Imperfect harmony

Glastonbury is far from perfect. My sources tell me that, not more than a decade ago, the number of traditional proper hippies, the dreadlocked-vegetarian-peace-loving-sandal-wearers, far outweighed the white, middle class workers who are there in force these days. But that's capitalism for you... it kind of ruins everything it touches. People used to get in for free, so the organisers put up a gazillion pound perimeter fence, hoiked up the entry fees and made the ticket purchasing system basically impossible without access to a computer. Hey presto: bye bye hippies. In return for the scorching ticket prices, you get world-class musicians on every stage, impressive security, and a mass of other attractions including a hidden after-hours dance area that would be more than enough to entertain me seven nights in a row, even without the main acts. But the organisers just can't resist the lure of more wonga - and much of this wonga is going to charity, so it's not categorically evil - but so every year they extend the camping grounds and allow more and more people in - this year there were 175,000 tickets sold (35k more than last year), so with all the thousands of staff, as well as the accompanied children who get in without tickets, attendance must've topped 200,000 - that's just under the population of Aberdeen, a Scottish city that is 184.46 square kilometres. The festival site at Glastonbury is around 3.8.

So, in summary: no more hippies. Ticket prices very expensive. Still far more demand than supply. Not enough space. Corporate sponsorship all over the place. Profit over soul.

And yet.

Last year, I thought it was the most magical experience I'd ever had, and that was with the Glastocrush adding some romance. I had severe doubts that anything could ever be an improvement, and was pretty sure that anti-climax was going to hit me like a big bag of brieze blocks. But this year topped it. It really did. I knew my way round this time, and I knew what to expect and what to do - we covered a lot more ground and got a lot less sleep. I laughed until I was nearly sick, several times. I crawled through tiny tunnels in The Rabbit Hole, I did flying angel acrobatics in Block 9, I drank Moscow Mules at Gaz's Rockin' Blues in Shangri-la, I watched a drunk Frank Turner perform a secret gig at a hidden stage in The Unfair Ground, while 100 fans sat round a campfire on sofas at 1.30am. I talked to strangers, I wore a white wig, I danced like a madwoman and ate like royalty, I left my belongings unguarded day after day with no negative repercussions, I queued for thirty minutes each morning just to reach the sink so I could brush my teeth, I fell off a seesaw, I took 300 photographs (which I later edited down to 80), I shouted along to West End Girls so loudly that I went hoarse, I set off a Chinese lantern at the Stone Circle, I didn't shower once in six days despite the 30 degree heat, I fell in love with a million skinny teenage boys, I stood slack-jawed at Stevie's anti-Islamic tirade but happily lost my mind during the rest of his utterly brilliant set, I marvelled at the Scissor Sisters and grumbled in front of Gorillaz, I jumped so long and hard at Dizzee Rascal that I had to do lunges the next morning, I missed England being kicked out of the World Cup because I was watching Ray Davies sing Waterloo Sunset and crying like a baby, I drank a million pints of beer and a lot of white wine, I loved Disraeli and the Small Gods, I got a phenomenal tan, and it took 90 minutes in the searing heat to walk back to the car at the end, dragging a wheelie suitcase over rocky ground with a ten tonne rucksack on my back and sweat pouring down the backs of my legs.

Then I came home, via the beach, slept for 100 hours and still feel like death. And yes, it's corporate, and yes, there's bureaucracy, and yes, it's definitely expensive - prohibitively so for the people for whom it used to be intended. It's very middle class, and very white, and very privileged, and it doesn't really stand for what it should. But fuck it was fun. It won't last, but nothing does, and I'm just very grateful that I was able to experience it the way that I did. It's certainly not perfect, but perfection is a hideous and terrifying notion, and Glastonbury is great. Go.

Holding blog

I'm back and it was, beyond a whisker of a doubt, awesome. However, I am too tired to write about it just now. I think that between my arrival on Wednesday lunchtime and my departure yesterday, I managed an average of around 5 hours' low-calibre sleep a night. I have fallen asleep at my desk so many times today that I look like a nodding dog. My hair is sun-bleached, my skin is brown and there is a dark bruise on my chin from where I fell off a see-saw at approx. 3am on Sunday morning.

Back soon. Thank you for your continued patience.

