GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

And again: GRRRRRRRRRRR. I am grumpy today about EVERYTHING and it is DEFINITELY YOUR FAULT.

Actually, it is my fault. I had way more white wine last night than I've had for a while and, fun though it was at the time, I am not happy about it now. I have been merrily healthy for the past however long, but today I cannot stop dreaming of pizza and garlic bread and it is no fun at all because I can't have what I want unless I am prepared to undo all my hard work which I don't want. So by getting what I want, I will also get what I don't want. This seems to me to be particularly cruel.

Plus in the past week I have had not one, not two, not three, but FOUR sex dreams involving boys I know in real life, none of whom I've ever seen 'in that way' before, except the one last night who I used to kind of flirt with but now he is married and the whole thing was really quite stressful what with him committing adultery etc. and really, it is getting rather tiresome waking up and finding that all that palaver was over nothing and that I'm still sprawled out diagonally across my big bed wearing a faded blue T-shirt from a club in Zanzibar, and not languorously spooning SOME RANDOM NAKED ACQUAINTANCE.

And then I got to work specially on time today, which is no mean feat on a normal day but a Victoria-Cross-winning effort this morning when I felt like someone had painted my eyes with white emulsion, because Elbow's fan site had sent me an email yesterday saying that they were putting some special tickets on sale at 9am this morning for a hush hush fans-only warm-up gig in March, to be held at a tiny venue in Cambridge, so at 09:00 hours I clicked the link and requested two tickets, and got through to the next page and entered my details at breakneck speed, name, address, email, card number, the works, and then pressed enter, and it said there was an error and took me back to the homepage, so I was like, stay calm, Janey, stay calm, and I reselected two tickets and painstakingly entered all my details again and pressed enter, and it said there was an error again, and took me back to the homepage, and then I went back to the gig listing, and it was sold out. At 09:04. And I was like, NOT FAIR. And then I spent about a zillion minutes trying to find the customer services email so that I could complain to them about their irritating and surely ILLEGAL system that allows OTHER PEOPLE to buy tickets but not me, even though I got up especially early and with a HANGOVER. And I finally got through to someone on the phone and they gave me the email address, and I started typing the email and then I just thought, 'Oh, you know what? It doesn't matter.' And I deleted the draft and moved on to dreaming about macaroni cheese.

But despite the irritating fallout, last night's masked gathering was really fun, involving a lot of giggling and not many masks, which is how I'd imagined it. I did go to Angel's beforehand and bought two amazing facial accessories - I will see if I can post a photo of myself in the more flamboyant one, on the understanding that I am still anonymous in LLFF. I also tried on a dark haired wig, and showed it to my friends. They say I should stay blonde. It was conclusive, and I like conclusions. Here's another one.

Six lessons and carols

Gosh it's been a long time since I wrote anything approaching a 'normal' blog entry, where 'normal' = general recap of the life I've been living outside my head, unburdened by mammoth discussions concerning my very mental state. Maybe it's time for a brief summary of things I've done and things I've learned as a consequence, NOT that everything in life has to be justified by also being a learning experience but that's a habit it'll take a while to shake.

So last Monday I had a top-up laser appointment at 5.30pm, which isn't nearly as exciting as it might appear to my male readers, although it does involve me lying nearly naked on a bed while another woman points a gun-shaped item at my nether regions while I writhe and moan, but honestly, it's not remotely sexual, I swear. I did learn that laser, pure laser, is much better than the stuff I used to have, which is called IPL (unknown TLA). IPL involves ultrasound gel and you come out all red and blotchy plus your skin is left all tacky from the gel, and it hurts like nothing I've ever experienced. Pure laser involves no gel and almost painless. Why would any salon buy an IPL machine when they could have a laser machine? Because one costs £15k and the other costs £55k. So that's fairly conclusive.

Then I went to choir and against my better judgment we went to the pub and I got home late. On Tuesday I met Em and we did a quick bit of shopping and then went for a drink and I battled with what to have in order to maintain my current dieting status (lesson: M&S nut snack pot should be illegal, and certainly marketing it as a healthy item is in violation of several trades descriptions acts, unless eating a handful of nuts and consuming approximately the same amount of calories as there are in a McDonald's Happy Meal is healthy), and then we went to Georgie's for the Christmas session of our book club, where we laughed a lot and played a hideous version of Secret Santa where the first person picks from the pile of presents and opens one, then the second person can either steal that one or pick another at random from the pile. Then the third person can steal either of the first two's, and so on. It's about as brutal as gift giving gets - particularly if some people are happy to steal while others feel uncomfortable with the concept. I came away with lovely white wool bedsocks from Accessorise: they weren't quite a white porcelain dish with rabbit figurine from Anthropologie, but could definitely have been worse. (Lesson: Prisoners' Dilemma - play hardball).

