Retail Therapy

God I am such a freaking stereotype, which I hate. I would so much rather be cool and different, swim against the tide, run against the tourists, but on this particular issue there's simply no denying it: I'm a fully signed up member of the Female Cliché. Worse still, what I'm about to admit will trample all over my oft-vaunted attempts to be anti-capitalist, anti-consumerist and left-leaning.

Believe me, I know it shouldn't make me so happy, and for the sake of my political conscience and my bank balance, I truly wish it didn't, but the fact remains: I absolutely, 100% unequivocally, shamefully but unerringly adore shopping.

Last night, after a blissful Friday night stay with Tracey at our friend Charlie's showhome in Essex, featuring drunk dancing in the kitchen, faaaar too much Chinese takeaway, even more Pinot Grigio and nostalgia, a brave Saturday morning run, a long walk along the beach in the suddenly blistering heat and a fantastic and pleasantly tipsy lunch at a seafront restaurant where we all felt like we had been teleported to Marbella (in a good way), I went home to my parents' house for a delicious dinner in the beautiful garden, celebrating what may be our last night out there on a balmy summer's eve before they move - and it was all just so perfect. So when I got to bed last night, you might imagine that I would be fairly self-satisfied, content and at peace. Well: I was. But I also had butterflies, because I had earmarked this morning to travel to Hammersmith and visit Primark.

Clearly I wasn't actually as fussed as I'm implying, as I didn't wake up until just short of midday. But the moment I was able to stand, the butterflies redescended and my shopping excursion loomed ahead like a first date at a top restaurant with an attractive man in possession of an above-average vocabulary. What would be there amongst the racks of cheaply designed items? In a moment of delicious serendipity, would I find a fantastic garment lying discarded on the floor of the changing room? I wasn't sure I could cope with the excitement.

Like the seasoned amateur that I am, upon arrival I did two sweeps of the ground floor and one of the first, before trying on my haul, all the while humming 'I love a party with a happy atmosphere,' the classic mid-Eighties 'hit' by Russ Abbott, which I get in my head Every Single Time I see an Atmosphere label ('So let me take you there, and soon, we'll be dancing in the cool, night air...'). I found a fantastic checked shirt for work, two T-shirts (one useful black, one distinctly inessential striped), a starry top, an amazing hat, a great jumper that will bobble after approx. three washes but for now is divine, a fantastic raincoat, a great bag, a thousand pairs of earrings for about 30p, a makeup bag, two hair accessories, a heart-rate-raising brooch, and a delicious pair of orange wristwarmers. I then unexpectedly pounced on a crazy tartan cardigan on my way to the checkout. All that for £66. By the end I was sated, brimming with the combination of joy, heady effervescence, relief and satisfied calm that only purchasing can provide.

My name's Jane, and I'm a shopaholic. It's a weakness, I'll admit it unreservedly - bad for my attempts to climb to the summit of the moral highground, bad for the child labourers in the East, bad for my finances, bad for the planet. But hey, nobody's perfect. My principles are otherwise fairly intact, so for now, keep that wagon away. I'm not quite ready to give up this buzz. Besides, anything that can make me look forward to getting up on Monday morning has got to be good news. Bonne nuit.

The power of positive thinking?

A dear family friend was out jogging earlier this week, fell and cut his leg. It was more of a graze than a wound, and he thought nothing of it. But a day or so later, he was admitted to hospital with Toxic Shock Syndrome, a very serious form of bacterial poisoning which has meant he has been in an induced coma for the past few days while doctors have removed most of the infected muscle in his leg and given him multiple blood transfusions. It has been touch and go as to whether he will survive, although things are apparently looking more positive today. He will, however, not be able to run again - which with three children under three, is a serious readjustment. This just makes me, once again, remember that we must enjoy every second we have, and try to focus on the positive in all the cards we are dealt by our friendly Life croupier.

Possibly as a result of that news, or possibly as a result of my wonderful friends and the forests of self-help books I've been devouring, I am feeling much better. I've booked a hair appointment, ordered new glasses, and the fruits of my workout labours are finally showing themselves as my trousers are becoming a fraction baggier. High five!

What's weird is that today, Michael Jackson is 50. In 1991, when I turned 14, I genuinely thought I might marry him. Imagine. I don't think it would have worked out. The man who I used to dream about, whose dulcet (now freakish) whispered promises at the beginning of I Just Can't Stop Loving You set my standards for romance, whose dancing and singing seemed to be impossibly perfect - well, it turned out he's probably not such an amazing catch after all, what with the child molestation rumours, the collapsing face, the self-hate and the bankruptcy 'n' all...

