Two photos and a momentary revel

Oh god oh god. This photo actually brought tears to my eyes. The whole G20 summit has been absolutely gripping to follow, but as you all know too well, underneath all the attempts to be worthy and educated, I am of course just another superficial girl and despite my best attempts, I can't help myself. I have to comment. Just look at it. Have you ever seen anything so depressing? Poor, poor Sarah Brown. It is an absolute disaster. The first thing my eyes are drawn to is her pronounced womb, hugged so cruelly by the synthetic fabric of her ill-advised pencil skirt. What is she doing?! She is clearly and undeniably a pear-shape, so why on earth is she wearing something that would only be vaguely bearable on a true hourglass? Her shoulders look tiny, her waist appears only to be defined by the clinging waistband of her tights and, horror of all horrors, there is actually a visible dent in her upper thigh from the bottom of her underwear! Then there's the fact that the suit itself has never been in fashion, the buttons are slightly straining, her opaque tights aren't right for the look and her shoes make her calves look clumpy. It's just too sad. Swap the two women's outfits and things would have been far better - Sarah's womb and thigh nightmare would be completely disguised in Michelle's prom skirt, while Mrs Obama could have dazzled us with her smile and made us forgive the royal blue error beneath.

Of course, Sarah Brown is nothing to do with fashion. There's absolutely no need for her to be glamorous or cool. But you'd have thought, as the most senior wife in British politics and clearly an extremely clever, capable, nice woman in her own right, she might have asked for a tiny bit of clothes advice on this most high-profile of occasions. Next time, Mrs B, just try to go for something a little less corporate, a little more loose, make sure you buy the right size - and, for the love of god, woman, please avoid any sort of VPL.

And this is the other photo that had me squinting forward at my monitor this morning. When I imagined the G20 dinner, it wasn't anything like this. I must admit to finding the Arab wearing his headphones over his scarf childishly funny, and wondering how it is possible to relax for even a second with all those microphones, translators and aides surrounding them. The man peering over the shoulder of the far off delegate on the left seems to be at least 8 feet tall, while the young guy hugging the curtain on the right appears about to enter a new orbit of stress. I have to be honest, I preferred my vision of how the evening might look: everyone chilling out, slippers on, ties off; Angela Merkel with her hair in a topknot, wearing a facemask; the men smoking pipes, shouting out requests to the iPod controller; an arthritic spaniel wandering in and out; Jamie Oliver coming in to admit that he dropped the pasta in the sink when he was trying to strain it and everyone saying 'Oh, don't worry, it'll taste fine,' in concilliatory tones. Surely more conducive to a fun evening? But possibly not such a great environment for an evening which ultimately concluded in the announcment of a $1.1 trillion dollar cash injection. So far, the markets seem to be pleased about this, but until my house price rises, I'll be raising a cynical eyebrow and refusing to comment.

Finally, as warned in the title of today's posting, a brief and (I hope) uncharacteristic revel. I am a very lucky bunny, but I must just quickly note, as I never have said it out loud before, that I freaking love being able to sing. Last night, three of us met at Harry's flat to rehearse for a wedding at which we're singing in a few weeks. And suddenly, the black and white notes on a page were able to bring tears to the eyes of the happy-couple-elect. It's just the most wonderful feeling, to be part of something that comes from your body alone, that can be done anywhere in the world: complete and joyous escapism, a mental and physical act that challenges and rewards. I'm not the best singer, and I tend to brush off comments about enjoying it for fear of looking uncool - but, in case I'm hit by a bus in the next 24 hours, I'd like the records to show that singing, whether in the choir or in smaller groups or even on my own, makes me very happy indeed and it's a hobby I'd recommend without hesitation. I was in fine fettle on my bus journey home, humming along to Stevie Wonder and feeling pretty self-sufficient and massively fortunate. Then I woke up this morning with the sensation that thirty or forty smallish beanbags filled with a warm, leaden gel had been placed on my skull and shoulders, and that two large thumbs were slowly and methodically attempting to push my eyeballs out through their sockets from the inside. Depression: it's a fascinating beast and for reasons of self-discovery alone, I don't regret having it but ooh, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. TGIF.