The drought continues

Nothing to say. Again. I think the combination of the boyban and meditation might be making me externally dull. Internally, I'm fascinating. I'm just not sure that the major psychological breakthrough that has been taking place in my grey matter will be as gripping in black and white. Once I've got everything sorted into a convenient bite-sized summary, I might give it a go. But for now, you'll have to put up with the fact that I have little to give.

I do think that the people panicking about the wheelie bin cat woman need to get a grip though. I mean, it's bad. I am not trying to claim that the cat secretly got a kick out of the experience, or that the woman is a modern day Dr. Doolittle who should be honoured with a place in the Ultimate Big Brother house. It was an unpleasant incident. But when you have a list of issues to get upset about that goes something like this:

• Tories utterly screwing public services
• LibDems completely capitulating like a bit of paper in a force nine gale
• No viable alternative in the Labour leadership elections
• Worst humanitarian disaster of recent history unrelenting in Pakistan
• Terrible drug cartel deaths in Mexico
• UK interest rates forecast to rise to 12% in the next two years

and then you have:

• Slightly unhinged woman puts cat in wheelie bin; cat now absolutely fine

anyone who has spent more time being upset about the wheelie cat than about any of the other issues should be put in a bin and mailed to Pakistan.

I cannot write about last Friday.

The only thing I really want to tell you about is my Friday night. I went to Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley, a Michelin two-star restaurant and a treat and a half. Only problem is, I have no angle. Every pseudo-writer knows that there is no story without some sort of character development. I can't just say 'I went to this place and had a really nice time. The End.' That's not why you read LLFF. Unfortunately, that seems to be precisely what did happen. It was amazing. I didn't fall over, or see a celebrity, or get dumped while I was there. I just went, and it was amazing, and then I left. I've had my head in my hands for the last twenty minutes, trying to find a way in which to write about it, muttering, 'But how did it change me?' and the only thing I can think of is that my bank balance is now substantially lighter.

Imagine, I told myself, that you had to write about it. Imagine you were writing a restaurant review for a national magazine, what would you say then? What would be your angle? That it was really nice, I thought. It could be some indication of how perfect the evening was if I tell you that my only - and I mean literally the ONLY - gripe was that the wine menu, displayed in a thick black photo album, was quite heavy and difficult to hold. That was less than irritating, a barely-registered nark, that vanished when the sommelier brought me precisely the wine I wanted, a fact made all the more miraculous given that the help I'd given him consisted of handing back the wine list, saying I didn't know what to order, but that I knew I wanted my wine to be white, a bit oaked, a bit fruity, very dry, strong enough to counterbalance the powerful flavours of the food I was about to enjoy, and that I was sick of New Zealand Sauvignon. A moment later, there it was, in my glass. I fervently wish that all of life were that simple.

So yeah. The wine list was a bit cumbersome. But that was it. Aside from that, it was perfect. The lighting was perfect. The starters, main course, inter-course snackettes and desserts were perfect. The wine was perfect. The service was perfect. The furniture was perfect. The other guests were perfect. The truffles-to-go in their cellophane bag were perfect. The tour around the kitchen at the end was perfect. The bill, I'll admit, was not perfect. But it was really nice and worth every penny. I have no angle. So I'll stop writing.

The End. (Unless you want to read on.)

WARNING: as opposed to the edge-of-your-seat paragraphs above, the below is a literal description of what we ate and has absolutely no literary merit whatsoever. It is recommended that you only continue if you actually want to know exactly what was on the tasting menu at Marcus Wareing last Friday. On no account read the below and expect to be entertained.

So you sit down and you are brought canapes - one was pork balls, a bowl of four (two each), about the size of an average gobstopper, crispy thin breadcrumby batter around delicious moist pork mixed with pine nuts, like a really posh hot Scotch egg without the egg. The other was this weird amazing thing - like one of those rectangular ice-cream sandwich things you used to get but tiny - actually, it wasn't anything like that. OK, so it was these two small rectangles of crispy cheese wafer, about the size of the long side of a small matchbox. Between them was sandwiched the most out of this world truffle moussey stuff, tanged with mustard, light and rich and deliriously delicious. It was probably my highlight of the entire meal, depressing to start so high but there's a middle class gripe if ever I wrote one ("My canape was too nice, the rest of my two Michelin-starred tasting menu was slightly less exciting"). Two of those each. Then the amuse bouche proper - their 'witty' take on fish and chips (it being Friday) - a shot glass of fish soup topped with chip foam, which was beyond compare. Beautiful, fine salt and pepper breadsticks (two each) in a third shot glass. Then the fish course - heritage tomatoes - this turned out to mean a slice of red, yellow and green tomato - topped with clam and crab and some delicious potato croutons. Oh shit, I forgot the bread. The bread was potato and something else... god, I can't remember, but it was amazingly soft, although I guess at heart just posh ciabatta. What was unbeLIEVAbly exciting was the fact that you were offered your choice of salted or unsalted butter. Anyway. Despite knowing the amount of food I was about to consume, I still had two slices of bread. I know, call the obesity police. That was a joke.

So yeah, the fish course I could take or leave, to be honest. It was very fresh and healthy and had moments of niceness but it's nothing to write home about, nor, indeed, on a semi-popular blog. Too late. Then was another serious peak, the quail. Two tiny quail breasts, skin-on, crispy on the outside, so tender beneath, sitting atop some sort of parmesan frothy sauce, and sweetcorn kernals and another sauce, and then these adorable and perfect-in-every-way shallot onion rings, two of them, stacked on the top like the best glace cherry of all time. Oh and some coriander but I picked it off. One of those plates of food where all the individual ingredients are pretty good, but together it creates an oral sensation akin to bliss. The combination of textures, the crunch of the quail skin, the smoothness of the flesh, the burst of the sweetcorn, the creaminess of the parmesan, the sticky bite of the shallot ring... it was a work of art. We ate slowly and with many sighs of pleasure. Emily found a small fragment of onion ring in her teeth a few minutes after our plates had been cleared and let out a woop of delight.

