Honestly.

I'm going to tell you the truth now. No hilarious stories about blood on my leg or wee on my foot. I can write brilliantly about all the crazy antics up to which I get, and you'll think I'm truly astonishing and massively enviable and that everything is hunky dory - and in many hundreds of thousands of ways, it is: my life is brilliant. [Growl at unavoidable James Blunt quotation]. But in addition to me being extremely hunky dory, I'm also feeling a fraction pointless. I'm 32. An amazing talented and unfairly attractive girl in the year below me at school just had this fantastic article written about her in last weekend's Observer and it made me want to run out of the office, rip off my Marks & Spencers slacks and do something scandalous. But then I remembered (or rather, Kate reminded me) that I too have fun anecdotes from the past ten years, and that if one distilled them all down into a pert article, they'd look amazing as well. Plus I am very bad at being poor and I have a mortgage to pay. Obviously I don't love my job as much as Marina loves hers, but I do love the fact that my salary allows me to do fun things like go to the theatre and festivals and on holiday and out to interesting restaurants and to buy clothes from hip vintage retailers so I look like a kooky cool kid about town. In addition, I'm single, which is fine. Genuinely fine. Sure, I'd rather be Crazy In Love and be being flown to Prague and kissed inappropriately during the intervals of concerts and receive saucy text messages while I'm in work meetings, but I'd also rather be a size eight with permanently tanned skin, naturally blonde hair, no cellulite, a photographic memory, an uncanny knack with an acoustic guitar, a great pianist, songwriter and jazz singer with feet that are a size eight or smaller. I'm none of those things and that's fine. I just think that maybe I'm a bit... bored.

What I need is an adventure. It doesn't have to be long. It doesn't have to be terrifying. Something along the lines of a breath of fresh air. Some reinvigoration. I was thinking about taking a sabbatical, going to Thailand and training to become a yoga teacher but then I thought that was ridiculously selfish. I know I should probably do something that makes the world fractionally better. However, unless it is a) quite easy and b) ends up with me being thinner and browner, I just don't think I will be motivated to do it. I do want to make the world better, really I do, but just not if it's really difficult. If I'm honest, I probably won't do it if it's even just a bit tricky. It's disgraceful, and you're welcome to hate me for my intrinsic laziness, but I may as well be upfront about it now. Having been beating myself up almost non-stop for my twenties, I am so delighted with the idea of just existing happily, that my motivation to put myself out, to do things that are hard, or occasionally unpleasant, even when the goal is honourable, has almost disappeared. Added to that, my deep cynicism about politics and the media mean that fighting for change seems pretty pointless. I've been left as a selfish loafer and I don't like it - but I don't like any of the alternatives either. So, my perimeters are fixed. But perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps one can change the world between 9am and 6pm, Monday to Friday? I'll think on't and let you know.

In other news: my weekend was odd too - which is probably part of the reason why I'm feeling a bit confused now. The Glastocrush is sadly Glastover, as you may have gathered, which is all for the best, but meant that I was single on Saturday night when Ses and I went to the Michael Jackson Birthday tribute night at the Jazz Cafe. It was brilliant and I wore my white fedora and lots of fun people danced with us and a handsome man bought me a drink. Result. Then on Sunday I had a cold and was also very hungover and went to the Notting Hill Carnival. This was a terrible, terrible idea. I was single and ill and grumpy and emotional and needy and singularly unable to get drunk despite many beers consumed, wandering around streets full of deafening music and seemingly shielded from the fun by some sort of killjoy force field. I ended up having a massive row with the world's most annoying policeman, bursting into tears, stropping home early on my own, having a bath and going to bed while everyone else had a brilliant time by kissing attractive people, going to impromptu house parties and then onto raves in Shepherd's Bush where other people were inhaling laughing gas out of balloons. Maybe next year.

Also: my mouth is all cut as I had a tuna baguette for lunch. As if it wasn't bad enough to feel guilty about the fact that I've just eaten white unrefined flour, lots of mayonnaise and probably some butter (too frightened to look), and knowing that my only attempt at five a day was a few slices of cucumber, I now have to sit here in oral pain. Gah.

And finally: this is my 400th post.