Men see only ... green

IF George Clooney described your violet blouse as “purple”, would you care? Probably not. But what is it with men and colour?
I may be entering dangerously sexist territory here – but why is it that the average human male can see only around a dozen colours? Where women see emerald, jade and moss, men see only green. While we extol the virtue of our new coral shirt, a bloke will insist that it’s orange.
When we want the dining room chimney-breast painted ochre, they hate the idea of yellow. And I’ve learned that they’re not being awkward; they actually do think that cobalt is … well, just blue.
But why? Little boys were just as exposed to boxes of Crayola Crayons as us girls. Don’t they remember the sheer joy of all those gorgeous colours like magenta, raw umber, sepia and carnation pink?
I admit I was a tad obsessive about my crayons – lining them up in order according to the gradual change from one colour to the next, so blue-violet was next to violet-blue, green-yellow beside yellow-green and so on. But surely men must have learned a bit about colour back then? So where did it all go?
It might just be that precise colour designation is not important to men. If he likes his new sweater, a fella doesn’t care whether it’s charcoal or slate; to him it’s just grey and comfy.
Well, it might not all be their fault. While only a tiny proportion of one per cent of women suffer from a form of colour blindness, as many as eight per cent of the male species are similarly afflicted.
Which admittedly doesn’t explain the remaining 92 per cent, but there might be a legitimate medical answer here too. Some scientists believe that men’s brains may be less efficient at processing and understanding colours. Most women apparently see colours in the red-orange range much better than men – which might account for the female love affair with pink.
Women may have to accept that colour is just not as important to men. So it must be pretty annoying being subjected to that much detail when all you want is a basic description. And let’s be honest: does anyone actually know what “taupe” is?
But it’s not just our appreciation of colour that is so different. Take our approaches to shopping. I’m going to make sweeping generalisations here, so apologies in advance for those exceptions to my rule. For most men, a shopping expedition, when it cannot be avoided, is a matter of military precision: identify, locate, acquire, and retreat. But for women shopping is a more holistic experience. Yes, gentlemen, I know we drive you mad with our browsing and comparing, our coffee breaks and yet more browsing. Especially when we invariably return to the first item we tried in the first shop. It’s a girl thing and for that we’re sorry. But for us, shopping is an emotional issue. In order to buy something, we have to love it. We can’t just make do.
To balance things out, it’s time to admit to some genetic mutations in most of the females of my acquaintance. There is a little known, but highly evolved, area of the female brain that perfectly deducts 10 per cent from the cost of any item of clothing when required to announce it to a member of the opposite sex.
And another that instantly recognises any outfit previously worn by another woman. So you see we aren’t just being greedy when we want another new dress – it’s a genetic necessity.
If all this were not enough, there’s also a language barrier that exists between the sexes. Take that horrible and contentious word “fine”. When a man describes something as fine, he means that it’s perfectly acceptable, that it fits the bill precisely. The frock that looks “fine” is “just right”.
But to a woman, the word is poison. It represents the barely acceptable; it’s part of the “if that’s all you’ve got it’ll will do” range of adjectives. Men, if a woman tells you that your suit is fine, it probably isn’t.
It’s like a man’s reaction to the word “cute”. To women there is nothing disparaging in describing something or someone as cute; quite the opposite actually. But we’ve noticed that it’s not always a concept with which men are comfortable.
We do understand there are language difficulties and we don’t want you to panic when we ask you if we look “OK”. What we want is an honest answer. All right, absolute honesty should probably be reserved for the times you think we look fabulous. But please don’t say we look fine. Of course, if we’ve spent four hours getting ready and still look like a dog’s dinner, then a lie will be – just fine.

The Play's The Thing!