Then the main course, which I lost. There was a choice of two, and I felt like we should sample them both, so I ordered what Emily didn't. She had the lamb (which would have been my staple choice) so I had the beef. Mine was good, hers was exceptional. The beef was served with baby turnips and red onion hearts, lightly roasted I think. And some delicious carrots. But the lamb was served with some sort of yoghurt and roasted peaches and something else - I can't remember as I only had one mouthful, but blimey it was tear-jerking. Then a pre-dessert, an immaculate layered chocolate and sponge creation that must have been made by the Borrowers, so precise was it. And an almond jelly I think. And another shot glass with their version of a virgin mojito - crushed ice, mint, a cucumber jelly layer and something else. A sorbet to cleanse and refresh our battered palates.

Then the cheese course, one portion between two, six slivers of fromage selected from a trolley the size of a child's bed, there must have been fifty or sixty on offer, our selection beautifully presented on a heavy dark brown plate in a circle, to be eaten clockwise, from mild to strong, with a streak of the ambrosia that is apple sauce down the middle. Heaven. Then back from the savoury to more sweet - a supreme tarte tatin shared between two, with a pot of creme fraiche and a pot of ginger crunch ice cream, the pastry layers sticky, dense but crispy, the apples caramalised just the right amount. Then coffees and the truffle trolley, a five foot high silver wheeled beast with hooks holidng silver baskets filled with six or seven types of homemade truffles. I forced two down and we got the rest to go, taking our cue from the next door table.

And that was how we celebrated Em's engagement, me keeping a promise made several years ago. I will be fat forever.

Switch on, switch off

Possibly shouldn't be writing when something is so fresh, but within the last thirty seconds I finished watching a one-off BBC documentary, Between Life and Death, which was originally screened a few weeks ago. As the title suggests, the producers of Harry Hill's TV Burp don't need to be overly concerned about losing viewers - this was an hour-long film following three families as they dealt with their critically-ill loved ones, deciding whether or not to switch off the ventilator.

It was a fantastic programme, sensitively filmed, giving detailed yet somehow unobtrusive insights into terribly difficult conversations and heartbreaking decisions. The families were all admirably candid - brave, emotional and pragmatic. And, in under sixty minutes, my attitude to artificial respiration - whether or not I'd like to be kept alive while, for example, completely paralysed - changed utterly. It wasn't a 180 degree turn from one certainty to another: previously, I'd been firmly in the DNR camp and I am not now totally against it. But, having seen the happiness in one man's eyes as he watched his daughters, despite his total inability to move or speak, despite his complete conviction, pre-accident, that he would never want to be kept alive in such a state - well, it made me realise that, until it happens, you don't know. So I've gone from total certainty to total uncertainty. As far as impact goes, that's a pretty massive shift for one clear-thinker to make in a short space of time.

My friend, Marina, was heavily involved in the making of the programme, and thus in my volte-face. She spent weeks and weeks at a hospital specialising in neurology near Cambridge, meeting and interviewing many of the film's participants. Weekends, late nights, you name it, she was there. Through my near-constant tears, I was bursting with pride that she was involved in such an exceptional piece of television - her career is not the best-paid, it is unstable, unpredictable, insecure and frequently requires a time commitment that I would consider in breach of my human rights. But after months of effort, she is a key part of producing something that is profoundly important and influential. I am weakly envious - weakly, as I know I couldn't stick at what she does, envious because I see the satisfaction she gets from her work.

But then, I suppose one could - if one were supremely over-confident - one could argue that, on a smaller scale obviously, but maybe this blog is valuable too - at least, to my parents. It certainly gives me a pathetic amount of satisfaction and I'd feel bereft if it were taken from me. I get to mouth off about pretty much anything that tickles my fancy, I'm told that I make people laugh every now and then - and actually, hang on - I also have a reasonably well-paid job that allows me to surf the internet pretty much without cessation. Hmmm. Suddenly my set-up seems like quite a winning combination. Well whaddyaknow? Envy has gone. Pride remains. Everyone's a winner, baby. Well done, Marina. High five.

Bare naked ladies

I went back to the Porchester Spa last night, London's oldest, which was built in 1929 in the Art Deco style and originally called The Turkish and Russian Vapour Baths. My first visit was a couple of years ago, when I went with an ex on couples' day. Before he was an ex, that is - not after. Going to a spa with an ex is not my idea of relaxation. Anyway. He didn't like it, but then he didn't really like much except being important and having lots of money, so I pushed the bad memories aside and returned, taking Em and Grania with me. In the ex's defence, I can see why he wasn't a fan. It's definitely grimy. Sanitary conditions are one of the mainstays of a good spa, and this one doesn't have 'em. But it's been going for eighty years and the gorgeous original tiling in the high-ceilinged relaxation lounge is hilariously juxtaposed with crappy green plastic sun loungers and a pretty unromantic steam room. You're given two big towels and a gingham sarong on entry, so you've always got something to sit on, and if you wear flipflops I don't really see the problem.

The definite difference between my first and second visit was that this time we were there on a ladies' only evening and boy, was there a lot of bush on show. There weren't nearly as many total wax jobs as you might expect, and in fact, many of the muffs were of impressive height and width, looking like a quarter of a large hair pizza had been laid down below the wearers' belly buttons. Emily even spotted one lady who seemed to have shaved a strip down the middle of her 'region', leaving a wide dark band on either edge. We discussed it and I decided that, given that she was of a certain age, she must be a victim of unfortunate selective pubic balding. As an image of our future, it wasn't particularly inspiring.

I'm quite a big fan of nudity, although to spare my friends the pain of looking at my birthday suit for four hours, I kept my bikini on last night. I did, however, appreciate the levelling effect of a bunch of women walking around starkers. In the time we were there, I only spotted one figure that I would have swapped, in its entirity, for my own. So many fantastic legs with rubbish boobs out there. Who knew? It was humbling and comforting and relaxing and, eventually, irrelevant, which is (of course) how it should be. I'm not sure, but the impression I get of men's changing rooms is that they are pretty nude-happy. Many grown women, on the other hand, still do that 'I'm-getting-changed-under-this-towel' thing that they do on a crowded beach. I don't know what we're all so repressed about, and I wish it wasn't the case. That said, tonight I'm off to eat seven courses at Marcus Wareing, and the chances of me wanting to show anyone my body in the immediate aftermath are, well, slimmer than I'll ever be. The boyban continues unchallenged.

