In Which I Learn That I Am (Not Quite) A Cult Figure

It's disconcerting to turn around on a busy tube train, in the pursuit of a fresher source of air, to find yourself confronted by a version of... well... you.

On the Jubilee Line last week, one of my fellow commuters had a badge pinned to her bag which bore an uncanny hand-drawn likeness to yours truly, Miss Jones of south-east London. It gave me quite a start. Not exactly like looking in a mirror – I have a Dickensian pallor, this much is true, but my face isn't actually grey. These are minor details, though. I firmly believed it to be a deliberate portrait of me.

Now, of course, if my life was a film, the camera would pan with me as I slowly turned round to see another badge with my face on it, several feet away, perhaps on the lapel of some emo kid's beaten up blazer. I turn some more, and see myself on a cotton resuable shopping bag. Another 30º, and there I am again, and again, on a bobble hat, on a satchel, on a scarf. I. Am. Everywhere. Everywhere, there is me. The world is me.

Sadly, my life is not a film, and I think we all know that is Hollywood's loss.

Still, someone had seen fit to create a badge with my face on it. That means that the person who I stood very near to last week is attempting to create some kind of Cult Of Miss Jones. It wouldn't appear to be going massively well since, currently, no one else seems to be sporting the official Miss Jones badge, despite the fact that she has almost certainly – no, definitely, most definitely – made 500 of them and, at the time of manufacture, was keenly anticipating a repeat order. Probably there is a box of them in her hall which she bumps into every time she's putting her coat on as she leaves for work, all of an a.m. hurry. Probably she lies awake at night wondering when the others will see the light – and also see her elaborate city-wide poster campaign featuring my face and the words 'She is coming to save us' – and join her. Come to think of it, I haven't even seen those posters, so she really needs to roll her sleeves up and crack on with the mass publicity.

It's probably a good job she didn't turn around and see me. Who knows what would have happened. Exultation? Speaking in tongues? I can barely have a wash and do my own jeans up first thing in the morning, let alone deal with a weeping fanatic falling at my feet in a train carriage somewhere between Westminster and Green Park. What I – and she – would really like to know at this point is this: why EXACTLY isn't the Cult Of Miss Jones catching on? Why does she have 500 unused badges in a box in her hall? Why, as cult figures go, am I a cult figure? I am a cult figure squared, and I don't much like it.

I think I need to perform some kind of miracle to truly build my profile. But what? Hmm. I can't swim, but maybe that's because my natural inclination when it comes to water is to walk on it – and I just never realised before. Do let me know if you have a miracle you would like me to perform in order that I can join the ranks of more high-profile cult leaders. You will win a Cult Of Miss Jones badge, and your chosen feat of amazement actioned.*

To be continued.

*You will not win this.

A little light world domination

I had an email on Friday from someone who works in PR (I think) asking if I was the same Hannah Jones who was the subject of the TV documentary Fix My Fat Head. In it, the other Hannah Jones (or HJ II as I have designated her) attempted to explore the psychological root of her inability to follow a diet and tackle her obesity. The PR (I think) worked for some manner of expert who thought she could help HJ II with her struggle to successfully, and permanently, lose weight. While it is true that at the moment I could quite effectively, if fraudulently, pass for four months pregnant, I do not have a significant weight problem. I am not HJ II. I am, OF COURSE, HJ I. But I cannot deny that part of me was keen to respond to the email in the positive, just to see how far I could get before they I realised I was not the same person.

'Yes, you're right, I've really got the diet thing licked now. Licked! Ahahaha! Yes, just a bit of uneven distribution round the bum and hips, but that's mostly genetic really. Oh, and a little pot belly, but I quite like that...'

'What do you mean, I don't look anything like the girl in the programme? ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?'

I am fascinated by people who have the same name, yet live wildly different lives. When you are privileged enough to be born into the Jones dynasty, your innate superiority is delineated by the high number of namesakes you have. They are mortal units of strength and power. As well as a blogger – young 36, non-smoker, GSOH, Capricorn – I am also:

* The teenager who finally agreed to a heart transplant after previously winning a legal injunction to prevent a hospital performing the surgery against her will.

* The Nike vice-president.

* The dance-music diva who had a hit in the 90s with a revved up cover of Bridge Over Troubled Water.