Hmmm. Who else did I want to marry...? Dylan from Beverly Hills 90210, aka Luke Perry, now 41, divorced with two young daughters and a film back-catalogue that features an unfortunate combination of raspberries and tumbleweed; Howard Donald from Take That, now 40, father of two daughters by two different women, a history of suicidal depression and a penchant for onstage nudity; Keanu Reeves, who will be 44 on 2 September, notorious loner, motorbike obsessive with a limited vocabulary; and Christian Slater, now 39 with an unfortunate hairline and eyes that twinkle with a fragment of their former sparkle, possibly due to a long history of alcohol and drug abuse, with police records for assault with a deadly weapon and battery. Quite a selection, you'll have to agree... I certainly know how to pick 'em.

Sometimes I'm not sure I should be trusted to pick my husband. Maybe I'll allow my mum to do the choosing next time. Watch out for my next boyfriend: wealthy golfer, Torygraph reader, strange sense of humour, enjoys birdwatching, wears chinos and V-neck sweaters with sensible shoes, knows how to hold his cutlery properly and pack a suitcase well, irons his own shirts, eats and drinks to a high standard, penchant for The Muppets. It just might work...

Sigh again...

I haven't been to the gym today. And I've just eaten an entire Swiss Roll. I deserve all the ass comments I receive.

Sigh

It was all going so splendidly.

I had a truly wonderful Saturday and Sunday down by the seaside with Sara and her glorious daughter, Maggie. We played on the beach in Worthing, swam in the sea, took photos, collected shells, giggled, ate lots, watched Tell No One on DVD, went to a market in Brighton, ate more, browsed in vintage clothing emporia, sat on Brighton beach, ate more and drove back to London.

Today I woke up and miraculously stuck to my plan of going for a run. I jogged a new circuit around Kennington Park and its environs, first doing a lap in eight minutes, when I passed a local council worker asleep on a bench next to his cleaning cart, and then accelerating for the second time around, when I passed the same worker now sitting upright, and asked him cheerily, 'Nice kip?' and he smiled and looked uncomprehending and possibly Croatian. This attempt at the circuit took me six minutes and after that I nearly had to lie down among the pitbull terriers. It is clear that I am now fine with jogging, but running comfortably is still an elusive target. But at least I'm trying, innit.

Then I had a brilliant lunch and shopping session with Ses, when she told me I looked better than I'd looked for ages, and we had a fantastic chat, all of which made me feel buoyant - or perhaps it was the rosé. And then I met up with Paul, but we won't talk about that except to say that it was another nice part of the day and certainly not unpleasant. And then I went over to Astrid's for dinner in Notting Hill, braving the not-too-unbearable-at-this-stage carnival revellers on this Bank Holiday Monday. We had a delicious dinner, I gave her fashion advice (solicited), we discussed how men really are from Mars and women really are from Venus and that's not such a bad thing. It was all lovely.

So when I left her peaceful flat and walked downstairs, it was rather an unpleasant shock to reach Notting Hill Gate / Bayswater Road and walk straight into a post-apocalyptic hell. The carnival had spat out the dregs of its followers and the pavement was now littered with discarded meat products; half eaten burgers and hot dogs oozing rejected onions and e-Coli. Above these items swarmed a seemingly eternal flood of drunk, drugged young people, all of whom seemed unable to move forward more than a few centimeters without lurching unexpectedly to one side and blowing on a plastic horn or whistle. It was deafening and I have rarely felt older or less hip. I reassured myself that I have many other wonderful qualities, but then I overtook a group of young black men who said, in unison, and unmistakably about me, 'Woooaaah, look at the size of that ass.'

Now. I'm pretty sure they were not implying that the dimensions of my derrière were awful. In fact, I know for certain that they meant it as some sort of compliment, thanks to a few of the zesty comments that followed their initial remark. But, much as I like some of my curves, I am simply not a woman who appreciates being told, loudly and publicly by imperfect strangers, that my buttocks are objectively larger than average. It may be factually accurate, but I don't enjoy hearing it, just as Daily Mail readers don't enjoy hearing that they are bigoted morons. And having felt fairly attractive and confident, I shrunk to feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. It was grim and annoying and, although my stockpile of positive things is extremely healthy at the moment, it ate into my bubble. Boys are so annoying. I'm going to the gym tomorrow.

