Mentally blank

Last night, the team from my office building who are running the London Marathon hosted a quiz evening to raise money for their chosen charities. Throughout the afternoon, the group of people with whom I was entering a quiz team emailed back and forth to decide on a name for ourselves. When we came up with 'Universally Challenged', I'm pretty sure it was with an element of irony. I don't think any of us knew quite how aposite it would turn out to be.

We were, for quite a while, last: tenth out of ten teams. And while we didn't finish last, we did end the evening periliously close to the bottom of the table. This would have been humiliating enough - but the fact is, we cheated. Vigorously and committedly throughout. My friend Laura was reading the questions and, I am afraid to say, regularly told us the answers. So quite how we managed to do so badly is a mystery just this side of the Loch Ness Monster in terms of sheer incalculability.

Now I am off to meet my new in-laws in Liverpool which is scary and exciting although after several weeks of non-stop action, there is a part of me that wants to lie in a swimming pool full of warm cookie dough and eat myself into a coma.

Fugging funny

Recently, despite a vaguely nagging sensation that, perhaps, there may exist better uses of my time, I have become rather addicted to a US blog called Go Fug Yourself. I was not previously familiar with the word 'fug' but using my gift for language, I can hypothesise that it is a combination of an obscene swear word (one that I would never, ever use, far less hear spoken aloud by, for example, my father) and the word 'ugly'. The site reproduces paparazzi shots of celebrities and then bitches about their terrible clothing. A simple concept, granted, yet the part of me that hasn't managed to move beyond a decades-old addiction to those in the spotlight finds the writing absolutely hilarious - funny enough to get me through the nausea that always strikes when someone else's blog is unquestionably more amusing than mine and into the happy state where I can just enjoy it for what it is.

But then today something weird happened - I actually knew one of the people off whom they were slagging. Rashida Jones is a friend of a friend and although we're hardly close, it still felt a little less jolly and a lot more vitriolic when the person under fire is someone you know to be charming and kind - not to mention one of the most gorgeous girls on the planet. Admittedly, the comment about her outfit was slightly on the money - I can concede that I've have seen her wearing more wonderful items in the past - but it was a strange sensation and I'm not sure if I'll enjoy Go Fug Yourself with quite the same level of glee in the future.

Oh, who am I kidding? Read this and weep. Or this. And if you're too grown up or serious to find some amusement therein, then you are missing out on something that is extremely enjoyable, is completely fat free, costs absolutely nothing and consequently you have my most heartfelt pity.

Middle class rant

As the minute hand clicks onto 12 and the clock outside strikes six times, indicating that it is now 18:00 hours on Tuesday 25 March, my excitement reaches unhealthy levels and my risk of heart attack increases approximately threefold. For at 18:00 hours, I have been told, it is possible that a nice man, or perhaps a nice woman, will arrive in a Tesco's van with a large quantity of extremely heavy and essential groceries for my eating pleasure. Of course, I tell myself at 18:05, they probably won't arrive on the dot of six. Mentally, I prepare myself for the possibility that they may not even arrive until the end of my window, at 8pm. This will be a disappointing outcome as it will delay my dinner further - I am already knee-deep in anticipation about my first home-cooked meal in my new flat and the kitchen is not presently full of options, containing two pots of out-of-date milk, some spreadable butter, some leftover smoked mackerel pate that is crawling with invisible food poisoning and a Twix.

19:00 hours. My excitement has dropped to a simmer but I am still poised and ready to leap the moment the door buzzer sounds.

19:45. Anger has set in. I try to stop myself from working into a psychopathic rage, reminding myself that they are not actually late until 20:01.

20:01. Psychopathic rage culminates in terse, barely civil phonecall to Tesco's. Unaware of the levels of my fury, a blameless young man unwittingly tells me that my order has been cancelled and that I 'should have been informed'. No shit. He puts me on hold while he checks what happened. Apparently my card didn't work - which is ridiculous as I entered all the details correctly and have no shortage of funds - and instead of phoning me to verify it, they cancelled the order. At this point, pins and needles start shooting through both of my legs and I start to exaggerate. "This is my only free night until next Tuesday [true]. I cancelled several plans to make sure I was in tonight [false]. Plus I am having people over for the next three nights [false] and people staying this weekend [false] and now have no food for them [would be true if the last two claims hadn't been false]. I will complain about this online [true] - my blog is read by thousands of people [white lie] all over the world [true] and I hope that this will deter them from using your service in future [false: I'm not that bothered]."