Thursday afternoon

I have nothing to tell you today so instead I have decided to write you a poem about my legs. It's entitled Second Time Lucky. I hope you like it.

There once was a young lass called Jane,
Whose thighs looked like somebody's brain.
She did yoga and gymmed
But stayed cellulite-limbed,
So she cut them off and grew them again.

Can't get the last line to scan. Need one fewer syllable. Hmmm. Anyway. Must dash.

'Sup

Hmmm, odd. Don't know what happened there. One minute you couldn't shut me up, the next I totally lose interest. Not that my life's dried up, by any means. Edited highlights of the last few days include:

• Saturday's trip to the ukulele hootenanny, including a run-in with mad Paul who muttered something under his breath about me and, when I asked him to clarify, said, "Nothing, nothing," in a way that meant, "I dream of your death."
• My first ever collection from Freecycle - I have donated many items in the past but never gained anything. What was the object that was so desirable for me that I got up and left my house especially to pick it up from a house under five minutes' walk away? A pair of bowling shoes. Yup. I have enough cupboard space to squeeze in another couple of matchboxes, and I collect free bowling shoes, despite the fact that a) every bowling lane offers shoe hire included in the price; b) that I bowl less than once every two years on average; and c) I am literally crap at it so turning up with my own shoes will be a bit like taking driving lessons in a Mercedes Gullwing. Madness.
• With meditation becoming ever trickier at work, I discovered our office prayer room and have tentatively walked back and forth to it, past the HR department, hating the fact that they all think I am now a Christian or something. Urgh. The prayer room itself is said to be 'laid out in an appropriate way'. I had imagined perhaps some chairs, a little altar, and space for prayer mats. Instead it's just an empty room with a whiteboard on one wall, upon which an arrow, drawn in green pen, indicates the direction of Mecca. In a corner are three or four prayer mats folded into quarters, but they haven't moved since I've been in there. It's definitely a Muslim prayer room, not a multi-faith area. And I'd definitely feel like quite a dick if anyone walked in and caught me sitting on the carpet concentrating on relaxing my neck and shoulders. Beats trying to get zen while sitting next to a shrapnel pooer, though.
• I've read two brilliant books: And When Did You Last See Your Father? and George Orwell's essay collection, Books vs. Cigarettes, a small but immaculate selection of thoughts, ranging from reading to press freedom to school recollections and the snobbishness inherent in children. Both highly recommended.
• I saw a film, Sweet Smell of Success, which was good but not brilliant. I don't get why people fancied Tony Curtis. I think he looks like a waxwork.

That's all for now.

Men and voters

It's been a rare day at home, alone, and I've been efficient, defrosting the freezer for the first time ever, doing laundry and reoiling my kitchen worktops. I've also been uncharacteristically quiet - I sang along to the uke for a while, but I've spoken to no-one and not said a word aloud, other than a reprimanding sigh of 'Janey!' when my absent-minded whistling Waterloo Sunset started to drive even me to distraction. It's been a productive and pleasant enough day and I'm trying to save money and avoid restaurants, but solitary loafing, always craved in theory, is rarely as glorious in practice, and as the hours have whiled away, I've found myself mulling over two things: men, and the coalition government.

Politics first. The ConDems have just celebrated their first 100 days in government, and the verdict from this one-girl jury is not positive. I stand by my reasons for voting LibDem: my principal issues were education and Parliamentary reform, and the Liberals seemed my best hope for both. Equally, I can still see why I supported the coalition with the Tories - the Libs badly needed to get away from the accusation that they've had no experience of government, and I believed that the agreement for a referendum on AV was a fair compromise.

But everything's fucked up. By scheduling the referendum for the same day as local elections, Labour support for the vote evaporated (although it's questionable whether we ever would have had it in the first place), which mean that getting even AV, a watered-down demi-solution if ever there was one, is now pretty much impossible. And in the meantime, the Tories' godawful academies policy and terrifying NHS shake-up (that will lead inexorably to privatisation), their pathetic JSA plans, the austerity measures which hurt women, children and the poor most of all, and their disgusting but unsurprising inability to tax the richest has made me sick to my stomach - although the fumes from the Danish wood oil in the kitchen are doing their bit. The left-wing papers today are crowing about the new A* grade at A Level, using the predicted results as further proof that the education gap is widening. No shit, Sherlock. Meanwhile, state schools' only hope is that local parents are rich enough to be able to spare the time to take over. Hell in a handcart. I'm deeply disappointed that Nick Clegg has turned out to be so spineless, and feebly hope that Simon Hughes can exert some influence - the LibDem conference in late September should be interesting.

And men. There's a boyban and I was well behaved last night, successfully repelling a possible suitor by being on my spikiest form. Nah, in fairness, it was more complicated than that - it really wasn't clear whether he was interested or not, but I only found out after he'd left that he had been waiting ages to say goodbye to me, and I'd only bothered to dismissively wave at him because he was leaving at the same time as a (single) girlfriend of mine, and I'd assumed they were leaving together, as in, together, and I was vaguely stropping. Turned out they weren't, and my utter lack of interest in his departure has almost certainly ensured that that was the last I'll ever see of him. No great loss though - if he didn't have the cojones to step up and ask for my number then he's probably not got the cojones to cope with my electric intellect and cheese-wire wit.

Concurrently, without actually going on any dates, I have still managed to find a way to self-flagellate, chastising myself for being rejected by a boy who has never met me. I asked him out on a date over email weeks ago, before the boyban, and we engaged in protracted emails, him largely rebutting me but always making clear that his reasons were nothing to do with my appeal - it wasn't me, it was him, timing was off yadda yadda. Meanwhile, I know, he is single and looking. Annoying. Much as I'd love to believe that it's not me, it's him, I am a loyal disciple of the cult of He's Just Not That Into You - I don't know a single guy who's ever, EVER ended something (or not begun it) with a girl because of timing, or shyness, or work, or anything else. The only reason a guy doesn't date a girl is because he doesn't think he'll like her. He hasn't seen my photo so I can at least comfort myself that he is not rejecting me based on my appearance, but he does read LLFF, so I'll assume that the self-pitying and over-earnest whining that goes on in these paragraphs is clearly not the irresistible aphrodisiac I'd imagined. In fairness, I can understand the contents of this blog being deeply offputting to a potential date, but these words have won me male fans in the past. OK, one fan, and it didn't end well. Regardless, this guy is not interested and I'm annoyed. He's a writer and I'd hoped he'd be able to separate the online persona from the truth. Sure, I'm 100% honest on here, but it's not the whole picture. ANYWAY. I don't know why it bothers me - just as he doesn't know the real me from Eve, I don't know the real him from Adam, so how can I feel any sense of outrage or rejection? I dunno. I just can.