Antisocial networking

I'm not sleeping, I've even lost my appetite... I can't be sure, but there's a fair chance I'm headed for one heck of an anti-climax - although to be honest, I don't have any firm mental pictures. I think I'm most excited about six consecutive days off work - if all I do is walk around and get a bit of a tan I'll be delighted. Throw in some good music and around thirty pints of overpriced beer and I fail to see how it can be anything other than the most fun thing in the history of my life since Glastonbury 2009.

In the brief peekaseconds (made up) that I haven't been thinking about the forthcoming festivalivities, I've been building up to a bit of a rant about Facebook. Or rather, people who don't use it. This rant is not directed to people who do not have a community on FB. If you are sixty years old and only three people you know have accounts, then fine. Or if you're still a toddler, then I think you've also got an excuse. But if you're between 20 and 40 years old and you live in the UK, I think it's safe to assume that well over 50% of your friends will have a Facebook account. I would estimate that, of the people I know, about 95% of them have signed up. Not all of them update very frequently, but every time I log on, there are reams of news and photographic updates from my family, friends and acquaintances from all over the world. There are also alerts from things I like, such as, well, Glastonbury, or the National Theatre, telling me new stuff is on sale. And my friends post links to things they think are funny or interesting, so I learn about all the different cool stuff that's happening around the world. It usually takes me about 5-10 minutes to go through what I've missed since I last logged on; it's not a huge time commitment. Obviously I could explore in more depth, but I'd say 5-10 minutes a day keeps me abreast of most of what's going down.

Of course, that's not ALL that's going down. I know that FB isn't real life and it certainly isn't a substitute for friendship, any more than people can read my blog and think they're fully up to date with what's going on in my life. But it's a good window into the nice things to which people get up. And so, what I want to know is, who in their right mind decides not to have a Facebook account? Facebook requires nothing. You don't have to pay. You don't have to update your status. You don't have to upload a photo: you can be pretty much entirely anonymous. You can hide all updates from people who annoy you, or block them altogether. And of course, should you wish to share your own news, you can do so easily - with whomever you choose. You don't have to show everyone everything. You can hide information from selected friends - so everyone can see your birthday photos except the one person you forgot to invite. All in all, it is a lovely, easy way to keep up with your friends and spy on your enemies. Sure, there are concerns about sharing of private data, but like I say, you can opt out of pretty much all of that. So why not sign up?

I know only about six people around my age who have resisted FB and, using that incredibly limited sample size, I have come to the conclusion that FB refuseniks are one of two things. Either they are a) unforgiveably arrogant and don't care what their friends are up to. Or b) they are unhealthily isolated. Either way, I think that if you peel back the layers, you'll find that they need help. Yup. Help. Like a shrink. Rich coming from me, but there you have it. I am deeply suspicious of people who don't FB.

Anyway. Rant over. This time in twenty four hours, I have high hopes that my tent will be pitched and I'll be watching England vs. Slovenia on a temporary screen at the Pyramid stage, while wearing my bikini and going brown as a berry. Cross your fingers for me. I'll be back on Monday afternoon.

Eruption imminent

A brilliant weekend but my mood is probably an additional six-or-seven-points-out-of-a-possible-ten more buoyant than usual because I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT GLASTONBURY I MIGHT ACTUALLY BURST which would of course be a crying shame given how much time and money I have spent on the ticket and preparations etc. That aside, Friday night was fun - Grania and I went to Secret Cinema, which (I can now safely reveal without damaging the secret element for anyone else) was Blade Runner. We wore cyberpunk wigs and accessories, and goggles, and arrived at Canary Wharf at the correct time, got on one of the coaches that was then 'hijacked' by a man with a bad American accent wearing an overcoat, and taken to a dodgy warehouse/container area near Canary Wharf, where there was Chinese food and massages and amdram antics and loud music and beer and wine and snakes. And there was also, of course, the film itself, which I'd annoyingly just seen for the first time a couple of months ago, but this was, I believe, not the director's cut, and was thus a lot shorter. Which was a good thing, because really I was preferring galivanting around drunkenly in 'Chinatown' with 1000 other revellers than watching an eighties film, seminal though it clearly was.

