DIY Day 4: Insania

It's all become a bit much. I have approximately forty five thousand things to remember and eight billion chores. I'm loving the challenge, the flat looks fantastic - especially the new and improved spare bedroom with its first coat of Extra Deep, courtesy of my parents' sterling teamwork - but there's a shamefully large part of me that wants to remortgage and hire Sarah Beeny to finish the job. Sky came on time and left within two minutes, having established that a bay window in the flat next door is blocking the satellite signal to my flat; now I have to schmooze my neighbour to see if he will let me hang the dish on his external wall. I can't see him minding as he is a carefree young whippersnapper who probably wouldn't notice if Parliament was hung outside his window, let alone a Sky dish but still, it's another thing to add to the list - and even if he agrees in principle, I have to obtain his written consent which may be pushing it. In other news, my miraculous plumber appears to have fixed my boiler (again) so I'm relieved about that but another £100 poorer. And I moved about a tenth of my books over there this morning in two Ikea bags each weighing the same as a small Mercedes - I can't quite imagine how I'm going to fit all my possessions in the flat but anything I can't take I have to sell or chuck so the incentive is there - again, though, the temptation to hire a minion to do the hard labour for me is increasing with each passing hour. There are so many pressing things for me to consider but all I seem to be able to focus on is whether to organise my books aesthetically (all Penguin Classics together etc.), alphabetically by author or in categories. And I think it may finally be time to ditch my CDs and VHS tapes. The whole process is all very emotional and strangely solitary. What is cheering, however, is the prospect of dinner at a swanky restaurant tomorrow night: I need a break.

DIY Day 3: Apathy

I was perky. Then I was bitter. Now I'm just jaded and cynical. I still love Antelope and my place is looking better by the hour. But there's a lot to do and I can't quite conceive of it all being done. I gave the bookshelves their first coat of Satin today and then fell asleep on the sofa in the afternoon sun. I had my second dinner party tonight: more home delivery from Thai Silk with Emily and Sarah. It was really lovely, although the benefit of hosting is usually that you don't have to commute home from your own house, so the tube and bus ride back to my parents' at the end of the night was bittersweet. Still, it's centrally heated here which can't be underestimated right now.

Flat aside, I feel empowered and full of beans while simultaneously wanting to sleep for several eternities. I'm in shock about Jeremy Beadle, feel scandalised about Kenya, am gripped about Super Tuesday and am so excited about having Sky HD installed tomorrow that I think, despite my exhaustion, that I may struggle to slumber tonight. My head is a complex place to be.

DIY Day 2: The Aftermath

Oh, how I long for the naivité of yesterday, when I thought painting white ceilings white was a chore! Compared to my tasks today, painting ceilings is a job so rewarding it makes finding the cure for a debilitating disease seem like a mere frippery. At around 12 noon I realised that the least rewarding job in the decorating sphere is, in fact, carefully painting the back walls of shelves that will always, always be hidden from view by books. But then at approximately 3pm I accepted that the least rewarding job in decorating is actually painting behind the pipes that run underneath a radiator, an area that would only be visible if one were lying face down on the floor about a foot from the wall and took it upon oneself to scrutinise the zone in question. Not only will a good 60% of what I painted today be invisible to the naked eye for the majority of its span, but I had to pay good money for the paint.

To give myself credit where credit is due, I did a good job picking the paint. Now, I'll admit that I really only bought it because the colour's name is Antelope and I felt inexplicably drawn to it. Having seen it on the walls, I can see that the Honesty team at Dulux must have fought hard to label the shade Wet Cement but I do understand why, as a name, Antelope won out. Thankfully, it looks great and I'm really quite smug about it all.

Along with that minor excitement, today was a little trickier than yesterday. I had very little sleep last night (for a very good reason) and was consequently extremely tired this morning. When my new dishwasher and cooker hood turned up in south west London rather than at my new flat, therefore, I was a little tetchy. Then my central heating wouldn't work. But the Argos men arrived on time, the BT man was lovely and I had a delicious Thai takeaway with Luke tonight, while he stole 8Gb of my music. You win some, you lose some.

Tomorrow I'm moving off vinyl matt and onto eggshell emulsion for the woodwork and metal pipes. Sarah and Emily are coming over in the evening to snoop so I'm hoping to have the heating back on by then. Thursday we're into the spare room. And by Friday I'll probably be at the osteopath with a shoulder injury caused by RSI. I'm having the time of my life. Seriously. I'll be in serious debt for the Rest Of My Life but it's worth it.

DIY Day 1

Well, that was satisfying. I just sat down to write this and then I thought ‘Hmm. Maybe I’ll just see if I can rip out that disgusting faux-beech mantelpiece and faux-marble fire surround.’ And fifteen minutes later, it’s all gone. OK, everything apart from the bottom piece of marble. I lifted it a few inches away from the wall and underneath it was a suspect pile of miscellaneous white matter approximately six to eight inches in diameter. Of course, it could be a harmless building substance such as insulation or adhesive but there is also a slim chance that it is a bulging sac of larvae which will explode on contact with light, and as a result of that slim chance, I have returned the stone to its original position.

Today has been extremely fun. The Ikea men delivered my kitchen, the Corgi man came to check my boiler, take out my gas fire and disconnect my hob, and the EDF man came to look at my electricity meter. Then I changed into my painting clothes, last used in 1999, and painted the ceilings in my sitting room and my spare bedroom. I’ve had my iPod on random at a respectful volume, have eaten a random selection of unhealthy items but feel no guilt due to all the good work I’ve done, and now I’m going to choir. It’s all go.

