We'll be dead a long time...

Where were we? Ah yes. Alistair Campbell. He really is lovely, isn't he? I don't want to be his partner, that's for sure - the jealousy I would have experienced over his gushing obsession with Diana, Princess of Wales, in The Blair Diaries would have been enough to break us up on its own, never mind the depression and secrecy and workaholism - but from afar, I do admire him. An impressive individual. He was modest and fascinating and confident during his talk and I came away feeling very D-list in comparison. A good thing to feel a little humility every now and then.

Thursday... what was Thursday? [checks diary]. Oh yes. The nice boy who I went on that long walk date with a week or two ago, well, he recommended a play that has been showing over the past couple of weeks. It was called Any Which Way and it was commissioned, produced and acted by a company that works with ex-offenders and those considered to be highly at risk of offending. The play was about knife crime and the effect on the families and communities of those involved - a worthwhile venture, very interestingly staged, affecting and certainly of value. But it was a bit uncomfortable. The play is obviously directed at an audience who deal with knife crime as part of their daily lives. There is a didactic storyline and the play has apparently been seen by thousands of school children during its run. But now it's being performed in King's Cross at £15 a ticket and the audience was, almost entirely, dazzling white and hopelessly middle class. By the time the lights went down, Ses and I had between us bumped into not one but five people we knew in the crowd. Put bluntly, I didn't get the feeling that the tickets to the show were in the hands of people particularly in need of an anti-knife-carrying message. The play itself is worthy and valid, but charging £15 a ticket is surely prohibitive to the very people for whom it was written and performed. I came away feeling a bit embarrassed and Guardian-tryhardy. But Ses and I had had a fantastic chat in Strada before the play and I thoroughly enjoyed my evening.

Friday... ah yes, Friday I had a date with a lovely young man who I've been emailing for about two months but had never yet met. I must say, I was almost entirely confident beforehand that neither of us would find the other remotely attractive, and although I can't speak for him, I can tell you that I think my suspicions were borne out. We did, however, have a truly gripping conversation, definitely one of my most enjoyable date chats yet: he's interesting and passionate and a good listener, so it was a really fun night. And I was flattered and pleased to receive a text from him later that night saying that I was 'v. good company'. Always nice to hear, innit? God I'm a sucker for a compliment. Flattery will get you pretty much everywhere. Well, not him. But I don't think he's trying to go anywhere with me, so that all works out OK.

Saturday was yesterday, and, dear reader, I'm ashamed to admit that after some white wine on Friday night I was feeling a little ropey. I spent much of the morning wondering how I was going to stand up, and then, after some breakfast, I realised that I'd been over-hasty so I returned to bed. By mid-afternoon, it was time to crawl out from under the duvet and start the whole process again: I was off to Rob-from-choir's birthday party, held at a ceilidh in Hammersmith. Brilliant. It was a deliciously random, hilarious evening where everyone danced with everyone and much beer was consumed where perhaps water or Lucozade would have been more sensible. I was lifted and swung around countless times by a boy during a move called 'the helicopter' during which I apologised for being slightly less-than-petite and he kindly reassured me in a deep gruff Scots accent 'No worries, love, light as a feather, light as a feather.' And then I was targeted by a lovely man, who I danced with for the rest of the night. He is a policeman and a member of the TA, and has just returned from six months on the front line in Afghanistan. Fortunately for me, I was able to keep my desire under control as for some reason I am missing the gene that makes women go for men in uniform. But I will reluctantly admit that I was quite impressed when he flashed his police badge at the tube station and was allowed through the barriers without an Oyster card.

Today has been almost a carbon copy of yesterday, only with the delightful addition of garlic bread and pizza. I have been indulging in a lot of velour, done a bit of laundry, watched Bedazzled (the Brendan Frazer version), bought some music on iTunes and... umm... I'm not really sure what else, but it's been fun. I'm a bit tired and hungover and emotional, but basically very content and feeling fully fortunate.

Tomorrow I will have a busy day at work as I'm off to gay Paris on Tuesday for two nights - and tomorrow eve I am singing in a charity carol concert in Knightsbridge. If I were remotely sensible I would be packing for Paris now, but... well, you know the rest.

Another unhelpful sign... Part 3

Maximum fine: £1000.

Maximum fine. I'm sorry, but that's not a threat. You're saying that there is a possibility that, should I light a cigarette, I will be fined £1000. I have no possible way of knowing what the odds are that this event will occur. You've given me no indication of probability. But what is definitely true is that you have not stated the minimum fine. Therefore it is safe to conclude that the minimum fine could be nothing. Zero. Or seven pence. It's almost worth the gamble of smoking on the bus, just to see what happens. And I don't even smoke.

This is how bored I was on the 36 the other night.

Blaze of glory

Apologies for absence yesterday, wasn't feeling too hot. Am slowly easing myself back to normal today though and am very excited about seeing Alistair Campbell in the flesh tonight on the South Bank. I will have to work hard to stop myself running up on stage and embracing him in some romantic version of Jarvis Cocker's Michael Jackson moment at the Brits all those years ago... how time flies.

Brief recap: Monday night was our choir rehearsal where we were taught a dance routine that revealed approximately two thirds of our number to be in possession of a deeply, deeply worrying cheesy side. They embraced the hideous routine, jumping in firmly with both feet, grinning maniacally and winking at each other during allegedly 'funny' lyrics. The remaining third of the choir stood at the back, some weeping in humiliation and others silently furious at the shame that will follow when we perform this in public. No prizes for guessing which third of the choir I was in. Halway through the rehearsal, I agreed with Deborah that we would rather spend the rest of that evening's practice naked if it would mean that the choir didn't do any movements in any of our concerts, but unfortunately (and, I think, wisely) our offer was rejected. However, a mutiny did occur afterwards and the number of numbers to which we have to do actions has been reduced from three to one, which is a definitely unPhyrric victory.

