Going solo (for real)

Eagle-eyed readers will be familiar with the fact that I went it alone, initially voluntarily and then thanks to some degree of third party force, in August this year. These readers would thus be forgiven for thinking that I have been going solo for over three months by now. This is not, however, the case.

It's not that I've been having a secret relationship. Far from it. But in order to buffer myself from the full sense of horror I felt at being on my tod, I developed a new obsession: finding a replacement. Still in an emotionally fragile state, not weeks after my break-up, I decided to cushion the blow by beginning the search for my next partner in crime. Of course, I was not remotely stable enough for this kind of venture and my (admittedly few) attempts to meet boys ended, inevitably, in varying levels of disaster.

Thus it was with resignation that I accepted the truth last weekend: I need to learn to live alone, once and for all, without crutches. After all, I'm no use to anyone if I don't value myself. My friend at work, Joe, encouraged me with his favourite paraphrased aphorism from Pascale: 'Man's greatest problem is his inability to sit quietly in a room by himself'. It doesn't matter if it's alcohol, drugs, friends, boys or rabbits, if you pour all your thoughts and energy into something external, it's clear that you're hiding from yourself. I've been hiding for far too long: now I'm stepping out into No Man's Land and it's flipping terrifying. My pathetic (but not unusual) need to cultivate a permanent frisson with some new idea has to be quelled. I'm going to read The Power of Now and become content with me in the present. I'm part of the way there already: I've made some gargantuan steps in the past few months and I am proud of myself for the distance I've already covered. But there's no doubt that the last hurdle remains to be leapt. I'm wearing the right trainers. My sports bra is hooked into position. The weather is temperate. And I'm now pulling the trigger on the starting gun: there are no more excuses. Can't believe I'm using a running metaphor. So unlikely.

In a flap

My body has never been particularly obedient. Even from a young age, it behaved in a fairly contrary fashion, growing in the wrong places at the wrong times and not nearly enough at others. But I must say a recent development has been particularly odd: I have realised that I have externally schizophrenic arms.

Over the past few months of gym efforts, I have put in a fair bit of work on my upper limbs, concentrating particularly on the stubborn bingo area (read: triceps) by repeatedly lowering myself in the reverse press-up position. As a result of my efforts, my biceptual region is becoming beautifully toned, to the extent that, if flexed in a particular way, it can be slightly reminiscent of the upper arm areas belonging to SJP or Madonna. But curiously, despite my specific efforts to target the triceps, the lower half of my upper arms remain stubbornly flaccid and sometimes while I'm running I feel suspiciously pterodactyl-like and worry that I might break into flight.

I can't pretend I'm not grateful for the new muscle definition featuring on 50% of the flesh surrounding my humera (I've arbitrarily decided it declines like 'bellus') but the contrast between the two portions is stark and disheartening. I have now abandoned all bicep work and am concentrating solely on my toneless tris. My fans have said they can't see what I'm talking about but that is because they're either over sixty, partially sighted, biased, indiscriminate or all four. When you fill the sleeves of a batwing jumper you know you're in trouble.

A terrible shock

Something awful has just happened. It was a seminal moment in my life and the unarguable truth is as follows: I am getting old. Not just older, but old.

How do I have such certainty? A couple of hours ago, I was in the gym. So far, so thirtysomething. I was on the running machine, trying to time my paces to the music that was playing over the stereo, when the CD got stuck. If I hadn't already been hyperventilating like a birthing mum-to-be, I would have sighed. The music in the gym is always fairly appalling, but running to a skipping house track is even less inspiring. Then, over the irritating noise of the stuck CD, new layers of sound emerged - a gentle drum beat at first, followed soon after by something masquerading as a melody. And I realised that the unthinkable had happened: the CD had never been stuck. After over two decades of being a self-proclaimed music obsessive, I had mistaken a 'modern' tune for the sound of a skipping CD and it was at that precise moment that I became uncool. The switch has flicked and I have to accept that things will never be the same again. My jeans will always be bootcut when they should be skinny and then skinny when they should be flared. I will start thinking Victoria Wood is a comic genius, consider microwave rice an extravagance, feel crazy if I'm out past 9pm on a weeknight and video Antiques Roadshow. It's a slippery slope: clearly I'm weeks away from booking a Saga holiday. Somebody stop me.

Maybe, maybe not

Hmmm. This disparity in my blog topics has me thinking. The cogs are turning fairly slowly but I'm still not catching the message. It's something about focussing. About people's appreciation for structure and form and, to a certain extent, predictability. Maybe my blog would be more popular if I wrote about one topic.