IT was Lord Olivier who said it: “I believe that in a great city, or even in a small city or a village, a great theatre is the outward and visible sign of an inward and probable culture.” So what does it say about Derby, that we have closed our only professional theatre in a Comedy of Errors, while allowing the virtual destruction of a Sleeping Beauty just down the road?
Because whether you prefer Shakespeare or Charles Perrault, Derby without a theatre is just plain wrong. It’s perfectly ridiculous to suggest that a city of almost a quarter of a million residents – and a potential audience catchment of twice that – cannot support a provincial theatre.
It’s certainly not that there isn’t enough interest; I used to be a regular at Derby Playhouse and the place was always packed. Neither am I convinced that the Westfield Centre is to blame for all Derby’s ills.
I don’t know the answer, but I do know why I eventually abandoned the Playhouse. Not because I didn’t enjoy the entertainment on offer – although there did seem to be a strange obsession with trying to incorporate the revolving stage into almost every production – but because the place was just so darned uncomfortable.
Anyone who ever ventured inside will tell you that the auditorium was always hot and airless, even after expensive “improvements”. At the interval you’d find scores of theatregoers heading for the exits to take the air before wondering whether they could bear to go back inside. What the refit did achieve was to remove any element of character from the building’s interior.
I’m not one of those people who dislikes everything modern; in fact I love modernity and I may be the only person left in the city who doesn’t yet hate the Quad.
But a theatre should feel special – not like the budget airline check-in area at East Midlands Airport. There’s simply nothing like a gorgeous, old-fashioned, dark, luxurious theatre. Nottingham’s Theatre Royal and Wolverhampton’s Grand Theatre are prime examples.
Returning Derby’s theatre to the then still intact Hippodrome would have been perfect. But when it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter whether you’re in the Duke of York’s in London’s West End, or a former cinema like the Palace in Mansfield. It’s the thrill of the greasepaint that matters.
For some, of course, that thrill is too much. I’ve a friend who never goes to the theatre because she is so terrified that an actor might make a mistake that she cannot bear to watch.
Then again, I have another friend who is a passionate devotee, but who, 20 minutes into the first act, is always sound asleep. You can set your watch by him.
Yet even he would have struggled to doze off during one performance in Nottingham last year. There must have been a dozen large school groups in attendance. Hemmed in on three sides, I bemoaned my misfortune as hundreds of teenagers bobbed up and down, waved at their friends and chucked sweets to each other. I’d forgotten how loud you like things when you’re 15.
One girl had clearly never even seen a theatre before. She was so used to watching telly that her teacher had to explain to her that she was about to witness real, live actors, not a projection on to a screen. You couldn’t make it up.
As the lights dimmed, several embarrassed teachers hushed the exaggerated squeals of delight, but still I feared for the rest of the afternoon. I needn’t have worried: five minutes later, the teenage audience had fallen into silence, every one of them transfixed by what was going on before them.
At curtain’s fall they all jumped to their feet, cheering and whistling wildly. Their reaction wasn’t conventional, but it was genuine, and it was testament to the power of theatre.
Because, despite the apparent artifice of its props, plots and players, a visit to the theatre is one of the most “real” forms of entertainment. If the cinema is an escape from reality, then theatre is surely a journey straight into it.
There is nothing more intimate or immediate than watching a group of talented actors love, laugh, fight and mourn their way through a well-crafted story. You’re in their characters’ world, and each time it’s as thrilling and magical as the first.
That is perhaps theatre’s greatest gift, and it’s one on which the next generation of Derbeians looks likely to miss out.
But there is still hope. If the dream of a rescued Hippodrome is fading, perhaps we can count on a revitalised Playhouse, where touring, repertory and amateur productions could all find a home. We could even dedicate it to our own great dramatic actor, and patron of Derby’s theatre scene, the late Sir Alan Bates.

All creatures great and small?

