A list and some links

Ooh, the last 36 hours have been splendid in the most wonderfully mundane way. See here:

1. I had the day off work.
2. I got up just before noon.
3. My bedroom was warm, thanks to my new retro heater.
4. Davina went into the Big Brother house on Wednesday night and all the housemates were dressed up in animal costumes and god it was funny in quite a strange sinister way.
5. Also funny was this.
6. Then there was this which is also amazing.
7. Then I was opening my post and found a letter from the bank which said that the mean bankrupt skiing people had refunded almost all our money! Hooray!
8. Then the Tesco man came and brought me lots of lovely food.
9. He also brought me two bunches of daffodils (I'd ordered them, they weren't an impromptu gift although that would have been great) and now they are sitting in my flat in jam jars, about to pop and it's the best thing ever.
10. I had sardines in tomato on toast for lunch and it was freaking delicious.
11. I listened to lots of new (to me) music. If you are bored of waiting for the new Fleet Foxes album, just buy Person Pitch by Panda Bear. If you don't like Death Cab For Cutie's album on first listen, give it another go. It improves. Although not a huge amount.
12. I tidied my whole gorgeous flat from left to right and put things away and did laundry and bleached my shower curtain and wiped down the fronts of all my kitchen cabinets and hoovered and now it looks like a show home but in a kooky, unique and extremely comfortable way. Not like this (thanks Sara).
13. I watched some of the new series of American Idol and am now comforted that there is reality life after Big Brother finishes.
14. I marinated the lamb that I'm going to cook tomorrow night, and slow roasted some tomatoes and made some raita. Yum.
15. I realised that the amount of money that Grania and I were going to be spending on a skiing holiday was equivalent to the amount of money someone might spend travelling somewhere absolutely extraordinary and having a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, rather than getting drunk in Switzerland and pointing at over-confident Etonians. So maybe we will go somewhere extraordinary instead. We are discussing it over the weekend. More to follow.
16. For dinner I had an absolutely amazing Thai prawn curry and some very nice white wine. And a Nobbly Bobbly. Yes. You heard me. A Nobbly Bobbly. It is an ice lolly.

And now I have been to the gym and done rowing and other cardio, and am off to enjoy my weekend, kicking off with a trip to the BFI for another Ozu masterpiece. But before I do... I am aware that two of my most loyal Faithful have had very sad news this week and my thoughts are with both of you. The death of a parent is something that I am so lucky not to have had to deal with - yet. But the funeral I attended recently showed me that, no matter what wonderful terms you are on with the deceased, no matter how expected it was, no matter much pain they were in nor how much of a blessing in disguise it may be that a long illness is over, the loss of someone dear to you is agonising. The thought of never hearing my dad crack another joke, or not receiving another email from my mum telling me she loves me a propos of nothing, oh, it makes me feel physically sick. I am grateful for every moment and my attempts at levity above are not to suggest that there is nothing more important going on in the world, but merely to highlight my belief that taking this crazy little thing called life too seriously is a terminal disease in itself. Kisses to you all, my pretties. Tell your loved ones you love them. And then look at some daffodils.

Children of the (Facebook) revolution

Warning to those of a sensitive nature, those in denial about the youth of today, or those likely to think that the behaviour of one or two teenagers equates to the behaviour and/or deepest desires of all young people, globally: clicking on the image to the left to embiggen it may seriously damage your health.

For all others: Oh. Emm. Gee. This is horrific and hilarious on so many levels. There is a full description of the scenario if you scroll down to below the scanned bit of paper, but to explain in brief: some girl ratted on her brother to their parents, and they grounded him. Desperate for revenge, he was going through her room and found a list she'd written of all the boys she knew and what she wanted to do with them. He posted the list on Facebook, and everyone in her school (and now millions of others) have seen it, singlehandedly making me thankful to be an only child. NOT THAT I HAVE EVER WRITTEN A LIST LIKE THIS and yes, the girl seems deeply unpleasant and in need of a bit of ego-crushing / life-lesson-learning, but wow. Not sure anyone deserves that intensity of humiliation when they're still at such a formative age. Could their relationship ever recover from this? Shudder. Laugh. Shudder.

I have just returned from a 40 minute run with Laura when I felt like someone had filled my lungs up with treacle. It was a lot harder than the 10k I did in 2008. It's so weird when that happens, isn't it? I ran along the Southbank for 45 mins on Monday and it was absolutely fine, then did 45 mins of cardio in the gym yesterday and quite enjoyed it, and then today I almost had a hernia on Southwark Bridge and had to stop outside M&S on Old Broad Street because I had a stitch. Sooooooooo cool. I am still in shock now. Yoga tomorrow, methinks.

Last night was a cultural highpoint. I went to see a modern reworking of Moliere's The Misanthrope on Panton Street and it was absolutely fantastic. I was totally prepared to hate it because it was a) in the West End and b) had celebrity cast members (Damian Lewis and Keira Knightley) but I was hooked from curtain up. The script, echoing the original, rhymed. Throughout. This was brilliant because it forced the audience to really, really listen - as a consequence, it was one of the quietest congregations I've ever enjoyed. It was also brilliant because it was massively clever - two hours of rhyming isn't easy, whatever the topic, but when it's also satirical, topical and believable, it's a huge technical and linguistic achievement. Most of the way through I sat there fuming that I hadn't done it first, but ten percent of the time I had to concede that it was way beyond my abilities. I got the jokes, sure, but I don't think I could have thought of them in the first place. Maybe in a few years... It's the first time I've ever left a play and bought the script in the foyer. In fact, the last time I bought anything in a foyer was the twin cassette of Starlight Express in the mid-eighties and I'm pretty sure my parents will have paid for that.