Last night I put on a reluctant brave face and headed out to the local pub quiz. Of my real-life freinds, I'd only managed to round up Ben, but I had also found out that another person who I know vaguely from an online forum would be in attendance with one of his friends, so we combined forces and made a rather motley crew of four. Sadly, our combined knowledge had a large crossover, so we all knew the answers to most of the questions, and none of us knew the answers to the few that would have won us the competition. I had been recruited solely for my promised expertise in the 'half-faces' round, where the top half of a photograph of one celebrity's face is stuck atop the bottom half of a different celeb's mouth and chin bit. Sadly, I was absolutely useless, guessed the top half incorrectly as J.Lo (correct answer: Kim Cattrall - livid) and was even less helpful in my contributions to the bottom half attempts. The boys all said it was George W. Bush and I said 'No, it's not,' but failed to supply any better suggestions. I thought it looked like Martin Sheen but I knew that would be too obscure. Sadly I wasn't awarded any points for correctly knowing that it was 'Not George Bush'. It was, in fact, George Clooney.

There was, however, a highlight - a shining moment in an evening that otherwise cemented my fear that my general knowledge is general noledge. Between rounds one and two, there is a quickfire question that guarantees the winner a small prize. It was a fastest-hand-in-the-air type situation, and the question was as follows: In which city is the Kentucky Derby held? Now, I don't know much, but half my family live in Louisville and if I'd have got that wrong, I would never have forgiven myself. My hand shot in the air and, like an unbearable swotty student, I couldn't help an involuntary 'Me!' escaping from my lips at the same time. I cringe at the memory. But the quiz master saw me - I answered - and won! My prize was two bottles of warm Russian beer that, despite its authentic seeming label, is in fact brewed in Edinburgh and was worryingly close to its expiry date. I 'generously' gave both bottles to Ben.

I had good intentions of gymming today but then someone in my office emailed round a voucher for 30% off at Gap, and one for 20% off at New Look, so I think I may go for a quick browse now and perhaps find something nice to impress Alistair. Although something tells me he might not be a New Look kind of guy...

Curses

I've just heard that the choice for this year's X Factor winner's victory song - the one all three finalists have to sing in the last show before the victor is decided, the song that will then sail to Christmas number one and break all sorts of UK chart records - is Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, a near-perfect record that I first heard sung by Jeff Buckley. In fact, forget 'near-perfect', it IS perfect. The song's only flaw is that it ends. What were the producers thinking? It was painful enough when Hallelujah was covered by Buckley's close friend, Rufus Wainwright, who I normally love - but the idea of some squeaky teen belting it out is absolutely appalling. Diana has already yodelled her way through it once this series, but just thinking of Alexandra singing it a la Whitney Houston makes my teeth feel like they are going to spontaneously jump out of my mouth. As my friend Donald said, it'll be like watching someone smash a stained glass window.

It's weird and I'm aware that I'm probably (yes, not for the first time) being vaguely hypocritical. After all, I love the song and I love The X Factor: surely I should be pleased? But I have always been selfish and childishly possessive about music, squirrelling away the songs I love, becoming annoyed or angered when they become popular, whether it's just amongst my friends or among the populus at large. There are few things more infuriating than hearing the middle eight of a tune I adore being played as background music to Goal of the Month on Match of the Day, or noticing that the catchy intro from a much-loved album track is accompanying an ident on Channel 5 (looks with resigned disappointment at Boy Least Likely To, while understanding the appeal of fat cheques). I don't know why I want to keep something as wonderful as a magical song to myself; I guess it's some desire to be special, to have a secret from the others - but it's wrong and, although I'm apologetic, I doubt I'll change.

On another note, I am reading a book about meditation and inner peace at the moment, and it said that as we walk along, we should imagine our feet are kissing the earth. I liked that. That, I will share.

Poem Number 1: Male, 31, 5’10”, found on Guardian’s ‘Soulmates’ dating site

I contacted you halfway through October,
I probably should have left it until I was sober.
I hate making first moves, it goes ’gainst convention
But I guess my one-liner piqued your attention.
You replied straight away, claimed you’d beat me at Scrabble
We bantered, you flirted, should’ve known you were trouble.
For a fortnight the messages flew thick and fast;
You were ill, so you claimed, and had free time unsurpassed.
You told me you’d answer my lines of enquiry
When we met in the flesh: we put a date in the diary.
The fifteenth of November was the eve that we fixed
But soon after planning, you said that up you’d got mixed;
The fifteenth was out – how about the twenty second instead?
Sure, I typed, though by then I could be married or preggers or dead.
A whole fortnight away, but you said it will happen, goddammit,
You claimed you'd been to the masonry, carved it in granite.

Then out of the blue there was radio silence -
No mail for a week, I enjoyed not your absence,
But I got on with my life, forgot you existed,
Then seven days later you wrote, you’d persisted.
No mention was made of your sudden disappearance:
You confirmed our night out, I could not fault your adherence.
But the unexplained Mute Week had still left its mark
The man that I marry won’t leave me in the dark.
It sounds melodramatic but it was plain inattentive,
And left me aware of a large disincentive.
So I waited three days before I replied,
Wrote back on Wednesday having swallowed my pride,
Ignored your hiatus, acted footloose and breezy,
Though deep down I guess that I still felt uneasy.
“Where ‘n’ when shall I meet you on Saturday night?”
I wanted to plan my dress, get footwear right.