Maybe I should become 'known' for something. Maybe I should concentrate on a particular issue - like music. The comments I received in response to my Amy Winehouse review made me feel quite warm and fuzzy: it was great to find my words were read by strangers and empathised with too. What's more, Mark (whoever he is) even wished he'd spent the gig next to me! Sure, given my luck with men he's probably short, married, bipolar, aggressive, apolitical, rightwing, humourless and/or gay, but still. It was nice to elicit such a positive response.

But then, maybe I shouldn't be worried about how many people read this blog: maybe the joy of a blog is that a writer can be entirely selfish and not consider a particular audience or publisher or editor. And maybe it's my blog's breadth that appeals to my readers. Maybe if I restricted myself to one topic, I'd miss my absolute freedom to write whatever pops into my head. It's all so disconnected, but maybe that's a good thing. And since that is a true reflection of my life, maybe that's what's interesting. This is the head of a 30 year old London girl: internet dating, office chairs, varicose veins, David Cameron, cerebral palsy and Legoland.

Ach. All this hyperactive mental oscillation is wearing me out. I'm going to carry on filling in next year's diary with important events and pondering my latest quandary: why, when I can swear, hand on heart, that every single time, without exception, that I go to the gym, I leave feeling a) happier, b) more at peace and c) healthier, why on earth don't I want to spend my every waking moment there? Why do I delay doing something that boosts my immune system, makes me physically toned and mentally stable, all the while improving the appearance of cellulite? It's the eighth wonder, I tell you. For all my attempts to be rational, I am fundamentally irrational and absurd. Sigh. Also: commas: high on my list of world's most underrated item. Ooh, am I allowed two colons like that? Actually, I make the rules, it's my blog. I can put colons wherever I want. : : : See? : : : OK. Now I feel queasy. God, I can't even rebel through punctuation. This is pathetic. Even being at the gym is better than this. I'm off.

Jane of all trades

The latest addition to my blog is the 'labels' function. This allows me to categorise each of my posts and file them according to type, and in turn it allows my beloved visitors to read past entries which deal with specific topics that they find interesting.

What has been geektastically fascinating about the labelling process has been going back through the 130-odd entries I've written over the last year, and seeing the ridiculous variety of subjects I've covered. Currently numbering about eighty, the list is basically a cross-section of my life over the past 12 months and, as such, is a fascinating insight into my head. For me.

I've always maintained that I am too paranoid about committing to any single hobby, field of knowledge or category for fear of missing out on others, and the breadth of the random subjects that have floated through my head is testament to my inability to focus well on a small cluster of important issues. It is a tragedy that all this spreading myself thinly doesn't actually affect my thighs.

There are some recurring themes, however: Fat, Jane = idiot, Jobs, Boredom and Commuting all feature highly, which, looking back over the past year, seems about an accurate summary. Maybe 2008 will spawn new labels like 'My best friend Madonna', 'My celebrity boyfriend' and 'Winning the lottery' but realistically, I predict 'Mortgage hell', 'Negative equity' and 'Mild alcoholism' are perhaps more likely to feature. Bring it on.

Should've gone to rehab...

After several weeks of anticipation, last night Sara and I went to the Hammersmith Apollo to see Amy Winehouse perform. Full to the brim with reports of the lil' laydee's drug and alcohol issues - not to mention her husband's recent failure to be granted parole - I had been preparing myself for a last-minute death or cancellation and was certainly not expecting a polished performance. Which was lucky.

Wise to the fact that she wouldn't be on stage until fairly late, Sara and I had some food first at Riverside Studios and meandered towards the venue at about 9.30. Amy eventually tottered on stage at around 10.15 - over three hours after the doors had opened. The bored crowd were furious that she'd taken so long and greeted her arrival with boos. Sara and I were still feeling pretty fresh and unresentful but within a minute of the opening number beginning, I was almost in tears. The girl was an absolute wreck. Out of her head on who knows what - most likely a bit of everything - she had no control over her eyeballs which regularly rolled to the back of her head; her tiny angular limbs juddered back and forth around the microphone stand like a gangly fawn. Despite their long wait, several audience members left almost immediately. She couldn't enunciate her vocals and on the few tracks where she heaved a gargantuan guitar over her emaciated shoulders, she barely even attempted to play. Two or three times, she strolled offstage mid-song, leaving us uncertain whether she would ever return. Her fantastic band were obviously doing their best to keep the little waif onstage but there's absolutely no doubt that she was hating being up there. It was a lacklustre tragedy and at times I felt embarrassed to be there. It felt like staring at a motorway pile-up.

And yet. Her voice. Despite the appalling lack of confidence, the addiction, the bulimia, the heaving and jerking, the slurred lyrics, the inebriation, the agonising youth and the depression, she didn't miss a single note. It was ultimate proof of absolute talent at its most raw - a vocal display that cannot be learned or trained, as innate as thirst or lust. She had no control over anything last night - but still her voice emerged, effortlessly, soulfully and perfectly. It was both awesome and devastating.