I’m quite glad to have done a fair bit of ceiling painting today. Painting a white ceiling white is surely one of the most thankless tasks in the decorating sphere. I was quickly covered in spatterings of matt emulsion and suddenly became paranoid that I would be building up only my left arm muscles, leading to a bizarre pterodactyl bingo-wing situation where I may still take off while running, but once in flight will only travel in a clockwise circle. Consequently I have developed a unique ambidextrous roller action which I hope will prevent the occurrence of this potential pitfall.

Other than that minor gripe I have no complaints. Tomorrow I will begin on the bookshelves in the sitting room with the aim of finishing them and moving my books over from home by the end of the week. And in the evening I will have my first dinner party. Admittedly, there will only be two of us, and we’re having takeaway, but still, it’ll be the first time I’ve entertained at the new place and that’s still a milestone. High five.

Sunday summary

There is a unique type of moment when I'm sitting amongst a large and intimidating group of people and I realise that, in a few seconds, I will put my hand in the air and ask a question. My heart - thankfully fairly unnoticeable and reliable at all other times - will seem to shift north around five inches, coming to a halt at the base of my neck. Lodged in its new position, it will start to contract and expand with terrifying force and velocity, giving me the sensation that an angry racehorse is trying to kick its way out of my body through my sternum. Simultaneously, the blood will rush through my ears, my face will redden and I will be unable to hear anything except the pounding hooves. The sensation is not pleasant but I will be powerless to resist the pull towards my question, for once the process has begun it will not cease until it has reached a satisfactory conclusion.

I went through just this involuntary cycle on Thursday night when I went to see Tony Benn speak in Bloomsbury. He really is incredibly inspiring and made me feel fairly small for doing so relatively little to change the existing status quo. He mentioned that he'd left Parliament to concentrate on politics and that he now spends his time campaigning for several issues about which he feels particularly passionate. I asked him which of these he felt was most important and he said, 'It has to be peace, doesn't it. Because without that, everything else shrinks into the background.'

On Friday I was disgruntled when my boss clarified that the amount he was giving me as a bonus was, in fact, in Euros, not Sterling, wiping a third off the figure I'd been expecting. But later I laughed when I realised that an hilarious and select group of items are supplied by 'mongers': cheese, fish, iron and doom. The English language really is fantastic.

On Saturday I decided that the price difference between B&Q and Homebase is entirely justified. Dad and I went to B&Q first to buy my paint and various other sundries. After standing for several minutes, unassisted, at the paint mixing desk, we were eventually startled when a tiny, young, male helper appeared in front of us with more gaps than teeth in his mouth. When we asked for a meagre 5 litres of paint, he informed us chirpily that our request was impossible as, due to a computer error, they didn't currently have any in-store. We drove to Homebase which, after the apocalyptic hell of B&Q, seemed like an oasis of order created by Capability Brown. Everything was serene and efficient, there was a surplus of paint, a helpful assistant with excellent dental work and a 10% off deal.

Last night I had a blast from the past, attending a dinner party in west London with a few schoolfriends and their boyfriends. One needs to be a fairly serious Trivial Pursuit fan to insist upon playing with the old board and the new questions, but I was in the company of fellow obsessives. The if-you-knock-the-piece-of-pie-out-of-the-holder-by-accident, you-lose-it-forever rule was invoked, as was a new (to me) condition, that, once all six pieces of pie have been collected, you 'parachute' straight to the middle for the final countdown. I loved the use of the term parachute. Once at the centre, we played the standard 654321 method, where in your first go, your team must answer all six questions on one card correctly to win the game. If this fails, at your next turn you must answer five correctly to win, then four, then then three until a victory is reached. We were playing girls against boys and I'm pleased to say that we won comprehensively in an extremely irritating fashion by eventually working out the answers after several minutes of intense and wide-ranging discussion. 'Was it Japan? No, no - South Korea. No, I'm sure it was Germany. Ooh, no, it was Spain, I remember we did it in Middle IV.'

Now I must go for a run to clear my head and thin my thighs, then to Hammersmith buy a bathroom sink and some taps, then to the flat, then back here for American Idol. And tomorrow, the painting begins. I'm genuinely not sure I can handle the excitement.

Running on empty

In general, I think I'm a fairly bright spark. But I will concede that, every now and then, I am an unadulterated idiot. Sometimes, for example, I will find myself holding a carton of orange juice at an angle at which it is certain that my glass will fill extremely quickly and then overflow. 'Readjust the angle you nightmare,' I whisper to myself quickly, 'or you'll spill it everywhere.' But for some reason, I don't. I battle against all the evidence, perhaps convinced that I will beat the odds. It's moronic but I've had moments of stupidity like these all my life.

After an emotionally draining week, last Sunday night I was exhausted. I clambered into bed around 10pm and shuffled down under the duvet, revelling in the high thread-count and oozing with excitement about my early night. Casually, I flicked on the TV for thirty minutes' leisurely viewing pre-sleep. Yet all-too-predictably, thirty minutes turned into sixty, and before I knew what was happening, I was watching Paycheck, a film starring Ben Affleck and Uma Thurman that was not due to finish until after 1am. From the outset, it was abundantly clear that the movie would be terrible – even the title’s spelling was enough to irritate this British pedant intensely. But I became gripped by the absurdity of the plot; it seemed impossible that anything so bad could actually have been funded, distributed and aired in cinemas. And despite the screams of my eyelids and the panicked moans of my brain, desperate not to start the new week in a state of excruciating tiredness, I continued to watch, completely unable to tear myself away. Like the orange juice pouring problem, I knew with certainty that I was doing something a) stupid and b) regrettable, but I was powerless to resist.