After far too much beer and wine at the ukulele hootenanny last night, Vikas asked me a question along the lines of whether or not I was happy. Happy? I asked. Yes! Sure, I knock back 20mg of anti-depressants every day, but that's medicine, like insulin for a diabetic, and as long as I take it, I think I'm one of the happiest people I know, actually. Sure, I have my bad days, just like anyone, and I vent about things on here as though I'm a candidate for anger management, but the truth is that deep down, on the whole, I'm a smiling, grateful 33 year old. I lucked out big time with my flat, my job is totally bearable and secure, I have great friends, my parents are fantastic and I love them to pieces, I have mornings when I walk naked past the full length mirror and don't spontaneously vomit at the body opposite, I'm headily excited about going up to Edinburgh, and then to Morroco, and to the States next year, I have my health, all four limbs, I can breathe in and out without a machine... it's all gravy. "So why," asked Vikas, "do you want to find a man so much?" I was a bit startled, and not sober enough to reply properly. Even now my answer isn't particularly helpful or representative - there's something there about the mating instinct and biological clocks, as well as an inate urge to replicate the joy that my parents' relationship so clearly brings to them. I don't think my desire for a partner is particularly rational. Relationships clearly bring as much heartache as happiness, which, when added to the vulnerability of putting all your eggs in one man's basket, and the restrictiveness and boringness of having kids - well, it's obviously not sensible. I'm happy now. Why do I want to rock the boat? I dunno. I just do.

But not now. The boyban continues - without it I'll get even crapper at meditating. Now I must go and watch Danish wood oil dry.

Faily Candy

Faithful LLFF readers will know that much of what I do is profoundly stupid. One previously undiscussed example is my habit of signing up for, and then regularly reading, email newsletters that do nothing except send me into a mild rage. The principle rage-inducing email newsletter is Daily Candy, which is less candy and more upper-middle-class, Notting Hill millionaires trying to keep their finger on the pulse between worrying about serving non-organic lamb koftas at their second baby’s Christening and jetting off to St. Moritz for a spa weekend.

But still I receive it, because once every six thousand days, they send me something that’s quite good. The other five thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine days, they send me something that has me gnashing my teeth and wanting to force glass shards into the eye sockets of everyone involved in its production.

Today’s really took the biscuit. Witness the opening sentence:

“No matter how much you’ve paid for it, how close it is to your house or how hot your spinning instructor, you rarely find the motivation to hit the gym.”

Don’t tell me about my gym motivation, biatch. You don’t know me. And actually, let’s look closer. A) You assume I have enough money for a gym membership. An expensive gym membership. Growl. B) You assume I have a HOUSE. C) You assume I have a ‘spinning instructor’ – a hot one – and that his hotness might inspire me to go to his class, sweat heavily and be very bad at something in front of him. Right.

Breathe. Continue to sentence two:

“But we’ve got something that’ll put a spring in your step: Lucas Hugh, a new sportswear brand with all the comfort of your boyfriend’s baggy T-shirt and practicality of your sports bra — but with razor-sharp fashion styling.”

Oh, how wrong I was! You know me perfectly! The thing that will put a spring in my step, the very thing that is most likely to make me bounce down the street like I’ve just stepped out of the salon, is a NEW SPORTSWEAR BRAND. I’ll let the reference to my NON-EXISTENT BOYFRIEND slide, because you’re clearly so spot on with my desire for gym clothes that have ‘razor-sharp fashion styling’. Chuck away the anti-depressants, call off the dogs, I’ve found razor-sharp sportswear. THANK YOU. But wait! I desperately need more information! Bring on sentence three:

“Work it out catwalk style in a body-contouring leotard with subtle mesh inserts, hipster graphic-print leggings or colour-contrast darting (flattering on the hips).”

Ah. OK. If I were to compile a list of things I am not likely to exercise wearing, it would probably read something like this:

1. Nothing.
2. LEOTARD.

I mean. What complete maniac, what total deviant thinks that, as one jogs on a treadmill, the best outfit to wear is a long-sleeved swimming costume? Because I think they need to be shot. Unless the subtle-mesh inserts are, in fact, head-to-toe, Teflon-strength webbing panels that squeeze the wearer’s body into the exact size of Heidi Klum, I am not interested. Equally, let’s discuss ‘hipster’ leggings with ‘colour-contrast darting’. Let me tell you, you twunt of a fashion stylist, it’s going to take more than a bit of GCSE art training in complimentary colours to make my hips look good in a pair of leggings. Like liposuction. Or global blindness.

Sentence four:

“Futuristic details that bring function to form include headphone eyelets and strategically placed pockets for your BlackBerry or iPod.”

Erm. I don’t know what generation you’re from, fucktard, but where I live that’s not a futuristic detail, it’s a normal sportswear feature. What exciting touch are you going to flag up next? Holes in the fabric for your arms and head?

Sentence five:

“Glued-seam technology (as used by Olympian Michael Phelps) will help you run like the wind, but we reckon what’ll really get you going is that the printed bodysuits, wet-look short shorts and blouson tops look just as good in the pub as they do on the treadmill.”

Stop. Right. There. Wet-look short shorts. Without question, these sound like the most revolting garment in the history of clothing. If I ever, EVER thought that wearing a pair was a good idea, you can be certain that I would be on a lot of hallucinogenic drugs and should be popped into The Priory for a long spell of introspection. The imagined sight of me running in a pair brought tears of self-pity to my eyes. Then there’s the idea that it’s the technology behind the seams that has been holding me back all these years – if only they’d been glued, not sewn, I’d be bounding round the marathon in under three hours. Well at last I know. And blouson tops and printed bodysuits – I’m quite sure I would look splendid wearing them in the pub – I’ll give that a try. How much did you say this stuff was?