I suppose it resonated because, in some ways, the play's central premise is so close to what I battle with a lot - whether one should be open-minded and forgiving of humanity's failings or rail against them and fight for the right to be different. In the same way that the planetary YouTube clip I posted the other night made me feel tiny, culture like that makes me feel pleasingly irrelevant: people have been worrying about this stuff since the 17th century and they'll be worrying about it long after I'm gone. I'll do my best, bumble along, and eventually I'll feed the worms. Nice.

It wasn't just the script that was wowing, though. Damian Lewis was good, as expected, but Keira was a revelation. I really like her and think she's absolutely gorgeous, so I'm possibly not the most objective viewer, but her portrayal of a whining American superstar was confident, utterly convincing and, at times, very moving. She gave me goosebumps and I send her props. Also, if she's reading, I'd really like that black dress from the final scene in my size. Any way you can help? Thanx.

After the play, I went home and watched Celebrity Big Brother, which sadly grinds to an end this weekend. Last night's episode was absolutely fantastic and I was grinning compulsively as Alex Reid was covered in spray tan. Brilliant entertainment, a blast of MSG escapism, and anyone who's snobbish about reality TV knows where they can shove their superiority complex. Byeeeeeee.

Electric dreams

Two typos and a misused 'which' yesterday but due to rushing I didn't spot them until long after my self-imposed thirty minute editing window had past. Tut tut. Am distracting myself with my consumer excitement of the day: I am going to go to John Lewis after work and buy a fleecy heated underblanket. My arctic bedroom conditions have beaten me - I went to bed last night wearing velour bottoms, a T-shirt, a velour long sleeved nightie, a snood and slippers and was still so cold that I had to heat up my microwave beanbag and arrange it over my face so that it heated up my nose while still allowing me to breathe. Basically, I need another radiator in my bedroom, but a fleece underblanket is a) cheaper and b) easier so we will all have to ignore the fact that c) it makes me feel like I should also be applying for a freedom pass.

Not much to report from this end. New eyeliner is lovely. I am waiting to see what the Apple Tablet looks like. The Guardian's editor says that Murdoch is wrong to charge for online news access, but I can't see how it's sustainable to give all this journalism away for free when so many individuals are prepared to do it on a smaller, more niche basis without getting paid or by generating advertising revenue on their sites. Of course, the big papers generate online ad revenue too - huge amounts - but it's simply not enough to cover their overheads: apparently the Graun is losing £100k a day. Hmmm. The next few years are going to be very interesting.

I feel so lucky to have been born with one foot in The Past and one in The Future. I got my first mobile phone and email address when I was 18, but I still clearly remember life without them, when home computers were rare, TV only had four channels, and I spent most termtime nights queuing with ten other girls, waiting to use the landline at our boarding school, trying to get through to the house of some uninterested boy who was out playing sport or doing something really cool and would never get the breezy messages we left. Now Skype videocalls are normal, I can watch live TV on my phone and I frequently leave the house without a clue where I'm going, but by the time I've reached the tube station I've copied and pasted the postcode from an email into the maps app, found my destination, worked out which stop I'm headed for, and then found out which part of the platform to get on the train in order to be nearest the exit stairs on my arrival. I can't imagine how the future of technology could be much cooler than it is already but I'm sure it will surprise us all. Hold on tight.

Le weekend

I'm so inspired by yesterday's class that I feel I should write everything in alphabetical sentences or useg a complex web of unexpected adjectives, but I only have about six seconds to write this before it's 5 o'clock and perish the thought that I might stay at my desk a microsecond longer than I am contractually obliged to. (Dangling preposition caused me problems there - any suggestions? 'a microsecond longer than that to which I am contractually obliged'? Goodness).

First on the recap list is Friday's Nick Drake tribute concert at the Barbican, which was emotional and wonderful and all sorts of other special things. My £15 restricted view seats weren't remotely restricted and it was one of those rare occasions where you actually feel like you have been undercharged. The orchestra was absolutely superb while the guest singers ranged from odd to seminal - a jazz singer called Krystal something was so extraordinary I felt as though I had witnessed something truly genre-defining. She was followed by the lovely Teddy Thompson, who ambled on stage and said, 'Well, that was good,' and then rolled his eyes, despairing at how to follow such a unique talent. Scott Matthews was really brilliant too, but what the different interpretations really highlighted was how much Drake's breathy, ramshackle voice was part of the recordings' collective soul - plonk another vocalist, however talented, on top of the still-perfect orchestrations and all you're left with is a yearning that it was Nick singing, not the newbie. For that reasons, the songs which were most different from the originals worked best, as the gap between then and now was celebrated rather than mourned. It was an extraordinary gig, and an honour to hear long-time Drake bassist, Danny Thompson. Leaving the building and strolling through the Moorfields Highwalk with Ses in the dark, weaving through that most fantastic complex on our way back to the tube, with those beautiful melodies ringing in our ears... London... you win again.