Saturday was good too, brunch and lunch with two separate friends in the same venue, and then ironing and much ukulele practice. Yesterday I met up with my parents at 11:30 and we took the Thames Clipper from Embankment to Canary Wharf, where we walked to a gastropub and had a wonderful time and lots of booze to celebrate my dad's birthday, and then walked back to Canary Wharf, stopping at an All Bar One en route, then took the boat back to Embankment. I staggered home full of good intentions to pack for Glasto and organise my admin, sat down on the sofa at 7pm, started dozing about five minutes later, slithered off the sofa onto the floor by 7.30pm, woke up at 10pm, went to bed, and slept through until 8am. So a good 13 hours, punctuated by a selection of vivid dreams where I was fancied by three men, one of whom is almost certainly gay and definitely does not fancy me in real life, one of whom is famous and so hasn't yet had the chance to fancy me, and another of whom is far too young for me and may or may not fancy me. Woke up feeling confused and on heat. Have calmed down now but still panicking about headtorches and earplugs. So much to do so much to dooooooooooo.

Also:

Props to the ever-reliable NewsArse! for this pert summary of the problem with the Tories' pathetic schools policy:

I’ll run the best school ever - until my child leaves, confirm parents
Parents across the country have reacted positively to the Government’s plans to let them run their own schools, claiming they will run the best school this country has ever seen, right up until the point that their child leaves, when they will probably lose interest. Felicity Downing, a parent keen on the scheme said, “Yes, I will dedicate my life to making this new school the very beacon of educational excellence, right up until my Sophie gets her GCSEs. Then I’ll obviously want to sell off the land in the hope of saving about £20 on my council tax bill.”

But just to even things out with a bit of anti-LibDem material, I have just finished The Leopard by Tomasi di Lampedusa, a fantastic novel that I bought because I found out it is Nick Clegg's favourite book. The writing is unquestionably brilliant throughout and I haven't underlined so many beautifully-observed phrases since I read What A Carve Up!, but this passage about the qualities necessary to govern, in particular, made me smile:

"...what would the Senate do with me, an inexperienced legislator who lacks the faculty of self-deception, essential requisite for anyone wanting to guide others. We of our generation must draw aside and watch the capers and somersaults of the young around this ornate catafalque. Now you need young men, bright young men, with minds asking 'how' rather than 'why', and who are good at masking, at belnding I should say, their obvious personal interests with vague public ideals."

Cleggshell.

Tales of the unexpected

I had arranged to meet last night's date outside Detroit, the Covent Garden bar he'd suggested. I arrived about 46 seconds early and saw a quite sweet little dog outside (with its owner). I went over to talk to it and then, noticing a vacant seat nearby, sat down. The dog ran over and got quite frisky with me. I tried to calm it down but it kept jumping up and then, at the precise moment my date arrived and stood opposite me, the dog burrowed itself underneath my maxi dress and jumped up and down in some sort of frenzy between my legs, trapped by navy jersey fabric. I was giggling hysterically, bright red of face, blonde hair fully awry, as Steve stood opposite me, smiling. It was quite a greeting.

Sadly, in spite of the fantastic material I'd already accrued for the Best Man's speech, the date never got any funner. It was an odd one. He was absolutely charming, interesting and interested. We had a lot in common and chatted easily, and he was kind, humble and thoughtful. Additionally, he was empirically attractive - tall enough, a gorgeous face, a good T-shirt and excellent trainers. But - and this is a totally new one on me - I just didn't fancy him. Not one part of me wanted to kiss him. When I say it's new, of course there have been boys I've not wanted to kiss before. Many hundreds of them. But not one with all those boxes ticked. It was extremely odd. I'm guessing he felt the same because when we parted ways at the oh-so-familiar Northern/Central Line split at the bottom of the escalators at Tottenham Court Road, he held out his arms straight, perpendicular to his body, fists loosely clenched, shoulders hunched, a big toothy grin on his face. As invitations to romantic, lingering kisses go, I'd give it a zero. I played my part in the quick hug, which was about as sensual as a burp, and headed home.