With three days to go to the date, I expected
To hear back quite quickly, yet once more you neglected
To contact my good self, instead opting for nada:
A silence as subtle as the Spanish armada.
Perhaps you had died? But no, to my chagrin
Soulmates confirmed you were still logging in.

By Saturday morning I could deny it no more
Your granite guarantee was in crumbs on the floor.
Reluctant to show that I cared, I thought maybe
I’ll pretend I’m not fussed, not be a cry baby.
But, hang on, I thought – why should he get away
With behaving so craply, is that really OK?
So I tried to come up with a kindly suggestion
To show silence gives girls like me mild indigestion.
I asked, “Are there reasons you’re unable to write
And explain that you don’t want to meet me tonight?”
It’s a function of Soulmates to show when your mails
Have been read by their recipient – so you go off the rails
When you receive no reply for day upon day
And it’s clear that they’ve found a preferred bird of prey.
A few minutes after I sent my short message
I could see that you’d read it, but continuing presage
Assured that I did not expect a reply
And thus I stayed calm when none came by and by.

So now I’m at home on this Saturday eve
The X Factor’s granted me some small reprieve.
No, really, I’m fine, I’m horizontal and dressed
Head to toe in velour: I’m but sad north north west.
It's not that I mind that he didn't want to meet me,
He's not Jerry Maguire and he doesn't complete me;
I'd just rather he'd cancelled, I'd have made other plans,
Not carried on cultivating an ass like Roseanne's.
So: the dating game’s tough but I do like the drama,
And I was mean about the last guy so now this is karma.
They bite the dust daily, these men, don’t you know?
I’ll bounce back and be brave, not let the bruise show.
I win some, I lose some, I’m winsome, not a loser
Won’t take it to heart or become a substance abuser.
And I’m sure that in time a good guy will fall madly
In love with yours truly and I’ll accept his heart gladly.
Until then I’ll continue my romantic journey
And hope that it ends on a yacht, not a gurney.

Momentary culture vulture

Mmmm, how delicious is this little fella? The accompanying caption from The Guardian website reads: "Yongin, South Korea: A lion cub warms himself with an electric heater at the Everland zoo, as temperatures dropped to this year's lowest level." Oooh, I'd love to be snuggled up with him, warming myself on his sun lamp. As it is, I'm at work, looking forward to this evening and the start of another weekend.

Last night was a pretty darn lovely Thursday evening, though - I met my mother on the South Bank and we looked round the fantastic World Press Photo exhibition (catch it if you can, it's free in the Royal Festival Hall foyer for another few weeks). I loved the pictures of the splash of sea water that had been magnified fifteen times and revealed some extraordinary, Henson Workshop-esque microscopic sea creatures - mostly translucent and fish-shaped but with huge bulging eyes and unexpected tentacles. It was like Finding Nemo but... well, real. There were also some wonderful shots of people finishing the Copenhagen marathon, looking like they were moments from death. And both Mum and I loved the set of pictures showing Turkish girls who are off to school for the first time in their lives, having been forbidden education up to now. The exhibition is always such a treat - a massive cross section of fantastic shots covering international issues, sport, nature, portraits, entertainment - a real eye-opener.

Then we walked along to the National Theatre and, after months of saying we wanted to go, finally picked up our tickets for War Horse. Bloody hell, there's a production and a half. Based on a Michael Morpurgo novel, the play is ostensibly for children, but it is equally (if not more) popular with adults and has had sell-out runs since it opened last year. And it really is truly amazing. Even though I was excited, even though I had heard wonderful things, even though Mum said to me in the interval, "I don't know if I'm going to cry at the end," (which we'd heard was a tear-jerker) and I'd agreed - by the end, the entire audience seemed to be blubbing. I remember being quite panicked that I was actually going to be unable to prevent myself from sobbing loudly, from the belly, such was the force of emotion within me. It's a First World War story but the animal perspective adds resonance and well, a new angle on an old subject. I challenge anyone not to be moved. And - if I can't have that sausage dog puppy from a few posts ago, I'd be happy to be followed round by the War Horse foal for the rest of time. Its little ears! Like the photography exhibition, if you can see it, do.

Tonight I'm off for more entertainment - a comedian this time, and I'm very much looking forward to a few belly laughs. I'll report back soon. Oh - just quickly - I forgot to detail a gem from my date on Wednesday night. Towards 10pm, when we'd nearly finished our bottle of wine, my companion went unusually (blissfully) quiet for a few moments. He then leaned in, and in an abrupt newsreader fashion said,
"All right. Your bladder wins. Will you excuse me." He then stood up and went to visit the facilities. Strange man.

Oh dear oh dear oh dear

Last night, at 20:48, I sent the following text message to my friend, Kate: 'Help. Am on date with short gay version of Piers Morgan with horrific aftershave'.

In retrospect, I think I was being generous. Sure, the appearance thing wasn't great. Apparently he'd had a previous date scowl at him when they met, "not even bothering to hide her displeasure. Admittedly," he admitted, "I did have longer hair in the picture, and it was dyed black." No shit. He looked about three decades younger in his photo. I'm fairly sure that he had been a bit clever on Photoshop by airbrushing out his terrible pockmarked skin, and he'd wisely chosen not to pose wearing the two inch thick black leather cuff that he had buckled round his right wrist last night. Ew.