This happened last year when I was sucked into watching As Good As It Gets - and, to be fair to myself, I didn't make the same mistake again for a long time. But sadly, the lesson does not stay learned for months every time. Last night, just four days after the Paycheck lunacy, I learned the lesson again. At around 11pm, I was up in my lair with not much to do, deliciously sleepy and with no reason not to hit the hay, when I opened up a new online cataloguing service that allows users to register, review and compare all the books they've ever read. Instantly, I knew this was an error - and sure enough, ninety minutes later, weak, aching and almost hallucinating, I was still entering banal self-help books into the system.

Today has been one of the busiest days I’ve had at work and I’ve spent the entire thing bemoaning the geek portion of my brain, the segment that would rather type the names of all the books I’ve ever read into a little box on my screen for the ostensible benefit of no-one rather than sleep.

Tonight I’m off to watch the incredible Tony Benn share some pearls of wisdom with an audience at the Bloomsbury Theatre – I have been excited about this for some time but am now worried that my head will loll noticeably at a crucial point. Combined with the amazing and fascinating book club I went to on Tuesday and with the number of things I’ve got whirring round my brain at the moment, from paint colours to spreadsheets to half marathon training schedules to taxi bookings, I wouldn’t blame it if it packed up altogether. Time for a holiday methinks. Or a big glass of white wine. Bring on the weekend.

A pledge

Read very carefully, I will type this only once: it is my honest intention to run a half marathon in 2008. I think a full marathon is pushing it - but there are half marathons knocking around here and there (New York on 5 August sounds good) and that seems like a more manageable target. Still flipping massive, but do-able. So now. There it is, written in black and white. No going back. That's the plan. I'll keep you posted.

This afternoon I bought a pair of walnut veneered Art Deco bedside tables on eBay that are being shipped from Italy. So that was exciting and quite glamorous of me. Now, after a relentless day, I'm enjoying an evening off. I've picked out several possible paint colours, eaten too much and am now revelling in rubbish TV: the rest of the week will be hectic so I'm recharging my batteries. And Mum - don't worry, I won't tell anyone what you did this evening.

End of an Era

As if there weren't already enough significant changes happening in my life, I have recently learned that the company for whom I toil is banning Facebook. Apparently there were 400,000 hits to the site from the London office in the two week period before Christmas. This is put into perspective by the information that there are approximately 1000 employees at the London office. Even if all of them were Facebook users, that would be 4000 hits each in a fortnight, or 400 per day, per employee. But not nearly all of those 1000 employees are Facebookers. I'd think a more realistic estimate would be that about a quarter of us have profiles. If I'm right, that would suggest that those of us who are fans of the site were refreshing our page around 1600 times per day.

Now, I know I've had quiet days since I started here. And yes, I was fond of whiling away a few idle minutes looking at total strangers' wedding photos. But 1600 page views in one day? Never, even at my most bored, could I have accumulated a total like that. Besides, lately things have been a little busier for me. Not today, admittedly, but in general. So just for the record: it wasn't me. And a note for the Human Resources department: there are some seriously underused employees knocking around this building.

In other news, I have just received the freeholders' approval of my building plans and am about to rocket through the roof with excitement. Even the caveat that I have to install an unsightly firedoor in my sitting room isn't enough to dent my buoyancy. Now all I have to do is pay for it. Well, and paint the entire thing. And move my thirteen metric tons of possessions across South London. But I laugh in the face of such minor concerns. Ha!

Black Tuesday?

I’ve been working in a bank for just under a year now. Five days a week, I sit in my little glass box of an office, typing away while listening to the hum of the trading floor outside. Men (and a tiny smattering of women, usually migrant experts in specific foreign markets) sit in front of their six or eight computer screens, watching a selection of graphs move up and (more usually) down throughout the day. On the whole, the trading floor is a lot calmer than the ones you see in the movies; there’s very little swearing and shouting – and when it does happen, it’s more likely to be as a result of a schoolboy prank than a financial crisis. Every now and then, someone will smash their phone handset against the desk in a fit of pique, but most of the time, the boys play nicely.

So it was a shock when, about an hour ago, there was a sudden roar from the eighty or so guys who work in my vicinity. Accompanying the roar were a few leaps up into the air and a comprehensive range of expletives. Most of my body wanted to run out and go, ‘What?! What is it?!’ but I didn’t think that would be in line with my Ice Maiden work persona, so instead I emailed my friend Joe and asked for him to come and tell me what was going on when he had time. Immediately he replied, saying ‘They cut interest rates 75 bps surprise in the US.’ I was pathetically smug to know that basis points are hundredths of a percentage point – and why a 0.75% drop is significant. And what with all the adrenaline and testosterone flying around, I briefly experienced the sensation of working somewhere exciting. It was fun while it lasted – but really, I think my work/life balance is about perfect right now.

Not for long, however. My other exciting news of the day is that I’m getting a Blackberry. It could go one of two ways – either I’ll be permanently on call, working all the hours God sends, never switching off for a moment. Or I’ll realise that I can do my job just as effectively from bed and swiftly lose all remaining motivation to travel to the office. Only time will tell.

Is that a wingéd pig I see?

Picture the (fictional) scene: it's early 2007 and I've gone to see a well-respected fortune teller at a convention in Earl's Court. She jangles her imitation coin bracelets, brushes her headscarf over her shoulder, peers into her crystal ball and recounts what she sees in a witchy voice. 'You will be working in the City,' she croons. I splutter at the absurdity of her suggestion and start to ask for my money back. 'You will buy a flat. You will be single and self-content...' By now I'm thinking of having her sectioned. 'And you will love to keep fit.' I laugh and exit, slightly disappointed that my foray into the mystical otherworld has proved its unreliability so conclusively.

For it is true that although I can imagine myself as many things: pregnant, dead, famous, ill, unpopular, fragrant or ambitious, I could never, ever have imagined myself as a fitness freak. If our made-up gypsy friend had told me that, in early January 08, I would be climbing up the walls with desperation, craving exercise like I used to crave garlic bread, I would have laughed in her face and then taken her to The Priory for a cold turkey detox, so clear would her drug-addled insanity be to me.