Argh, six minutes til deadline, the rest must be brief. A lovely weekend, filled with old friends, good food and wine on Saturday night and self-improvement and shopping on Sunday - I can't really concoct a more perfect recipe for a 48 hour period. I did cringe at this depressing symbol of modernity (left), proving that the overheard lyrics to Rihanna's first number one are more powerful than the in-house spellcheck at H&M, Covent Garden. But really, if that's all I can think of to complain about, then I'm doing pretty well. And now Monday's over, I'm off to choir, there's theatre tomorrow, ukulele on Wednesday, rolling with the homies on Thursday, girlie love-in on Friday, retro partying on Saturday and bracing walking on Sunday to come. Plus I am about to go to Boots and buy a new eyeliner which for some reason has given me butterflies. I am a consumerist whore and should be locked up.

No time to talk about the Cameron poster and I'm sure you've all seen it by now but cor blimey some of the efforts have been hilarious. Please enjoy here. God bless the internet. Ooh pants I'm late.

Afternoon delights

I just got back from a one day writing course at City Lit, where we used word games to free up our creativity. It was really good. One exercise had us write down the letters in the alphabet, but in a completely jumbled up, random order, and then write something where each word had to start with the letters, in the order that we'd written them down. We only had a few minutes on that exercise - I did one:

Voluptuous, flyaway Bertha jumped neatly round Will, and emphatically indicated my quail.
"Your Zanzibarian cockerell, Gideon, kicked over Sophie's xylophone! Damned hellish loose poultry. Too unfortunate."

Then I had some time left so I did another one:

Very fortunate boys jostle near Ronaldo,
Wishing avidly, excitedly, impossibly.
More queuing yesterday,
Zebra crossing,
Goal kick,
One shot,
X-box,
Desperation, hope, love.
Please touch us.

I really liked the way that the constriction of the 26 letters forced you into an unexpected place. If you'd asked me to write a 26 word story, I'd never have come up with either of those. And it was surprising how, both times, the first three or four words set the tone and the pace for the rest of the piece. Good exercise.

For another game, we were asked to draw six columns on a piece of paper, and label each one with Adjective, Noun, Adverb, Verb, Adjective, Noun. In the first column, we wrote four adjectives. Then we folded over the piece of paper so our words were hidden, and passed it on round the room, filling in the columns on different pieces of paper each time. Eventually, we unfolded one piece of paper each and had four different six word phrases in front of us. The last line of mine read: 'Lumpen boy painfully snogs warm farmer.' Brilliant.

A really enjoyable day, capped off with the purchase of an amazing cream and sequined jumper in the lunchbreak. Back at home now, with dishwasher humming and popcorn maker calling. Proper weekend summary to follow tomorrow in some downtime. Adios.

The truth may or may not be out there

I see from the internet that it is more likely that there are aliens in our galaxy than that I will fall in love, in London, with someone who loves me back. A 31 year old professor whose name is tenuously linked to Warwick University has said that he is looking for a London-based female aged between 24 and 34 who has a university education. He has estimated that he would be physically attracted to about five percent of all ladies who fit those criteria. Then, using the assumption that these women, too, will have similar criteria of their own and will probably only have a five percent chance of fancying him, he has calculated that there are 26 women in the UK who fit his bill, meaning that "on a given night out in London there is a 0.00034% chance of meeting one of these special people. That's a 1 in 285,00 chance. Not great."

Not great indeed, for him. Fortunately, things for me are a lot more footloose. For a start, I don't care if my man has gone to university or not, nor whether he lives in London. I do, of course, need to find him funny and knee-weakeningly attractive, and he needs to have good manners and help me on with my coat, and be clever and creative and cool and swim against the tide and all that malarkey. But that's not asking much now, is it. Plus, after watching this the other day on YouTube, in HD full-screen, the idea that we are alone in space is so laughable that I suddenly don't blame those mental UFO-hunters for searching so wildly. We are not alone. And given that I am currently in love with about thirty people, including some girls, a Celebrity Big Brother contestant and my teenage Japanese hairdresser, I think the only conclusion we can draw is that there are aliens out there, and that, while science may be good on some subjects, it doesn't know much about my lovelife.

Underground Mafia

At the western extremity of a nondescript dead-end in the heart of London's Soho, there is an unremarkable pub. As you enter, on a Wednesday evening sometime after 7ish, you'll struggle to notice any defining features - just a hazy yellow light and the usual rabble of midweek drinkers losing their inhibitions and forgetting about spreadsheets. But after your ears become accustomed to the chatter, you will perhaps detect a rumbling 'neath your feet, a rowdy stamping and the strains of a chorus emerging from the deep. Intrigued, you turn away from the bar to find the stairs down to the basement, and as the music grows, you turn a corner into a cellar crammed full of smiling people, seemingly aged anywhere between 18 and 80, laughing, drinking and singing with force. The people are in all shapes and sizes but all of them are holding something against their chest, a small stringed instrument shaped like a baby guitar, and they are playing it vigorously, carelessly, with unselfconscious love and abandon. This is the Ukulele Jam, and when I sat down amongst a group of strangers last night and they shared their songbook with me so I could strum along to Like A Prayer by Madonna, I knew I had found my spiritual home. God it is fun. But it's mine, and no, you can't come too. At least not until I've established myself as a core member. Only child? Attention seeking? I'll take down anyone who suggests such blarney. I am merely charming, magnetic and multi-talented - and you love me.