Then on Wednesday I went out with Grania for a catch up and we celebrated the fact that she is a brainbox and passed her fiendishly difficult exams, while many of her peers did not. (Lesson: she is cleverer than she thinks). Thursday we had a choir concert and I had too much to drink and took a duvet day on Friday, which I spent lying around until the afternoon when I got up and got ready for my ukulele Christmas party, an evening which began fairly sedately, continued at a noisy pub down the road until 12ish, then moved to a dive bar until 3 or 4ish, then moved via Boris Bike back home, holding hands as we cycled along in the bus lane, and ended up passed out, fully clothed, in bed after too much vodka. (Lesson: alcohol is amazingly fun but not in the long run. Actually, that can hardly be called a new lesson. What did I really learn...? I can stay up later if I drink spirits rather than wine. Useful.)

Saturday was a write-off - I was too tired even to watch The X Factor final, fell asleep on the sofa, failed to make soup and got a bit cross with myself for being unproductive. Sunday dawned clear and bright: I made the soup, tidied bits of the flat and was all ready to leave on time for the 3pm rehearsal when I applied my make up a little too enthusiastically and knocked my nearly-new glass bottle of foundation all over my black bathroom tiled floor, where it shattered dramatically, splattering its contents all over the floor, the side of the bath, the side of the sink, my brown suede boot, my tights, my dress, the shower curtain and the bin. Predicting that I might well return home, after the concert, slightly under the influence and perhaps needing to relieve myself as a matter of relative urgency, I thought that leaving my bathroom floor covered with shards of thick glass and Estee Lauder Double Wear was probably not the best idea. I thus hurried to pick up all the fragments I could see and then tried to mop up the foundation. It was not a success. In a crazed rush, I sprayed ready-mixed Tesco mopping solution all over the floor and went off to the concert, desperately hoping that my floor wasn't porous and that I wouldn't return to a streaky beige tile effect in the centre of my bathroom. (Lesson: haste makes absurdly inconvenient, expensive, tardiness-inducing waste.)

The concert went well, I felt truly supported by my wonderful family and friends, read my poem and a handsome hipster composer asked to collaborate with me in the new year. We all went to the pub, I ate mince pies, drank white wine and felt a lot of love. After closing time I took the bus home, found dried foundation all over my floor, pine-scented cleaning solution nowhere to be seen, either absorbed or evaporated, and realised something would have to be done before I could wee. I spent the thirty minutes around midnight in my stilletos and one-shoulder black dress, mopping hard with only partial success. Stupid stuff wears off my face after about six seconds in a gentle breeze but can you wipe it off tiles after a night on them? I certainly can't.

Em came over last night for dinner, we looked at photos and discussed ill-advised flirtations. Now I'm exhausted with 100 things to do at home, presents to wrap, admin to sort out, baths to clean, last week's Apprentice to watch, and I'm out the next two nights so I really should get an early one tonight, and what about my bank balance?, but what I'd really like is to get up the energy to go and see Pete's band play in Hoxton as I know it'd be a lovely festive evening. Muster muster muster. Droop. Snore.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A cornucopia of issues

So I'll update you on my existence and then we can cover this heartbreaking academies project and other hellish current affairs developments.

Friday night I went to see the Chemical Brothers (or as my 26 year old companion Chris insists on calling them, 'The Chems') at The Roundhouse. Last time I saw them perform live, I was eighteen and had told my parents I was staying the night at my friend Daisy's house but in fact we went to a Prodigy gig at Brixton Academy and took speed that our druggy friend Nick had put in a bottle of Ribena for us because we didn't want to snort it. The Chems were the support act but we'd drunk our Ribena too early and I was completely mental during that forty minute gig and then basically started aching and being tired during the main set. The next day I felt like my bones were eroding and Daisy and I compared notes about how horrific our comedowns were, but in retrospect I'd taken about half a gram of speed dissolved in a sugary drink, a combo which was about as likely to get me high as a Tracker bar. I think I was just unfit and six hours of dancing had given my body a shock. ANYWAY. Fourteen years on and the Chemical Brothers have a lot less hair and, personally, I think their music is a bit less exciting than it was when I first listened to Exit Planet Dust or whatever it was called. But it was a brilliant gig all the same, even without the alleged benefit of speed or Ribena - lots of dancing, lots of holding arms aloft to interfere with the amazing laser shows, lots of spilled pints and excitement about Bono's back injury that was possibly (at that point) going to exclude U2 from headlining at Glasto. Come on Bowie.