But the unthinkable has occurred. After two weeks of enforced stationary behaviour following my hilarious cervical experience, I had had enough. I was getting spots, the pterodactyl arms were making a credible comeback and, as predicted, my seratonin levels had noticeably dipped. With the doctor's specific instructions not to engage in strenuous exercise for 2-4 weeks post-op ringing in my ears above the bad house music, this afternoon I clambered aboard the treadmill and walked at a medium pace for 20 minutes. I followed this with some intensive upper arm and chest work. And having felt like the End Was Nigh for most of the day, I bounced out of the gym wondering if someone had spiked the water fountain, so much perkier did I feel.

When I told my boss I was flouting medical advice to work out, he said, 'You're addicted.' And although I am far from that, it does strike me as unexpected that I'm champing at the bit to return to the gym when I have a perfectly good excuse not to go for at least another fortnight. Things really are different these days. Who knows which of my engrained hatreds will become my next passion? Maybe in a week or two I'll be sitting here eating raw tomatoes with a coriander garnish, revelling in the noise of squeaky London taxi brakes, collecting box sets of Steve Martin DVDs, loving people who are really late to meet me, adding fruit to my main course, reading the Daily Mail and laughing at racist jokes. Maybe.

It's the viral countdown

There is a Facebook application that allows one to affix digital countdowns to one's profile page. These countdowns can count down to anything you like - the number of days, hours and minutes until your sister Bethany's wedding, your trip to Disneyworld with Cousin Selina or, perhaps, an important court hearing with Uncle Dave. But as well as customising them for personal use, you might also choose to display more popular countdowns. In December, for example, many people of a religious or gift-orientated bent displayed the number of days left until Christmas. And, as a singleton, I am shocked to see how many people are advertising the remaining days and hours until the commencement of St Valentine's Day. Retch.

At present, the second and third most anticipated items for Facebook users are the start of the fourth series of Lost, with 11,696 people counting down and the release of the next Harry Potter movie, with 12,909 followers. But at number one, with a whopping 17,053 people counting down, the event most Facebook users are excited about is the End of the Bush Regime on 20 January 2009. I added the countdown to my page but suddenly spared a thought for George W. It would be weird to think that 17,053 people were eagerly anticipating the date I was made redundant but I guess that's just one of the hazards of taking on the job of US President.

A nice weekend for me - out all day yesterday with lovely people and then wine with same in the early evening. I had thought I was going to see some comedy later on with a few other friends so felt like two large glasses of red wine would be a suitable sharpener for the night ahead. However, I then found out that we were instead going to see the hotly-anticipated and quite-heavy-going No Country For Old Men. Sobriety was required and after ducking into KFC, I scampered down Upper Street delicately shoveling chicken pieces and fries into my mouth. That whole 'No More Cheap Chicken' initiative is really working well for me...

Today I've been to Habitat where I managed to select and purchase the only two items that were not massively reduced in the sale. I also bought a random footstool in a 'unique' Hammersmith shop, improbably called It's Fab! Antiques. There's no grammar, there's no sense - but it's full of kitsch and I was drawn to it like a moth to a bonfire. Now my own private countdown to the new series of American Idol begins - I'm so excited I can barely inhale although after my Simon Cowell dream I tend to blush when he's on screen. I'll have to overcome my crush sooner rather than later as the season finale is not until May and it would be unpleasant to spend the next five months in red-faced discomfort. See you next week.

Seats? Overrated.

This is hard for me to admit, but contrary to the impression I may try to emit, I'm not actually an opera buff in the slightest. This is largely due to my appalling long-term memory: I have been to the Royal Opera House twice before; the English National Opera at least three times; Holland Park Opera once - I've even sung in the chorus of two operas in Dorset - but the sad truth is that, with the exception of the ones I was actually in, I have no clue what I have seen. I'm pretty certain Carmen is on the list. Eugene Onegin rings a bell, although I have no idea what it sounded like. I know I haven't seen any Wagner. But other than that, I draw an embarrassing blank.

Thus it was that, as the lights dimmed over the sumptuous ROH last night, I listened to the opening bars of La Traviata to see if I recognised it as something I'd witnessed before. Immediately, I knew for sure that I had never seen it in person - but I certainly recognised it. Not from my classical upbringing. Not from school. From Pretty Woman. I cringed. Here I was, trying my hardest to be culturally broad while physically slim - but my benchmark for recognisable opera tunes was courtesy of Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. It was a personal low-point.

When I'd wrenched my self-esteem back to healthier levels, I began to enjoy the left hand side of the opera. The right hand side was, of course, completely obscured due to our cheap position high up in the standing area - but for £7, I wasn't complaining. The sound was unaffected, we could see the surtitles perfectly so we didn't miss any implausible plot developments and, to be perfectly honest, I felt some pity for the people who had spent such absurd amounts on their seats. Surely they were looking at us resentfully, livid that we were witnessing the same magnificent spectacle but for a fraction of the price?

The opera itself was fantastic and seemed to last about ten minutes - an unusual sensation for me because although I love the big numbers, I do tend to get a bit restless during all the less aurally palatable recitative stuff. I think it's the fact that I was brought up on musicals. My least favourite section was the third act. Strangely, everyone in the audience seemed to have caught Violetta's TB in the second interval as they suddenly started coughing feverishly having been almost silent up to that point. Additionally, although I had done extremely well not to feel too single in such extraordinarily romantic surroundings, the couple who moved to stand next to me for the finale could not seem to keep their hands off each other and were constantly kissing and snuggling audibly, exacerbated by the man's fondness for rubbing his lady-friend's back - she was sporting an unfashionable velvet jacket and the noise of his hand running against the fabric's grain seemed deafening.