My text to Kate, however, didn't even touch on the issues that really bothered me. It was not the way he looked that was the principal issue: it was his personality. A more cocky, unapologetic human I have not encountered for a long time. He spoke fast and loudly, with an affected, slightly camp accent. When I spoke, he lent forward, chin in hand, elbow on table, saying, "Mmm, mmm, right," after every three syllables that I uttered, with an expression of cloying sincerity that was so over-hammed, it was as though an eight year old had been taught how to playact the role of a stuck up shrink. Eventually, we got onto the subject of making judgments: who (if anyone) has the right to do this. His arrogance shocked me.
"I know I'm extremely bright," he said, without any hint of embarrassment. "I know I'm clever. I'm not going to hide that. I am prepared to admit that my opinions might change in the face of compelling evidence, but basically, I'm pretty confident that I've thought about things more than most people, and that I'm right." He had 'cruising for a bruising' written all over him.
"Well, I'm afraid I find that kind of attitude repellent," I said, as he laughed and mimed being stabbed in the heart. "No, I'm serious," I went on, looking (I hoped) deadly serious. "It's obviously fine to be clever. It's even acceptable to think you're clever. But it's quite another thing to go around boasting about that intelligence to a total stranger. It is alienating and fundamentally unattractive." Harsh, you might think - but I swear I could have said anything to the man, it wouldn't have come within a mile of denting his self-confidence. He was armour-plated like an armadillo in a bomb shelter, it was extraordinary. I've never met someone so far from subtle.

Consequently, I had an absolutely brilliant evening and laughed all the way home. It takes all sorts. He'll probably be married in a fortnight.

Today I have continued to be shocked by the publishing of the BNP membership lists and the ensuing furore. I am a free speech gal through and through, though, and think that if someone wants to be a member of the BNP, that's a failure of society, and not really the fault of the individual. Demonising the members, firing them from their jobs - it's all worryingly creeping towards thoughtcrime as far as I can see, and I don't like it one tiny bit.

Spiritual guidance?

There are many things that are annoying about the fact that so many of my friends have selfishly found time to fall madly in love, get married and have babies. However, there are a couple of upsides. One: I get to buy tiny clothes. And two: following the birth of the aforementioned babies, they then, generally, decide to pick godparents. As a committed atheist, I know I will never be asked - and even if my godlessness didn't bother one of my less faithful friends, I would have to refuse, as I could never stand in a church and promise to lead the baby in question towards 'the light'. So it is with a fair degree of objectivity that I regard the godparent selection process - and I am continually surprised by the choices.

I guess my attitude would always be to choose someone who will be helpful to my children when I and that child's father are being complete pains-in-the-ass. Obviously my child will, at one point or another, think I am absolutely unbearable and it would be good if there were an adult or two knocking about to whom they could turn to for advice at times like these. They won't have any uncles or aunts on my side, since je suis une fille unique, so I guess some sort of mentor with a sense of humour would be cool. The Humanist website advises calling them 'special friends' but that sounds worrying. Anyway, this clearly isn't something I need to concern myself with just now. I was discussing it last night with Em and Grania and it logged in my mind as something I should note. And that's the beauty of LLFF, isn't it? You never know what random piece of useless drivel is going to pop into my head next.

What else is news? Hamburgers with feta rock, but possibly not as much as lamburgers (two bs?) with feta. Erich Fromm's The Art of Loving should be compulsory reading. This morning I retook the political compass test (which you can take here). On a scale where -10 is left, and +10 is right, I came out as -5. And on a scale where -10 is Libertarian and +10 is Authoritarian, I came out as -8. I was surprised by how Libertarian I was, in that I thought I was more of a socialist. But the left/right thing sounds about right. Challenging questions though. I stumbled over a couple - one was whether people who have seriously degenerative hereditable conditions should be allowed to reproduce. Writing that out now, my answer is 'yes', only because I imagine it would be exceptionally difficult to draw any sort of line, and to tell people they shouldn't reproduce is like telling them they shouldn't have been born. I am ashamed to admit I did find it tough though. I did the test with Laura afterwards and we were both in a similar area of the spectrum. The only UK political party that comes anywhere near our beliefs is the Green Party... Bring on the next general election.

PS

In-two-three, out-two-three. Right. I just looked at my other post of the tiny dog and I feel calmer now. Apologies.

Ill-advised rant

I'll almost certainly regret this but I have to get something off my chest. If I were you, I'd just ignore me.

My definition of friendship has changed a lot throughout my life. I have, I think, become less demanding as a friend since I was a tyke (that says tyke. With a t.) but there are still a few standard elements that I consider fairly essential in any platonic relationship. One would be a basic level of interest in the other person's life. If I do not possess an interest in someone else's life, I do not claim to be their friend and I do not pursue friendship with that person. But if two people are both interested in each other's existence, whatever form that may take, and they are fond of each other, then they may well find that they become friends. And then, once they are friends, there are (surely?) certain expectations that each has on the other. They will make an effort to support and care for that person, while enjoying their company. It is, of course, a give and take contract - this is not unconditional or selfless, and that - to me - is fine. What I can't handle is when one person routinely expects the other to provide the listening ear, or to create the opportunities to meet. Imbalance in friendship happens, of course, from time to time. Should one half of the pair be going through a divorce, or an illness, or a tough time, or a very happy time, they may not have time for the other friend. And that's fine, every now and then. But when it becomes constant, it becomes untenable. For me, at least. And I seem to be suffering from a swathe of it at the moment. About three or four of my friends have, in the past few weeks, snatched a hurried breath at the end of a phone conversation to say 'But anyway, just quickly, how are you?' as if to alleviate their guilt that it's been so one-sided. And that sentence on its own fills me with the kind of rage that makes me want to turn into a big fire-breathing lizard and swallow them. Why not be upfront about it? Surely it's reasonable to say 'Sorry, I've only talked about me. When can we speak again so I can hear about you?' I know I sound like a self-help book but really. Like I said, it's fine every now and then, but recently it's happened to me so frequently that I... well, I've done nothing except harboured a grudge and spent more time with other people who haven't been annoying me so much.

