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.