I WAS waiting for a bus when I saw it: the most beautiful ornament in a garden by the bus stop. It was a statue of an eagle, or a falcon, or something like that. Or at least I thought it was a statue – until it swivelled its head and blinked at me.
It turns out that a bird of prey is resident in a seemingly ordinary suburban Derby street. Some people apparently keep the unlikeliest creatures as family pets. And I began to wonder why.
Take ferrets. I’ve been told they are affectionate, playful and, contrary to popular belief, fastidiously clean. But even though I’m told that you can take them out for a walk, somehow I can’t imagine ever curling up on the sofa with one.
And chipmunks. My cousin Jonathan kept chipmunks, and they were very cute in a Walt Disney way. But they spent most of their days asleep. Which is a common problem with rodents. When I was ten I longed for a gerbil and was excited beyond all reason when it was my turn to take care of Spike, the class gerbil, for the weekend.
Friday evening was fascinating: Spike explored his new surroundings, eyed the goldfish with suspicion, chowed down on his seed, sipped his water, even enjoyed an excursion around the family laundry basket.
But, come Saturday morning, Spike took to his tiny straw bed, curled up and went to sleep. And there he stayed until dusk, despite all my attempts to rouse him.
And so it continued all weekend. When we went to bed, Spike got up and then kept the whole house awake by running around and around in his exceedingly squeaky wheel. It was such a disappointment. Come Monday morning I’d decided to give gerbil ownership a miss.
Some animals just make better pets than others. I can’t help thinking that there are people who must be disappointed when their pygmy goat starts eating granddad’s prize begonias; or their alligator grows too big for the bathtub. There are some animals that just don’t suit being domesticated.
I mean, monitor lizards and geckos for goodness sake – should anything that can lick its own eyeballs really be a family pet?
And how anyone can keep a tarantula as a pet is beyond me. As a confirmed arachnophobic, I’m completely unconvinced by one pet shop’s promise that the pink-toe variety is “placid, cute and furry”, particularly once I’d spotted that it was also “fast and agile”.
And who in their right mind would want to give a home to a giant hissing cockroach?
Anyway, what happens when these exotic creatures escape? You hear about wallabies loose in the Peak District and panthers on Dartmoor. The traffic in Derby is bad enough without dozens of motorists rubber-necking because hordes of sugar gliders are now swooping low over Markeaton island.
Personally, I prefer my animal friends to be of the more cuddly variety. As long as I can remember I’ve had cats. You’ll notice I don’t use the word “owned” here, since any cat lover will tell you the first thing you find out about felines is that they belong to no-one but themselves. As they say: “Dogs have owners; cats have staff”.
But even cats can cause you extreme embarrassment. My first cat, Angie, was a genuine lady who absolutely refused to do anything remotely undignified. But she was skilled hunter and loved nothing better than showing off her catch to the rest of the pride, particularly if we had guests.
A birthday party of mine once descended into chaos when she brought a long-dead field mouse through the cat flap. I don’t think she understood that the high-pitched squeals of my friends were not cries of appreciation..
Cats have distinct personalities, too. Can anyone claim that of stick insects or snakes? Our current feline lodgers, Erin and Gracie, are sisters but couldn’t be more different. They’re charming, sweet as pie, and utterly enchanting. But Gracie’s an adventurer, an explorer who’s always looking for the next thing, the next game, a higher bookcase on which to climb.
Her sister is more cautious. While Gracie is the first to greet a visitor, be it a friend, neighbour or the gas man, Erin hangs back, looks on and mulls things over before introducing herself.
They do both like to sleep on a fluffy duvet and, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more delightful than being woken up by tickling whiskers and kitten kisses, even if it is a couple of hours earlier than the alarm I set.
But that’s what worries me about exotic pets: it’s hard to imagine the owner of a giant African land snail cuddling up for the night with his or her slimy friend. It sounds, quite frankly, rather messy

My life with Ozzy Osbourne.