The audience booed throughout, furious that she was clearly incapable of putting on anything approaching a show. Since I'd never predicted anything else, I was upset that the crowd was so loudly unsupportive towards this fragile twentysomething, whose life is in a profound mess. Surely no one could have bought their tickets expecting coherent banter or sober fun? Surely no one could have thought she'd be anything other than absolutely messed up: it was pretty obvious that we were lucky she was even vertical. A few glasses of beer helped me almost enjoy the experience but in retrospect I feel ashamed for doing so: there was a dark part of me that forgave her disappointing performance because I felt privileged to be witnessing such a public disintegration. It wasn't so dissimilar to the freaks discussed in my previous post - a mob paying to see a victim of their own creation. The curse of celebrity claims another victim - and I fear her tiny frame won't survive this circus for much longer.

It could always be worse...

When I was a bit over the limit in Penzance, I took down an intriguing-looking book from my hosts' shelf. It was a dusty old hardback about circus freaks and my judgement about the cover was proved correct - the contents were indeed intriguing. Sadly, nothing that I read that night has been retained within my skull except a particularly disturbing nugget about China. Not content with traditional freaks like bearded ladies and Siamese twins, the Chinese bred new types of circus curiosities for the ringmaster's amusement. The most bizarre and torturous plan involved putting a small child into a porcelain container with an unusual vase shape. The container had no lid or exit point. Over many years they would feed (and, presumably, clean) the child through a hole in the vessel - but the growing human would never be allowed out. Eventually, the porcelain would be smashed and - hey presto! - a person shaped like a vase! Now that's entertainment. In China.

So tonight, whether you're bored at home on the sofa, rowing with your husband or wishing you were thinner, just remember that you could be stuck in a large vase. And thank your lucky stars.

Toilet humour?

Although I do get embarrassed occasionally, I am not the type of gal who tends to blush at the drop of a hat/trouser. But recently, I came across a social group on Facebook which made my cheeks redden and my skin prickle with shame. The group is called 'I say loo not toilet' and its description reads as follows:

'This is for those of you who have just about had enough of the social excrement who befoul perfectly pleasant conversation by requesting the use of our 'toilet'. Too long have we sat in silence, inwardly thanking our parents for paying for our education, while these slaves to vulgarity continue living as if they belong on our sofas. And it is a sofa, not a settee. Time has come to stand up to the common man and reclaim our place as employers of these underclasses rather than colleagues. END THE MADNESS!'

I'd love to pretend that they're joking, but I know they're not. These misguided morons really do think less of people because they choose to use a different term for the WC. What's worse, this is not a tiny, insignificant minority: the group currently has 6,957 members.

This kind of ignorance is disgusting and absurd - especially given that, as I've been told, the divide between loo and toilet stems back several decades to a time when the upper classes went wildly anti-French and all cross-channel vocab was shunned - hence the snobs' hatred for serviette and preference for napkin. An abbreviated list of Non-U terminology, as constructed by Nancy Mitford, can be found on Wikipedia - but it should be prefaced by a cringe warning. It is narrow-minded idiocy; what's scary is that something seemingly so dated is clearly still flourishing today. Sometimes I despair. In fact, who am I kidding: always I despair.

You don't have to be mad to work here...

Regular readers may have an impression of my office from the many posts I have written concerning my working day. I can summarise by saying that it is not a place of much thrilling drama, hysterical cackles or fun and games of any sort. Money is the matter at hand and it is taken fairly seriously by all and sundry. Tomfoolery is not generally looked upon favourably. One of the traders wears orange trousers as an ironic fashion statement every now and then, but that's about as crazy as things get around here.

Yesterday, however, someone must have put something in the water, because in the middle of the afternoon my ears were stunned to hear some clapping, guffawing and, indeed, some shouts. 'Could this be revelry?' I asked myself. I stood up and witnessed a young man grimacing. Another gentleman said, 'I was about to go and get my lunch but I think I'll wait now.' Curiouser and curiouser...

Later on, the mystery was explained. An optimistic fellow was bet £250 by his workmates that he couldn't eat fifty chicken nuggets - without beverage or sauce - in fifteen minutes. Having consumed thirty, he realised he wouldn't attain his goal. At 37, he reached the point where he broke even and wouldn't lose any money. Then he was sick in his bin.

This is far and away the most exciting and funny thing that has happened in my office since I started working here in March. Which is, in itself, profoundly depressing. What is also disappointing is that they didn't ask me to perform the challenge. I can think of few things I'd like better than to eat four chicken nuggets a minute for fifteen minutes. In fact, such would be my joy on taking part in this experience that I don't think I'd feel right about accepting any winnings. Competitive eating: maybe at last I've found my career calling.

Penzantics

Bless me, readers, for I have sinned: it has been four days since my last blog entry. But rest assured, I have not been idle, packing more fun and frolics into the last 72 hours than is probably healthy.