Sentence six:

“Available online at www.lucashugh.com, £60-£280.”

Dear Lucas Hugh and the writers of Daily Candy,
You make me sick. Stay away from my life forever.
Yours,
Lost Looking For Fish

Woman in pain

For the past 48 hours, I've been living with the sensation that concrete has been poured down my spinal column and my skull has decided to disintegrate, slowly. Meanwhile my womb feels as though it's being dragged downwards by a mean-spirited Shire horse. I had been reliably informed that this shit would get easier as I aged, but that turns out to be cobblers. It's a different kind of pain, sure - less likely to make one faint or vomit, but more exhausting and seemingly longer in duration. Honestly. Who'd be a woman?

Last night, in between pouring carbs down my gullet as though they alone would make the pain subside, I went to a hot third-floor room in Soho to see comedian Simon Amstell rehearse material for a forthcoming tour. He was funny. There is an anecdote brewing about how we (oh-so-gently) chatted to him as he passed us on the stairs afterwards and how no one has ever looked more desperate to get away from us. And a longer exposition agreeing with the old adage that one should never meet one's heroes. But I've met several of mine in the past few years, and I'm old and wise enough not to expect anyone to be anything other than massively flawed and, after a while, quite annoying. Grania, perhaps, was a little more disappointed. But either way, I'm retaining too much water to type comfortably on this keyboard so I'm going to go back to the TV and continue to find lower spinal relief every 30 minutes by stretching into plough pose (see left) (drawing not to scale) (and I am not a monkey) on the floor. It's not a pretty picture but needs must.

In which I write a lot

So it turns out that even when I'm not trying to meditate in the middle of someone else's intestinal warzone, I find it freaking hard. I actually think I'm getting worse at it. Last night's attempt was so bad that I have lost motivation and now can't be bothered to try at all. Which is sad and actually I will rectify that asap. This week, I have to do a short body scan, when you briefly focus on different parts of your body from toe to head, and then focus on the supposed heaviness of my arms, my legs, and my neck and shoulders. Then I have to repeat that I am at peace three times. Then I have to 'cancel', by opening my eyes and taking a deep breath, and then do the whole thing again.

Problem is, I can't focus on anything at all. I think watching Sherlock just beforehand is probably not helpful, and Sunday evenings are never good for me anyway, in a mental sense, but last night things got so bad that I briefly wondered if I am not, in fact, human, but some rare and supremely gifted yet undervalued uberspecies whose mind can process infinite thoughts per second, trapped in the restrictive body of a thirty two year old woman. Thirty three year old woman. Shit. Anyway, my brain was moving so fast that I decided it might be interesting to try and record its absurd trajectories and discuss them with my therapist on Wednesday. So I switched on iDictaphone, and instead of saying the words in my head, I said them out loud. When I got too distracted I jumped back a stage. I transcribed the recording a moment ago and I sound like a lobotomised amnesiac. This is roughly what came out - the bits in brackets are the thoughts I had accidentally in between the thoughts I was meant to be having:

Feet
(Recording)
Feet
Ankles
(Sports day at school)
Feet
Feet
Ankles
Calves
Shins
Knees
(Brigitte)
Legs
(Period)
Stomach
Chest
Shoulders
(My face is itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Truck outside)
Feet
Ankles
(My stomach's rumbling, I’ve eaten a lot today, my head’s itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Yogatoes)
(My face is itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Eczema [other people’s. I do not have eczema])
(Simon)
(My head’s itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Come on)
Shins
Calves
Knees
Thighs
Stomach
Down my arms
(Skiing)
Elbows
Forearms
Hands
(Massage)
(Fish pedicure [more on this later])
(Grania)
(Robert)
Small of the back
Up the spine
Over the top of my head
(Lorry driver)
Eyes
Nose
Mouth
(Haven’t brushed my teeth)

Listening to the sounds outside
Back into the room
(Badminton with Sara on Tuesday)

My left arm is heavy
(Chest tightening)
My left arm is heavy
Both arms and both legs are heavy
Both arms…
(My friend Kate)
and both legs are heavy
(My boss)
(Going to work tomorrow)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(That bar in Kennington where I went with Kate)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(Someone giving me a neck massage)
(Japanese hairdressers)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
I am at peace
(My blog entry about not being at peace)
I am at peace
I am at peace
(Heard a noise like a frog, thought about the rockery in Luke’s parents’ garden)
Cancel
(Exhale)

My left arm is heavy
(Thinking of Eva, Kit, photography, the guy at the photography course)
My left arm is heavy
Both arms… (Claire, Henry, Gordon)
Both arms and both legs are heavy
Both arms and both legs are heavy
(That film, Sliding Doors, the end of it, John Hannah on the bridge)
Both arms and both legs are heavy
(Walking through Battersea Park with Kate and Sarah and Simon the morning after that New Year’s Eve)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
I am at peace
(People outside)
I am at peace
(Yoga at the Ayurvedic spa in India with Simon, tea planting, photos, being smeared with red paint)
I am at peace
(Grania)
Cancel

My left arm is heavy
(Denouement of Sherlock Holmes in the pool)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
(Quite smug that I never thought it was John, I knew straight away that he had the stuff on, it was good though, bad beginning, my eye is itchy, my ear is itchy, you’ve gone right off course, go back)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
(Rucksacks)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
(Going to the States)
(Grania, Andrew)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(The School of Life)
(That came out of nowhere)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(What if the dictaphone’s not working?)
I am at peace
(Peace be with you in church)
I am at peace
(The sheet music on Brigitte’s piano)
I am at peace
Cancel

In have no idea if this is normal, if this is along the lines of everyone's head contents, or if it's a total miracle/outrage that I haven't yet been locked up. Either way, you can hopefully understand that my thrice-daily meditation sessions are more exhausting than I'd anticipated, and sandwiching them into my normal life is not easy.