Those slight gripes aside, I had a wonderful night and look forward to my next trip. The replacement soloist was fantastic but she needs to work on her shocked 'Moi?' expression on receiving cheers at the end as it was unconvincing and hit fondue levels of cheese - although not as annoying as the lovers next to me who altered their 'Bravo!'s for the men to 'Brava!'s for the women and 'Bravi!' for the assembled cast. Growl at the prohibitive ponciness of the educated classes, she types using long words.

Piss

Dear Patron,

I am writing to you as someone who has booked for La Traviata. It is with great disappointment that I have to tell you that Anna Netrebko is currently suffering from bronchitis and will not be able to sing the role of Violetta in tonight’s performance. Anna arrived for rehearsals in London with a bronchial condition which has sadly now returned. She hopes to be able to perform again very soon and I know that she is very sorry that she has had to let down this evening’s audience. I am pleased to let you know that the role of Violetta will now be sung by Albanian soprano Ermonela Jaho, in her debut with The Royal Opera.

We flew Ermonela in from New York overnight as a precaution as Anna was feeling a little unwell yesterday, although at that point she had still hoped to sing at the performance tonight. Unfortunately her condition worsened and, regrettably, she was obliged to cancel at noon today. Ermonela made her professional debut as Violetta in Tirana, Albania, aged 17 and has subsequently sung the role at the Bavarian State Opera in Munich, Teatro San Carlo in Naples, Teatro Giuseppe Verdi in Trieste, L’Opéra de Marseille and at L’Opéra de Lille. Our casting department has been following her career with great interest and this will be a very exciting evening.

I am so sorry for any inconvenience that this may have caused and I hope you join us in welcoming Ermonela alongside Jonas Kaufmann, Dmitri Hvorostovsky and Maurizio Benini and the rest of this wonderful cast.

Yours sincerely,
Tony Hall
Chief Executive
Royal Opera House

Grumble grumble grumble. I've been excited about this for months. I called The Royal Opera House to see if I could cancel/exchange my tickets - a long shot if ever there was one - and the guy on the phone laughed and said 'No.' They sell the performance, not the performers, which is fair enough. 'If it makes you feel any better,' he added, 'I had tickets for tonight too - and when I had tickets to see her in Don Giovanni, she was also ill that night, so I'm doubly furious.' That did make me feel a bit better. 'Plus,' he said, 'there were people queuing up at 5.30am this morning for day release tickets, and some of them were from Germany.' So I expect they're a tiny bit more annoyed than I am. But not much.

Breathe in-2-3-4 and out-2-3-4

Oh. My. God. I have so much to say, so many complaints to make, anecdotes to tell, incidents to record for posterity. But my life won't allow it. I don't have an accurate tally but I think it would be fair to say that I have made in the region of eight billion phonecalls in the past few days. My planned building works are complicated beyond my wildest dreams, the entire scheme may be scuppered by the 12 week lead times required to move an electricity meter about three inches, my job is suddenly hectic, I'm out every night and I have developed a searing pain somewhere in the region of my left shoulder blade that was only temporarily alleviated by the powerful 20 minute massage I received on Tuesday from a diminuitive Japanese lady who I fell in love with on the spot. Miraculously, I have managed to stay positive and upbeat throughout all this but I'm afraid blogging is a bridge too far. Rest assured, I miss you, I will be back soon and I'm sorry.

Amsterday 3 and home

Stuck on most of the girls' windows in Amsterdam's Red Light District are small white stickers banning photographs but nonetheless I felt it would be a shame to leave the area without some sort of visual reminder. I had been walking along with Fran who encouraged me to take a subtle snap, saying 'What's the worst that can happen?' Eventually I clicked in the direction of one prostitute house and within a nanosecond, the girl pictured on the left was banging on the window of her cubicle and screaming like an angry zoo animal, while another young lady started yelling from her doorway and threatening to push us in the canal. So that was quite scary. I must say, even without that incident, I found the RLD fairly upsetting. I don't know what I was expecting but I was surprised by quite how unerotic it all was - reconfirming the oft-heard but rarely understood truth about how much more physical than emotional sex is for men. Seeing groups of lads paying to go into live sex shows at 1pm on a rainy Saturday just didn't sit right with me. But in fairness they were all quite ugly so I suppose they find it difficult to have intimate relations first-hand.

Other than that and the intermittent downpours, my day off in the 'Dam was absolutely wonderful. I bought a delicious royal blue dress for 5 Euros, as well as two jumpers and a long skirt at a vintage stall from a gruff Dutch gentleman who seemed livid to be alive. I wandered with Fran around the Nine Streets and saw yet another side to this beautiful city. We talked about boys and life and peace and it was all rather dreamy.

On my return to London I had a fantastic taxi ride back home with a driver called Monty, a Muslim evangelist who lectured me in the most pleasant way, explaining that sleeplessness is caused by unsolved guilt from the past day. I ventured that often I am unable to sleep because of worries about my future rather than stress about my past. 'Ahh,' said Monty, 'but that says more about your present than your future.' A journey to my door paid for by the company and free therapy thrown in - what a bargain. Last night I saw Ses and Em for risotto, wine and ice cream followed by discussions of pornography, fashion, more boys and other gripping topics. A delectable evening.

Now I'm grimacing at this appalling BBC adaptation of Sense & Sensibility while facing up to the new week of work, fun, decisions, surprises and choir practice. It's all go but I feel lucky to have such a heaped plate at this time of year when things are so often dull as ditchwater. Pah, there I go again being all upbeat. Nothing a couple of 6.30am starts won't fix, I'm sure.