Anyway, like I said, I'll almost certainly regret writing that, and on the off-chance that you know me and you're reading this, don't worry, I wasn't talking about you, it was someone else, you don't even know them. Honest.

Also - maybe this anger is hormonal. I wrote a long email this morning and then Gmail lost it somehow (or maybe it was my work server, I don't really care) and the surge of irritation almost made my vision blur. I don't think there is ANYthing that annoys me more than losing long emails. I am physically unable to start again and retype them. The loss of my life that has been sucked away while I've been typing something to a friend which THEY WILL NEVER SEE creates in me a feeling of utter powerlessness and abject frustration that I find difficult to cope with. God I'm intolerant. But then... sometimes I'm really tolerant. Hmmm. God I'm a mass of contradictions. Or should that be a mess? No, I'm lovely. Or am I? Grumble grumble.

Wow, I was pretty prescient in Sunday's post when I said my perkiness wouldn't last, wasn't I? See, I really am always right.

Excitement for pop tarts

It's been a quiet work day, and even more silent on the internet (total email haul thus far: 19 emails, of which 13 were spam, four were from Amazon confirming my purchase of The End of the Affair, leaving two from friends) so I am glad that at approximately 11am I discovered this amazing website. I don't expect that all the Faithful will find it quite as spine-tinglingly gripping as I do, so just to help you understand my excitement, let me copy and paste (and, obviously, reformat) the following list.

The top 20 best-selling albums of all time in the whole wide world are:

01. Thriller - Michael Jackson (60 million)
02. Black In Black - AC/DC (42m)
03. Their Greatest Hits 1971-1975 - The Eagles (41m)
04. Saturday Night Fever soundtrack - Various Artists (40m)
05. Dark Side Of The Moon - Pink Floyd (40m)
06. Come On Over - Shania Twain (39m)
07. The Bodyguard soundtrack - Various Artists (37m)
08. Bat Out Of Hell - Meat Loaf (37m)
09. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band - The Beatles (32m)
10. Led Zeppelin IV - Led Zeppelin (32m)
11. Dirty Dancing soundtrack - Various Artists (32m)
12. Falling Into You - Celine Dion (32m)
13. Let's Talk About Love - Celine Dion (31m)
14. Rumours - Fleetwood Mac (30m)
15. Jagged Little Pill - Alanis Morissette (30m)
16. Titanic soundtrack - Various Artists (30m)
17. Millenium - Backstreet Boys (30m)
18. 1 - The Beatles (30m)
19. Abbey Road - The Beatles (30m)
20. Bad - Michael Jackson (29m)

So much to say, so little time... To condense my inital thoughts:

Dirty Dancing! Hilarious.

How ridiculous that there are no artists who aren't either British or American.

But I'm quite proud of the fact that there are so many Brits.

They've spelled Millenium wrong. By 'they', I don't know if it's the website people, or the Backstreet Boys, or just the whole of America. But it definitely has two ns in it if it's proper.

Also, if you don't count the soundtrack to The Bodyguard as an album by Whitney Houston, then Michael Jackson is the only non-white entrant. And even that's now questionable. Odd.

I'm shocked by the AC/DC entry, in that, I am finding it uncomfortable to admit, I cannot name a single AC/DC song unprompted. I'm sure if you tell me a title, I'll be able to hum it... [goes off to look up AC/DC songs] Nope. I've just looked at their hits on the aforementioned amazing website, and I don't recognise a single one. Also odd.

LLFF fact fans: I own (or have owned but have now lost or given away) 11 of these 20 albums. Can you guess which ones? No? You don't even want to try? OK then. I'll tell you. The albums I own are: Thriller, the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, Dark Side Of The Moon, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Jagged Little Pill, 1 and Bad. The albums I once owned but have now lost are: the soundtrack to The Bodyguard, Bat Out Of Hell and Rumours. And I was sent a review copy of MillenNium back in the day but it's long been deliberately discarded.

With so many incisive discussion points from just one list, you can imagine that I had a feast on the website itself, given the tens of similar trivia lists there are - including songs with the longest titles, songs with the longest titles not including brackets and songs with the highest number of different individual letters in the title. God the internet is amazing.

Another unhelpful sign...

I wouldn't ever want to criticise the wonderful Natural History Museum: I so enjoyed my visit yesterday. But it must be said, that like the sign in Zara Homes, this set of directions is pretty unhelpful. Perhaps I might suggest that it could have been more useful if it detailed what precisely one could expect to find in each of the zones? Then again, who I am to complain...?

Boys boys boys...

Goodness, what a lot has been going on. Of course, it's all absolutely classified and I won't be telling you any of it. Well, maybe just a bit. Let's see what falls out of my brain before I have time to censor myself...

Last thing you heard, I was exhausted and it was Wednesday. Now I'm exhausted and it's Sunday. So far, so similar. Thursday I was ridiculously excited about getting my hair cut by the legendary Adrian, who has made two of my friends look like glamorous celebrities with his dramatic scissor-work. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to convey exactly what I wanted, so I too ended up looking like a celebrity. Sadly Einstein wasn't the one I'd had in mind. It's all a bit shaggy and messy, which I'd said I liked sometimes, but not all the time... Ah well, you live and learn. After that, I decided to cheer myself up by going for a few beverages in Camden with some new friends who I met off the internet, which was really fun but not quite the quiet night I had planned to have in order to conserve my energy for my date-fest this weekend.