Friday I had a gathering at Charlotte Street Blues, where I drank a mojito and then several litres of white wine, and danced and laughed and received quite literally astonishingly cool presents, not one dud, and I'd for some reason got some business cards printed last week, and started handing them out to all and sundry, feeling like it wasn't quite breaking the boyban if all I was doing was handing out tiny glossy rectangles to virtual strangers. And then we went to The Roxy, where a minging guy basically tried to have sex with me on the dancefloor without a) removing any clothing at all or b) asking, and I was faux disgusted by another guy who was really flirty while wearing a wedding ring, but then he turned out to be an amazing dancer and that was really fun. And then we left and Trace and I walked to Soho Square and my stupid key for the Londikes didn't work AGAIN and I wondered briefly whether there was some hidden breathalyser mechanism because I clearly shouldn't have been allowed on a bike under any circumstances, but then I couldn't remember where my nightbus left from and I ended up walking to Victoria, and pretty much the entire way there I was talking to the woman from Barclays Cycle Hire, chattering away about how annoying it was that my key didn't work and all the while she was probably playing Solitaire and saying, 'Mmmm. Mmmm. Yup.' about every six seconds until I bored myself and hung up. And then I got on the bus and met the guy from Cameroon and then came home.

So Saturday was a bit groggy, but I got dressed up and went over to West London to the Mary Poppins land that is Holland Park to see some friends and then down to Aqua Sheko just off Ken High Street for London's only fish pedicure. Ohmygodohmygod. I found out about this approx. one week ago and immediately knew that even if it was £100 and/or absolutely crap, I still had to try it. Fortunately it was neither. Grania has a photo of me where my leg looks weirdly amazing [now posted], so I will wait until she sends that to me to post it, but basically, you submerge your feet in these tanks and all these little catfish-like brown fish, about an inch long, come and EAT ALL THE DEAD SKIN. They like it. It is like putting a platter of doughnuts in front of me. They can't help themselves. Apparently they gorge and gorge and gorge, and then every now and then they go and sit on the bottom of the tank and have a rest for 5 mins and then they're ready to go again. They are insatiable. For dead skin.

Anyway, so you put your feet in and these fish swarm around and between your toes, and it's tickly and initially very freaky and Grania said she was going to be sick and I was so worried that she was going to vomit into the tank that I was completely distracted from the fact that I, too, thought I might vomit into the tank. But after about two minutes, it's fine, and then after five minutes it just becomes really nice and relaxing. And you sit there for thirty minutes and then your feet feel amazingly soft and then you get an incredible foot massage for fifteen minutes. I won't lie. It's not the most incredible pedicure on earth. I could have had the fish chowing down for another hour or so. But it was an experience. Possibly don't go when you have a whopping hangover. Other than that, I'd recommend it.

Then we went to a charity shop and I bought a red jacket and then we went to Waterstones and I decided to buy The Slap on Amazon, and then we went to Bethnal Green, to Bistrotheque which was great, and to the Working Men's Club, where a guy was dancing and then chatting to us, and I realised that I don't like going out dancing with one other girl because if I meet someone nice, I feel really guilty about abandoning them for even one second, and sad for them that they aren't being chatted up by someone. Even if she has a boyfriend, I still feel sad for her that no one is chatting her up, and I realise that is probably ridiculous, but on reflection yesterday I realised that I still have clear memories of being the fun girl at teenage parties who was always making sure there was an amazing song on the stereo and who knew all the words to everything and who was funny and confident, while all the pretty ones were outside in the foliage snogging Anna's brother's friends. And I may have looked like I didn't mind but fucking hell I did. And I guess that's why I now would feel so uncomfortable ever putting anyone else through that. Which means that really the only time I feel comfortable meeting someone is on a date, because everyone present is involved and no one feels left out. Because there's nothing worse than going out with someone, a platonic friend of either sex, and realising that while you thought you were meeting up to have a chat, they were meeting up with you as a platform to meeting someone else - someone they've never met before, someone they can kiss - and they want you to stand there and talk to them until they meet that person, and then once they've met them, you can go away please, and hopefully find your own person, but if you don't, then that's just your tough shit slightly.

ANYWAY. So I wasn't particularly friendly to the really quite attractive guy who came up to me at the Working Men's Club, in fact when he accidentally spat while he was talking to me I said, 'I asked for the news not the weather,' which I haven't said for about thirteen years, but Grania said she laughed so much internally that she slightly did a wee. But then I felt bad, so I was a bit nicer to him and danced with him for a bit and then these beautiful girls came on stage and started doing an amazing routine, and we were all agog, and I said to him, 'You need to go for that one on the right, she's amazing,' and he said, 'I'm not sure my girlfriend would be too happy about that,' and I was thinking inside, 'Girlfriend?! Things that make you go hmmmm.' I mean, of course, he did nothing wrong, he just danced with me, but why are two guys going out and doing sixties dancing with strangers except if to pull? And later I spotted him bumping and grinding with someone else, and I tell you what, on paper he was behaving himself, but I'm pretty sure his girlfriend wouldn't have been too happy with pretty much anything he was up to that night.

Eventually it all caught up with us and Grania and I called it a day and started the trek home via nightbus, and met an adorable blond South African guy who seemed so sweet and gentle, who told us that he worked in a salsa bar and then told us that he'd got the deep cut on his knuckle because he pushed his ex-housemate's head through a window during a fight, which all seemed rather extraordinary, and eventually I got home and slept and then woke up and cooked and mum and dad came over for DIY and eating, and my flat is at a new level of amazingness, and then I watched Orchestra United and Sherlock, and then I couldn't meditate and couldn't sleep and then it was time to get up.

It's all excellent.

What it could be like all the time if i wrote when drunk

God i love london. i just gt back home from my birthday party and everyne and everything is amazing. but i wante d to say especially what was briiillant aside from al the amazing presents was hte man on the nightbus back home. it was his first day in lodnon, he's from camerooon, nad he didn't know his own address. he knew he hadtaken this bus route in the other direction earlier today, but that's all. and he got on the bus, and asked the driver 'do you go past a big church?' and he was like, 'ye-huh.' which wasn't helpful. os me and this other passenger helped him, through a process of elimination, at 2am, and it was lovely.

There has been an incident

Right. I have had three therapy sessions with my latest woman, and it's all ticking along nicely, thank you. The surface has been scratched and I am enjoying the process. But there is a problem. One of the things she has suggested I try is meditation. She is by no means the first person who has told me I might benefit from chilling the fuck out. My last therapist, who I saw a year or two ago, likened me to a "beautiful acquiline Arab horse charging across a deserted beach, rushing headlong to nothing." Horses are unquestionably attractive creatures, but nonetheless, I wasn't sure the analogy was a compliment. Learning to switch off would be great: I quite enjoy being full of beans, so I don't think I'd do it all the time, but it'd be fun to know how.