Update

My new hairbrush is a disappointment. I no longer want Darnell to win Big Brother. I haven't seen the fly in my flat for a while and I'm a bit worried about him. The Mitfords has far too many footnotes and I'm finding it really disjointed but fascinating. I ran for an hour yesterday around Wapping and found it almost easy - but none of my clothes are becoming baggy; if this doesn't rectify itself, my motivation will wane. I still haven't forked out for a new pot of Eve Lom. Nessa came over last night for an impromptu catch-up; we ate houmous and pretzels, drank wine and agreed on everything. This morning is gorgeous, the sun is shining and I'm off to the seaside. Could be worse.

Lo siento

Shortly after 7.30am on Monday, I received a panicked call from my father, to alert me to the fact that my recent blog entries had disappeared. Since then, a few other people have commented on the mysteriously vanishing account of the past few days.

Readers, allow me to explain.

The past fortnight has been pretty tricky for me, and although the way I described it on this page was both accurate and valid, I now understand that it was also possibly slightly too open. It's one thing to talk about my skirt getting stuck to the back of my legs when I'm too sweaty after the gym; it's quite another to discuss personal matters that affect a third party. I may be suffering mentally and want to offload for international sympathy and concern, but this time, it wasn't just my own pain that I was sharing with the global Faithful.

Plus, as a concerned friend commented earlier in the week, it was painfully obvious that I was using my blog entries to communicate my feelings to Paul. I was stunned to learn that my cunning plan had been rumbled so easily, but it was hard to disagree that if this is my primary method of communication with someone, there's trouble afoot.

Thus it was that, at 5am last Monday, during a fit of REM pique, I stumbled through to the sitting room, grabbed my laptop and deleted the latest posts, a first for me and an act of dishonesty of which I am not proud. After all, flippant or not, this blog is meant to be an accurate record of my thoughts; I've always banned myself from sub-editing more than one or two hours after the post goes live - deleting it altogether, several days after the event, is an act of Orwellian proportions, deliberately reshaping history for future readers.

But hey, that's what I did. So suck it up.

Thus, if you're only here for a Paul update, I'm afraid I must disappoint you - not to protect his feelings, but because I have, quite simply, no clue what's going on. If I learn any more, you'll be the first to hear. Probably.

In other news, I ran 9.07 kilometers yesterday. It took me 1 hour and 7 minutes, which means that running 10 km in under one hour at the end of September is looking pretty impossible. So I think my new goal is to do it in under 1 hour 10 mins. That will still involve a pretty sizeable increase in my pace. But hey, at least on race day I won't be jogging past the London Aquarium, where some sort of Truman Show director figure seemed to have plucked the city's most irritating, misguided, wafty tourists and commanded them to meander in the most haphazard fashion in my vicinity, all with gargantuan pushchairs and tearaway offspring who cannoned back and forth between their family members at unpredictable speeds designed solely to make it impossible to navigate any sort of smooth path between them all. I took to clapping loudly in front of me as I ran along, barking 'Watch where you're going!' to anyone who struck me as particularly idiotic.

This morning I had to disembark the Northern Line at Elephant & Castle because I was overcome by nausea. I sat on a seat at the edge of the platform for several minutes, wondering if I should press the button for Assistance and ask for some water, but then the wave passed and I was able to continue my journey. So that was a bit weird.

What else can I tell you? I bought a new hairbrush. I'm currently loving green tea. I can't get Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade out of my head. I had a free make-up consultation at the Clarins counter in Boots this evening which was really fun although ultimately expensive. I am loving my subscription to Prospect magazine, although am possibly taking geekdom to new levels by underlining and highlighting vital passages and sticking in Post-It tabs on relevant pages. I'm just about to start reading The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters. The same fly has been buzzing around my flat for what seems like an eternity; I think it nipped in through the front door at the weekend and it's becoming progressively more drowsy as its inevitable doomsday approaches, but is managing to stir me to new heights of irritation nonetheless. I've run out of Eve Lom cleanser and am dreading forking out for another pot, but I've had that one since December last year so really it's not a bad deal. I had dinner with EmRob in Spitalfields which was great but fattening. My eyes are slightly stinging. I want Darnell to win Big Brother. I wish I could get two Burmese kittens. I miss having a Vespa. It's time for bed.

Jane likes...