In other news: I look deliberately rough. I have no plans tonight and I am literally so excited I think I might cry if anyone offered me something more fun to do than go home and achieve. Tasks for this evening: one hour of Rodney Yee; don velour; scrape fringe off forehead with ridiculous towelling headband; iron in front of Glee; water and feed houseplants; remove misc. dark matter from leaves of bay tree; upload photos to online photo processing site; eat cereal for dinner; exfoliate; wear face mask; watch Celebrity Big Brother. I know. I am a goddess, a modern day Helen of Troy. And you still love me.

The Road: The Verdict

As the Faithful will know, towards the end of last year I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy and was left shell-shocked. So when I heard it was being made into a film starring Viggo Mortensen, I was apprehensive and excited - he's good, I thought, and certainly well-cast - but... what could a film add to the bleak perfection of the book? Last night I went to find out, and the answer is: precisely nothing. It's a worthwhile film, but not nearly as good as the book, not even close - it adds rien and takes away beaucoup. I'm glad I saw it but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.

That's not to say that I didn't get emotionally involved, however. Of course, I was sitting there being superior, thinking how it wasn't a patch on Cormac's version, that film is probably the most complete medium there is, but that there is something about truly magical books that can't be replicated on celluloid, scoffing at slightly clunky bits in the screenplay that interrupted the story's natural flow, and moments later I was aggressively strangled by the force of my tears, paralysed by the lengths to which the father and son are driven by their need to survive, and grief-stricken by the tale's lowest point right before its end. To the best of my recollection, I haven't cried in quite some time, and the force with which the hot saltwater coursed down my face left me concerned that it might erode pathways in my cheeks. After two minutes of stifling my sobs, I had to look away from the screen for fear that, if the adorable son made one more heart-rending plea to his father, I would start making noises like some sort of birthing walrus. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one snivveling away like a hormonal idiot - it seemed like the entire cinema was having similar issues. It's sad alright. But no sadder than the book - and certainly less powerful overall. Read it, my pretties, read it.

In AOB, today I am starting to face up to my denial about a rather large financial issue. Grania and I are booked to go skiing in March. We've paid for our flights, and we've paid for our accommodation. But on Monday I received an email saying (parents, brace yourselves) that the chalet we'd booked has gone bust. They are allegedly returning our money, but who knows. Of course, we still want to ski, and if they return the money, then great, we can book somewhere else (I've already found an alternative). But if they don't return our cash, we can't afford to go elsewhere and pay two lots of chalet fees, so we'll have to call it quits. It's a bit of a nightmare, really, but the one positive that has emerged from this is that I am ridiculously calm. My parents would have steam coming out of their ears and I know it's a bad thing, but there is literally absolutely nothing I can do about it. I'm firmly in the camp that doesn't see much point shedding tears over spilled milk (although copious weeping over a fictional movie apocalypse is of course fine) - if you can fix it, go ahead, if you can't, shut up and don't whinge - so it's reassuring to know that, in the face of quite an expensive situation, I'm not losing my cool. Go me. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to buy me a week's chalet hire, I'd be very grateful. Email address is in my profile, underneath the photo of the lost baby whale.

Haiti, Leona and self-absorption. Just another day on LLFF.

A couple of weeks ago, when Islamists were protesting in the town of Wootton Bassett, Newsarse, the brilliant satirical UK news website, posted a headline saying that all over the country, left-wing Guardian readers' heads were exploding because they couldn't find the correct stance on the matter - the conflict between a true commitment to freedom of speech, a desire not to write off all Muslims as violent wannabe bombers and a simultaneous and firm dislike of terrorism put us into a state of mental overdrive, whereupon we blew up. I'm going through a similar situation with cruise liners in Haiti. What's happened over there is utterly devastating, the piles of corpses stacking up outside the morgues is heartbreaking and the thought of such a turbulent country being kicked so conclusively in the nuts when it's already so weak is just mind-shattering. And now we read that hundreds of tourists are being shipped in to a port sixty miles away, where they are free to sunbathe, jetski and relax. The Guardian article points out that the boats and their passengers bring valuable money to the port in this time of urgent need, and one of the commentators rightly says that if there was a huge disaster in London, we wouldn't want tourists to stop going to Brighton. But there is something undeniably gross about holidaying so close to human agony. I know, I know, it's a pointless question of geography - would we give someone a hard time about going ahead with a planned holiday in Marbella while the earthquake is being cleaned up in Haiti? Probably not. So what does it matter if they happen to have booked near the site of a recent natural disaster? But, like sitting down next to a homeless person and tucking in to a Big Mac, it seems more than a little insensitive. The cruise ships justify it by giving 100% of their profits to the rescue efforts. How about giving the profits anyway but diverting the cruise somewhere else? I dunno. I'm only a born again liberal. I don't have the answers. I just feel a bit sick. I gave £100 to the relief effort this morning and my company, in a rare it's-good-to-work-for-a-City-bank moment, will double all its employees' donations. I'm not sure if any of it will get to where it's needed, but I can do nothing else. Please visit Unicef and donate, if you haven't already. I wouldn't normally mention the amount but I thought it might add gravitas. Yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck we're so lucky.