The one extraordinary thing about this guy was that - and I'm aware that the Faithful will immediately conclude that this is why I didn't fancy him but I SWEAR it wasn't - he doesn't drink. Of course, I assumed that he was AA, but he quickly explained that he just doesn't like booze. I was, it is fair to say, utterly gobsmacked. The guy has never once in his life been drunk. He tried to do it in his late teens, and got through half an alcopop before deciding he'd rather be drinking apple juice and gave up. Initially, I'll admit, I thought, 'Well, that's that then.' It is true that me going out with a teetotaller would be like Roseanne Barr going out with an anorexic. But as I talked to him a bit more about it, I knew it didn't have to be a dealbreaker. He just didn't drink. It didn't stop me drinking. That said, knowing I don't have to go out with someone who doesn't drink is a bit of a relief. I mean... No boring, poncey discussions about wine? No getting pissed together and behaving badly or having drunken rows? Every restaurant bill meaning an extra £15 for me while he gets away with juice? No shared hangovers? Hmmm. It's not how I imagined my future.

As far as I'm aware, I don't know anyone who doesn't drink out of choice. I know people who don't drink for religious reasons. I know people who don't drink because they are alcoholics. And I know people who don't drink because they don't like the effect booze has on them. But to have never got pissed, not even once? When everyone around him is drinking to excess and (seemingly) loving it enough to keep on doing it week after week? What kind of person resists that sort of unspoken peer pressure? What kind of person is so uncurious that they don't even try to see what everyone else is going on about? I mean, I've never tried heroin. But that's because it's heavily addictive, massively bad for you and illegal. I know I'd love it, and that's a slippery slope I'd like to avoid. Alcohol is addictive too - but psychologically rather than physically, and it's absolutely unhealthy in large quantities. But it's legal and the majority of adults in the Western world have, at one time or another, enjoyed its effects. And anyway, Steve didn't say he wasn't drinking because he was worried about the health impacts. He doesn't drink because he never has and it's been too long to take it up now. Plus he likes being able to drive everywhere.

I found it intriguing and, ultimately, a bit weird. If he'd tried it (and by 'it', I mean the effects of alcohol. Not just taking a sip of Hooch, but actually drinking enough to experience the buzz), and for some reason not liked it, then I could understand. But to have never tried it... That's a lonely path, surely? An odd path. If pretty much everyone you know is saying something is brilliant, and you don't even try to see what they're experiencing, isn't that weird? Respect is due, perhaps, but it won't come from me.

I really do swear that wasn't why I didn't fancy him though.

Another day, another fad

For as long as I am in the black and largely free of any responsibility, I will continue to entertain myself by doing pretty much whatever I fancy. And last week I fancied buying some Yogatoes. There they are, in situ, on the left. They are like huge, clear jelly sweets that separate your toes, stretching the muscles, improving arch support and (hopefully) minimising the aforementioned bunion issue. You can see the pesky bunion on the knuckle of my left big toe. And one growing on the right too. Bah. Anyway. Maybe these things will help. You're meant to wear them for 10-15 minutes a day at first, and build up gradually to an hour. I put them on when I got into bed last night. My left little toe muscles felt a bit angry at first at the stretch but they soon settled down; the remainder of my feet found the experience seriously pleasant. I promptly fell asleep and woke up about an hour and half later, somewhat trampling on the recommended ten minutes of wearing time for a beginner. Oops. Walking this morning, I could definitely sense that something had happened. We'll see if it's positive: I'll keep you posted.

Yesterday I was so bored at work that I shuffled down off my kneeling posture stool so that I was sitting on the bit where I'm meant to kneel and leaning against the bit where I'm meant to sit. This meant I was very low down - my head was at about the same height as my desk. I started to read. Then I got a bit drowsy, so I rested my head on a stuffed toy. Then someone came into my office. Oops. I think I got away with it. Today I have bad period pains and am snuggling up with a hot water bottle. Am boiling but I don't see any alternative as I've already ODed on Nurofen. Last night the contractions woke me up at 3am and, fittingly, I'd beeen dreaming about giving birth. No sign of the baby but lots of supportive friends congratulating me for finally getting up the duff. My need for the outward symbols of acceptance is laughable: I want the ring but am not bothered about the husband, the congratulations but not the baby. Ah well. Nothing a few weeks of consistent Yogatoes use won't cure, I'm sure.