This morning, my boss and his right hand man were laughing about a colleague of theirs who is apparently notoriously 'tight'. Here we go, I thought - a man who buys his Armani suits off the peg, perhaps? Or only flies his family business class rather than first on holiday? I love a good deal almost too much and do not take kindly to other bargain-hunters being criticised. No, they said - he really does pinch the pennies, especially given his high management consultant salary. Apparently, they laughed, he's getting married in a couple of months and he's making his girlfriend buy a second hand dress because 'You only wear it once.' I struggled to join in as I can kind of understand the thinking there... But his choice of wedding ring provider was something else. H. Samuel? Argos? Nope...

Lufthanza.

Yes, he's getting them on board a flight. Using air miles. Accrued on his work trips. Now that is tight.

On another note, following the list of 100 Things I Love, I did that thing where you type the words 'Jane likes' into Google and see what comes up. It's funny. Look:

Jane likes to sleep with an open bedroom window, even if Sadey likes to play with her black and white squeaky ball. (False re. window. I can't comment for Sadey)
Jane likes to shop at yard sales and flea markets. (True)
Jane enjoys taking rides in the community and occasionally going to the senior center. (Currently false but not out of the question)
Jane likes to be able to teach her language and her culture. Now Jane can go anywhere and she feels comfortable. (Partially true)
Jane likes to cover things from all possible angles to get to the root of why you are experiencing a particular problem or set of symptoms. (Definitely true)
For fun Jane likes to take in Star Trek: TNG reruns, travel to exotic places - like Iceland (or at least daydream about it!), and if a Monster truck show is in town - Jane is there! (I'm fine with Star Trek up to a point, travel is a must. And my love of Monster truck shows is, of course, legendary)
Jane likes to say “life began at the grocery store!” (Daily)
Jane likes to get wrecked every now and then, as long as it doesn't interfere with her studies. (False. Who cares about studies?)
Jane likes to sew and loves to paint fantasy art. (Fantasy art! Brilliant)
Jane likes to help people. She is in a job where she anticipates her boss’s every wish, and she has 27 bridesmaid dresses in her closet. (If the dresses part were true, I'd kill myself)
Jane likes to be admired and she has a tendency to force admiration by fishing for compliments. (Fact)
Jane likes to play peekaboo with her older brother. (Aw. I'd love this to have been true)
Jane likes to know what she’s looking at, and it was her personal frustration with the inadequacies of guide books and tour guides that led her to start a company to produce audio art guides for travelers. (Plausible, but false)
Jane likes to put her hands in her pockets because it keeps them warm. (Yup)
Jane likes to hire family and friends. (Not sure what this means but I'd consider it)
Jane likes to walk in her neighborhood and enjoys going to the convenience store to buy pop. (Rarely. Mr Tesco brings me my Diet Cokes)
Jane likes to say, “Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.” (It's true! I have literally said this several times!)
Jane likes to play ragtime piano duets and entertain with jokes in home and church activities. (Hee hee! If I was religious, this would almost certainly be me)
Jane likes to work with stones in their natural state, and therefore will often base her designs around the unique shape, texture and colour of the stones. (Hmmm. Not so much)
Jane likes to remind you that she has lived through three wars and that if her white folks had not been good to her she would not be living today. (Awesome)

The Reluctant Eavesdropper

I am blessed in many ways, but one area in which I am particularly fortunate is the Accidentally Overhearing Other People Having Sex department. This is something about which I feel unbelievably strongly: even the mere idea of this occurring sends my skin crawling and my hands to my ears wanting somehow to rip out my aural equipment. And I must say, I have been exceptionally lucky - the only time I have had to witness something like this in real life was circa 1999, when my then boyfriend lived in a flat that he shared with his sister on Askew Road, and one appalling night as we lay in his bed under his wonky shelves, we heard said sister engage in a noisy act of carnal love for what seemed like seven long eternities. I put my fingers in my ears, a pillow over my head and still was unable to prevent myself from bursting into tears. I have no idea why it upsets me quite so much, but I am eternally grateful that I have only had to endure said agony once in my life.

Until now.

It is a sad and well-documented irony that when one has been rejected, the world around you seems to fall in love. Unattractive, socially gauche friends with halitosis and no fashion sense, who have been rightfully single since birth, suddenly find The One. Everyone on the tube is giggling, flirting, kissing and making future plans to go to Paris. Flowers are delivered to every other female at the office. Your solitude is underlined with indelible marker every second moment and so, having navigated your way through each day's stinging reminders, arriving home should be like entering a sanctuary, an escape from these unintended recriminations and taunts.