Amsterday 2

Last night I dreamed that I was on the Hammersmith and City line to Moorgate, feeling really ill and weak and feeble, and this old trampy guy got on and sat down next to me and took my hand and for some reason I wasn't strong enough to snatch it away from him and he put my hand in his mouth and started sucking on my fingers and I missed my stop. Can you imagine anything more repellent? I woke up sweating and feeling repulsive and then realised that I was really quite ill. So I stayed in bed a bit longer.

Then I went to a big office and had lunch on the top floor with lots of swanky people and was very impressed. The only minus moment was when I realised that the work shoes I brought out here need reheeling, a fact I never learned when I was in London because there I only ever walk on carpet. In Amsterdam it appears that all the poshest offices have sparkling tiled floors and I clip-clopped along self-consciously sounding like a blacksmith shaping a horseshoe on an anvil. I was trying to persuade myself that no-one was noticing but then a butler guy who was leading me somewhere turned around and said accusingly, 'You're very loud, aren't you?' which made me feel much better.

Generally, I like the Dutch people I've met. They are all friendly and confident. But, not to make sweeping generalisations or anything, there is an unsubtlety about them that I find slightly jarring. Last night, a taxi driver picked me up from my hotel to take me to dinner and I realised neither of us knew where the restaurant was, so I said I'd go back into the hotel and ask. When I reached the reception desk, the man behind the counter was already helping another guest so I stood back and queued patiently like a good girl. After about 30 seconds, my taxi driver charged in, interrupted their conversation and barked at the hotel guy in Dutch. The guest and I looked shocked but the driver wouldn't have picked up on our signals if we'd written them in neon lights. I relayed this to my dinner companion last night and he said that apparently standing in line is not too big in Holland, something he finds shocking and enraging in equal quantities. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I don't actually think I could live somewhere that didn't do queues.

But aside from that minor glitsch, Amsterdam is probably my favourite of all the cities I've ever visited. I am in love. I just can't get over the consistency of the architecture - of course, the city was occupied very early in the war and thus not bombed so almost all the old buildings remain and the contrast with London is palpable. Apparently Amsterdam is fairly unique within Holland as well - many other cities suffered far worse. There is a joke that young Germans are walking around Rotterdam and ask the locals, 'Where's the Old Town?' and they are greeted with silent hatred. The anti-German feeling is still piping hot here, from what I can sense - equally, my Turkish taxi driver says that racism is still rampant against non-whites. It may look liberal but there's certainly discord bubbling underneath.

Tonight I was taken on a romantic canal dinner cruise by two colleagues which was fantastic. Everyone with apartments on the canals leaves their curtains open to show off their swanky pads; we peered in and envied people's lighting schemes. Most of the evening was spent talking about relationships and very little time was wasted discussing work, which is just how it should be I think. After the cruise we went into a tacky tourist shop where I was photographed standing in a pair of gargantuan wooden clogs. My friends were massively embarrassed about all the Dutch paraphernalia and couldn't believe that their international reputation seemingly hinged on tulips, windmills, pot and prostitutes. The gift range was a bizarre mix of merchandise for Ajax football club, Rasta dolls holding huge spliffs, Delft pottery penis salt shakers and boxer shorts covered in cartoon smiley sperm.

After a tiring but wonderful couple of days with work people, I am looking forward to some time off tomorrow. The vintage market is the priority, of course - but after that I will try and cram in a gallery or two and take some photos before hopping back to Heathrow. Thankfully I've finished the chocolate eclairs so they can stop haunting me - although there's a half-eaten Toblerone in the minibar fridge with my name on it and the fat fairy has replaced the Pringles that I inhaled yesterday as a pre-tapas amuse-bouche with another identical pot which seems unfair. Clearly they should realise that I currently have a junk food problem and no self-restraint and take pity on me. Sigh. This is all the fault of my stupid doctor's orders: if I could exercise, I wouldn't be in this godawful lipidinous state. Don't blame it on the sunshine, don't blame it on the moonlight, don't blame it on the good times, blame it on the cervix. Oh god. I think I am avoiding sleep; perchance to dream etc. Then again, how can it be any worse than my last few nightmares? I can't delay forever: I'm going in. Wish me luck.

Amsterday 1

Ooh, blimey. My first working day in Amsterdam has been great - I've met a lot of people, learned a great deal and am now proficient on our in-house intranet system which has effectively quadrupled my workload for when I return to London (no bad thing). Now I have about an hour free before my dinner date with a big boss - he's taking me to a swanky tapas place which sounds delicious. In the interim, I am eating eclairs. I still have the appetite of a small African nation and am aware that my belly is distending but somehow I can't seem to get full.

Additionally, I think I may have avian flu. I have had a cold almost constantly for three weeks and I hear that H5N1 is the most likely candidate to mutate and cause an influenza pandemic that could kill up to 150 million people worldwide. This is quite scary. Plus, I've run out of Nurofen which is a disaster. I know I should go out wandering now around this stunning city but I'm freezing cold and enjoying a Dutch-dubbed rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond. Good intentions are so often trampled by American sitcoms, I find. Hmmm, I might have a nap. Although, oh my god! Neighbours with Dutch subtitles! [Two minutes later...] I don't believe it! I've seen this one. Susan has to tell that dead guy's kids that she's letting Karl move in and Lou gets drunk and gets a tattoo on the back of his neck. What are the chances? OK, sleep it is.

Here comes the fat, little darling

I can feel it happening. I knew it would happen, and it is. After five days not exercising, three of them under doctor's orders and two of them out of inherent laziness, I can feel the lipids clinging with new strength onto my thighs and other womanly curves. Sure, my trousers still fit, and I'm sure to the untrained eye I look identical - in fact, even to the trained eye I probably haven't altered in any way. But from the inside, I know it's occurring - softly, softly for now, but eventually it will explode onto the surface and suddenly I'll be rotund.