The naked truth

Last night at choir we were talking about hair maintenance and the effects of age. "Don't get me started," a fellow singer said, pointing firmly between her eyes, "my pubic hair starts here." I laughed a lot and then began a nineteen hour reflection on the many ways that growing older has changed my body and mind. When I was younger, I thought that people started getting noticeably old in their sixties and seventies. There were children (who were short), grown-ups (who were tall but basically the same), and old people (who had wrinkles and grey hair). The idea that I would start getting old while still in my thirties didn't cross my mind. Now that I'm here, of course, reality has hit like a netball in the face. And since revelations from others about their secret pubic monobrows make me feel better about myself, I thought I'd perform a public service and admit the dark secrets of my own moribund form.

I'll start at the top. My hair used to be lovely. Now it is drying at the ends, itches in the mornings, gets greasy when I moisturise my face and occasionally produces dandruff. This alone is enough to make me want to be sick. Then there's my face. It used to be smooth and even. Now it is spattered with large pores. I get regular spots - more every month than I had in a year as a teenager - and I have scars where I've squeezed them. There are tiny red veins visible all round my nose, which make me look like I have a permanent cold. There is hair on my upper lip. If I dye it, it appears blonde but thicker. If I wax it, I get a red rash and ingrowing hairs. If I have it threaded, I get spots. There are hairs on my neck, around the place where my Adam's apple would have been if I had been lucky enough to have been born a man. And there's a patch of skin stretching up my larynx to my chin where the pigment is strangely white. I think this is the onset of vitilligo, an incurable and ridiculously unattractive condition of the epidermis. Hooray.

Moving down, my bingo wings, which are here for life, now seem to be developing baby cellulite and, unless they are suntanned, are emetic, making the wearing of strappy sundresses ill-advised, a shame as my shoulders are basically the only part of my body that don't make me want to hurl myself into the contents of an open bottle bank. My fingernails - once strong and glossy - now peel and ridge. My back aches. My breasts, while still a fairly nice size, are covered in stretchmarks - white furrows that don't tan and thus become more obvious in summer, and when I bend over and look at them hanging down, the 'rocks in a sock' label becomes acutely recognisable. My stomach is no longer flat and the dark hairs known as a garden path on men have emerged, although I doubt they serve as such an enticing invitation to any visitor that should find himself in the vicinity. There is a weird white mark around my solar plexus where there was once a mole. My body surrounded it with a white 'halo' (official medical term) and then basically consumed the mole, so all that's left is a white, pigmentless blob. I think it's quite clever that my body got rid of something dangerous, but I wish it hadn't left a residual stain that looks like some bizarre fungal condition in the middle of my abdomen.

Lower still, and we're getting beneath the waist, into the truly nuclear zone. Beware the truth. As admitted recently, a good portion of my considerable buttocks is covered with red spots, as persistent as cockroaches and possibly less erotic. Thanks to my beloved course of laser hair removal, my bikini line is less horrendous than it might be, but unfortunately the laser was not able to remove several inches of fat and thus leave my legs in perfect order. My thighs are rippled with cellulite. I have always had it, inherited at a young age from my mother, but the older I get, the worse it becomes. It is deeply, deeply unattractive. If my legs were otherwise slim, brown or smooth, the cellulite might be able to be borne. Needless to say, my vast, white thighs resist all tanning attempts, and the hairs are dark. There are even several long ones that grow horizontally on the back of each leg in a patch around the size of an average paperback. These make me wonder whether I am actually human and not some sort of minotaur sent to confuse people.

Beneath the cellulite and the hairs are the onset of varicose veins, a blight that I have miraculously fought off thus far as my father was having operations on his when he was in his twenties. I have several patches of blue behind my knees, waiting to pop at the most inconvenient moment and ensuring that - if the girth, orange peel effect and wolverine hirsuitedness weren't enough - I will never wear hotpants.

Finally, my feet - once so long and slender, now covered in mysterious lumps and knobbles. There are several dark hairs on the neck of my big toes. I have bunions emerging, in particular on my left foot - a condition that I would consider justified had I spent my life in stilettos, worn while successfully wooing Russian oligarchs, but given my absurd shoe size, I have spent almost all my life in men's trainers and lesbian Birkenstocks and have wooed a succession of men that have been almost universally labelled Not Good Enough. My high heel use has only emerged in the past three years or so, during which time I have researched the incidence of bunions and discovered that they frequently occur even when people spend their entire life in orthopaedic flip-flops and barefoot. My mother's toes are ghastly, veering off in different directions like bizarre coral, so I think it's clear what's coming to me, in the pedal sense.

