2002-09-19 - 2:56 p.m.

It probably comes as no surprise to reveal that I�m not much of a scientist. My knowledge of physics rarely has need to stretch beyond the green-baised plane of the pool table, and the only chemical reactions to instill even a modicum of intrigue are the optimum time at which to add the packet of powdered �flavouring� to a boiling pan of instant noodles and which particular mixes of shots and continental beers are going to get me drunk for the least money in expensive West End bars. This isn�t due to any lack of parental interference, though. At school age 13 or 14, we were briefly given time off the joyless contemplation of progressive acne and the fact that all the girls in our year were only interested in 16 year old boys, often ones with some form of motorised transport. (On a side note, I remember being 16 and there was a distinct lack of interest from 14 year old girls, no matter how much I borrowed my Dad�s car, implying a cruel and disappointing demographic shift in female tastes). We were to choose the subjects that we would take for the next two years, which would set us on out chosen career paths, though given that we all wanted to be professional soccer players or international playboy fighter pilots, this was optimistic at best.

My father was a chemistry teacher (at a different school), and he made it quite clear that I was under no pressure to choose chemistry as one of my subjects. I was already sidling greasily up to the liberal arts, figuring that in any subject where there are no absolute �right answers� at least gave you a fighting chance. You had to pick one science, and I went with physics as the teacher always used to employ the slower pupils in experiments that involved small electric shocks, which was at least entertaining. My parents signed off my skive-heavy options (including the scarily mandatory �Religious Education�), no questions asked. Some weeks later, though, the rug of autonomous thought was to be pulled swiftly from under my easy-life loving feet as my father announced his jaw-dropping intention to �teach me chemistry from home�.

You can imagine the misery of suddenly having to spend two hours every Sunday that I had previously devoted to celebrating not being in church, hunched over a periodic table under my father�s steely gaze. I assume the only reason for taking chemistry at school is the fact that you get to gargle with corrosive acids and throw unlicensed petrochemicals into faulty Bunsen burners. Sadly, I didn�t even get to do this as lobbing sulphur around would apparently have constituted a danger to my mum�s roast beef preparation, and I had to be �content� with my dad simply describing what the experiments would have looked like, had we been able to conduct them. Add to this the instant hatred amongst my classmates when it came out that I was taking an extra exam, A YEAR EARLY, AND STUDYING ON MY OWN TIME. Even the 14 year old girls with impeccably low standards wouldn�t touch me now. And this is why, I think, as sign of rebellion (way to go, Jimmy Dean) I subsequently chose subjects throughout my education of no practical use whatsoever (linguistics, business studies, �general�(!) studies) and why now, thanks to years of stubborn but fatuous dilettantism, I can�t get a proper job. Yeah, it�s all my old man�s fault.

The BBC is this week devoting several programming hours to the concept of �Cracking Crime�. I thought that this might be a look at crime that was instantly enjoyable and rewarding (as in �Cracking cheese, Grommit!�) but it seems to be concerned with prevention, which is disappointing.