat. At which point my tenants decide they've had enough of this nonsense and ask if they can vacate. And then, the icing on the cake, the proverbial cherry, is that having done this, the wretched vicar sends me a condescending e-mail saying that having done their major refurbishment, they think that the roots of the tree in my garden caused cracking to one of the walls of the derelict, old and vacant building that they had to refurbish anyway, and can he come and talk to me about contributing to the cost of their works. But he'd like to buy me a coffee, to talk me through the shock, because that is the kind of guy he is. At which point my head exploded, aka The Omen, unleashing a stream of profanity so violent that the angels must have shuddered in the heavens. Is it really sin if the CHURCH causes you to sin?

In my perfect, perfect, alternate universe, I not only kick him in the gonads, but I do so repeatedly, and stamp several times on his sheepskin coat for good measure. I go round and smash all the bloody windows in his bloody building. I spray paint the walls with every single angry thought I have had, expressing all the rage and anger I feel towards the church and all the unfairness in this bloody universe, where the church and its money and political connections seems to get away with bullying and bulldozing their way through my rights. I also tell him to go f**k himself, and I'll see him in court. Oh, sorry, the last part isn't in an alternate universe - it's this one.

/rant

Today I sat through a meeting, full of the great and the good, and the mostly awful. Everyone had something to say, all of it self-congratulating, self-serving and smug. I sat there, smiled a lot, gritted my teeth and fidgeted.

In an alternate universe, after a particularly horrendous and gratuitous monologue by one of the participants at this meeting, I would get up, kick this gentleman in the shins, say something particularly cutting (which I would probably only think of after leaving the room - this is, after all, an alternate universe, and not a perfect universe - I can't re-write my inability to think of a snappy retort on time, just my circumstances) and then stomp out of the room, leaving no one in any doubt as to what I thought of the process, of them, and of the entire sorry state of the nation.

I assume they would all sit there in silence, for a while, stunned by my outburst. Then they would probably all start to dissect my reaction, probably blame it on PMT or stress or something else, and the next day, I am sure I would have many visits from concerned stakeholders, just wanting to talk to me about my mental health and my well-being.

In this alternate universe, I would tell each and every one of them to go and f*** themselves. I'd probably be sectioned, eventually. But it would definitely be worth every motherf**cking minute of it.

In an alternate universe, I would get fed up of wearing a winter coat all year round, quit my job, and go live somewhere warmer. Somewhere the sun shines, where you actually go to the beach to get a tan, rather than lie in some dingy, chemical-smelling white coffin, with images from "Final Destination" running through your head.

I'd wake up in the morning, with the sun peering through the blinds, open the windows, breathe deeply the fresh morning air, and sigh with contentment. Stroll down to the corner cafe for a coffee and a croissant, where I would be able to sit outside without freezing my ass off. Read a book, read the paper, have a nap on a hammock stretched between two trees. My skin would be the gorgeous golden hue of someone who worships the sun, but sensibly.

Instead, I wake up, look outside the window, and it's snowing. Snowing! Just before Easter! And it's only 6.30 am, but soon I'm going to have to go outside in that and walk the Dog, who'll be grumpy and ungrateful and wonder why we're practically running around the block once before going back inside. Why? Why?

When I was 17, I was awarded a scholarship to study at university in the UK. This is probably the one single thing that changed the course of my life most dramatically.

I grew up in a small nothing town in south-east Asia. My parents hadn't been to university, it was something I never imagined, or even thought of, given all I wanted to do was hang out with my friends. I didn't think it would happen, it was one of those things my mother made me do. The first interview went by, and the second, and suddenly they were shortlisting me for the final interview. And flying me to Hong Kong for it. I'd never even been on a plane before that point!