In other news, it appears that Leona Lewis forgot to remind her skivvies to iron her dress before the Golden Globes. Oops. Sure, there's the crushed silk look, I know about that, but what she's wearing isn't it. She looks like she did my usual trick of pulling the garment out of the washing machine, brushing it down firmly while it was still damp and hoping for the best. Instead, the thigh-height creases just draw attention to... the wrong places. Obviously if the girl had even a spectre of a personality I might be more forgiving, but as it is, I feel like I'm poking fun at a waxwork, which is not only fine but to be encouraged.

And finally, I am thrilled to confirm that the anti-biotic stint is working its way to a close. I'm off out tonight with Simon and I'm so excited about my first glass of cold white wine that I could weep. Given that we're seeing The Road first, I'll probably already be inconsolable, either with disappointment that it's not a patch on the book, or with genuine grief, the tears might be less hilarious hyperbole and more actually embarrassing. You'll read it here first.

Misnomer

Wisdom teeth, it turns out, are thick as pigshit. If they're so intelligent, why do they half emerge and then get bored and stop, leaving me open to external forces of evil? Where is the Einstein IQ that causes a TOOTH to create a situation whereby I have to take antibiotics that make me spaced out and unable to cope with the most basic of tasks and, more extraordinarily, unable to consume alcohol?

For I, ladies and gentlemen of The Faithful, have just gone An Entire Weekend Without Wine. And my god, if it wasn't one of the most challenging experiences of my entire middle-class existence, up there with boycotting Primark on moral grounds (resounding fail) and tearing myself away from West London (belated success). First up was Friday night, when I had to learn and sing some tango music to accompany a bizarre version of a Midsummer Night's Dream in front of a room full of strangers, and a glass of white would have gone down extremely well. And then on Saturday, having been to an a capella singing workshop at the gorgeous King's Place, I rushed home to receive my parents and my aunt and uncle, who had brought three bottles of wine between them, and as I sipped my Britta-filtered Chateau Neuf du Tap (appalling, sorry), my four wonderful relatives enjoyed several glasses of Rioja and others. They were, as always, superlative company but it was odd being the sensible one. I'll tell you one thing for nothing - my dad is freaking hilarious. Literally very funny. Unrepeatable, so you'll have to take my word for it, but even sober, he had me in stitches.

Then it was Sunday, and I went up to Hoxton to meet Em, and we tried very hard to find a hipster venue for lunch, but there were hipsters lining up outside all the trendy places so we ended up walking down to Spitalfields and going to... wait for it... wait for it... so cutting edge I can hardly bear to tell you.... Strada. I had a Fiorentina. I know. Aren't you impressed by my risky culinary choice? It was delicious. But knock me over with a biro if it wouldn't have been massively improved by a fat glass of unoaked Chardonnay or similar.

And from Shoreditch to Waterloo, and a lovely meeting with an old friend, and a seat on a sofa opposite him in an armchair, as he drank a glass of white, and then another and another and another, while I had four or possibly five small bottles of sparkling Hildon and I was almost weak with desire for alcohol, while simultaneously proud of myself that I was able to endure the H20 experience without seeming too uptight. I just kept thinking of how grateful my skin would be for the detox, and how many calories I was sparing my thighs, but frankly, I'd rather be curvy and have booze than thin and perennially sober. This whole toothache thing is certainly not an experience I'm in any hurry to repeat. The drugs finish in two days and the celebration will be emotional.

My name is Jane and I am not an alcoholic, honestly. I just love wine and I love getting a bit tipsy. Judge me all you like, I am unrepentant.

TGIF. Not a new photo format.

Ooh goodness. I am one sleepy kitten. The antibiotics are definitely working their magic, but not quite as fast as I'd hoped. On the upside, I was only woken up once last night by the pain of my teeth. On the downside, I was still in an unfair bit of discomfort. I haven't slept through the night for about six days and I'm properly exhausted.

On top of teeth-induced tiredness, there was also the fact that I was all over-excited on Wednesday because it was the first night of my six-week ukulele beginners' course in Soho, so that probably wore me out. I can now play Wild Thing and Stand By Me like a pro. I've been told to practice for ten minutes a day every day and I missed yesterday; not the best start. I had a good excuse though: I had spent the day in Leicestershire, singing at a funeral with a few others. I didn't know the deceased, but from the eulogies it was clear that he had been a remarkable man. Blimey funerals are sad. Even though this guy was apparently 93 and had suffered with a long illness, meaning that his death was a bit of a release, the family obviously loved him deeply and almost everyone was in floods. My last grandparent died when I was 11, and I'd never known any of them particularly well. Watching this man's children and grandchildren unable to speak with grief at his loss left me a) crying and b) strangely envious of their relationship. I can't imagine what it would have been like to have had a close bond with someone nearly seventy years my senior. Even if they had not died when I was still a young girl, for purely geographical I don't think my relationship with my grandparents could have been very close, with one in Scotland and the other in the US. I hope that my kids, if I have them, are able to get to know their grandparents. Because they rock.