After I requested compensation, the man emailed me a £10 discount on my next online shop. It's interesting to me that, in the eyes of the Tesco's system, waiting in all evening for shopping that never arrives is half as irritating as almost (but not actually) breaking a tooth while eating sultanas, for which we were paid £20. I wonder who calculates these things...

Perhaps the people at my local branch of Tesco read my blog yesterday, decided that I'd been too smug about my lovely Easter minibreak and saw an opportunity to sabotage my happiness. Their efforts were in vain, however - after my early stumble into irritation brought on by being stood up by a supermarket, the evening ended well as I ordered a Thai meal (which did actually arrive) and began to seal my birch kitchen counters with Danish wood oil. This is a process more satisfying than I could ever have dreamed, like rubbing really good moisturiser into dry, scaly legs, only without the accompanying feeling of self-revulsion. The instructions advise giving untreated wood three or four initial coats with at least five hours between applications. I did one before bed and then surprised myself by getting up fifteen minutes earlier than I had to this morning and putting on another layer at around 7.10am. I always knew my priorities would change when I had my own home but given that spring cleaning has not been high on my agenda this side of the Millennium, it's a bit of a surprise to be waking up early to rub oil into a kitchen counter with a lint-free cloth wearing a nightie and slippers. Wonders will never cease.

Bloated gloating

Oooh, I'm a lucky lass. Having found the last few weeks fun but somewhat stressful, lovely Paul whisked me away for a surprise relaxing Easter break in Yorkshire, complete with mysterious envelopes that I was only allowed to open at certain times, two freestanding baths side by side in a gargantuan room, a jaw-dropping eight foot bed (which of course we did not sleep in simultaneously, spending alternate nights on one of the contemporary sofas), two gorgeous dinners out, walks on the moors in both magical sunlight and frolic-inducing snow and lots of innocent hand-holding and sweet nothings. It was all rather too good to be true and I wouldn't blame anyone for hating me a bit.

Now he's gone off to a far-flung destination to work for the rest of the week but I am not too bereft as I have my inaugural Tesco's home delivery arriving tonight between 6 and 8pm. The eager anticipation I feel for this event cannot be exaggerated - my only slight panic is that the nice man won't carry my groceries (specifically selected by me for home delivery due to their gargantuan combined weight) up the two flights of stairs to my door. Still, having eaten approximately seven times my own body mass in chocolate, cake, croissants, meat, cheese, fish, chips and other assorted foodstuffs over the past few days, maybe carrying my next batch of food up some steps might be a sensible plan.

Mind the gimp

Admittedly, I spent several years of my life 'living', on and off, at a boarding school in Wiltshire, and three as a university student in Bristol, but basically, I am a Londoner. I've been here since I was born and I doubt I'll ever leave for too long. I don't speak like a Cockney and I don't eat pie and mash, I've never been inside the Houses of Parliament and I hate the Evening Standard, but like I say, basically, I am a Londoner.

You'd be forgiven for thinking, therefore, that for me, minding the gap between the train and the platform would be pretty much as second nature as breathing or liking Malt Loaf. I certainly wouldn't expect a seasoned public transport user like myself to find the gap a tricky concept. I don't know. Maybe I'd had a bad night's sleep. Maybe the Russian and French artwork from the Royal Academy exhibition had disturbed me. Maybe I am just a bit thick. But this morning, on leaving the train at Bank station, I very nearly missed the platform edge and slipped down the gap into unending humiliation.

Thankfully I noticed the (admittedly larger than normal) trench in time and managed to push myself forward to safety without incident. But the mere thought of how close I had come to such an excruciating encounter was enough to make me break into a cold prickly sweat. With the possible exception of death by Toxic Shock Syndrome (most often caused by leaving in a tampon for too long), I think death by finding the gap has got to be up there in Most Embarrassing Ways To Die. Worse, though, would be not dying - the pain of limb against concrete, the withering looks of derision from other commuters, the ill-concealed giggles of overweight Italian teenage tourists, the panic about whether to risk electrocution and rescue the Clarins foundation that had slipped under the tracks, the nightmare crash diet that would have to be started after it took three burly men to drag me out from my nook... Thankfully this disaster did not occur this morning and it's enough to make me wonder if I haven't just witnessed a modern Easter miracle.