THE week I spent working for Ozzy Osbourne was one of the most amazing of my life.
What? You don't believe I worked for the legendary rocker? OK, you'd be right. But I was once mistaken for a member of his entourage.
A few years ago, way before MTV's The Osbournes introduced us to him and his remarkable, often dysfunctional, family, I happened to be in San Antonio, Texas, at the same time as the great man himself.
More than that, it seemed Ozzy, his family, and the band were ensconced in the same hotel.
I didn't know this until two teenage Texan girls began trailing me around in the mistaken belief that I could introduce them to their hero. They'd been hanging around the hotel lobby, heard my English accent, and assumed that I was part of the Osbourne entourage.
They accosted me in the lift, told me they were "two of Ozzy's greatest fans", and asked me if I was going up to his room. I pleaded ignorance, and, to be honest, was so out of the loop on head-bangers I wasn't even sure I'd recognise him if I'd met him over the breakfast buffet.
But they had logic on their side: I was British, Ozzy was British, we were staying in the same hotel, and I had just pressed the button to go up to the penthouse.
Actually I had pressed the button for the floor below the penthouse, having been unexpectedly upgraded when I checked in. But no amount of protesting was going to change their minds because, to get to the "exclusive" top two floors, residents had to use a lift accessible only to holders of a special key. I had one, Ozzy had one ... you get my drift.
Undeterred, the teenage rockers followed me out of the lift, across the corridor and to the door of my room, where they begged me to let them meet their hero, just for a minute.
I was tired, hot and hungry, and there was a frozen margarita with my name on it on the bar downstairs, so I opened my door wide to let them see its very ordinariness - no sleeping rock stars, no guitars, no wild party aftermath.
The most rock and roll thing there was my discarded straw cowboy hat on the bed. "Now do you believe me?" I said.
They didn't. So I'm afraid that I resorted to the only thing I could think of.
I told them that, if they didn't leave immediately, I was going to get one of Ozzy's "security guys".
They looked at one another, then at me, and retreated to the lift and back down to the lobby. I was too weary to feel guilty. Besides, at least they now had a story to tell the folks back home.
I never did meet Ozzy, didn't even see a trace of him, not even a decapitated bat in the hallway. But my new stalkers continued to hang out in the lobby just in case.
That wasn't my only temporary brush with fame.
I once spent 10 days on a coach tour through California trying to convince the little Australian girl on the seat next to me that I wasn't "Muriel from Muriel's Wedding". I'm not convinced she ever believed I wasn't.
And, thanks to a misunderstanding on the telephone, I once had to explain to a magazine editor that no, I wasn't the daughter of Lord Rippon of Hexham.
Mind you, even people I know have mistaken me for someone else, or rather someone else for me.
I was once "spotted" in the Oak and Acorn at Oakwood; a pub I've never visited.
"You were drinking a G &T and chatting up this bloke," I was told.
"I certainly was not, I don't even like G &Ts!" I protested.
"Well it was definitely you."
At first I was annoyed that this person thought I was so vacant I wouldn't even remember where I'd spent my Saturday night. Then I began to panic.
What if I had a Doppelganger? My double might, even now, be out there drinking G &Ts and chatting up strange men, or, worse still, committing some heinous crime that might someday be attributed to me.
Then I remembered what my Nana used to say about doubles; that encountering your own was a harbinger of some terrible fate.
What if I met this mystery person? We live in the same town so I might just walk into her in the middle of Top Shop.
I managed to shake myself out of my superstitious paranoia, but I made a mental note never to stray into the Oak and Acorn … just in case.

Embrace technology – but don't forget your memorable word

THE wonders of modern technology mean we can access everything at the touch of a button. But woe betide you if you forget your memorable word...

I Spent a long time waiting in the bank last week. I'd managed to lock myself out of my account trying to use the internet banking service.

Eighteen months ago, it had all sounded so wonderful. They had promised checking my balance, transferring money and arranging direct debits could all be done without going into a branch or standing in a queue.

And yet here I was, waiting in one. The officious computer interface had informed me that I had incorrectly entered my passcode, so I'd had a friend oversee my next attempt. But the interface decided that was wrong too. And then that it was wrong a third time, even though I had a witness to prove otherwise.

Clearly the bank's own system had a problem, so I was happy to ring the "helpline". It was then I fell foul of my own disorganisation. The irritatingly cheery lad on the other end of the line asked for my "memorable place" and my "memorable word". The trouble was they weren't terribly memorable at all - I couldn't even remember having set them. Slightly embarrassed and utterly stressed, I panicked and gave him the likely answers. It had all been going so well up to that point. But now, impossibly cheerful lad informed me that one of the answers had been wrong.

He couldn't tell me which one. No, I couldn't have a second guess. And now he had to lock me out of my bank account. I would have to present myself, in person, with photo ID, at one of his branches, if I ever wanted access to my paltry fortune again.

Subsequently, come first thing on Monday morning, I found myself waiting in my local branch behind a nice Polish family opening their first account, while I cursed all technology and my faith in it.

My inability to remember my memorable place and word, of course, was now paling into insignificance by comparison with my ire at the faulty automated system. By the time I emerged from the bank, my passwords reset and my money accessible once more, I was ready to abandon all electronic devices and throw in my lot with the technology-eschewing Amish people of North America (although I seem to recall even they had credit card terminals in their gift shops).

It wasn't to be because, by the time I got home, I'd used the ATM, paid by chip-and-pin in Tesco, texted home to explain why I was running late and, although I knew what time it was due, monitored my bus's arrival through its newly-installed Star Trak information system. I'd even entertained myself during the journey home with some soothing music on my iPod.