The whole Paul McKenna concept only works if you don't feel like any food is forbidden - but suddenly, food is forbidden because I can't exercise. This has had a dramatic effect on my consumption and I'm already squirreling away chocolate eclairs like a guilty hoarder on a televised dieting programme and then wolfing them down when I think no one is watching. It's a therapy session waiting to happen, I tell you. The sooner this month is over and I can start running again, the better.

Still: no real complaints from me. My feet are cold and I didn't pack any socks but that's about as drastic as it gets right now. I'm in a pleasant hotel in Amsterdam, lying on a comfortable bed, listening to Bach partitas, waiting for a chicken salad and a glass of white wine to arrive. (This may sound relatively healthy but you haven't been told about what I have already eaten this evening). (Plus I have the rest of my eclairs to have for pudding). (And the Pringles in the minibar are screaming my name). I have a packed schedule for the next two days, lots of meeting and greeting and learning, all of which is good. Plus the nice girl at reception told me about a fantastic and massive vintage clothes market near here so I am palpitating with excitement about that and will probably be unable to sleep.

To be fair, however, sleep holds little appeal for me at present as my dreams have been so bizarre of late that, frankly, staying awake seems sensible. In the past few nights, I have had sex with my friend Ed, Simon Cowell and an unknown black woman whose hair became greyer the longer we kissed. After I'd finished having sex with Simon Cowell, he climbed into this weird rubber tyre structure and rolled away. I kid you not. I also had to go onstage at Wembley Arena with Beyoncé and Kelly from Destiny's Child wearing a skimpy pair of Union Jack knickers and a white T-shirt. My buttocks wouldn't fit into the pants and my friend Olivia laughed at me. Honestly, it's a wonder I'm allowed to fall asleep unsupervised.

Tense times

When I was writing my 200 word review of I Am Legend yesterday, I had a quandary. I wanted to say that the film didn't quite reach its potential and my plan was to conclude by suggesting that the tense in the movie's title might have been more accurate if it had read 'I Should Have Been Legendary'. Thus, my draft sentence was something like, "A good effort, but I'd switch the film's title to the perfect conditional." However, verb tenses have never been my strong point - I am far more instinctive about syntax than my poncey style might suggest - and even after a fair bit of research, I couldn't find the correct tense for 'I should have been'. So I went onto my beloved Facebook group, I Judge You When You Use Poor Grammar, and asked the panel, using the noun 'ballerina' instead of 'legend' for no clear reason. Today, I received this reply from a gentleman, previously unknown to me, called Barrie:

"Jane, strictly speaking, ‘I should have been’ isn’t a tense at all, but an example of aspect. Aspect tells us about the way the speaker views an action or state in terms of the passing of time. However, forms such as ‘I have been’ are frequently known, particularly in books for foreign learners, as the present perfect tense. The sentence also includes ‘should’, a modal verb (an extra verb that tells us something about the speaker’s attitude towards the meaning contained in the main verb). ‘Should’ most frequently expresses obligation, but in your sentence it expresses an ‘unreal’ situation. The speaker wasn’t a ballerina, but she wishes she had been. So, ‘I should have been’ is the first person singular perfect aspect of ‘be’, modified by the modal verb ‘should’ to express an ‘unreal’ situation."

I mean, really. That paragraph makes me glow with happiness, encapsulating so much of what I love about the world. I adore computer geeks and the internet, the English language and grammar pedants, precision in general and random acts of kindness by strangers. And even though I didn't take Barrie's answer on board on this occasion, I hope we can all agree that the final phrase I chose for my review is a fair bit catchier than, "A good effort, but I'd switch the film's title to the third person singular aspect of 'be', with the addition of the modifier 'should' to express an 'unreal' situation (rather than an obligation)."

You might feel a slight pinch...

Well, on today's evidence, I am certainly not complaining about our National Health Service. Sure, the nice man stuck a needle into my cervix. Twice. That was irksome. And then he burnt off an evil section with a laser, which, in spite of the local anaesthetic, was an unpleasant procedure. It required a miniature hoover to be held by a third party somewhere in the vicinity of my groin to vacuum the smoke, which was all rather more literal than I'd expected. None of this was especially pleasant for any of us, you'll understand, but it was all done with a perky attitude and a seemingly genuine concern for my welfare and it's impossible to feel anything but gratitude for the poor people who were doing their stuff. I was especially pleased that George Clooney wasn't a real doctor when I realised with embarrassment that I'd forgotten to shave my calves. As I put my legs up in the stirrups, I sheepishly remarked on this; the lovely Irish nurse took one glance at them and said, 'Oh goodness me, dear, I don't know what you're talking about! Mine look like a forest compared to that! There's no point worrying about it in winter, is there?' Now that's what I call service.

A few hours later and I'm tucked up in bed feeling slightly weak and feeble but still mentally positive, I'm afraid. I know how incredibly fortunate I am to have my health - that is only the second time in my thirty years that I've had a procedure in hospital. The last was to have my adenoids removed when I was about seven, an experience that will forever be remembered by me as the reason my parents bought me the My Little Pony Grooming Parlour. I think I would have voluntarily had most of my other non-essential body parts removed in order to continue receiving Hasbro toys. Anyway - in short, I'm extremely lucky. But the good news for you is that I've been forbidden to exercise for a month which should ensure my serotonin levels will soon plummet to a point where I'm back to my old pessimistic self. Plus I'll inevitably gain weight, lose my mojo and before you know it, I'll be back to August/September 07 depths of despair, complaining about all and sundry like a pensioner at Pacha. Bet you can hardly wait.

PS

Re. the hob / oven / hood debate, apparently they don't all have to match, just look consistent. That pearl of wisdom saved me £300.

Lazy Sunday Afternoon...