I headed down to Cornwall after work on Friday's 6pm train and arrived just after 11. This would normally be WPMB (way past my bedtime) but Katherine's enthusiasm and giggly effervescence won me round and before I knew it, we were sitting in an extremely dodgy pub called The Longboat, trying not to stare too obviously at the fascinating clientele. Adding to the sensation of having travelled to a far-flung corner of the globe, the wine was served in miniature bottles, as if we were on a plane. After a couple of them, we became more vocal with the locals. Katherine in particular was enamoured by this gentleman's T-shirt (in his defence, the sweat patches weren't nearly so visible in the dim pub lighting):


On Saturday we went for a run. OK, stop laughing, it's true. I jogged. I've done it on the treadmill but never outside, and actually, it wasn't as bad as I thought. We went for about 25 mins around the town and along the sea front, with a few stops in the latter segments. I was pleasantly surprised and certainly would attempt it again in future. Katherine was doing some very clever deep breathing that she was taught by a personal trainer in New York. It made her sound like a bizarre cross between a steam train and a hyperventilating Alsatian but it added to her aura of professionalism. I might try and adopt this technique in future.

After our exercise, we hit the charity shops of Penzance High Street and, against my better judgment, went to see Beowulf at the cinema. No comment. In the evening we went for a delicious Chinese meal and then to the hangout frequented by all of Penzance's coolest cats, Studio Bar. During the evening we were 'entertained' by 'Mr T.', a fantastically cliched long-haired rocker who covered Fire and Rain by James Taylor, but ad libbed in the most predictable fashion, singing about 'shattered fucking pieces on the ground'. Agonising.

In Studio Bar, we were once more drenched in local colour, hanging out with Colin, the quiet Mr Firth lookalike; Andy, the 40-year-old Cassanova with a bad mullet and, I fear, a bachelor's future; the girl with the unacceptably low-cut top who turned out to be 45 and have an 18 year old daughter; her brother, Dean, who was wearing a Hard Rock Cafe, Malta T-shirt and also had far too much hair. We didn't meet Carl, a surprisingly handsome gentleman who was so drunk he was finding it difficult to stand. Our new friends confirmed that he is in a bit of a dark place at the moment. By the end of the evening I felt so sorry for him that I wrote him a note on a bit of brown paper bag, saying, 'Carl: you are far too drunk. You are one of the best looking guys in this bar and you should have more self-respect. Sort your life out. Kind regards, Jane.' I then put it in his jacket pocket on my way out. The Penzance locals are going to keep tabs on him now - I have high hopes that he will be spotted in a business suit with a beautiful laydee on his arm before too long but I fear it's unlikely.

On Sunday we loafed, shopped in a hungover state and walked over the causeway to St Michael's Mount with a lovely young man called Craig. I took lots of photos and it was all very British as the intermittent rain pattered against my borrowed anorak. After an evening of soup, bagels and 21 Grams, I returned on the commuter train yesterday morning and I now feel both refreshed and knackered. The flat saga continues with mortgage issues but I have high hopes that I will make it through with all my limbs intact, which is the main thing.

Woo little, woo late

For many millions of excellent reasons, I am not internet dating at the moment. But I do have a profile on one of the websites and this afternoon, I received the most lovely email I think a man has ever sent me. Sadly, he is 67 years old. He wrote:

'Oh God, where were you when I was within your age range? I know you weren't actually born. But a good-looking, funny girl who's also a spelling pedant is a rare thing to be treasured! AND you don't get Steve Martin or raw tomatoes - it's too good to be true. Some young man will surely not deserve you. Good luck in your (half-hearted I'm sure) search. A disbarred admirer.'

Makes me wish I was 65 rather than 30...

Right - I'm off to walk the plank in Penzance. I've packed enough tops for several weeks in the Arctic but only one pair of jeans and some really unsuitable pink suede shoes. You'd have thought I'd have learned how to pack by now but, of my very few failings, it's certainly high up on the list. Have a good weekend, one and all.

Wait in vein

A tenuous pun for the title but it was either that or 'You're so vein' which made even less sense. The last 24 hours have felt a little revelatory. I have realised that I was on the receiving end of a cruel vein conspiracy. Everyone on the planet seems to have known that crossing one's legs increases the chance of varicosity. Even those who don't believe the connection are still aware of the theory's existence. Apparently, I am one of the few individuals left in the developed world who was blithely crossing my knees willy nilly, blissfully ignorant of the pressure that was building up above my calves. Laura at work was astonished I hadn't known this nugget until now. Even - and I consider this a monumental betrayal - even my own mother knew but had, for some cruel reason, never chosen to pass on her pearls of wisdom. Sure, she'll ask me if I'll be warm enough every single time I leave the house, even in the peak of the British 'summer' week; sure, she'll phone me up at work and ask if she can open my post in case it's something important - but when it comes to life-altering information regarding the very blood coursing through my veins, that's considered too irrelevant to share. Pah.