Of course, it's not the technology that's the problem; it's our reliance upon it. Unless you're a fellow gadget geek, you probably won't understand this, but as far as I'm concerned, life without the internet or mobile phones has become unthinkable.

Last year, a fault with a BT line caused chaos in our house. We had no phone line and no internet. No internet, of course, means no e-mail and I just knew that the only really urgent e-mail I had ever received was waiting, right then, to pop up in my inbox, in need of an immediate reply - if only I could get to it.

I couldn't do any work either because my access to the outside world had been cut. It was two days before I remembered the encyclopaedia on the shelf behind me. But gadgetry is just so much easier - and a lot more fun. I remember vividly the entire family gathering around to watch the first-ever cycle of our tumble dryer.

My mum treats the computer as if her every tap of the keyboard might unleash nuclear Armageddon, but she happily Googles for her lace-making supplies. My dad, who is so naturally suspicious of new devices that he waits until he has observed someone else successfully using them for at least a year before he will buy in, actually gets more texts in a day than I do.

As a lover of the latest technology, I use self check-ins at airports, and self check-outs at supermarkets. But I'll admit that even I was bewildered by the automated public toilet I encountered in Stockholm. From the light, the door mechanism and the seat warmer - yes really - to the flush, the soapy water and the hand dryer, everything was automated. For me, it was a step too far. There are some things that are just better done manually. Anyway, how does it know when you're ready for the next stage?

That said, even our cats are microchipped, which means that their temperatures can be taken without the usual indignities.

So, embrace technology, book some yoga lessons - and make sure you make a note of those memorable answers.

Clowns and jugglers and mimes, oh my!

A RECENT study by the University of Sheffield, into appropriate decor for children's hospital wards, concluded what I could have told them long ago: clowns are scary.

After a personal life-long terror of those whitened faces, drawn-on smiles and enormous flapping feet, I can vouch for it.

And I'm not alone. Coulrophobia, to give clown-fear its proper title, is one of the most common phobias on the planet. Three years ago, hundreds of residents of Sarasota, Florida, a town with a proud circus heritage, successfully campaigned to prevent the erection of 70 giant clown statues around their hometown on the grounds that they were terrified at the prospect.

Theories abound about just why these red-nosed entertainers are so frightening. I, for one, don't recall being traumatised by someone dressed as a clown, and I'm not convinced that it stems from not being able to gauge a clown's real feelings. They're just plain creepy.

I do know that I was already a phobic when my parents took me on my first circus visit. And I recall vividly the disappointed and bewildered look on my father's face when his little girl burst into tears at her first sight of his big-top favourites.

You'd think the advancing years would have cured me. If anything I've got worse. I've tried to find comfort in the experiences of others and logged on to scores of anti-clown websites. On ihateclowns.com there is even a forum on which coulrophobics can blog about their own experiences; another website offers clothing and accessories with anti-clown slogans. But none of this has cured me.

Any claims I might have to a genuine phobia, however, are pooh-poohed by friends, who claim that I'm just being miserable. You see, I'm also one of those people that squirms at the mere mention of "street entertainers". I know what you're thinking, but let me try to convince you otherwise.

Take mime artists - and I wish someone would. What could be more irritating? All that "help me, I'm stuck in a box" play-acting just winds me up. I mean, just how many times can you watch someone struggle with an invisible balloon?

It baffles me that someone would want to spend all day doing Marcel Marceau impressions when they could be doing anything else. But then again, the website worst-jobs.com regards mime artistry as "ideal for theatre artists who can't sing, or act, or remember lines".

There exists, believe it or not, an I Hate Mimes Club. And there have been some pretty high-profile mime haters too. A character in a Terry Pratchett book outlawed miming and punished exponents by forcing them to climb an invisible ladder out of a scorpion pit while reading a sign saying: 'Learn the words'.

I don't even think they're all that popular. Be honest, when you see mimes in the street, how many people are standing there watching?

It's the same with jugglers. Is there actually a point to juggling? The World Juggling Federation is an organisation dedicated to "promoting the sport of juggling to a worldwide audience". Juggling as a sport? I'm not even convinced it's an entertainment.

How hard can it be? The average 9-year-old girl can do it. Anyone can learn to juggle, surely? OK, not me, obviously, because I have absolutely no co-ordination, but it would seem to be within the reach of those with even basic motor skills.

