Big love for the Big Smoke

So today was the first day of Spring. Maybe not officially. But in my head, it was. And to celebrate, I went out for a run along the river. I wore my iPod to block out any offensive remarks about the dimensions of my buttocks and scampered from the City, over Blackfriars Bridge, along the South Bank, across London Bridge and back to the office. And good god it was beautiful. Passing St Paul's, I let out an involuntary sigh of appreciation - the dome against the clear blue of the sky, the gilt glinting in the sun - it was spectacular. Then this afternoon, a girl wrote on an internet forum that she is leaving the city to move back up north; she was asking for things one shouldn't miss during their time in London. And I sat at my desk, thinking of all the things I would want to do if I only had one day in London. I tried to imagine what I would do if I was leaving here forever and never coming back. And before I knew it, I had tears in my eyes. Probably 95% caused by the amount of wine I drank at book club last night, but still. I freaking love this city. That's it, really. Now watch the panda again.

Shameless attempt to tide you over

Oh god I'm sorry I'm sorry.

Hopefully this will help. I think it may be my favourite thing in the Whole Entire World.

Charming

My mother sent me a very stern email yesterday morning asking me to call her. I thought I was in trouble, but it turns out she was just worried about me after Monday's slightly depressive rant. I reassured her that it was all slightly tongue-in-gill as ever, and that really I am a happy lass. However, yesterday afternoon an event occurred that made me sink slightly below the parapet for real...

Laura and I were out jogging for the first time in ages, and were doing quite well, considering. We were about a minute from the office (and thus the end of our circuit) when we ran past two gentlemen who were, I estimated, in their sixties. 'Keep it up girls,' said one. I turned around to smile in gratitude at the words of encouragement, and as I did, he followed his opener with the immortal triptych: 'You need it.'

So that was nice. At the time I was almost in shock, and, with as much sarcasm as I could muster, said 'Thanks very much,' and ran on. Laura and I breathlessly compared notes on what had happened and she, I'm shocked to announce, used a fairly explicit expletive to describe her feelings about the man's comment. She seemed pretty unflustered and I tried to follow her lead. But even after I'd showered and changed, I still had to admit that he'd bothered me. It's not that I think I look gorgeous while I'm running. It's safe to say that the casting director for the opening credits of Baywatch would not need to trouble himself with my showreel. Thus there is little point denying that our commentator's words were factually accurate - I do need to keep running. And that's fine. However, in the meantime, I would like to kid myself that not everyone I run past is thinking 'Blimey, she'll need to keep that up for a couple of years if she wants to avoid insults.' I have never been heckled before and I didn't enjoy it. And coming as it did on top of a fairly hefty hormonal patch, I lacked the sense of humour to laugh it off altogether.

Last night I went home and watched Giant, which I thought was brilliant, although the highlight was probably my first ever double-sided DVD. What will they think of next?

Hormoanes

I'm not sure, but I think it's a good chance that I've been smacked in the face with a good portion of PMT today. I feel about a stone heavier and the fact that it's raining has sent me plummeting into a low, thudding grump, the only cure for which would be a free holiday in the baking hot sun, departing first thing tomorrow. In the absence of that occurring, I am eating more and struggling to stay awake. Standing up to go to the vending machine has been a superhuman effort. Going to the gym, which was my plan for today, is absolutely out of the question, as just the idea of disrobing in the changing room fills me with a horror that makes me almost tearful. I'm going to go to The Troubadour after work, eat chips with Astrid and then go to choir. It won't make everything better but it might help.

Worrying

Now, I know he's the first digital president and all, but you'd have thought the new Leader of the Free World might have better things to do than read about the self-absorbed life of a 31 year old London lass. Clearly not. Just moments ago, I received an email (see left) entitled: 'Barack Obama is now following you on Twitter'. Hmmm. Not sure how I feel about that.