This whole weekend has been rather extraordinary in a very low-key way. Just totally unlike me. Yesterday I woke up with a vague plan for how the day was going to turn out, but in the end completely different things happened and it was really pleasant and not overwhelming or incredible, just very nice. I did some worthwhile things and was rewarded with warmth, acceptance, friendship and unsolicited compliments. And on Friday I realised I'd lost my 2008 diary and I thought I might have left it at work but then yesterday I received a phone message from someone saying it had been found on a train and now I'm going to be reunited with it. Extraordinary kindness and efficiency from a stranger, Diary Doug, who I will have to repay in some way.

Today I had no plans and lay in bed reading and emailing intermittently. Just before lunchtime I finished a book called Men! by Isabel Losada and noticed in the back that she had a website. So then I went on her website and noticed that she had a blog. So then I read the blog and saw that she had just set up a Facebook page. So then I went on Facebook and befriended her. And now for the rest of the day, I've been reading another of her books in my comfortable chair, while we've been writing on each other's Facebook walls about her impending Facebook addiction and my quest for spiritual enlightenment. It's all been rather surreal and wonderful.

And again, I am filled with the still-unfamiliar sense that everything is happening for a reason and my job is to learn the lessons I'm taught. I feel more accepting, more New Age and more content than I ever thought it was possible for me to be. And no, I'm not drunk.

Apologies to the Faithful who may have found my blog a little wishy-washy and sickeningly positive of late, but the fact is that I simply don't feel as bitchy or downtrodden or vitriolic these days. I'm sure it's just a phase but really, if I end up being insufferably upbeat and zen the whole time, I won't be remotely upset if you all stop reading. Hang in there for another few days, though, because I have to go to hospital for a minor operation on Monday and meet with two builders on Tuesday to get quotes for building work that will clean out my bank account faster than a sprinter on steroids. And then, to continue the vague feeling of a Craig David song, on Wednesday I am off to Amsterdam for two days' work and one day's play. Surely, somewhere along the way, I'll have to vent some frustration about something? Only one way to find out...

I Came, I Saw, Ikeaed

So, I'm back. And alive. And substantially poorer. It wasn't so bad. My hard work with Excel graphs definitely paid off as I managed to spend an obscene amount of money in what seemed like 36 seconds (well, after a two hour wait to see a kitchen 'advisor'). When it came to calculating the final tally, the work experience boy who was helping me haemorrhage my hard-earned cash informed me that it would cost an extra £40 to have the kitchen delivered. For a brief moment Mum and I tried to work out whether taking it home ourselves would perhaps be a worthwhile saving, but then we were informed that my flat-packed kitchen will be made up of 249 packages (no joke) and will weigh over half a metric ton. So we let them do it.

Back home I'm now shopping online for appliances and wondering how important it is that the same company make your oven, hob and hood. Can one mix and match these items like sweets or do they all have to coordinate like a Dash tracksuit? Such are the essential questions that flurry round my head nowadays and, fascinating though I find these issues, I certainly wouldn't want to impose such quandaries upon my beloved Faithful. Thus I'm off back to Argos - and you should go to bed. It's late.

Hard Graph

And once again, I thank my lucky stars that I have a job that currently allows me some time to myself during the working day. I have spent the vast portion of this afternoon creating a scale model of my kitchen in Excel, printing it out and then cutting out tiny Ikea wall and base units and arranging them on the paper floor. Of course, the difference between the model and reality is about as great as the difference between Mumbai and Montana and I will head off to Croydon's Ikea tomorrow, confident in the knowledge that there isn't a hope in hell that the units I purchase will actually fit when it comes to installing them in a few weeks time. Once again, I simply do not understand how people are meant to do this without professional assistance - or at least someone who speaks intermediate Swedish. But I soldier on nonetheless: my limited options mean that complaining is futile at best. And really, it's all very exciting indeed. Who'd have thought I'd ever be buying a kitchen? Hilarious. Tomorrow: we shop.

Question Time

And so it's back to the old routine, after eleven consecutive days off work, the longest I've had away from the office since my trip to Croatia and Montenegro last May. I must say, the alarm going off at 6.45am today was a fairly confusing moment for me, but all in all, it's good to be back - 2008 is full of potential in many ways and I'm excited to see what it brings.

I have been super-efficient today which is always reaffirming to the (significant) control freak portion of my persona. Sadly I was forced to reprimand my mother briefly this afternoon but I'm hoping she'll forgive my terse tones under the circumstances. Living with one's parents is always slightly risky and my experience has been fairly typical. Arriving home after a night out is akin to extreme rendition, where every last detail is squeezed out of my pulped corpse by my mother, whose soft speaking voice disguises an iron interrogation drive that could prise Mafia secrets out of a Godfather like vomit from a bulimic. Since I've bought the flat, however, her tenaciousness has leaped to new heights and she now expects to be told about every new development, however minor. Today I laughingly said, 'Mum, you can't want to know everything! It's so boring! I mean, you can't possibly want to know that I spoke to British Gas and they're going to send me a New Homeowner Pack?' But she nodded enthusiastically at me and then looked hurt and panicked as she confronted the vast number of similarly fascinating titbits she may have missed.

The sheer quantity of people to call is hilarious. How anyone without a lot of time on their hands and an unofficial PhD in Admin and Efficiency (Hons) is able to coordinate this process is beyond me. Thankfully, I am fully stocked with computers at work and home, a pad of graph paper, a lifetime's practice at writing Things To Do lists, several clear plastic wallets for important documents, a selection of pop-a-point pencils, a landline and a mobile and the patience of a Saint. And gradually, it's all starting to come together, right now, over me. Or something.

The afternoon after

If the owner of the car whose alarm has been penetrating my skull for the past hour or more does not rectify the situation soon, I will not be held responsible for my actions.