And thus we reach the end of my thorough physical examination, a study driven not by self-pity but by a selfless desire to alleviate the panics of others through the admission of my own flaws. It is a sign of my own unbelievable arrogance that I do not believe my physical appearance to be the reason for my single status - rather, I think that, when covered up, I am actually quite attractive. I know for certain that I will never pull while wearing a bikini, but it's safe to say that I've missed the boat for a starring role on Baywatch, and anything that keeps me out of the arms of Mitch Buchannan is fine with me. May the fictional god bless physical imperfections - I'd be unbearable if I was beautiful.

Miller time

So before my fit of overwhelming self-pity on the tube home last night, I saw an amazing, amazing play, and if you can get to London and get tickets, I would recommend you do so. It was Arthur Miller's All My Sons, and it was, like I said, amazing. The poster for the current London production shows a soppy, Vaseline-on-the-lens snuggle between David Suchet and Zoe Wanamaker, which drew an involuntary urgh of disgust from me when I saw it on a tube escalator some weeks ago. But it got a five star review in The Guardian and I owed Don a theatre trip after he so kindly took me to Jerusalem, so we returned to the Apollo for this. Other than the five stars, I knew nothing about it. I'd taught A View From The Bridge a few years ago as a tutor, so I was pretty sure it would be set in post-war America, but that was it. And wow. What a plot. Jerusalem was a fantastic portrait of modern Britain, but this was a tight, pacey drama with laughs, a joyous combination that left me attractively gobsmacked. Nothing about the schmaltzy poster was echoed in the production. It was hard and tough, unflinchingly powering through painful moral dilemmas with a directness that set my head whirring. Rooted in its era yet still fully relevant, the play questioned whether looking after our nearest and dearest can justify crime, whether our familial duty is greater than our duty to society as a whole. The acting was exceptional, but what got me the most was the script - each character rigorously fleshed out, necessary and consistent. No lines for the sake of it, each remark was loaded with backstory and, as the truth gradually outed itself, Miller's talent became ever more evident.

Anyway. It was a masterclass in objectivity, insight and genius. And I read in the programme that, had All My Sons not been a hit when it was first performed, Miller had made the decision that he would give up writing plays forever. A near miss. And a triumph today - bursting with lessons for us all, fresh and unpatronising. Loved it.

Then I got on the tube, felt inadequate because I will never write a play like that, and then the sweet young couple next to me started kissing and giggling and it tipped me over the edge. Instead of gunning them all down like Michael Douglas, I went home and wrote a poem, a poem that exposes me for the needy, illogical sap I am. I published it on the internet for all to see. And for some ridiculous reason, it actually helped.

Some things I know

I know that it’ll happen when it happens.
I know that when it’s right, I’ll know.
I know that you can’t look for it.
I know that it will be when I least expect it.
I know that I’m a catch and that he’ll be lucky to have me.
I know that it’s not about the length of my hair, or the size of my thighs, or how long I wait before I text him back.
I know that there’s a guy out there - a good, handsome guy - who’ll think I’m a knockout.
I know that there are plenty more fish in the sea.
I know that in a few years time, I’ll look back on all this and laugh.
I know that everything happens for a reason.
I know that I’m not a failure.
I know that I’m not the only one who feels this way.
I know that 32 really isn't that old.
I know that wanting to find love is the surest way to guarantee you won't.
I know that dwelling on this stuff isn't helpful.
I know that I have a wonderful life.
I know that I don't need a man to experience true happiness.
I know that none of my real friends think any less of me because I’m single.
I know that they don’t judge me as harshly as I judge myself.
I know that I just haven’t met the right guy yet.
I know that I have to kiss a lot of frogs before I meet my prince.
I know that relationships aren’t the be all and end all.
I know that, in the end, we’re all alone.

But I also know that, sometimes, I sit on the tube home with strangers all around me, and I look down at my right hand, at the diamond band I wear, the one my mother gave me all those years ago, and I think about taking it off and putting it on the ring finger of my left hand, and I think about how, just for a moment, even though I don't really even agree with engagement rings, it would be such a flooding, overwhelming relief to be able to show all those people around me, all these people I’ve never seen before and will never see again, that someone once asked me if they could spend the rest of their life with me, and that I said yes.