I recall being very anxious. Mom and I went shopping for new clothes - I picked a long floral skirt in navy blue with beige flowers, and a dark blue blazer. I remember walking into the waiting room, to be met by the blank stares of the other hopeful candidates. Every single one of them was wearing a suit. The girls had make-up and heels. I see now why it wouldn't have occurred to me that a suit was the right attire - I had never seen anyone in real life wear one up to that point. The atmosphere was funereal. From time to time, candidates' names were called, and they stood up, were ushered through solid wooden doors into the unknown. More time would pass, and they would be ushered out, smiling, but you could see the fear in their eyes.

We whispered to each other. What questions were they asking? Someone said that one of the questions was "What do you think contributed to the collapse of Japan's bubble economy?" and another whispered that someone had been asked if they agreed with the current economic policy being championed by the German government. By this stage I was bug-eyed with fear. I had no idea what a bubble economy even was. Totally out of my depth, a total waste of time, I didn't fit in there with my dowdy clothes and my total lack of knowledge of everything that was going on in the world. You see, my world was small. It was home, and school, and home again, and my friends' homes, but no more. And this translated into a young girl wearing an outfit that probably would have looked right at a church bake sale in the 1970s, rather than an important life-defining interview at the corporate offices of one of the biggest companies in the world.

Finally my turn came. I got up, resigned. Surely they would dismiss me out of hand as soon as they realised I knew nothing. I entered the room - some kind of boardroom - where I was sat facing a panel of 7? 9? interviewers. They introduced themselves, but the names were all a blur. Someone was a Lord and there was a Lady. I wished I could disappear through the floor.

They started by asking me, gently, my name, my background, etc. I waited for the first question that would expose me as someone unworthy, untalented, undeserving. And then someone said "I see here that you say that you like reading. Tell us about a book you've read recently." And just like that - everything changed. In my small, enclosed, world, I did nothing, nothing, but read. I read all the time. When I was supposed to be asleep. When I was supposed to be studying. When I was supposed to be reading about the bloody-bubble economy of the Japanese. So I opened my mouth and the words came tripping over themselves...I can't remember what I said, now, or what books I talked about, but that was the only question they asked me. I suppose they couldn't stop me talking after that point.

And the rest, is history.

To be fair, in another alternate universe, they asked me a question about the world economy, and I sat there in silence, looking at the floor, trying not to cry. And after what seemed like a lifetime, they took pity on me, released me from my misery, and as soon as I walked out those wooden doors, chucked my application straight into the bin. With perhaps some confused questions as to how I'd gotten through the screening process in the first place.

What if I wake up one morning and decide I don't want to leave the house that day?

Forget work, it's nothing but stress anyway. The blackberry is flashing, there are a few meetings and calls which I'm meant to make, but I tell my PA I'm not feeling well and get her to reschedule them. Then I snuggle back into my duvet, and turn over, and go back to sleep. When I finally wake up, it's nearly lunchtime. The blackberry seems even more frantic - I glance at it, 134 unread messages! - and wonder how it is possible that an inanimate red light can seem to be reproachful, accusing, even, in its relentless flashing.

I go downstairs, rummage in the fridge, have a snack. Dog whines, and tries to convince me that outside is where we need to be. I ignore him. The afternoon passes quickly, I doze off several times, and wake up, groggy and confused. All too soon it is dark, and Boy comes home, and asks me if I am unwell.

I feel perfectly fine, actually, if a bit grubby. We have dinner and then it's bedtime again. Blessed bedtime! The next day, I decide that one day is not enough, so I stay home again. Today I decide to be a little more useful, so I potter around the house, cleaning up, I sort out some admin (there is always admin!), I order things which we need, I continue to ignore Dog, who thinks it's some sick joke that I'm around but don't seem to want to go into the great outdoors.

Two days become three, become four, become a week. Boy is worried. Am I having a nervous breakdown? People start calling, work is concerned. I feel fine. No, I don't know when I'm leaving the house. No, I don't think I need a doctor. Yes, I really feel fine. I don't know why I'm doing this, I don't know what this is. All I know is that I woke up one day and I couldn't bring myself to get dressed to leave the house, so I decided to stay indoors.