Anyway, in other news, yesterday evening after work, I got to the gym, undressed out of my office clothes, put on my gym kit, and then realised I didn't have any socks. So, in what may have been a first for the gym at work, I went barefoot. Thirty minutes on the cross trainer and a few weights - no one batted an eyelid. Liberating.

Right. It's Saturday, I've been looking forward to the weekend all week and I'm wasting it by lying in bed. Must get up. Later dude.

Mastergreed

Note to self: if trying to lose weight, or at least maintain current 'svelte' form, it is advisable not to a) eat dinner and then, approximately half an hour later, b) begin watching Masterchef.

Yesterday I got home, did yoga, felt unattractively pleased with myself, wolfed down a celebratory funsize Mars bar while heating a tin of soup and then ate that with a 'snack pack' of five savoury oatcakes, liberally spread with houmous, which I had realised that I had to eat urgently as it was nearing (but not at) its use-by date. Unfortunately, there was a little more houmous than oatcake surface area, so I cleaned out the pot with my soup spoon. I then ate another two funsize Mars bars for pudding. Then I realised I was quite cold, so I had a bath, and then started to watch Masterchef. The instant that they started frying their scallops, slicing their chorizo and roasting their seabass, my stomach sent me an urgent SOS, suggesting that I hadn't eaten for around six days. After approximately two minutes, I caved in and had another snack pack of oatcakes. Then it was 'The Pressure Test', where the three remaining contestants had to cook in a lunchtime service at a Marylebone restaurant. The sight of the duck breast salad sent me back to the bag of Mars bars, and I think two more were consumed, although this may be an optimistic understatement. I realised urgent measures were needed, so I decided to go on the offensive and eat an After Eight. The mintiness contained therein is usually enough to trick my brain into thinking I've brushed my teeth, thus telling my digestive system that no more food is coming its way for some time. But not tonight. I was soon surrounded by small, square, black wrappers and lay fairly still, hating myself, until the start of The Final Test, when the fish cakes and pork belly that were plated up sent me craving savoury. I returned to the kitchen once more, desperately searching for something salty that would take away the pain. After a few seconds, my only option became clear, and moments later, I was back on the sofa, eating anchovies out of the tin. Of course, this would have been an unacceptable end to my food from a palate perspective, so I washed it all down with a raspberry ice lolly. And, while this was going on, I somehow managed to comfort myself that my evening's consumption hadn't been too bad as I'd avoided wheat and booze. Honestly. With manipulation skills like that, it's a wonder I haven't been recruited by the government.

Melting pot

One day of snow and the whole country grinds to a halt. I had Monday off, frolicking and photographing the most breathtaking London I've seen for a long time, and since then the whole week has been a bit of a happy haze. No complaints from this end, sir. And if my snowy scene isn't enough to convince you of my hometown's beauty, check out these snaps. Gorgeous.

Not much to report otherwise - same old same old with me, too much admin, too much laundry, too much worrying about boys, too much fake tan, too much red wine, too much white wine, possibly not enough time taken to think about the ol' bank balance. Went to see Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, Tom Stoppard's 1970s play about Communist Russia on Friday. It was interesting and intelligent and had barely dated at all in three decades. Best of all, it was an hour long, which frankly all plays should be. If you can't tell your story in sixty minutes, maybe it's too long. Save money on interval drinks too. Saw Revolutionary Road at the cinema last weekend - not quite as mind-blowing as I'd hoped, but certainly engaging. Then watched The Chorus (touching) on Sunday night, The Wind That Shakes The Barley (eye-opening) on Monday afternoon and Lars and the Real Girl (fantastic) on Monday evening. Then worked hard yesterday, went out for delicious and remarkably constructive dinner with Grania last night, and have been staring at a computer screen all day today learning Advanced Photoshop. Gripping. I now know how to make myself look thinner and browner in pictures. Life will never be the same again - clearly I need to manipulate every image ever taken of me, and then never leave the house again so no one will be able to contrast the representation with the reality. Admittedly it's quite a commitment but I think it may be worth it.