I don't know why the puppy is here. He just is. In Any Other Business, I'd just like to reiterate an earlier post and draw your attention to the check box next to Show Me You Love Me at the bottom of every blog post. I don't seem to be getting nearly enough ticks for my liking. I know from my Google Analytics stats that there are hundreds of you out there reading every week, but only about three of you comment, and hardly anyone ticks the box. Go on. If you've enjoyed something I've written, TICK IT. It takes less than a second and it makes me feel like I've had a pat on the head. I received an email this morning from a friend, who said that her friend (who I don't know) was talking to two other people (who I don't know either) about a wedding, and the two other people hadn't been to the wedding but said it sounded vaguely familiar, and it turned out that I'd been and they'd read about it on LLFF. Brilliant. I'm practically required reading. Meeting adjourned.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

My remaining wisdom teeth are hurting. They keep waking me up in the middle of the night, and this morning I went to the dentist who said they are slightly infected and that the pain is not coming from where they are pushing through the gum (as I had thought) but from the infection that has crept under the skin: they are 'partially erupted' like a half-hearted volcano, leaving me open to evil outside contamination. So now I'm on anti-biotics, the ones that make you feel sick anyway, but if you drink alcohol, are guaranteed to make you vom. So that's fun. Five days without booze. January just took a turn for the worse. Poor me.

Yesterday was good though. I met up with Ses after work and we had a nice drink in the National bar, and then she left to go to the cinema and Grania arrived and we watched Our Class. When I book tickets for something, it's genuinely a fairly impulsive decision. I don't read reviews or previews, as I'm exceptionally easily-led in terms of theatre and film and, once I've embraced an opinion, tend not to be able to see or search for anything else. When it comes to the National Theatre, I don't think I've ever seen a bad production there (ones I've not enjoyed, yes, but actual wastes of money? No.), so I read a sentence or two about the plot, and then if I'm tickled, I book. I bought the seats to Our Class about four or five months ago, and when I went in last night, all I could remember is that it was something to do with Poland.

It was probably the most effective account of the events surrounding WWII that I've ever seen. Ten adult actors start off as school children in pre-war Poland, and we follow their lives for the next eight decades or so. Some are Jews, some are not. It was moving, instructive, horrifying and profound, and the use of modern dialogue and the lack of any attempt at Polish accents was particularly effective, giving the production a timelessness that was chilling. And the breadth of the play, something that would have been over-dramatized on film, was extraordinary - using the same actors for characters aged from primary school children to OAPs, without any changes in costume or make-up, no sets, the only props limited to ten wooden schoolchairs... it was minimalist but the script's scope and conviction left us all stricken. Understandably, Holocaust films often focus on the war years alone, but this play took the audience from twenty years before to fifty years after, leaving us in no doubt that the effects of the war are still being felt today. Lest we forget. Brilliant theatre, not perfect but highly recommended, £10 restricted view seats upstairs more than adequate. Go go go. Oh. I've just been to the NT website to get you your hyperlink and it turns out that last night was the end of the run. Sorry. You'll have to take my word for it. I'll try to give you more notice next time.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

In my solitude...

Last night I went to The School of Life for a class called How Necessary Is A Relationship? As an only child whose parents are still madly in love nearly half a century after meeting, my view on relationships has been slightly, well, blinkered. In that, until recently, I've tended to think that a life alone is a failed life. I've never wanted to be single and the looming end of relationships has filled me with fear. But for the vast majority of the time since early August 2008, I've been on my own and I've been happier than I've ever been before. So I've had to admit that, perhaps, being alone isn't so bad. Perhaps, being alone is fantastic.

What was especially fascinating for me yesterday was the prework they set us - we had to write the pros and cons of relationships, and the pros and cons of being single, on two different pieces of paper. When we arrived at the class, we had to sit in groups and discuss our lists, and whether or not we'd have written the same thing three years ago. To be honest, I doubt I would have written the same thing six months ago - and in fact, if you'd asked me yesterday to predict what I would write, I'd have guessed that it would be all pro-relationships and anti-singledom. But instead, I had a lot of positive things to say about being on my own, and a lot of unexpected fear of relationships. I guess it makes sense - after all, the very fact that I'm single now means that my past relationships haven't been successful, for one reason or another, so it's natural that I'm wary of getting hurt again. But I always assumed that I wanted a boyfriend more than I feared the pain of getting hurt. Now, suddenly, it seems that I am enjoying things so much as they are that I have a lot more to lose than I ever did before. If it weren't for our old friend, Ye Biologicalle Clocke, I'd be fine to stay as I am indefinitely.

The class itself was interesting (although obviously nothing was nearly as fascinating as what was going on in my head) but my favourite bit was when we were given three minutes to draw our own Map Of Love. I went for a mountainous landscape (below), featuring several options: Happy Families living on Stability Street where the sun shines and people stifle their yawns, separated from the pain that has been intrinsic to love in my experience (the Land of Loss and Heartbreak) by a place called The Happy Medium Or: Fantasyland? Then there is the Risky River, which borders on Adventure and Excitement in Foreign Places. I'm standing on the shore, looking out to sea and the hills beyond, and wondering what the hell to do. Over-simplistic? Yes. Quite fun though.