As a result, this new woman's got me doing a thing called Autogenic Training, which is a kind of Western, secular meditation. Each week, she gives me new things to do. At the moment, I have to do mental exercises three times a day, each stint lasting around 5-10 minutes. So far, so manageable. When I wake up in the morning, I give it a go. When I get home at night, I rarely manage to get through the session without falling asleep, which I reckon is a positive. But it's the weekday lunchtime element that is causing issues.

Thus far, I have been retreating to the ladies' facilities for these few minutes every day, hoping to catch them at a downtime. Inevitably, however, while I'm focusing on relaxing the muscles in my neck and shoulders, someone walks in, sits down loudly in the next door cubicle and starts weeing. I try to focus on my own energy but in a 'don't think of pink elephants' moment, the 'don't think of the person weeing next door' concept results in me accidentally amplifying the noises until it seems as though my fellow visitor is urinating in a steel bucket perched atop my head. At times like these, meditation is somewhat tricky. I'd challenge the Dalai Lama to remain zen.

In typical self-castigatory style, however, I have been telling myself that I should be able to block these things out. One should not need total silence to meditate - that would be impractical. So I have persevered through the weeks. Right up until ten minutes ago, when a nadir was reached. I declare myself beaten.

I was seated in the cubicle, body and head relaxed, glasses in lap, noticing and not judging the thoughts of tonight's belated birthday gathering that were popping uninvited into my head, (alongside the thoughts of Sherbet Dib-dabs and bad posture concerns and gym dread and last night's dream about swimming in the Thames) when a person, presumably female, entered the room and chose the adjacent stall to mine. I increased the pressure on myself to remain focused. She started to wee. I clenched my eardrums. Suddenly, there was an explosion. I was unsure whether to duck for cover or check myself for shrapnel. I opened my eyes and was surprised to see the walls still upright. Surely something so powerful would have blown the power supply? But no; there was another, and another. I am fairly sure that the methane quantities this girl produced are single-arsedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer. Pint after pint of liquid faeces erupted onto the ceramic just a few inches and a thin layer of MDF from where I was seated, trying hard not to weep or be sick while repeating silently to myself 'I am at peace', as I had been instructed.

Finally, the attack seemed to pass. No all clear siren rang out, but there was a new kind of movement next door. I assessed my options. I still wasn't sure if the bomber knew I was there. From the time she'd arrived, I'd been absolutely noiseless. Yes, my door was locked, but unless she got down on her hands and knees, she wouldn't be sure someone was inside. Despite feeling aggrieved beyond compare at the aural onslaught I'd had to withstand, I felt that the kindest thing to do to someone who'd just suffered such an indignity was to pretend I had heard nothing. And the easiest way to do that was to stay still. More than ready to leave, I nonetheless resolved to lay low.

Eventually, she emerged from her cubicle and washed her hands with an admirable yet slightly emetic thoroughness. But she didn't vacate the sink area. I wasn't sure what she was doing, but after a minute or two, it occurred to me that perhaps she was waiting for me. Perhaps, I reasoned, she was so embarrassed that someone had heard her emissions that she had decided to kill me. I was briefly scared until I remembered that I am an office worker and not in an episode of Sunset Beach. I waited a bit longer. And then a little longer still. Finally, I became bored of this bizarre stand-off. I also admitted to myself that there was a strange part of me that wanted to see who had been responsible for the violent anal eruptions, so powerful that they would surely have made anyone who grew up on a faultline instinctively take refuge under a doorframe. I decided to stand up and declare my presence, but at the instant that I slid back the lock, she made a break for it, tearing out of the bathroom and into the small anteroom. All I glimpsed was her unfamiliar rear view, long dark hair, slim hips, fitted trousers and an understandably purposeful walk.

I washed my hands and left, unseen.

I am not at peace.

Easy life

So I was thinking the other day on the tube about the life I would choose if I could be born anywhere at any time, and I didn't think about it for that long, but the conclusion I drew was that the best person to be ever would be a man living in rural Italy. Men obviously have it easier than women. And I chose rural Italy because I believe that people with a strong faith have it easier than atheists, and Catholicism is probably the easiest faith of all, in that it is clearly bonkers and you have to do so little except believe patently absurd things and apologise for any transgressions to a man sitting the other side of a partition. Everything that happens is the doing of someone else, whether it's the Pope or God or whatever, and about six days out of seven there are feast days when you get to eat lots of cake. What's not to like? Plus the weather is nice in southern Italy.

I wasn't sure of a good time to be born into this male's body near the sole of the boot. I think the technological era has probably made life more complicated, so I wanted to live before the dawn of computers, but then there were two world wars which weren't that great for Italy and I would certainly want to avoid any sort of fighting in armed conflict. So that was a bit tricky. And I wanted to avoid the mafia if possible. Again, not sure if that's an option. To be honest, the whole thing's a bit of a guess, given that, as far as I'm aware, I've never been male, Italian, religious or truly thick. Any improvements more than welcome.

Finer details aside, basically my idea is to go somewhere as hot and boring as possible, and be as thick and powerless as I can, so that anything bad that happens to me is not remotely attributable to myself. It's a long winded way of saying ignorance is bliss. Of course, bad shit happens to weak morons too, but I doubt they sit around saying, 'Fuck, I just got arthritis, I knew I should have taken more Omega 3s, I'm such a DICKHEAD,' whereas I would be flailing around hating myself and my disintegrating skeleton and shouldering around 97% of the blame for a condition that was about 2% preventable.

I do not currently have arthritis. It would just be nice to be utterly certain that my desires will change absolutely nothing about my reality. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure that we're all slaves to capitalism and I am pretty sure that any concept we have of free will is pretty much bollocks. I mean, sure, I think I'm doing what I want. But how did I decide what I wanted? Free will? Nah. I was socially conditioned, innit. We're all in thrall to The Man. But like a character in The Matrix, I still live under the illusion that I can control stuff. Clearly it's patently absurd, and I'd like to give it up. I'd like to accept, deep down, that I am as ineffective as I rationally fear I am. Life would be so much easier. I could be utterly flaccid and just go with the flooooooooooow mannnnnnn.