I'm not sure if any of you, the Faithful, have tried to give up crossing your legs. When it comes to challenges, I'd rank it up there light years above quitting nail biting and a fraction below going cold turkey after a five year crack binge. It's an automatic reaction for me, following the 'sitting down' movement as naturally as sweet follows savoury. I never realised the depths of my passion for leg crossing until it was forbidden - now, just an instant of knee over knee action is a sensation akin to a deep massage or a glass of white wine after a long day at work. Still, the thought of the lumpiness that I might avoid or lessen is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.

The mystery for me, however, is that if everyone knows, why do they persist to cross? Surely the threat of the varicose far outweighs the joy of the cross? Or perhaps, like me so recently, they aren't yet aware. I might start handing out informative leaflets to the crossers I meet on my travels, just so that they can cross with awareness. I feel like I've been in the dark all these years and now I must become some sort of itinerant evangelist and share this potential joy with the masses. I will be the modern St Paul, and this blog will be the equivalent of the first epistle to the Corinthians. St Paul and I aren't too similar, it must be admitted, but we share a fondness for telling people what to do and (admittedly for different reasons) neither of us are too big on spiritual gifts. That said, unlike Paul, I've got no problem with people marrying because I'm not too big on the imminence of the parousia. Ah, it's all flooding back... Right, bedtime.

Unrelated points

I am going to Penzance this weekend and could not be much more excited about it if I tried.

Zen doesn't work. I lay in bed at 00:23 last night repeating to myself that tomorrow was an illusion but I couldn't stop worrying about what to pack for Penzance. I fixated on waterproof trousers which wasn't helpful.

Today I have been organising an appointment to have my boss' garage door motorised. And I didn't go to the gym.

I think I have developed an addiction to the humble Twix. But since I'm still losing weight - or, at least, as Paul McKenna won't let me weigh myself, since my clothes are still getting looser - I'm not really overly concerned.

I am reading My Traitor's Heart by Rian Malan and thoroughly recommend it. Thanks to Fi for the tip-off. It's an incredible portrait of apartheid written by the descendent of one of the system's creators - utterly moving, honest, raw, real and still frighteningly plausible.

Yesterday evening I was told that if you sit with your legs crossed you're far more likely to get varicose veins. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. Susie, who told me, said that when she was about 14, her schoolfriend's mum had to have an operation on her legs and her doctor told her the problem veins had been massively exacerbated by a buildup of pressure caused by her knee crossing habit. From now on I will sit with my ankles lightly interwoven, like the Queen. The similarities will end there.

It's raining Zen

Goodness, today has been a struggle. But I gained confidence from some Zen stories that I found online. Here are three that particularly resonated with me.

'A Japanese warrior was captured by his enemies and thrown into prison. That night he was unable to sleep because he feared that the next day he would be interrogated, tortured, and executed. Then the words of his Zen master came to him, "Tomorrow is not real. It is an illusion. The only reality is now." Heeding these words, the warrior became peaceful and fell asleep.'
I absolutely struggle to live in the present. So that's the goal - now I need to achieve it. Any ideas on this gratefully received. I think meditation might help but that's quite difficult. Some sort of quick fix, the SlimFast shake equivalent of actual meditation perhaps, would be great. Sadly, I don't think flippancy will get me anywhere. But there must be other options: I can't believe that everyone who's at peace with themselves actually meditates on a regular basis. Alternatives sought.

'Upon meeting a Zen master at a social event, a psychiatrist decided to ask him a question that had been on his mind. "Exactly how do you help people?" he inquired.
"I get them where they can't ask any more questions," the Master answered.'
I took this story to mean that we should all be working towards a point where we have no more questions - not because we understand everything but because, sometimes, we are content not to know or ask. Given that all I do is ask questions and want to know absolutely everything, I think becoming more content with what I know and don't know is fairly key. Again, breaking the habit might be tough.

'A student went to his meditation teacher and said, "My meditation is horrible! I feel so distracted, or my legs ache, or I'm constantly falling asleep. It's just horrible!"
"It will pass," the teacher said matter-of-factly.
A week later, the student came back to his teacher. "My meditation is wonderful! I feel so aware, so peaceful, so alive! It's just wonderful!'
"It will pass," the teacher replied matter-of-factly. '
As it said on the website, change is the only constant. The only thing on which you can rely is that nothing will stay the same. All the more reason to enjoy each moment and not spend too much time planning for the future. Easier said than done, once again, but that's no reason not to try. Wish me luck.

And on the seventh day...