Serpentine update

My dad used to be fond of drawing optical illusions to trick me: a box bisected by a diagonal spotted band was a giraffe walking past a window; two concentric circles with short lines extending at 12 o'clock and 6 o'clock was a Mexican on a bicycle. And I always enjoyed the opening page of my mum's old copy of The Little Prince, where a battered old brown hat was revealed, by cross section, to be a snake who had swallowed an elephant.

Today, I have revisited that timeless illustration to show another, far more battered hat. Which is, in fact, me inside the snake. In my piece of Post-It Note artwork, he has swallowed me head first. The other lumps and bumps are my boobs, my tummy, my knees and my feet. In real life, I haven't been swallowed quite yet. But he is definitely making his stealthy, silent approach, and is limbering up his jaw dislocation skills in preparation for a full engulfment. I am determined to run before he can get me, but I'm not promising anything. Fucking depression. And fucking shit fucking English summer weather.

Bad investment

Hmm, I thought to myself when I saw this photo (among others) on a newsletter that arrived in my email inbox a short while ago. That is a nice vest. It has straps that are at once thin, yet also thick enough to give some definition to my possibly on the broad side shoulders. It is low cut, but not trampy. And it has buttons, that can be unbuttoned to enhance cleavage on a trampy day or, perhaps, a tanned and toned naval region. Maybe I'll buy one, I thought. I clicked the link to the website and then realised abruptly that I was about as likely to buy this vest as I am to give birth to a set of Royal Doulton china, soup tureen first. The vest, the flimsy, basically just a vest vest, is FIFTY FOUR POUNDS AND NINETY FIVE PENCE. Basically, it is £55. Which is more than half a hundred pounds. Half a hundred POUNDS. Other things I could buy for £55 include (but are not limited to): fifty five vests from Primark (admittedly not with button enhancements); five thousand five hundred Kola Woppas; 6.918 Fiorentinas from Pizza Express (that is nearly seven whole delicious pizzas); forty six Soreen Malt Loaves; or a flight from London Stansted to SPAIN OR TURKEY for £45.99, leaving me with nine pounds to spend in the airport in Accessorize, perhaps on one or two REASONABLY PRICED VESTS.

What could possibly be Chinti and Ripoff's justification for charging this surely record-beating price? Is the vest woven from platinum by winged, singing elves under the light of the August moon? Does it guarantee weight-loss for every wearer? Are they offering a 'Buy one, get 40 free?' plan? A complimentary Johnny Depp with each purchase? No. It is organic. Which is good and everything, but... That appears to be it.

The website says: "Our Button Through Vest [NB capitalisation to lend it an air of sounding like this is special and/or exciting] [NB also that I initially fell for that] is made from 100% organic cotton rib. This garment is longer in length with a relaxed fit and [wait for it] has NUT BUTTONS [author's capitals] which are environmentally friendly. The fabric is the ultimate in soft cotton. Great as a standalone and layering piece." Piece. Standalone. FFS. And nut buttons! I ask you. I will accept that, conceptually, they do sound quite sweet - as though they have been handmade by a team of squirrels - but really. Am I meant to start getting paranoid about the fact that my buttons, my normal, plastic buttons, are ecologically unsound? Because if Chinti and Bellend really think that that is how I should be spending my time, then they can take their nut buttons and shove them.

Fifty four ninety five.

Pfff.

So the kisser from Sunday still hasn't been in touch. Not that I'm paranoid or anything, but I think this is the third consecutive date I've been on where the guy has seemed extremely interested, mentioned meeting up again, told me how attractive I was and what a fun time he'd had, kissed me and then vanished. My mum will tell me it's only Tuesday, but as anyone normal/under 60 knows, these days if a guy is properly interested he doesn't hang about. It seems that internet dating breeds this kind of maybe-the-next-girl-will-be-even-better inability for men to stop looking and say, "This lass is fantastic," but given that in the last approx. seven years, 98% of my romantic liasons have been with guys met online, I struggle to believe that signing off the website altogether is the answer. Anyway. He was a bit old and fat anyway. Unless he gets in touch. In which case, wisdom and breadth is exactly what I've always been looking for, and let's face it, I'm no Cheryl Cole.