* A columnist on the Western Mail newspaper.

* An artist whose work 'explores interactions, especially those interactions occurring on a subvisible level'.

* Someone who worked at the BBC at the same time as I did in the late 90s, who caused me the indignity of having hannah.jones01@bbc.co.uk as my email address, and who would regularly have to forward ludicrous/lewd emails to me that had been mis-addressed by my friends with the perky words 'Yours, I think!'

I am all those people, and they are me.

I like that we are all connected in this way. I like the idea that we may be of one mind, that we could swap our flesh-and-blood hosts with each other and still somehow be the same person; that we are greater than the sum of our parts. That that one mind, with its corporeal foot-soldiers, could conquer the world. I am concerned that this is how many of the great dictators may have started out. [I feel like I may have used that line before. Apologies. I am still human. Albeit omnipotent.]

We are not the only ones/one though. Long ago in the short lifetime of these screens, I reflected on the many David Battys/Batties. And you would not believe the number of people who land on this blog while searching for one of them. Maybe you would. It is not that many. But still. Together they are mighty.

I am currently watching a 7-year-old child on the regional news who has raised thousands of pounds for victims of the Haitian earthquake. He is called Charlie Simpson, as is the lavishly-eyebrowed, former lead guitarist of the band Busted, who currently plays with the band Fightstar.

That's who I am. That's who they are.

Who are you?

Colour Me Bad

You can see below my disappointing showing in the Miss Joneses Inter-Generational Extreme Colouring Championship 2008. The winner is the Miss Jones who colours in their side of the page fastest. Felt tips are permitted, as are crayons and pencils. Beyond this? There are no rules. Which is different to the rules being made up as we go along, which is what normally happens when the Young Miss Joneses compete.

In the first-round tie, I drew Young Miss Jones The Younger (5, nearly 6, 'very very good at writing my name joined up'). I took the right-hand side, she the left. As you can see, to employ the lexicon of football commentary, I was caught napping.

I was distracted, I believe, by the similarities between this fictional, two-dimensional house and the real one I lived in when I first moved to London, and became intent on reproducing the colour of the original's door and window frames. Idiot! This is not the mindset of a champion. Needless to say, Young Miss Jones The Younger's focus was absolute, her determination unflinching. 

Miss Jones 0. The Young Miss Joneses 1. 

In a break with convention, the Loser Stayed On, and Young Miss Jones The Older (or is it The Elder? I genuinely don't know. In any case, she's 8, and will demonstrate her ability to do the splits at any occasion) stepped up to choose her weapons. I changed sides and it was On.

It was a much tighter contest, as you can see from YMJTO's frantic scribble towards victory. Despite a solid showing, what you can basically see from my side is how ludicrously therapeutic I find colouring in is, to such a bewitching degree that competition and urgency melt away, like an unwilling cross-country runner finding a shady park or a cool stream on a hot day. Seriously, is it OK to buy yourself a colouring book when you're very nearly 35? 

Anyway, it was a rout, a drubbing, a spanking. And despite their tender years, the Young Miss Joneses were clearly embarrassed by the whitewash and tossed me a consolatory 'Hmm, you've done it very neatly' (which I had. I mean look how lovely my snakes are) but I could hear the knocking hollowness of their words. The under 9s have little truck with the shackles of lines and edges in their pursuit of glory.

Miss Jones's Jones Of The Week…

…number 2 in an occasional series.

Harriet Jones, former PM, taking one for the universe on Saturday night*.

[I have, of course, modelled her crown on that of King Edred, who reigned circa 946-955, and was known as 'weak-in-the-feet'.]

Not to be confused with…

Harriet Jones, Young Miss Jones The Younger. PM circa 2040.

[*Should HJ PM return to seal the Doctor's downfall in some way on Saturday, the honour will not be revoked, due to the all-conquering wonder of Penelope Wilton.]

Miss Jones' Jones Of The Week

In an exciting new feature, Ryan Jones, victorious Welsh rugby union captain, is the inaugural Jones Of The Week.

Ryan, 27, 6ft 5in, likes stroking the velvety ears of rabbits and playing ping pong. His favourite song by Spandau Ballet is Through The Barricades.

I made some of this up.

Who will wear the crown next, mes amis?