All change

Now that I'm a resident Sarf Londoner, I no longer have to commute for 65 mins each morning and night, via bus and Hammersmith and City Line, to reach my place of work. Now I simply walk a few paces from my front door, hop aboard a Northern Line tube and, theoretically in less than 20 mins after departure, I should be ensconsed at my desk, slouched down in my uncomfortable office chair, counting the minutes until I can leave to go home.

However, I have now commuted into the City several times from my new abode and the reality is a little bit more... fragranced. The Hammersmith and City line may have been slow but I always got a seat. This Tuesday I had to wait for six packed Northern Line trains to go past before I found one I could squeeze on. And when I say 'squeeze', I mean 'get my feet on the step, lever myself in using the handrail, duck my head to avoid the doors, categorically do not catch anyone's eye for fear of being stabbed or shot using a silencer, where no one would realise that I was dead until we reached London Bridge and the train emptied a fraction, leaving me unpropped and allowing my still-sweaty corpse to crumple to the ground'.

Then on Wednesday, at precisely the same time and for no discernable reason, the carriage was pleasantly empty and I even nabbed a seat after Kennington. Today was somewhere between the two extremes - still full as a fat man after a buffet but a little bit less aggressive. One thing's for sure, I am determined to get on the first tube home at 5pm today - it's all go at the flat and being at work is tantamount to torture. I will pour myself into any available space, disregarding the clucks of irritation from any nearby passengers who boarded the train at an earlier stop and are therefore allegedly justified to resent me for trying, like them, to get home. Yesterday, I admit, I did slightly take the piss, slotting myself on board a more-than-max-capacity train at 5.15pm while carrying my sizeable orange leather handbag, an overnight bag, a gym bag and a large carrier from Robert Dyas containing awkwardly shaped items including a largeish plank of wood affixed with several coat hooks. The guy opposite me shook his head in an exasperated manner, exhaled loudly and said 'What are you doing?' in the tone of a disappointed parent. I apologised and explained that I was hoping to get home and that the next train was not for a further five minutes. An older couple sympathised with me and even though I know that the rush hour tube is a free for all, I felt rude and selfish for crowding him.

Talking of Sarf London, as opposed to South, Laura told me a story about her boyfriend's 6-year-old daughter who has grown up in Dagenham, Essex, and who was writing about her weekend for a school project. Describing a trip to the park, she wrote that she'd been on the swings and the 'randabat', never having realised that this fun playground activity was named fairly straightforwardly because it goes round and about. Being able to spell what one hears is a massive part of writing so the young gal should be publicly congratulated - and then perhaps laughed about behind her back. Laura didn't manage this last part, chuckling openly in front of the confused child, and was reprimanded firmly.

George W. Bush is on TV. God he's thick.

Chat Room 101

I've often thought that I could be a TV personality. I haven't quite worked out what I'd be well known for, exactly, but what I know for sure is that, once induced into the heady halls of C-list fame, I could sit on Jonathan Ross' sofa and opine, banter and crack gags with the best of them. But last night I realised that, in fact, any idiot who isn't crippling shy or interred could actually be a C-list personality. You don't need to be clever, or attractive, or quick-witted. You don't even need to be PC, or interesting, or talented, or open-minded. In fact, you can be ugly, bigoted, stupid and dull and still make a name for yourself as Someone Whose Opinions Count.

I guess, deep down, I already knew this - but I didn't think BBC Radio would endorse such pap. Last night, I went to see a recording of a Radio 2 show called Clive Anderson's Chat Room. I applied for tickets a month ago because they were free. I didn't really intend to use them, but then it seemed like it might be quite fun and so Paul and I went along to The Drill Hall near Goodge Street, slotted ourselves into the heaving pre-bar maelstrom and then took our seats in the auditorium for the show. Clive came on and was quite funny. He then introduced his four guests, one of whom is genuinely famous and talented: Kirsty Wark, presenter of BBC2's Newsnight. I recognised one of one of the other three but the remaining two were unfamiliar and unappealing. Still, the Kirsty and Clive combo seemed to be a positive omen so I didn't lose hope immediately.