Not much else to report. A girl from choir is a social worker, and at our rehearsal last night she said that one of her colleagues had been round at a case family's house, helping them out and doing assessments or whatever, and while she was there, she saw another one of her case families on Trisha. Brilliant.

Still not dead - but definitely closer

Sometimes I lie. Most of the time I don't plan it in advance. They just slip out, like newborn calves, all shiny and wet. Last night I was on a date, and for some reason I told the guy that I don't get hangovers. I have no idea why I would suggest such an absurd thing; it is about as rooted in the truth as Scientology and the idea that the fashion world's labelling of beige as 'nude' isn't inherently a bit racist. I think I wanted to emphasise my youthful resilience to such a curmudgeonly problem. Weird lie to tell though, and I think today's aftermath has been markedly worse as a result. The Lie Detector karmic fairy saw me coming and made sure I suffered. I have debilitating cramp in my frontal lobe and my amygdala is weeping softly. It has not been a good day for my (let's face it, never particularly impressive) productivity levels. Yesterday's nine hour date began at a pub in Mile End and ended with a brief kiss at Old Street tube station, the brevity due not to either of us wanting to cut things short, but to the fact that I was slightly inebriated, up on tiptoes with my eyes shut and lost my balance, veering off to the right and very nearly staggering barefoot into a tramp. Not my finest hour.

On Friday I had birthday massages and fun with Em, who is now 33. For dinner we went to Fakharldine or something spelled a bit like that - it's a swanky Lebanese place on Piccadilly and it was delicious but overpriced. On Saturday I went out to Colchester where my tour guide, Oliver, showed me around his neck of the woods. We went to Frinton and paddled in the sea, before we got annoyed by all the ball games so stropped off to Walton on the Naze where he found me a shark's tooth that is between 40 and 60 million years old. It's now wrapped in a New Look receipt in my wallet. Not really sure what to do with it but it's freaking cool. On Saturday night I went to see The Prophet in Bermondsey. Like Audiard's A Bout de Souffle, this was hard going. I watched about 40% of it with my hands over my eyes and was tempted to walk out at one point as it was all so stressful and razor blades and not what I felt like after my day by the seaside. But I'm glad I stayed - an amazingly dark portrait of youth and guts. Impressive how he manages to make one root for such unsavoury characters. On Sunday Kate and I did the next segment of our Capital Ring walk - Crystal Palace to Streatham and slightly too hilly for my liking. Then I went home, had a bath, went on the tube, got impossibly painful blisters from my shoes the INSTANT I reached Mile End, and shortly afterwards began my steady descent into my definitely-very-present hungover state today. I am dying. Perhaps a Kit Kat will help.

Select cuts

Following an overwhelming barrage of complaints about LLFF's infrequency of late (two people), I am succumbing to the pressure and am finally facing up to the task. Since I last wrote, I have: watched the Hackney Colliery Band jam at The Forge in Camden (band: recommended, venue: not so much); played drunk pool at a Muslim snooker hall (a lot funnier for us than the other people in the room); taken the train to Swindon (quiet carriage not quiet); played with ten Labrador puppies (ecstatic) and three small children (favourite bit: when you're watching telly and they all gradually come over and climb on you. Worst bit: fluorescent snot); laughed at Nicole describing a family as "really nice... They've got an Aga" (I love her really); gone swimming (juvenile snot a particular issue here); been rendered speechless by country folk's quasi-fascist views on immigration and the benefits system that emerge when they are inebriated (shocking); taken photos (talented); slept an unattractive amount (delicious); taken the train back to London (quiet carriage quiet but took wrong train and almost had to pay £48 for new ticket - used feminine wiles and negotiated it down to £27.50 and then, somehow, to £11. Simultaneously smug and ashamed of efficacy of feminine wiles); watched somewhere approaching eight hours of Cowell-judged programming (American Idol final, American Idol results night, Britain's Got Talent from Saturday, Britain's Got Talent semi final on Monday, Britain's Got Talent results show from Monday); went to work (nonplussed); went to choir practice (stimulating); read with horror about Cumbrian mass shooting (scary); went to dinner in Holborn (too much wine too early); went to ukulele jam (repetitive songs but worth it for lovely people) and went to book club (feisty and delicious).

Now I am counting the hours until the weekend and wondering how early I can sneak off today to try and make the most of this glorious sunshine before autumn sets in. Bo.