As it is, I spend my mental life in an imagined section of the Amazon where huge logs are carried along at speeds of over 70mph, and I am standing waist-deep, a large stick in my left hand helping me to stay upright, fighting against the current to go upriver. Dunno why. It's just the way it's always been. The idea of turning round and letting the water carry me with it is somewhat appealing, but I just can't do it. I'd feel like I was giving up. So I push on through the rapids, and sometimes I think 'Wow, this is an amazing challenge,' but most of the time it's quite hard work and I get very confused as other humans float past me on lilos, reading Heat magazine and having a whale of a time. And sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be a lot easier to be a thick Catholic man from pre-internet Italy.

All the threes

Of course, when you're young you want to be old, and when you're old you want to be young, but in your early/mid thirties, having an August birthday is good because pretty much everyone you know from school and university turns the new age before you do. It's been nearly a year since my first peer turned 33 and I'm now so used to the concept that I wouldn't dream of feeling ancient. Plus I have no grey hairs, even under the dye. And minimal wrinkles. So there's lots for which to be thankful.

Not much to report as yet, but a lovely evening last night despite a disgraceful performance from Purity Spa at the Park Lane Hilton. A few months ago, I spent £75 buying a special offer voucher, entitling me and a friend to a 30 minute massage and a manicure and pedicure. They told me to allow 1.5 hours for the experience. I took Em in May for her birthday, and found they'd lost our appointment, which was a bit of a shit present. They managed to squeeze us in for a massage that was as lengthy and relaxing as being brushed past in a corridor. Then they gave my friend a manicure. To apologise for the screw-up with the bookings, they gave me another voucher to do the whole thing again another time. We booked in for yesterday evening. This time, they at least remembered we were meant to be coming. Once again, the massage was pretty cursory, and the manicure and pedicure were not remotely as described - no soaking of feet, no moisturiser, just a shape and polish with performed with slightly less skill and certainly less affection than if I'd done it myself. The entire thing was finished within 55 minutes. On the upside, we were given two plastic glasses filled with cava. Which was a highlight.

Goodness me, what a boring, self-indulgent, middle class whinge. Apologies. Feeling a bit meh today, to be honest. There's something about spending the larger portion of one's birthday sitting in a corporate environment with harsh lighting, rain gobbing down outside and passive aggressive emails in the inbox that makes one feel a bit like taking a four day nap under one's desk. Not long til dinner.

600

A special day today for two reasons - this is my 600th LLFF, and secondly, today is my final day of being 32. So, a moment's silence to witness the occasional intestinal gurgle and reflect on the recent past. 32 has been a good age. A transitional age, in parts, but good all the same. No broken bones, a few briefly broken hearts and a bit of dented pride, but healthy, happy, older, a bit wiser and not much fatter. I feel good things about 33. Plus I'm excited about having a birthday, it feels like ages since my last one. Anyone needing my address for a generous gift should send me an email requesting such - you'll be staggered by the alacrity of my response. Or if you want to meet up in person to hand over my miniature pony, that will also be fine - I'm busy but I'll make time.

Still feeling the after-effects of Sunday night's unexpected drama - the butterflies are calming but the tight throat sensation is still hovering and I'm getting a bit fed up of being someone who always has something to complain about. Maybe this is what people do when they aren't looking for dates to go on. They get ill and then moan about it. Frankly, novel and unquestionably pleasant though it's been to have gone nearly three full weeks without being knocked back by an actual man, if the alternative is feeling like my windpipe has been exchanged with one from an organ-donating mosquito, I think I'd rather revert to type.

I say 'actual man' because my brain doesn't love me enough to spare me 100% of possible pain, so while my days have been rejection-free, my nights have been full to the brim with unpleasant dreams of thwarted romances and fictitious but nonetheless humiliating dumping incidents. Some have been unsubtle and heinous, others more veiled, where I'm abandoned in a variety of ways by friends or previously unheard of family members. I know we're all our own worst enemy but it is irritating to be quite such a walking cliche. No idea why I'm paying for therapy - a spaniel could analyse me. Head tilt. Woof.

Higher state of subconsciousness

I had a nice evening on Friday night, kicking off with a haircut at a salon that I'd chosen deliberately as looking like the kind of place where a customer might be able to communicate with the stylist using actual words rather than the combination of charades, gritted teeth and passive aggression that I'd tried last time. The new guy was so high up the hair food chain that instead of using sectioning clips to secure the top of my hair while working on the layers beneath, he actually had a minion to hold the locks for him. I've never seen this happen before and it made me feel slightly dirty. But the cut was good and I, as usual, look precisely the same as I did before.

Then I had a lovely dinner and drinks combo with Sarah, and then I journeyed home via Londike, woke up on Saturday, lay around, went on the computer and had a nice time, and then I went off to Victoria Park for Field Day, a one day 'festival' which was made awesome by the universe's greatest headline act, the sun, the actual sun, which beamed down on all of us and made what had been a non-descript cloudy morning into an ethereal, light-kissed evening full of beer, dancing, plastic pigeons and good music. It was really fun. And Sunday was good too, in that I did more lying around, and cleaned out my bathroom and planned a holiday and talked on the phone and did laundry and made delicious food. And I watched the Sondheim Prom on iPlayer, and then calmed down and watched Sherlock, and went to bed with a big grin on my face after what had been, by my reckoning, a most successful weekend, and although I was admittedly a little over-excited by some of the evening's events (the Prom in particular got my pulse racing), I didn't in the least expect to wake up at 2am gasping for breath as if I was being strangled. But that is actually what happened. My heart was pounding, and I recognised the symptoms of a panic attack, and I did all the deep abdominal breathing that you're meant to do, but my throat just felt like I was having an allergic reaction to something, like a cold fist was tightening round my larynx. Not pleasant. I slept patchily for the remainder of the evening and still feel funny.

Cannot work out why I would be having a panic attack since I feel absolutely fine at the moment and officially declare the boyban to be the best decision I didn't make (forced on me, as it was, by a third party). Maybe this is what my brain does when it's not worrying about men. Stupid, stupid brain. Hmmm. Rock. Me. Hard place.

Other than that, I have nothing to report.