Thus it was slightly painful when I was lying in bed on Wednesday night and became aware of a rhythmic creaking above my head. At first, I was confused and unable to place a mental label on the noise - after all, this has never happened in my current abode and I am victim to a particularly sweet brand of childish naivety that caused me, when my car was defaced in a Kensington car park in 1998, to believe that the vandals had keyed the word CLINT into my red door paint. Eventually, however, with a flush of embarrassment, I had to accept that my previously silent upstairs neighbours were now in the throes of passion and that I was their unwilling audience. Thankfully, he wasn't much cop.

Last night, I lay in bed, terrified that every small noise marked the beginning of a new round of mattress action. Each rumble of an articulated lorry on the A road outside was interpreted as a romantic overture, every drunk teenager shouting in the street sounded like the lady counterpart warming up to a crescendo. To my eternal relief, I was spared and eventually dropped off to sleep; then I dreamed of Paul and have awoken confused all over again. It's slightly frustrating: I do my level best to move on and the world and my freaking brain seem determined to make me mope. Mornings are never a high point for me, though - I'm off to distract myself with some yoga and an afternoon jaunt to allow my best friend, Retail Therapy, to work his/her magic. But be warned: if you're in love and in Borough Market at around 3pm, keep it under wraps. I will not be held responsible for any acts of jealous sabotage.

Breaking (heart) News

As if falling crazy in love is not exciting and all-consuming enough, when a couple decide that they really really like each other and are ready to tell the world, one or both of them might choose to label the other as their girlfriend or boyfriend on Facebook. You get a note on your profile page saying you're in a relationship, and everyone you know receives a News Item on their News Feed telling them this lovely piece of happy news, accompanied by a picture of a little red heart. They feel warm and fuzzy that two more people have found someone lovely. Unless they're single, in which case they curse you, drink too much white wine and cry for a bit.

Conversely, when said relationship hits the rocks a few months later, a struggling couple may choose to remove each other from their Facebook lives, to make the 'moving on' process a little more bearable. After all, going 'on a break' is unpleasant enough without receiving a status update every five seconds from your ex-beloved, informing you and the world that he's in the Cayman Islands or has just been chatting to Kate Moss at a stag party. So you change your relationship status back to single, or delete it altogether.

And at this point, what do the nice people at Facebook do? Send you a condolence message? A free box of chocolates? Credit your account with some money with which to shop away the blues? No. They send a news update to everyone you know, informing them that 'Jane is no longer in a relationship' and accompany this announcement with a graphic of a little red broken heart. Now, you can choose to 'Hide Story', so that people don't receive this news on their homepages - but I learned the hard way that 'Hide Story' doesn't work as well as intended. Or, in fact, at all. However quickly you click the 'Hide Story' button (and I'm pretty sure I reached it within about 0.4 seconds, blinded by hot tears though I was), the freaking thing still pops up all over the internet, blasting your misery to all four corners of the globe at a time when you want to be swallowed up by a black duvet.

Either way, story hidden or not, what I want to know is: which absolute sadist came up with this feature?! Who on earth decided that this was a sensible or valuable function of Facebook? No matter how open and honest you are - and I'm a pretty warts 'n' all kinda gal* - I just cannot imagine the type of person who wants the fact that they are no longer in a relationship shouted across cyberspace. Sure, every now and then, there may be someone who is so stony-hearted that their exit from a bad coupling is about as perturbing, pride-denting and shameful as admitting that they have a bit of a sore throat. Or perhaps there may be a rare person who's been in a hideous partnership and is excited to be out. And I accept that if you fancy the pants off someone, it's always a little bit fun to receive the alert that they're now on the market - and get in quickly with an offer of a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. But for the vast majority, a break-up, however temporary, justified or unavoidable, is simply not the kind of news we want everyone to know immediately. It's painful and confusing and, in the unlikely event that we manage to forget about it for a few moments, the last thing we want is having to explain repeatedly to the quasi-strangers that have somehow snuck onto our Friends list that, yes, we are alone again.

Which I appear to be.

Tuesday and Wednesday were quite bad. Thursday morning was too. Last night I went for a 7km run by the Thames, starting out feeling like a loser and returning home with the Rocky theme playing in my head, having realised that it really was his loss. Well, assuming he wants a girlfriend at all. If he wants to be single for the rest of his life, then it was admittedly his gain. Anyway, today I feel angry and happy and excited and hopeful and devastated and a bit lonely. Low-maintenance as ever.

In other news: apparently my cervix looks better. So that's good.

*Just FYI: I have no warts.