Perky Maundy

Oooh I'm in a good mood today. London looked fantastic on my run; I listened to Justice, a French act that Chris described as 'dirty house' and that I found to be exceptionally positive and upbeat; I sweated profusely but my new make-up stayed put: thank you, Max Factor, for being half as expensive yet three times as good as your rivals. After thirty minutes or so I jogged down the ramp into the Tate Modern shop on Level 1, picked up my Richard Tipping sign as agreed with Daisy in customer services, and jogged on to London Bridge. It was all very smooth and well-organised. Isn't it lovely when things just work out?

News: I'm pregnant. It's a boy. We're calling it Nugget.*

Item number 769 on the list of things that are slightly weird about me is as follows: my waste management is utterly moronic. While I am extremely uncautious about the amount of shower gel I use, cavalier when it comes to spending money on gig and theatre tickets and downright evil in terms of leaving lights on and flying places rather than staycationing, I am meanwhile ridiculously over-zealous about waste in other areas. When I eat lunch at my desk, something that happens about four times a week, I have a supply of salt and pepper sachets in my top drawer. I use them fairly sparingly and, at my meal's end, instead of throwing any remaining salt grains or pepper granules into the bin, I fold over the edge of the sachet and replace it in my drawer. I am similarly zealous about recycling paperclips. And Jiffy bags, for some reason - I hoard them like a crazy old lady who's expecting a run on padded envelopes at Ryman's. I can't explain it, but that's how it is. Bon weekend.

*April Fool's. Hoping the shock didn't actually kill my parents. That would be unideal, especially as I need my dad to come round as planned on Saturday and drill holes in my wall. And then I need my mum to cook us the delicious steaks she's told me about. Don't die, parents. I'm not really pregnant. I'm basically celibate. Aaaaaaaaaand stop.