Friday night was date one, and he was pretty much as expected: a really nice and genuine guy but there was no real spark. The low point was when we arrived at our dinner venue and he marched straight to the table and pushed his way through the gap between ours and our neighbours', seating himself heavily on the bench seating and knocking over an empty Coke bottle on the next table with his buttock. Lady faces the room? Not on Friday night. I reprimanded myself immediately - I am aware I'm being ridiculous and narrow-minded, you know - but my feelings must have flashed across my face as my date then asked if everything was OK. I felt bad. But of course, if the chemistry had been there, it wouldn't have been an issue. Really fun night though so no regrets.

Saturday morning was spent asleep, and then at 1ish I went up to North London to meet date two. I had suspicions that this gentleman would be lovely but that, again, there would be no real burst of passion - and once again, I was pretty much right. We walked six miles, from Chalk Farm across Primrose Hill, along the Regent's Canal, up and over down Church Street via a brief pause in the amazing Alfie's Antique Market, down to Paddington Green and onto the Grand Union Canal, over to Golborne Road via Lisboa, all the way down Ladbroke Grove and along Notting Hill Gate until we realised we weren't going to make it to the Natural History Museum by 4.30pm and we had to sprint for a bus. I was sweating and looking desperately uncool at this point, but had to scrape back my hair and pretend I was the glamourpuss I intended him to see.

We got to the museum and enjoyed the feeling of smugness when we asked the woman at reception for directions to the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition and she informed us with unconcealed satisfaction that it was completely sold out and then had to disguise her surprise that these perspiring individuals had pre-booked tickets. The exhibition was excellent as usual, and my companion took things enjoyably seriously, demanding that, having looked around all the photos, we take another turn of the possible winners and decide on our candidate before finding out who the judges had picked. In the end, we were both wrong: the winning photograph was - well, I won't give it away, but it was taken by a camera that the photographer had set to be activated by movement. The animal in question had wandered by late at night, and triggered the sensor while the photographer was tucked up in bed. Not a great deal of skill there, I don't think.

After the exhibition, we went to look at the hummingbird tree in the Birds section, were amazed by Minerals displays which I'd pooh-poohed, were saddened by the giant sequoia section, and were blown away by the diamonds in The Vault. Then we walked to a local pub, where I changed out of my walking boots and into some high heels. We had a few drinks and then, realising we were peckish and fancied a burger, headed into town for a trip to Joe Allen's. Arriving at 9ish, I wasn't surprised it was full, but we sat at the bar and nattered until a table became free, had a delicious medium-rare all-beef patty and then headed home - ten hours after we'd met.

We didn't stop talking all day, he was a seriously nice guy and I loved being in his company. I'm not sure that either of us felt that rip-your-shirt off sparkiness but that said, I absolutely adored every minute of yesterday and would happily see him again. He is guileless, quirky, refreshing, kind, inspiring and gentle and I... well, I don't know what will happen. Which is nice. Life's full of surprises, isn't it?

Now I'm lying on my sofa, have just seen Dead Wife Daniel evicted at last from this week's X Factor, and am contemplating whether to watch a lot of Family Guy or do something more beneficial. I cooked a delicious melange of peppers, onions, sweet potato, garlic, feta, oregano, bay leaves and chilli seeds for lunch and I am feeling pleasantly stuffed. Added to that the satisfaction of knowing my bed has clean sheets and that I have a fun week ahead, and you could say I'm unattractively pleased with myself. Don't worry, it won't last.

Peckish?

Lost Looking For Sleep

I think I have yawned in excess of six thousand times today. My candle has burned out from both ends: no remnants of wick remain, just a small pool of hardened wax from the moment the flame extinguished itself several days ago. I am beyond exhausted, Faithful. But it is all entirely self-inflicted and I request no sympathy.

On Friday I went over to Tracey's in North London where we were joined by two others and had a small but vigorous reunion featuring singing into wine bottle microphones, dancing to Ms. Jackson by Outkast, wearing plastic silver tiaras and going to bed late. It was an absolutely brilliant evening. On Saturday afternoon, hungover for the second consecutive day, I crawled home, dumped my overnight bag, changed my clothes and went straight back out again, this time to watch the fireworks on the South Bank. I think I was, perhaps, spoiled by watching the 4th July celebrations in Seattle this year, because the London display seemed a bit of a damp squib. They were beautiful in places, and the reflection of the lights on the Thames, with St Paul's in the background - well, it was all rather lovely. But there was no music, and they only seemed to last about ten minutes. Pah. We consoled ourselves in the BFI cafe for a while and then went for a delicious dinner at the Anchor & Hope on The Cut in Waterloo, which was very busy but very fun and highly recommended if you're not in a rush. Then two of our number left, and the remaining three of us pushed on with the wine before moving venues to another couple of bars. It was a really lovely evening. I made it home by about 1am, slept until about noon on Sunday, narrowly avoiding the nadir of my third hangover, then loafed at home in velour and seventh heaven until it was time to leave for the Albert Hall, where I watched a fantastic Royal Opera House production of Britten's War Requiem, which knocked my socks off. A great way to end Remembrance Sunday.

Since the weekend, I've been running on empty with choir after work on Monday, a friend's birthday party in Mayfair last night, a huge and stressful drama on the Northern Line this morning, a four mile run with Laura in the gorgeous crisp November sun this lunchtime and various need-to-know work dramas. I'm now so floppy that it's a miracle I can find the strength to press the keys to type. Formulating witty and erudite sentences for your amusement is thus out of the question, I'm afraid. Tonight is all about battery recharging and will involve Eve Lom, fake tan, eyebrow plucking, laundry with Lenor, clean sheets, a selection of very bad TV and a bag of prematurely-purchased Tesco's chocolate money. I am so excited I might drool.

Crows' feet? Not a glimmer...