Just when I thought my life couldn't get any more surreal, last night I went to The Bull's Head in Barnes with some family friends to see 'Memorable Moments of Opera and Song' performed by a collection of middle-aged individuals who call themselves Cameo Opera. Sadly this was not a mixture of classical music and Eighties pop act, Cameo, and no one was wearing a red vinyl jockstrap, but frankly, had such an event occurred, it wouldn't have seemed massively out of place.

The evening was reminiscent of a bad episode of Hi-de-Hi: quintessentially British and agonising from start to finish, with a rasping soprano whose plentiful back fat bulged over her diamante bra straps, a married/in the closet tenor and a pianist who looked like a cross between Maid Marion and a drag queen - I couldn't see the flammable warning label in her over-peroxided hair but I'm sure it must have been in there somewhere. The alto was married to the bass and clearly they were both either deaf and/or deluded as neither of them should have been allowed to sing in the shower or for their supper, let alone charge unsuspecting members of the public to hear them of a Sunday eve.

Over the next two hours, we witnessed a smattering of 'hits' from La Boheme, Don Giovanni, Fiddler on the Roof and Carmen plus an impromptu number from Phantom of the Opera that had been requested by some certifiable member of the audience during the precious interval. But, with an unrivalled four numbers in the concert programme, star piece of the evening was awarded to that most terrible of all modern musicals, Les Miserables. This segment of the concert culminated with the five singers standing in a line, belting out 'Do You Hear The People Sing?' while performing a box step move popularised by Jane Fonda workout videos. It was at this point that I started crying with laughter but I looked on incredulously as the rest of the onlookers, my own flesh and blood included, were swept along by the unbridled enthusiasm of the chorus. To my right, an enthusiastic audience member raised her fist in a gesture of revolution and punched the air in approximate time to the beating of the heart/drum. I was stunned into silence.

Another particularly special moment was when the peroxide pianist heaved herself out from behind her instrument and announced that she was going to play a number on her own. She was, she claimed, a classically trained pianist (if by classical she meant 'press the pedal on the first beat of every bar and play everything at top volume' then fair enough, but otherwise I might dispute her claim) but apparently what she "really loves doing" is taking pop songs and "classicalising them". At this point I was considering suicide but was reluctant to offend my lovely godparents who had paid for the tickets. Instead, I listened to the semi-skilled rotunda bludgeon her way through an appalling medley of schmaltz that would have been laughable if it hadn't been so excruciating. No unbearable stone was left unturned; we had the classical version of 'Everything I Do (I Do It For You)', 'My Heart Will Go On' and 'I Just Called To Say I Love You' and finished off with a boogie-woogie selection of Beatles' hits. You couldn't make it up.

As if that weren't enough excitement, an obese audience member almost died from a cough-induced aneurysm in the second row and my dad was invited up on stage to join in with the chorus of A Policeman's Lot from The Pirates of Penzance. Although the music would have been lucky to be described as eighth rate, there's no doubt that I found the evening entertaining - for all the wrong reasons. The Barnes audience, fuelled by Heineken and Merlot, were less cynical, giving a standing ovation and cheering for encores. It's not the first time that I've felt distanced from the majority and I'm sure it won't be the last, but as Sunday evening fodder goes, it's certainly up there with the strangest. 'Memorable Moments' is about right.

The saga continues...

Seasoned property buyers won't now be surprised to learn that 'my' flat is now back on. Apparently the girl went away last night to think things through, came back with her maximum offer this morning and it wasn't as high as mine had been yesterday. So I won. My survey went ahead this afternoon and apparently it was all fairly smooth. I have now found a solicitor and all in all, things are looking positive. BUT it really is a long way off yet so no congratulations yet please - and yes Kim, that includes you. Hold your horses, control your ponies, rein in your mules - we can party like it's 1999 but not until I have le clé dans ma main.

Goodness. It's been quite a week. I'm off.

Yoghurt: it could be worse

Seasoned property hunters will not be remotely surprised to learn that my flat fell through. It was all a bit smooth and too good to be true thus far. I'm surprisingly upbeat about it - in fact, I momentarily felt quite glamorous and hardcore as I actually attempted a gazump this afternoon. Admittedly, it was an unsuccessful gazump, in that I was immediately and conclusively gazumped back, but still, I briefly gazumped and that felt fairly exciting.

A propos of my Ray LaMontagne = yoghurt comment, I have since learned that Emily and I didn't know how lucky we were. Miss Robinson emailed me an article yesterday explaining that Ray is famously shy, rarely gives interviews and has even been known to perform in the dark. There we were, shuffling impatiently in our seats and slating him for not providing comic relief between songs, and little did we know that we should have been thanking our lucky stars we could even see the stage. This refusal to engage with his audience may be because he is not, as Emily put it, 'much of a looker', but I think it's more likely to do with some sort of passionate belief in the strength of his songs and a reticence to detract from them with gimmicks. Part of me admires Ray's musical integrity and part of me thinks if it's only about the songs, I'd rather save my money, listen to the CD and go see someone else live who actually wants to put on a show. The latter part of me is about as big as my thighs; the former part is about the size of my epiglottis.