About two minutes later, the last shred of optimism departed my soul at Mach 8. The 'comedy' was about as barrel-scrapingly terrible as any I'd ever witnessed: rambling, lowbrow 'jokes' that were so tenuously connected to the week's topical news stories that it was hard to keep track - although the fact that I nodded off repeatedly probably didn't help me. Only the calls of a packet of Riesen chocolate chews in my handbag kept me intermittently awake.

One of the guests, someone Quantum or something, persistently dragged the humour level to a depth somewhere around the Earth's core by discussing prostitutes with a greasy, non-sensical fervour that I found lazy and repellent - and even Clive started to look awkward as the comments became increasingly wince-worthy. A posh young 'comedian' confirmed centuries-old class divides by making weak jokes about not liking football and then the grumpy old 'comedian' took his trousers down to show us his underwear to howls of glee from the audience. This was, in fact, the most excruciating and depressing element of the evening: the screams of seemingly genuine mirth that spewed forth from the audience. It was inexplicable to me that anyone could find any of this enough justification for anything other than immediate self-harm, but after each clunky and embarrassing remark from the four 'entertainers', the assembled crowd roared and cackled convincingly with affectionate pleasure.

Needless to say, I won't be applying for future freebies for this show. Frankly, I was embarrassed to have wasted Paul's time with such drivel - but once he'd bought me a delicious cocktail at the Charlotte Street Hotel I miraculously felt somewhat calmer. One thing's for sure: the life of a TV personality is not for me. No matter how famous I become in the future, no matter how much he begs me to appear, I have been squarely deterred from ever creating buttock-shaped indents on Jonathan Ross' sofa, lest I become even vaguely associated with such paltry non-entities of the sort we saw 'performing' last night. I might make a concession if Madonna, A. A. Gill and both of the Beckhams were on the same line-up as me and promised to remain my close personal friends for eternity, but unless those precise conditions are guaranteed, I remain 100% unpersuadable. For the foreseeable future at least, the only spotlight I want to be in is the one in my incredible bathroom.

Home Sweet Home

Apologies for the long delay in writing but it has all been rather busy and as the amount of material has piled up for me to recount, the momentum to sit and start typing has diminished proportionally.

Miraculously, though, I am here at last, bruised and battered but alive and, crucially, relocated. No longer a 30-year-old parent-dweller, I have successfully moved into my own flat and am pleased to report that it is even more satisfying and fun than I had hoped.

Here’s how it happened:

On Friday, Mr L’Atelier was so wonderful that disguising his identity no longer seems right or necessary. He is Paul. And he is amazing. Although we did start the day with my first strop in his presence when he missed the train he was meant to catch and, having waited on my own for half an hour at Clapham Junction, I joined him on a later service with a face like a smacked arse. Fortunately, he managed to distract me with a holiday brochure and we were soon back to our sickeningly giggly selves, eating our bacon rolls with merriment.

After an hour, we arrived in Wokingham, collected a gargantuan white van and drove to Oxfordshire for one of the most surreal incidents in my life. For reasons that it would not be interesting to divulge, the sofa that I owned when I lived with my ex, Henry, in 2001, was now in storage in Oxfordshire. It was my belief that we would meet the sofa guardian, drive to the storage facility, extract the sofa and be on our way. Instead, we ended up unpacking most of a sizeable metal container which was crying out to be the setting for a murder scene in a tacky drama series. Having moved about forty of someone else’s boxes, we eventually located the sofa frame and cushions – but not the covers. Our helper kindly offered to lend me ‘a couple of throws’ for the next few weeks while the sofa’s actual furnishings were identified but, appealing though this offer was, I had a minor sense of humour failure and continued to scour the container for the elusive fabric. Luckily I discovered the covers bunched up in a plastic bag before a real tantrum kicked in and we restacked the container and enjoyed an unexpected lunch of our host’s homemade baps filled with trout fillet and mayonnaise, made on the seat of his minibus and eaten while surveying the countryside in front of us. It was all rather unlikely.