Don't get me wrong. I do want love. And I want a family. But I love the freedom I've had, the solitude I've grown to need, and, well, it's all making sense in retrospect, innit.

Puss in plaster

Aw, look at the tiny kitten with the broken paw in a cast! This is shorthand for saying that I don't have much to write about today. That's what happens when I spend three consecutive nights in my flat watching Celebrity Big Brother. I was meant to be going to the first class of my six week Beginner's Ukulele course in Soho, but it was snowed off. Tonight I'm going out on the Southbank and to a new restaurant, so I'll be able to report back tomorrow. But for now, I'm afraid Limpy the Kitten is going to have to suffice.

Just briefly...

...anyone interested in movies might find this list, as I did, a delicious combination of daunting and thrilling. The rest of the blog is brilliant too, BTW.

And I'm back

Given that I am the world's most efficient person, it should come as little surprise to anyone that I decided to organise a New Year party on 2nd January, to start five hours after my plane was due to land. I'd had a delivery of food and Cava before I left for Prague, and miraculously, everything happened on time - the pate was made to schedule, the olives were baked, the chorizo was chopped, the wine was cooled - the only thing I had neglected to factor in was people being absolute wusses and deciding they were too tired to come. My eventual stats for the evening were something like:

Invited: 79
Expected to attend: around 15-20
Responded: 68
Ignored altogether: 11
Refused point blank: 47
Accepted: 12
Maybes: 8
Cancelled on the day: 6
Gatecrashed: 4
Attended: 14
Bedtime: 4am

It was really fun. Really, really fun. Possibly too much fun for Leo, who I had to send home with a bottle of mostly-drunk whiskey as he had disgraced himself somewhat. But everyone else was excellent, the pub quiz went well, the charades were raucous, I LOVE the addition of the sabotage option, only one drop of red wine was spilled and was hastily removed with my beloved power laser carpet shampoo miracle product (thank you OxyKIC), my flat looked lovely and candlelit and I had a groovy time.

On Sunday I got butterflies when I realised I was going to buy a new camera, and I went to Jessops and did, and it's amazing amazing. And then I went to see Tokyo Story at the BFI, which I absolutely loved. God I want to go to Japan. I am drawn there like a freezing cold moth on a icy night to a roaring log fire surrounded by halogen lamps. Blame Murakami. And Hello Kitty. And my conviction that I'll take, like, the best photos ever. And write brilliant things that have never been thought before, let alone written out loud.

On Sunday evening I met up with Em at the BFI bar and we caught up after weeks apart - she'd been at my party the night before but we hadn't really spoken - and we giggled helplessly over my favourites on Texts From Last Night (still funny, not a passing fad).

Monday was my first day back and I felt so rank and exhausted but I dragged myself to the gym and then went at 5pm and Kazu, a gorgeous Japanese man at the hairdresser next door to my office, gave me the best haircut, not just of my life, but of anyone's life, and I literally can't stop looking at myself in the mirror. It couldn't be cooler. I look like I should be wearing a Seventies ski suit with a white polo-neck jumper. Best of all, even BEFORE he'd cut my hair, Kazu asked me if I'd ever MODELLED! Can you imagine?! I laughed in his face. Too hilarious. But then after he cut it, I suddenly thought maybe I might be in line for Kate Moss' throne. Maybe if I swap fun size Crunchies for heroin, it'll work out. I'll keep you posted.

Yesterday was Tuesday and, even after one trip to the gym, I felt like a new woman, convinced I could see the beginnings of a six pack. It's absurd how quickly I expect to see results. Enthused, I went again in the afternoon, and panted my way through a forty minute stint on the treadmill. And I will go again shortly. I would be feeling absurdly pleased with myself were it not for the fact that I ate approx. three times my own bodyweight in leftover Christmas/party chocolate last night, including, in fact, an entire bag of M&S chocolate-covered raisins that I'd bought yesterday evening because they were reduced to 50p, even though I knew full well that, back at my flat, there was enough chocolate to fill a large skip. I'm putting it down to hormones.

Now I'm grumpy because, although it is snowing heavily, I live and work in a frustratingly warm microclimate, and while many of my colleagues have been unable to get to work due to thick snowfall, I woke up to a feint dusting of white, like a meagre sprinkling of icing sugar on a cake, and was able to travel into work on the underground without incident. I had been dreaming of a snow day, snuggled under a blanket with the heating on Permanent, watching bad movies and live Celebrity Big Brother, and possibly having a little snooze around now. Instead, I am drinking green tea, struggling to stay awake and delaying my gym trip. Nothing more motivating than the idea of me in too-tight salopettes, though. Ick.

Czeching Out

My eyes are stinging with tiredness but now is as bad a time to write as any. New Year's Eve was truly wonderful. We went to a restaurant we'd spied earlier, and had a delicious four course dinner including pizza underneath a gorgeous vaulted ceiling, chatting non-stop to the Hungarians at the table next to us and the stammering Germans opposite, and later to the enthusiastic Greeks at the table even further away. At 23:47 we rushed out into the Old Town Square, determined to see the Astrological Clock chime us in to the new decade, but there was no way we could muscle through the packed crowd, so we celebrated midnight opposite the Christmas tree, as thousands of impromptu fireworks were set off all around us, with scant regard for health or, indeed, safety. Nick got through his hatred of NYE by pretending he was reporting back for a local BBC News channel, asking everyone who would make eye contact with us where they were from, and what their hopes were for 2010.