Post Script

This is why patience is a virtue. I said I had nothing to write about. I wrote about very little. And then I left the blogging site and went to Yahoo to search for something - and found this:


Headlines don't come much better than that. Only in America...

Cusp of news

Having been on the verge of bursting yesterday with so many things to write about, it appears my creative juices have evaporated. I took Monday to Wednesday off work this week to look for flats and clearly, when I'm not going to the City and back on public transport every day, my pool of ideas becomes shallow and filled with leaves.

I've been in bed a lot, which has been lovely but uninspiring. Today I went for a bike ride and took a nice picture of some deer, look:


Other than that, I bought a flat at 09:04am. But there are so many nightmare survey / mortgage / solicitor hurdles ahead that no one is allowed to get excited. Believe me, when the time comes, you'll know about it.

A summary of recent events

Too much to write and not enough time or space...

I could write virtual reams, for example, about The Wizard, a man I sat opposite on the tube on Sunday who had a deep groove between his tortured eyes, an immaculate black curled moustache, a pointed goatee and was wearing lederhosen braces affixed to black leather trousers over pointy long boots.

Or I could bemoan the madman outside Hammersmith bus station last night who stood directly in front of me, facing away, on the almost-empty pavement and then took three deliberate steps backwards, causing me to have to jump out of the way to avoid being ploughed down. I selected an alternative standing point but he then came and stood in front of me again and did exactly the same thing - two further times. I took refuge inside, leaving him mumbling to himself, and forced myself to pity him rather than punch him.

Alternatively, I could cover my Saturday night at length - fireworks with Sara at Alexandra Palace followed by one of the coolest and most fun parties I can remember, featuring stripped walls, bare floorboards, a bath in the garden, lethal fireworks, bad hoedown dancing, a comedy writer who was genuinely funny, many glasses of different white wines, precisely three people I'd met before and several more with whom I'd now happily spend eternity.

I'd like to mention Ray LaMontagne, who has the voice of a husky angel but the on-stage vibrance of a yoghurt. I was glad to have gone but in terms of live experiences, he certainly suffered from being seen in such close temporal proximity to Rufus last week.

And I should certainly document my first day's flat-hunting yesterday, when I visited several properties I'd rather die than visit again and one property I have already mentally purchased and decorated. The most interesting experience was flat number two. I was still trying to keep an open mind but spirits were low as we approached the edges of the estate - washing hanging outside every flat which I find inexplicably depressing, a couple of broken windows and several clamped cars wasn't the most welcoming sight. We climbed the concrete steps to the first floor and knocked on the door to no response, so Emma, my friendly estate agent, unlocked it with her set of keys. As we entered, the smell hit us like a guitar in the face: the place reeked of a potent combo of marijuana and microwaved munchies. The air was thick with stale pot smoke and we soon found its source: a friendly middle aged couple monging on the sofa in the 'reception room' (read: den of iniquity) watching what appeared to be a Jamaican soap opera at top volume. The entire flat was mouldy and damp and irredeemably hideous; the only money that seemed to have been spent on its contents had clearly gone on white goods as there was a large and pristine fridge-freezer in each of the bedrooms, the den of iniquity and the kitchen. I wouldn't live there if you paid me but if you need anything chilled, I can pass on the address.

Natural beauty

I'll be leaving the leafy suburbs in a few months and am most likely going to live in a grotty ex-council flat and I'm extremely happy about it. However, I just downloaded two pics from my camera that reminded me how lovely it is round here. The first is the sunrise a couple of weeks ago, taken from my bedroom window. Glorious.


And the second is a tiny snail that I found on the gatepost when I was coming home from a night out last weekend. I took several shots of it and was coaxing it to behave itself when my dad peered out of the window and caught me. I must have looked completely mental. I like the streetlight in the background of this one.


Right. I'm off to the fireworks. Hooray.

Let the games stop

In a recent post, I referred to the fact that, when the competitive streaks were handed out, I didn't get the standard ration. As is so often the case, on the winning front, I am a bit different. I really, really don't like competition. I hate losing a lot. But, unusually, I am also uncomfortable with winning, feeling an intense empathy for the inevitable losing side.

A few years ago, I decided that, intellectually speaking, I was lacking: I did not know how to play chess. Shortly afterwards, Father Christmas rectified my lack of chess set and kindly supplied the Usborne guide to the basics. Like a good girl, I read the book from cover to cover several times before attempting a game but finally, after a few days' diligent study, I felt ready to commence my chess career.