I read, plenty, until my head is fuzzy with words. I watch tv. I start painting the spare room. I write a blog about staying in bed, hoping that it'll get published, but then find out someone else has written a book about it already. Never mind - I don't think that book was that good, anyway. I try new recipes from the internet, I do all my shopping online.

I don't think Boy will leave me - after all, the house is now well-kept, I've finished painting all the rooms, I cook dinner for him every night, and I'm certainly a lot more pleasant given I'm no longer strung-out and stressed all the time. Not immediately, anyway. Life goes on without me, outside the doors, people pushing and fighting and scurrying and running, running, running all the time.

And I stick photos of places I'll now never visit on the spare room walls.

So, a couple of weeks ago I received, randomly, an invitation on Linked In to connect with some guy who I had never heard of, who was apparently a personal trainer. Me being me, a personal trainer doesn't even figure on the list of the top 1,000,000 presents I would like to be given on my 60th birthday. I posted a quip about it on social media, had a laugh, and promptly forgot all about it.

But what if...what if, in an alternate universe, I actually accepted the invitation? So in that parallel universe, I would have connected with that guy (never saw his photo, I suppose if he had sent it along, that might have been another story). And being connected, he would then inundate me with invitations to attend personal training sessions, which I would mostly ignore. But one day, one momentous day, he offers me a package of 10 personal training sessions for the price of 8. Bargain!  Bargain! Being Asian, I clearly can't resist a bargain (think of all the money I'm saving! I could buy a pair of shoes!). So I sign up for this package, and start going to the gym again for the first time in what, oh, five years. But first things first - first, I go out and buy myself some fancy gym gear, and then join a gym, and bob's your uncle.

Ouch, it hurts. And oh, my sweat glands are totally blocked from not having been operational for the last five years. But you know what? It's starting to work. And by the fifth session I start feeling a lot better - look! are those - are those really abs? Good God. So I keep going, I finish the package of 10, sign up for 10 more, and suddenly I'm a gym bunny. I'm happier, healthier, fitter - I feel great, I don't have to do the wriggle-dance into my jeans any more, in fact, screw that, I go out and buy some skinny jeans, like all these goddamn hipster twenty-somethings who hang out in Shoreditch all the time.

And then it suddenly strikes me that I should run a half-marathon. And so I start training for it, sign up with a charity, and  then all of you start getting invitations to sponsor me to run one half-marathon after another. And suddenly I have become just like every other single person in your office who turns ssh! 4 -ahem!-0 and decides that I need to get my fitness kick on...so, mostly, when you get an e-mail from me in the future, dig deep into those pockets, folks - there's some deserving cause out there that will get your cash each time I pull on my trainers.

So, I thought I would start a blog, only about 15 years too late. But better late than never. There's plenty of room on that bandwagon before people start falling off at the edges. On account of people falling off all the time.

The idea would be to write short stories about things that happen to me, or at least, things that would have happened, if, during the course of my life, I had made different choices, or had done things differently. Before you all get all excited, don't expect that these will all be deep and meaningful outpourings from a tortured soul. These aren't necessarily going to be about those big questions, like "Should I quit my job and become a farmer in Guatemala?", or "Should I put down this ridiculous downpayment on this white elephant of a house that is eventually going to bankrupt me and leave me penniless and destitute?". These may be about real questions, like "Should I have another piece of chocolate cake?" or "Should I stay in bed for an extra half hour today?". They're just questions, and choices, and every day is filled with a zillion of these, some of which you respond to automatically and some of which you sometimes do think about a little more deeply. Such as chocolate cake.

After all, I'm pretty shallow. And my choice for tomorrow morning will involve peanut butter and butter on a white bread sandwich. So that choice is already made. But what if - what if, I woke up tomorrow morning and decided to have peanut butter and jam instead? That's an alternate universe, and the possibilities are endless.