After the big moment had quietened down somewhat, we returned to the restaurant for a final drink, and a lovely waitress chatted to us for ages and then revealed herself as the place's owner, saying we didn't have to pay for any of the extra drinks we'd had. Result. We gave her a fat tip. Then we wandered, headily, through the streets and over the Charles Bridge, photographing things and reveling in the fact that although everyone was undoubtedly drunk, no one was being aggressive, unfriendly or anti-socially loud. It was lovely.

This morning started a little slowly and we missed the hotel breakfast so had a snack from the Christmas market, me feeling optimistic that the Nutella and crepe that surrounded my banana did not detract from its 'one of my five a day' status. Then we wandered over to the Jewish Quarter. Now, I know as well as you do that it is impossible and deeply stupid to generalise about an entire race, so I won't, but I will say that the Jewish section of Prague is the most badly organised and stressful area in the city by a country mile. Everything is numbered, but the numbers don't correlate to the buildings on the map they give you, and the numbers on the map don't correlate with the numbers on your ticket. Then there are long rooms full of displays of things, but you have no idea what the things are/mean, because the panel of information explaining their significance is behind the door through which everyone is walking. The Holocaust was, undeniably, absolutely horrific. The things those people went through, whether they survived or died, are beyond my powers of imagination - or, perhaps, I just don't want to have to think about them. And I totally buy the whole 'lest we forget' argument - we should be reminded, regularly, of the horrific elements of humanity's past, sometimes shockingly recent, so that we don't let such atrocities happen again, if possible. But, that said, it does seem to me that Judaism's PR is almost entirely negative. If it were me, I would focus on the Sho'ah, sure, but I would also talk about the wonderful things about my faith that make me proud. I'd like to hear a bit more about the positives. Maybe that's just me. The cemetery, the synagogues and the exhibitions were interesting, once we worked out what was going on, but the tourists were disrespectful and the highlight was probably the tiny menorah that Nick bought on a stall outside.

After the Jewish Quarter, we walked back over Charles Bridge and had yet another deep fried lunch before heading up to St. Nicholas' church, where we arrived at 15:48 and the last admission was at 15:45, so we grumpily went on to The Church of Our Lady Victorious, just down the road, where Nick had read about this little statue of Christ that was donated by a Spanish woman ages ago, and is thought to have magical powers and is one of the most sacred icons in Catholicism. We'd started calling it the Waxy Jesus, because it is made of wax. And so we went to see the Waxy Jesus, and sweet Mary mother of God, if it wasn't the most gloriously kitsch thing in the history of the world. There's this tiny, alabaster-pale doll, perched high on a wall, surrounded by ornate metalwork, wearing an elaborate white gown, and in front of it are people praying. Real people. And upstairs, in the museum, are glass cases full of all the Waxy Jesus' other outfits. For there are many. All donated by other countries. Gorgeous ruffled cuffs and collars on a gown sent from Columbia, a beautiful embroidered cape from Shanghai, a deep red get-up from Vietnam and a case full of white, lace undergarments to protect Waxy from damage, accompanied by a photo of three nuns helping him into a new costume. He changes every feast day. It was fantastic but simultaneously deeply worrying. Nick can't stop thinking about him.

Then we went back to St. Nicholas' church and bought tickets to a 5pm concert, and sat quietly in the back pew while a good flautist and a semi-good soprano and an excellent organist played a selection of hits old and new, and I admired the trompe d'oeuil ceiling and snoozed, and a woman sat down next to us and knocked my antique Czech metal paint pot onto the floor, and then we left fifteen minutes early because we had to go back to the river to see the wonderful New Year's Day fireworks, which were great, and then we thawed in a bar and I had a heated conversation about wine with an argumentative Frenchman who, it seemed, deliberately misunderstood my point. And then it was time for the JAZZBOAT, and we were sharing a table with a very cute couple, early-twenties, she was from Holland, he was from Hungary, they hadn't seen each other since early October and god they were so happy, it was quite moving. The jazz was good, the boat travelled, I kid you not, about half a mile before we stopped at a lock for ages, and then went on a little bit and turned around almost immediately, stopped at the lock again for ages, went back to our starting point and a fraction beyond and then turned round and docked, but it was fun anyway. And now I'm at Prague airport, having started writing this last night and then passing out. I loved Prague. The people were very friendly, the architecture was stunning, the history was fascinating and had a good spread of interesting incidents through the ages, the tourists were nice, the items for sale were excellent, especially in the area of miniature things - I am most excited about my tiny matches and my tiny glass snail - and the food was, while perhaps not the healthiest, definitely delicious. The ratio of couples to non-couples was approx. 93:1, so if you are feeling particularly sore about your unwed status I might suggest avoiding it, but other than that I have no complaints. That said, I've just seen a photo of Vegas on my computer and I slightly wish I was in the States, and I am so excited about getting back to my flat that I might weep. London, I'm coming home.