Ooh, I forgot to say. The other day when I was tutoring, my adorable, mop-headed, 11-year-old student was complaining about his sister, who we could hear having a bit of a screaming match with their mother in the next door room.
"She's fifteen," he said, with that oh-so-wise voice that only children can do, "and you know what teenagers are like." He rolled his eyes as I nodded sagely. But then he looked perturbed and said, "Sorry - I hope you're not a teenager? I didn't mean to offend you if so."

A teenager! I could have kissed him if it wouldn't have been deeply wrong on several levels, not to mention massively illegal. The last time I was a teenager, he was minus two years old. That makes me feel queasy. Or maybe it's the full fat Coke I'm drinking in a desperate attempt to combat my hangover before another round of drinks tonight...

City boys gasp

There I was, just wondering how to entertain myself for the next few minutes before lunch, when there was one of those occasional 'WOAH!' noises from the trading floor outside my office. Turns out the Bank of England has just cut interest rates by a whopping 1.5%, down from 4.5% to 3%. Everyone was trying to work out whether they were going to go for 0.5% or 1%, and they simply did not see the 1.5% option coming. I know it affects me brilliantly, in that my monthly mortgage repayments will come down again - but other than that, I doubt it'll have much impact on my life. The boys outside, however, are being about as high fivey as English men get (ie. the occasional wry chuckle). Certainly got the adrenaline going.

In other news: not much. I'm still digesting the Obama election. I tutored last night after work for a bit of extra cash, which is much-needed as my Amex bill seems to be multiplying like a deadly virus. Tonight's activities are staying under the radar for now.... will report back at an unspecified future time. Watch this space. Well - check back in 24 hours. Realistically there's unlikely to be any update before then.

President Obama

So, it really truly happened. And in spite of all my cynicism, in spite of my deeply-held conviction that really, it's going to take a lot more than a new POTUS to change the selfishness and greed that has made our world such a mess, in spite of my concerns that Obama doesn't have the backbone to fight big business in any meaningful way, in spite of my belief that this victory says less about people's love for Obama than it does about their disappointment and/or hatred in/for Dubya - in spite of all that, I read Barack's acceptance speech online this morning and wept at my desk. I am sceptical. I am full of doubt. But that speech was really quite extraordinary - perfectly pitched, humble, powerful, gracious, optimistic and realistic. The goosebumps pricked my arms in the opening lines and did not subside until a while after I'd finished reading. For the first time in a long time, I felt proud of the 50% of me that is American. I don't think that sensation will last, but it felt rousing and emotional and once again, I wished that some degree of passion and fervour would similarly inspire the British electorate. But I fear that things will have to get a whole lot worse here before people will take the leap to a political choice that might offer genuine change. Which is profoundly depressing thought on a morning that should be full of optimism and hope. Apologies.

Breaking news...

Right. Obama's just got Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. This is, apparently, pretty conclusive. And actually, I've just seen some footage of McCain saying goodbye to the press on his campaign plane after his last pre-election speech, and I was struck with a pang of pity for him. He's a sweet old guy. Non-existent-god forbid he should be in charge of the US, but... what a lot of work for nothing. But that's the nature of the beast I guess.

Barack's got Delaware and Massachusetts, District of Columbia, Illinois, Maryland... they're all flooding in now. McCain's got Tennessee. The Democrats have 77 electoral college votes, McCain has 27. The BBC's panelist, Tad someone, says that 'Effectively the game is over.' There's nothing to keep me watching except the thought of scenes of victory and mirth and jubilation in parks and bars all over the US - and the gorgeous Matt Frei whose appeal never wanes for me. If I can just... press... the green button... on my remote...

Maine, New Jersey, both for Obama... The man who's the new young version of Peter Snow on all the technology stuff is struggling with the technology stuff. It's all a bit too clever for its own good. Obama on 103, McCain on 34.

Must go. My eyes are stinging now. But I want to see what happens in Florida. Such a kick to the Republicans after the Jeb Bush fiasco. Ha. Ooh, a new woman has joined the panel on the Beeb. Who's that? Aren't they clever, rotating people so frequently? Weak, pathetic people like me get sucked in and then can't turn off the TV. Then I'll fall asleep at my desk tomorrow and be made redundant and it'll all be the BBC's fault. Maybe I'll sue.

Oh my god, there's a boys' choir murdering 'Consider yourself at home' from Oliver in Pennsylvania. How bizarre. Am I tripping?

It's time for bed.

Exhaustion ahoy...

I said I wouldn't stay up watching but I can't help myself. Dimbleby has dragged me in and I'm now incapable of switching off. At the moment, only Kentucky and Vermont have been predicted, entirely along expected party lines, and I'm just hanging in for something conclusive to happen. I know I'll regret this tomorrow but there's a part of me... ooh, South Carolina has just been called for McCain - no surprises there... but yeah, there's a part of me that wishes I was in a pub cheering at a big screen. I wish we were as passionate about British politics as we are about those in the US. But I guess that says a lot about our perception of the power of our MPs and our government vs. the power of those in the States.

Anyway - I'm determined to switch off soon but I just had to log in because Dimbers just mentioned 'North Hampshire' and no-one corrected him, which upset me. Anyway, we can't all be perfect.

My life since Friday

Oooh, it's all go. In less than 24 hours, the United States of America will have a new president - either a man who will alienate the rest of the world even more than the previous blunderbuss of an incumbent - or a man who might not. I dearly hope Obama wins - not because I think anything much will change if he does - but because I fear how much things will deteriorate under McCain. Yet, despite my strongly-held opinions, I won't be staying up to watch the results trickle in overnight. In the UK, the first results won't come in until after 00:30, and the last state, Palin's own dear Alaska, is due to declare at 05:00. Maybe if it were a Friday night, I might consider it - but it's only a Tuesday, I have three more days of work ahead of me and I need all the beauty sleep I can lay my hands on.