There are other forms of silly street performers, too. Stilt-walkers, for example. As a child I could walk on stilts, quite competently as it happens, but they don't impress me either.

Acrobats are amazing, of course, and trapeze artists and tightrope walkers too.

Fire-eaters are also impressive, but, on the other hand, once you've seen one .... And just how do you find out you can do that without setting yourself alight?

I don't think it's so much what these street artists do that bothers me, it's that they choose to do it at all.

There you are, minding your own business, when suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a smart-alec on a unicycle, ambushing you into his performance, making you part of his act whether you want to be or not.

Then there are the street musicians. Not the gypsy violinists, flutists and classical guitarists, who can all add wonderful ambiance to a street scene. I'm talking about the ones with the didgeridoos. The ones who leave you wishing they didgerididn’t.

When the language is in tense

YOU see them all the time when you're on holiday abroad, the Brits whose approach to communicating with foreigners is to speak in English very loudly and very slowly, all accompanied by not necessarily helpful hand gestures.

If you're anything like me, you've probably shuddered at the Basil Fawltyness of it - and then wondered whether you'd be any better.

Taking into consideration the five years I spent studying French, my ability to speak it is shockingly weak.

Five years of describing objects in a room - the dog was in the basket, the cat on the chair, the mouse under the table, as I recall - are of little help when you need to know whether the cassoulet is vegetarian-friendly or not.

Perhaps it's just me. My years of French study were somewhat scarred by a very minor detail in the textbook we were required to use.

It featured a family whose pets included "un chat et un chien" - and a monkey. Yes, a monkey; every French home should have one, apparently.

This particular simian, if I recall correctly, wore a hat and a scarf and rode a bicyclette. But it was also named Nikki.

And, let me tell you, years of "Oui, Nikki le singe?" from the witty teacher every time I answered a question soon wore awfully thin.

I simply stopped putting up my hand.

These same textbooks had been handed down through successive generations of students since at least the 1950s.

Now, you might assume, as we did, that French in 1984 was pretty much the same as French 30 years earlier.

How wrong we were. As we began our O-level studies, a new teacher came to the school.

Appalled by the state of the books we were using, he was rendered nearly apoplectic when he discovered that, thanks to the directions of Cours Illustres, we were all in danger of habitually insulting every French waiter we encountered by calling him "garcon".

Apparently, the appropriate word was 'monsieur'. And it had been thus for a couple of decades or so.

Instead, the teacher created his own lessons, which, much to our amusement, generally featured the singer Michael Jackson.

I can only assume it was an attempt to "connect" with the youth. Regardless, I for one was only too pleased to leave the days of Nikki le singe behind me.

By the luck of the draw, on the day of my French O-level oral examination I was required, in French, of course, to pretend to arrange a date with the examiner.

Even at 16, I suspected this was a pointless task. Not, you understand, that I'm especially opposed to the idea of arranging dates with Frenchmen, especially if he is of the David Ginola variety, but I knew that if I ever were to go on holiday to Paris, I'd surely be far more likely to need directions to the Eiffel Tower or a nice little bistro on the Champs Elysee. And besides, I mused to myself, if Frenchmen are so romantic, shouldn't he be asking me?

Make-believe romantic assignations aside, much of our lesson time was spent learning about past participles, future progressives and past perfect tenses.

All of which would surely prove very useful for those of us planning to move to France, write a novel in the French language, or seek a job at the UN. Since few of my classmates have done any of these things, I suspect that our time might have been better employed. The point, surely, is to be understood in a foreign language, not to pass off one's self as a local?

When you think about it, when was the last time you used a perfectly conjugated sentence in a food shop? You're in the chippy. You don't say: "Good evening, madam. I would like four pieces of deep-fried haddock and four portions of chipped potatoes please." You say: "Haddock n' chips four times, please."

Call me revolutionary here, but I think all most of us really need is a few basic sentences and as many nouns as possible. While it would be rewarding to pass the time of day with the locals discussing the state of the French economy or the philosophies of Descartes, when we're on holiday, our needs are basic: to eat, drink, relax, find our way, keep safe and call for help in an emergency.

For some bizarre reason, just about the only French word I can instantly recall is chaussettes, or socks, but, until I looked it up, I had no idea what they called a fire extinguisher (it's extincteur, by the way). You tell me: in a pinch, which is likely to be the most urgent?