And who better to play against than my boyfriend at the time, Henry, then an intelligent, political twentysomething who would guide me through the initial stages with the love and healthy firmness that I needed.

We set up the board. Already my heart was at MDMA-esque levels, fluttering in my throat and making it hard to concentrate. What if I beat my boyfriend? That would be awful, throwing too much open to question. And worse: what if I lost? The humiliation, the self-flagellation that would follow would be horrific. Even if I won, I would lose. The self-inflicted pressure throughout the game rendered it entirely unfun and, when I won, I felt the predicted guilt and confusion. I hate bad losers a lot but I detest bad winners. Even Henman's restrained fist shake makes me squirm. I refused to gloat. And, knowing how little I'd enjoyed myself, I haven't played chess since.

Beating my last ex, Simon, at badminton was always equally confusing. Something about an intrinsically unsporty girl beating a boy in a game involving a racquet made me feel ashamed and a bit wrong. These days I tend to steer clear of things that involve winning or losing - not because I don't have a competitive streak but rather because my competitive drive is so intense, my hatred of both winning and losing so fierce that, even as a spectator, it makes it difficult for me to enjoy any sort of game at all. And, consistent to the last, that includes pheasant.

Rufus - and a tight spot

In retrospect I think that yesterday's post may have sounded a bit capitalist for my liking. Allow me to clarify: I do not believe that happiness can be found in earning lots of money and then spending it on things like flats. However, I do believe that, at age 30, happiness can be found from living somewhere other than your parents' wonderful abode. Luxurious though it is to see them so often, have dinner cooked for me, not pay any household bills, never have to fix a boiler, repaint a cupboard or remember to buy washing powder, I think it'll be good for me to go it alone.

Now: Rufus. I don't know much about much but I've followed popular music since I was aged nine and equally obsessed by Horse & Pony magazine and Morton Harket. In the past two decades or so, I've been lucky enough to see a lot of fantastic bands and solo artists in concert, including Madonna, Elton, the Stones, Prince, Coldplay, James Brown, U2, Pink Floyd - and Michael Jackson when he flew off the stage at Wembley Stadium, wearing a jet pack. All those greats are greats for a reason - they are fantastic performers - and after last night, I've got another name to add to my list.

One of my favourite things about Rufus Wainwright - and, unsurprisingly, one of Rufus' least favourite things about himself - is that he's not that popular. He's fairly well known with a loyal fanbase - but even after his phenomenal last album, Release The Stars (produced by Neil Tennant), he's never managed to tip over into the Big Time. There's still an intimacy among his fans because he's not omniloved - we still feel part of an exclusive club who have been let in on a delicious secret: he is phenomenal. Sure, his distinctive voice is a bit too brash for some - but if you love it as I do, then a live performance by him is a gift from the gods.

It was magical: perfect vocals which at time sounded even more effortlessly precise and calmly crisp than they had on the albums; a superb three piece brass section; a beautiful Irish folk song performed without microphones to a breathless Apollo; glorious, classical-standard piano playing; comedy dancing during 'Get Happy'; and, of course, lederhosen. Musically, it surpassed my hopes. Manually, it was painful: my clapping was enthusiastic, heartfelt and continuous. I've been in love with some fairly unrealistic people in my life - Keanu Reeves, Michael Jackson and Mr Knightly from Jane Austen's Emma among them - but as heterosexuals, at least they'd perhaps have looked my way if I'd met them. Fancying Rufus Wainwright is about as futile as fancying gets, but fancy him I do.

This morning on the tube was interesting. I was seated opposite a very attractive female thirtysomething, neatly coiffured blonde hair, perfect and understated make-up, well-fitting pale grey suit, nice jewellery, black shoes. After a few moments, she crossed her legs, leaving one foot suspended a few inches off the ground, moving in time to the train's rocking. And something caught my eye. I looked up from my book and, in the eight inch gap between the top of her shoe and the hem of her grey trouser leg, was a wide band of flesh coloured lace, lined with clear gel rubber. It was awful. Her hold up stocking had not held.

I couldn't decide whether or not she should be told - there is no doubt I would have wanted to be alerted in her unenviable position, but I struggled to believe she wasn't aware of the situation. Her foot was clearly in her line of vision, and the bunched up stocking with its appalling top section was hanging over her ankle like a baggy legwarmer. At the end of this pristine woman was a spectacle equal to Nora Batty after a night on the tiles. It seemed impossible that she hadn't noticed: even if she hadn't seen it, she must have felt it. I concluded that she had realised but was resigned to the irrepairable nature of her situation: pulling a stocking to mid-thigh height under a pair of trousers while on a packed tube is no mean feat. I used to pity commuters but really, as far as snapshots on modern urban life go, you can't beat public transport. And talking of that - I've got a date with the Hammersmith and City Line. Mind the gap.