Even though Friday had been earmarked as the primary ‘moving day’, we didn’t get back to London until after 4pm and then didn’t fill the van for another hour or so. Poor Paul continued his fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants induction into my life by negotiating with my dad on the best way to stack my boxes in the back of the van, and was photographed for the family album as we struggled to carry a chair down the stairs. His unwavering chirpiness was incredible. We finally set off for the new flat at around dinner time, miraculously had the whole load upstairs by 9pm and were eating in a renowned local curry house by 9.45pm. Nothing had ever been so smooth – and no move has ever been more harmonious. Paul and I had continued to be unbearably happy even as we sweated our way up the stairs with all my millions of possessions – and he staggered me by claiming to find me attractive even when my skin was blotchy, my hair was stuck to my forehead, my eyeliner had slipped down to my cheeks and my T-shirt was soaked through. It must be love.

After our dinner out, a still-jetlagged Paul reclined gracefully on my bed while I had my inaugural bath in my bath in my flat. I lovingly cleaned it with Cif, lovingly showered it down with my amazing new shower, lovingly filled it with my lovely water, clambered in, reclined and relaxed. For about a minute. Suddenly there was a pounding and a yelping at the door. I was naked. Paul was half asleep but eventually made it to the letterbox where we were informed in no uncertain terms that there was a leak into the flat below. I leapt out of the bath, wrapped my brand new John Lewis ‘Hotel’ towel around my person, noticing that it smelt unexpectedly of menthol, and we hastily unscrewed the front panel of my stupid bath to look at my stupid draining system where, sure enough, my stupid overflow pipe was cracked. Not the best introduction to new neighbours. I wrote them a grovelling apology note and delivered it in my pyjamas.

Saturday was more house-moving fun but this time with the added excitement of an argument with the moronic staff in Comet. We’d reserved a fridge online to collect that afternoon – but of course, when we arrived, they didn’t have it in stock. Not only did they not have it in stock, they didn’t have a single white under-counter fridge in the entire ‘Superstore’. I was not impressed and lightly reprimanded the assistant who had taken nearly 30 minutes to tell us that he couldn’t be of any assistance to us or, I’d wager, any other human being were he given the next millennium to try. We left feeling mildly grumpy but pleased that we hadn't given such a useless establishment any of my hard-borrowed cash, and returned to the flat. After unloading the remainder of my stuff, we hotfooted it back to Wokingham to return the van before the 6pm deadline, had a Kronenburg on the train back to London and, while Paul picked up the Thai takeaway, I cobbled together a romantic candlelit set-up in my sitting room without any candles or cutlery.

Sunday morning I awoke and realised that the Sky man would have difficulty affixing the Sky dish to my flat given that merely walking down the short hallway required agility akin to that found in an Olympic gymnast. Jumping among the gaps between the piles of boxes like a frisky mountain goat, I eventually cleared a path through the debris – which was lucky because the Sky man had the fitness levels of an atrophied corpse and arrived panting like a Labrador in a furnace: stepping over a shoebox would have given him a heart attack so leaping between piles of middle class possessions would probably not have been high on his agenda. I had to open the window for him because his weirdly short arms were inadequate, and within twenty seconds, he’d decided he couldn’t do the job and was out of there. The afternoon was all about my choir rehearsal and the evening’s concert, which went unusually well and was followed by a pub gathering where Paul continued to surprise by mingling merrily with my extended family and choir friends and I was giggly and giddy and proud and generally over-excited.

Monday I was hungover and fractionally embarrassed having declared undying things to Paul over a midnight feast at Balans in Soho after the pub the night before – I beat a retreat to the flat and painted the bathroom ceiling to compensate. The evening was quiet and lovely as we enjoyed some microwaved soup with cutlery Paul had brought from his flat, accompanied by a crusty loaf and a bottle of Sauvignon blanc. Yesterday was frantic at work but the momentous occurrence was that, for better or worse, my builder has gone, job done. Now all I have to do is paint a hundred miles of skirting board and then I can get on with unpacking. I returned home a little tipsy after book club and spent about ten minutes standing agog in my bathroom, in love with the delicious wall colour and my new light fitting. Then I gambolled into the kitchen and giggled in delight as my dishwasher actually opens and shuts and I have a freezer and an oven hood with a light on it. It’s all too exciting.

