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.