You win some, you lose some

So on Saturday, everything looked rosy. The sun was shining, I got up on time, and, in an act of heroic proportions, managed to fix my own washing machine by emptying the filter, catching all the water in a bucket, cleaning out the filter, and restarting it all. This may sound like child's play, but when you can visualise my washing machine, whisch for several complex reasons involving pipes that I was too tight to reroute, sits atop a raised platform in a tiny room, you will understand that the aforedescribed deed required me to jump on top of the machine, swivel around to lie on my chest, legs extended out of the door, while reaching down with thankfully disproportionate arms to push the drainage pipe to one side and switch off the plug at the mains. Prior to this, I'd tried to reach up to the plug from underneath, lying on my back among my boxes of Persil and bottles of Lenor, but I couldn't quite reach the plug, and as my eyes adjusted, I realised that I was absolutely surrounded by spiders. I was nearly sick, extracted myself from the confined space, did the universal get-the-insect-off-me dance accompanied by the universal squealy song called 'Get The Insect Off Me Now'. Then I got out the hoover and fed the spiders to Henry. As a result of the protracted process, I bruised both shins fairly substantially, broke a nail and cut my arm. Still, it was all counterbalanced by my success in retrieving a nondescript but troublesome piece of black fabric from the filter, and I apologise unreservedly for the smugness that must have oozed out of the headset when I phoned back Hotpoint to cancel my £160 call-out.

As a result, I positively skipped in to Em's birthday brunch at Tom Aikens. After a delicious meal at Quaglino's on Friday night following the absurdly fun Steam Temple Experience at the spa in the Hotel Intercontinental, Em and I were glowing from top to toe, but nonetheless the assembled troops bravely managed to forget about health long enough to force bagels, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, blueberry muffins, bacon, milkshakes, coffee, juice and white wine into our undernourished systems. We were the nightmare noisy table that is a bit hysterical, laughing a bit too loudly and having a bit more fun than everyone else. I slightly hated us but couldn't stop laughing. What do you call a cheese that doesn't belong to you? Nacho cheese. Ah me. Those were the days...

So then Em, Erf and I meandered down to the King's Road and I splashed out on some cute jewellery for Nicole's daughters, a dress from Zara and a long-desired pair of Havaianas from Office. I was wearing heart-shaped sunglasses and all was well in the world. Will the joys of consumerism ever cease to make me happy? I do hope so, but it seems unlikely. Shortly after 3pm, I took my leave from Em and Erf, and got on the Circle Line round to Paddington. I arrived at the station in plenty of time, found my reserved seat at the front of the train in Coach A, the quiet carriage, and sat down to read my book with ten minutes to spare. Then I realised with absolute certainty that when I exited the Circle Line at Paddington, I had picked up my handbag and my rucksack, but left behind the Office bag containing my new shoes, my new dress, the jewellery from Accessorize and a smoothie from Boots. Fuming, I stood up, grabbed my two remaining bags and pegged it back down the length of the train to the ticket barrier, just to check the station concourse on the offchance I'd left it there, even though I knew without any hint of doubt that I had not. I was right. I hadn't. My bags of newly purchased items were winging their way towards Moorgate on the Circle Line, assuming they had not already been discovered by a lucky vulture. The protective glow of self-satisfaction that had been emanating from me just moments before vanished immediately. All that remained was an aura of dejectedness and, following three trips down the length of the Paddington platform, a sheen of sweat.

But it's impossible to be grumpy for long with Nicole and her adorable brood, even when they are covered in pasta sauce and iridescent mucous, and all they want to do is see your boobies or show you theirs. I had a fantastically restful time on Saturday night, Sunday and Monday, continued to attempt to break the world record for most Weight Watchers points consumed in a single weekend, took some great pics, groomed Millie the pony, walked the dogs, sprayed one of the chicken's feet with some sort of scaly leg stuff, (kind of) helped to move a shed, looked after all three children single-handedly for an hour while Nic went riding (it went OK but I think two hours would have been beyond me), made a sauce for a sticky toffee pudding (indicative of health levels throughout stay), discussed mental health virtually without drawing breath and was back in my flat just before 4pm yesterday, when I watched back-to-back Britain's Got Talent (am outraged) and tidied everything in preparation for the week ahead. I'm trying not to think too much about my lost items, or be too grumpy about the fact that their combined value is almost precisely what it would cost me to claim for them via my insurance policy (no claims bonuses are SO ANNOYING), and now I am avoiding having to exercise by typing every minute detail that pops into my head. You'd have thought that with my holiday less than a fortnight away, I'd be working out non-stop, but I almost fear I'm past saving, and seem to have misplaced my mojo. Right. Must go down to the murky basement gym and punish myself after the weekend's excesses. Back asap.