I have always laughed in wonder at those people who leave the plastic covers on their sofas – but I have plastic sheets down on my carpet and a thin plastic film is covering the laminate cupboard doors in my kitchen and I am not in any hurry to take it off. The thought of my kitchen getting scratched or my carpet getting stained fills me with an emetic horror and I've realised that there is a very real temptation to leave the dust sheets down indefinitely. Obviously my desire to peel the film off my kitchen will win out eventually but there's no doubt that, as far as the creamy carpet goes, shoes will have to be left at the door like at an Indian temple. Red wine drinkers will be provided with a child's safety cup from which to sup. And fans of easily splattered foodstuffs in the bolognaise or salsa genre may as well forget their invitation to the housewarming immediately cos it ain’t going to happen. From now on, I’m going to have to exist on a diet of white wine, clear spirits and hooverable food such as biscuits and crisps. Who’d have thought that a new carpet could be such fun?

The Wrong Stuff

If anyone has a shortage of stuff, let me know. I think I have enough stuff to fill three to four cruise liners for a transantlantic voyage. I've been accruing it since birth and although I have made every effort to slow down over the past few years, my stuff count does not seem to have dropped.

There's nothing like moving house to freak one out. Where the hell am I going to put even a tenth of all this? I'm moving in to a small, purpose-built flat, not a sprawling stately home in Yorkshire. Space is limited. I am bewildered and dazed. I know I should throw half of it out but I don't feel sane enough to make reliable decisions at present, so instead I'm just packing everything and hoping that I'll turf most of it out on arrival. It's a stupid way to do things but I see no alternative.

Possessions are so annoying. I know they're, like, totally un-Zen, totally capitalist, totally wrong - but when I pick up the Winnie the Pooh folder that contains my 10 year old masterpiece about an alien who visits London, causes mischief and makes a getaway on a supermarket trolley, I just find it impossible to throw it away. I have several hundred pens in perfect working order and the idea of consigning them to the rubbish bin is thus fairly abhorrent. Giving them away would be fine but given the number of other things on my To Do List, donating second hand pens is not high up on my priorities. Of course, I should take most of this stuff around to the nearest primary school or charity shop but really, do they want a dusty David Beckham doll (circa 1999) or a Furby whose vocabulary is limited to 'Oooooh, big sound!' and 'Woah!'? Or some half-sharpened coloured pencils or some slightly uncomfortable shoes in size 10? I think not. Thus, embarrassed about my tattered and sentimental mountains of stuff, I pack them nonetheless and am clinging on to the thought that once I see how little room I have for this genre of junk at the new place, the discarding process will commence.

Tomorrow will be hectic, hopefully fun and, I think, slightly sweaty. On the upside, all the heavy lifting will compensate for the exemplary Moving House snacks I purchased in Marks & Spencer after work this evening, including chocolate cornflake clusters and hot cross buns. I am weak with excitement.

Everybody must get stoned...

Yesterday was stressful. The date, 4 March, had been burned on my consciousness since Mr L'Atelier left for his holiday to the US and Canada over a fortnight ago - this was due to be the day of his return and it's not hyperbolic to say that for the final few days of the countdown, I was about as excited as any girl has ever been in the history of humanity. However, when the day itself dawned, something else sprung up onto the dashboard of my existence: my builder, henceforth absurdly nice, funny and reliable, went AWOL. At 10am, I was livid - it was Tuesday morning, my kitchen needed to be finished by the end of Wednesday so that the carpet could go down on Thursday, so that my sofa could arrive on Friday and so that I could move the rest of my stuff over the weekend. Were all bets off? Should I cancel the most precisely coordinated chain of events since the Beckham wedding? By lunchtime, I was hyperventilating with stress. By 2pm, two glasses of Sauvignon later, I was markedly calmer but still concerned. By 4pm, I had stopped caring about the kitchen and was starting to feel genuinely fearful that he might be dead. I sent him another slightly hysterical text message and crossed my fingers.

Finally, at 4.30pm, he made textual contact and informed me that he'd been doing rather a lot of vomiting. It was perfectly timed on his part - had he been in touch much earlier I would have been furious and possibly sent him a vitriolic and fractionally unsympathetic response, but at this late stage I wasn't being quite so selfish and was instead so relieved that he still had a pulse that I sent him a comforting message and forgot about it. But then - egad! Mr L'Atelier had been pushed to the back burner. Suddenly, the moment for which I had yearned had arrived. I preened, primped, put the finishing touches to his funpack and then headed over to his house for a romantic reunion. So when I found out that our first task was returning his hire car to the Avis depot, I had to readjust my mental picture somewhat. Still, we had a perfect night and this morning I'm giddy and happy and the proud owner of a beautiful new green iPod Nano for my future jogging adventures. Lucky me.

