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.