In the flurry of excitement about being a terrifying female in my last post, I neglected to document my weekend's activities. As planned, on Friday night I went to Shepherd's Market for delicious tapas at the recommended El Pirata, where we compared recent TopShop purchases, discussed haircuts and spotted David Gest sitting at the bar. Then the four of us went to see the Bond film at the Curzon Mayfair, my new favourite cinema, along with a bizarre mix of other Hallowe'en moviegoers. Quantum of Solace was probably about as good as Casino Royale, but without the first film's surprise factor. I had such high expectations after CR knocked me sideways - it would never be possible for a sequel to pack the same punch. But it was good, and funny, and the chases and fights were brilliant, and the jokes worked, and the girls were gorgeous and Daniel's blue eyes were piercing and the gadgets made us gasp. That table computer! I need one urgently...

On Saturday I arose impressively early and trotted off to Kensington on my tod, to attend the first day of the Battle of Ideas. I saw debates about the nature of truth; capitalism; whether citizenship classes will affect youth engagement with politics; the hard facts about abortion; and a balloon debate between six people, each representing a different subject on the liberal education curriculum - and campaigning to stay in the balloon on the basis that their subject encapsulated best 'what it means to be educated'. I found myself voting for travel over philosophy in the first head-to-head, literature over languages in the second, and science over sport in the third. In the final showdown (travel vs. literature vs. science), I voted for science - as did the majority of people in the room. It surprised me but I think we chose correctly. A fascinating day, all in all. I returned home, switched on The X Factor and ate a tin of microwaveable hot dogs (yes mother, I took them out of the tin before I microwaved them). I don't think I said more than about ten words out loud all day - it was very Zen and very lovely.

On Sunday I had fully intended to head back to Kensington for the Battle's second day - but found myself to be completely incapacitated for most of the morning, unable to get out of bed. Then I spent the rest of the day cleaning my flat as only a true OCD victim can clean, wiping the dust off between the slats of my Venetian blinds, hoovering every available surface (including underneath my sofa cushions) and generally restoring order. I have been burning the candle over the past few weeks, and last weekend I realised my wick had extinguished. After a few days spent taking things easy, I now feel as though my batteries have recharged and I'm ready for the onslaught. Which is lucky, because my next free evening is Sunday 16th November. I don't quite know how I got this busy, but it's all good clean fun and I'm enjoying myself. Long may it continue.

Psychobabble

When I woke up this morning and checked my emails, I was delighted to receive one that made me laugh aloud. It was from a girlfriend, who, for reasons that may become clear, I will keep nameless. Her message described something that had happened to her moments earlier. She had been lying in bed, daydreaming in the way that one does on a Sunday morning. And, equally normally, her thoughts had turned to boys. Like me, my anonymous friend is currently single, but her back burner is currently occupied by a young man. Apparently this particular gentleman has been loitering around the vicinity of her hob for several years, and is sadly unsuitable for long term consideration; however, he does crop up in the forefront of her mind every now and then, and when no other prospects are on the horizon, she allows herself to think about him as a possibility.

Thus it was that this morning, she was thinking about him. And, all of a sudden, quick as a flash, she realised that, in her imagined scenario, complete with fond hand-holding and loving glances, she had given him a pet nickname and 'filed it' for future use. Having never kissed this boy, having never discussed going out with him, having never dreamed of spending the night with him, all of a sudden, her imagination had shot ahead to a time when his Christian name was an inadequate indication of their intimacy - and she had invented an alternative.

Any males reading may be muttering 'mentalist' or other such derogatory terms under their (inevitably suspect-smelling) breath, and I wish I could label my friend an anomaly, but the truth is, almost every girl I know has moments where her mind runs away with her to a degree that is both blush-inducing and terrifying.

Believe me - we know it is ridiculous. But it happens in a split second: without our permission, our brain jumps forward to a miscellaneous future time and before we know it, we're outlining in absurd detail an event that in all likelihood will never occur. Once upon a time, I was in some dreamy reverie on the tube home after a no-more-than-mediocre first date when I suddenly realised that I was planning my commute from his flat - not after staying the night on a miscellaneous future date, but after I'd moved in with him. I genuinely don't know how it happened, I swear. One minute, I was thinking about what we'd eaten for dinner, the next, I was working out whether it would be quicker to come in to work from his place or mine.

Of course, as soon as we realise what we're doing, we shudder in embarrassment and snap out of it - but the fact is, it's happened, even if only for a few nanoseconds, and it's scary. A male confidant assures me it happens to them too, every so often, but that's scant comfort. With the possible exception of REM sleep, my brain should be under my control - and I don't like it when it's not.

In a similar vein, I was talking to a different girlfriend a few months ago and we began to devise a list of the most terrifying things a girl could possibly do after a positive-seeming first date. We came up with two: 1) Find his best friend on Facebook and send the friend an email with a few choice nuggets from you and your new love-interest's written correspondance and a couple of first date anecdotes. Label the email 'Best Man's Speech ideas'. 2) Using a photo of you and the gentleman in question, blend your features together using Photoshop. Then send him the result, with the message 'This is what our baby would look like! Can't wait to get started... Call me! xx'

When merely gently hinting to a boy that you might not hate him is more than sufficient to send him running for the hills while he simultaneously retches and screams 'HELP!', the idea of actually carrying out one of the above is really quite droll. In the meantime, if you have any contributions to the list - either real or imagined - please feel free to leave them in the Comments section... Right. I'm off to put the bunny on the boil.