Today's big news was the result of Super Tuesday 2 across the pond - what with the hurly burly of my own life I had almost forgotten about the primaries and when I saw the result online this morning I gasped in shock. It's all too exciting. I did a test the other day on www.whoshouldyouvotefor.com and unsurprisingly I shouldn't want either Clinton or Obama to win the Democratic nomination - they're both far too right wing for my tastes - but it's a gripping contest and I am loving every second. What made me laugh was the assertion by an Israeli academic that Moses was stoned when he received the Ten Commandments. And by stoned, I mean the New Age definition, not the Biblical version meaning that people chucked rocks at him when he returned from Mount Sinai carrying the two tablets. Makes sense to me, and given the rest of the bizarre coincidences and hilariously arbitrary/accidental, grammatical/editorial errors/slips that have formed the basis of the world's Christian beliefs, this is just another nail in the coffin of my religious faith. Not that I have beef with Moses being a fan of hallucinogenic drugs, mind you - just that I'm glad I haven't altered my life's direction as a result.

Skirting Boredom

It's not the least rewarding task in DIY but it's certainly one of the jobs I've enjoyed least over the past few weeks: undercoating skirting boards and architrave is pretty slow work and, let's be honest, how often do you actually notice the paint job on someone else's woodwork? The truth is, you only notice if it's rubbish. I fear that, by that rationale, mine may attract attention.

I arrived at the flat at around 10am this morning and painted pretty solidly until 8.30pm - with the help of my two parent-shaped apprentices until 3pm and a Katherine-shaped distraction for half an hour later on in the afternoon, when I paused and ate fig rolls. Overall, progress has been undeniably and disappointingly slow on the decorating front and I'm having to face up to the reality that neither my bathroom nor my kitchen will be painted when I move in. Still, as long as the taps work, the loo flushes and the fridge is cold, I think I'll survive; it will take a lot more than bare plaster to make me push back my move date.

After the day's DIY was over, it was time to leap in the car and head south to my favourite Croydon superstore, Ikea, to pick up a few essentials for next week's building work. I scampered down the stairs outside my flat to the faithful Honda, trying to force some adrenaline into my system in preparation for the mission ahead. However, my first hurdle was greeting me rather sooner than I'd expected: the car had been blocked in by another vehicle, a small white stick shift that had been thoughtfully parked perpendicular to my automotive rear. The gap that remained was inadequate. I know this because I tried, and failed, to reverse through it. Stumped, I resorted to drastic measures and honked my horn. Twice. But to my irritation, no guilty party shot down the stairs to rescue me.

I was stuck. At 8.30pm. On a Saturday night, when I should have been driving to Ikea. It was time to pull out the big guns. Like a girl possessed, I tried the white car's handle. Miraculously, the door opened. The car's interior light glowed a threatening UV blue and the hazards started flashing, but thankfully no alarm sounded. I positioned myself, took off the handbrake and pushed, 100% uncertain if I would be strong enough to shift the car up the slight incline on which it was parked. Feeling like an unsettling combination of an independent goddess and a massively unattractive, over-capable, butch, Wagnerian heroine, I rolled the car forwards, put the handbrake back on, returned to my car and, in a scene not unreminiscent of the Austin Powers electric buggy 400-point turn, eventually manoeuvred out of the space.

After that, Ikea was a breeze. This time, everything was in stock, the queues weren't too long, the child count was mercifully low and I managed to resist buying a headboard and a chest of drawers as I maturely decided to wait until I've lived in the flat for a bit. OK, plus I had a tragic fantasy about me and and Mr L'Atelier returning Croydonwards at an unspecified future date to pick a couple of things out together. Ikea shopping toute seule is undeniably efficient but a gal can get a bit sick of being solo. It's that same feeling as when you go to the supermarket after work, all excited about your night in watching crap TV, and you find your delicious ready meal and go to the checkout and put it on the conveyor belt and then pause to look around you and realise that everyone else is buying eight bottles of wine for their fun parties and that in between laughing with their friends, they're staring at you with pity and suddenly the evening in doesn't seem quite so fun any more.

Not that that's ever happened to me.