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.