Saturday morning I was my own middle-class nightmare as I was awoken at 7.30am by the delivery man from Ocado, and proceeded to make my own garlic bread for the countryside gathering that lots of us went to and cor was it lovely. Old friends, hay bales to sit on, delicious food, Pimms and champagne in the sun, laughing, chinese lanterns after dark... a magical time and a blast from the past. Hungover and giggling uncontrollably on Sunday, work and choir on Monday, work and work-sponsored wine tasting last night - we tried bottles from Greece, Georgia, Italy and France and it was interesting. Apparently wine is thought to have originated somewhere around Georgia in 6000 or 7000 BC. Amazing. More interesting was the conversation I was having with my colleague before we sat down. I'd pointed out a guy from our floor who was also at the tasting, and indicated that he was thought to be a bit of a player. My colleague, let's call him Mike, said that didn't surprise him at all. Mike is in his early fifties and has been married nearly thirty years, and he told me that having a black-and-white attitude to infidelity is fairly naive. My jaw dropped.
"Do you mean that cheating is the norm?" I asked.
"I have no idea," he answered. "But it can't be a deal-breaker. Men are ruled by their pants. If it's going to be the end of your marriage if he fools around with another woman on a drunken night out, then you're going to find it hard going."
"Hang on," I said. "You're telling me that I have to be prepared to put up with infidelity if I get married?"
"I've never cheated, but I think it's not practical to say you will end a 25 year marriage on the basis of a one night mistake."
"Obviously I know he'll want to shag another woman at some point, possibly hourly," I said, just to show that I'm not too much of a purist. "And I'll meet other guys I find attractive too. But I've always hoped that, if he finds himself wanting to sleep with someone else, he'll come to me and tell me, and either we deal with it or we decide to break up."
"It's a nice idea, but I think your standards are impossibly high," Mike said. "These things are - normally - not premeditated. The guy gets drunk, goes home with the wrong person, wakes up remorseful - and just because of that, you're going to end a 25 year marriage, with three kids involved? It's not justified. No one is perfect."
"But that's just such a bad attitude. If he does it once and gets away with it, what's to stop him doing it again, over and over? I see what you mean, that ruining 25 years for one shag seems over the top, but if you can't trust him, then surely the things that make a marriage fun are mostly destroyed? And that's the worst bit - once you've been lied to once, once you've been made a fool of, your next relationship is affected too. You become paranoid and insecure, and having once been a laid-back cool girl, you move to be a divorcee with three kids who can't trust anyone else. Just because your stupid husband fancied a shag with someone else. The cheating moment itself may only last ten minutes but the effects are long-lasting..." Mike looked at me sadly - he clearly understood my point of view but still thought I was being hopelessly unrealistic. I felt totally powerless. And a bit sad. Really quite sad, actually. My first long term relationship ended because I was sorely tempted to cheat on my boyfriend. I didn't though - I spoke to him about it and we agreed that neither of us were happy, and we broke up. If my husband of 25 years wanted to cheat, I'd hope he would come and talk about it with me. But I guess if it just pops up out of nowhere, he's unlikely to phone me from the cab he's taking back to her house, with her kissing his neck as he explains his predicament. Meh, I dunno. I just hate the whole thought of infidelity. It really makes me feel sick. Desire to sleep with someone else I'm fine with - but actually going through with it, and lying to the person who's been there for you for the past quarter of a century... I just can't see how I should be laid back about that prospect. And that whole argument about men being rule by their pants, it's pathetic. It may be true, but it's pathetic. Women have just as strong a need to be loved and flattered and fancied. Maybe the chemicals are different and men genuinely can't control their urges. But I don't believe that's true of all of them. Some of them are honourable enough to keep it in their pants. I won't get married until I find one like that. And I refuse to be grateful if he is. Fidelity should be a given, not an unexpected bonus. Conversing with Mike was unexpectedly depressing. Glad (in many ways) that I'm not married to him.

In other news... It's my country's economy that's going down the pan, but I did laugh when I read this extract on The Graun's website, detailing some very-much-predicted issues with the Conservatives' budget in yesterday's Queen's Speech:
'Osborne was forced to abolish child trust funds altogether after the Tories overestimated savings that could be made on the basis of advice from the Whitehall efficiency experts, Sir Peter Gershon and Dr Martin Read. Gershon had said that £1bn of the £6bn cuts would come from savings in government IT projects, while up to £1bn would come from a recruitment freeze across the civil service. The Treasury said yesterday that IT had produced savings of £95m, less than 10% of the amount initially identified, while the recruitment freeze would produce savings of £120m, slightly more than 10% of the amount estimated by Gershon in that area.
Labour had lampooned a two-page document produced by Gershon during the election campaign outlining his efficiency savings. Liam Byrne, the shadow chief secretary to the Treasury, said tonight: "We warned the Tories that their plans were wrong. Now they're having to break both parties' manifesto promises and wipe out child trust funds because they wouldn't listen."'
I've no problem with child trust funds falling by the wayside, but it does show that complex descriptions of proposed financial savings made by a party while in opposition should pretty much always be taken with a shedful of salt.

Meh, no energy to carry on typing - suffice to say, this new academies drive by the Tories (and, yes, the LibDems) is exactly what I feared most - schools being run outside the jurisdiction of the local councils, ostensibly to free up teachers from national red tape: a good aim but a terrible solution. Academies are privately funded by businesses or individuals - how can this fail to create a massive disparity between different schools in different areas? It also opens things up for a plethora of faith schools. Agh. It's a disgrace, seriously. I can't even really believe it's happening. The whole thing makes me massively disappointed and LIVID with the LibDems for sanctioning such a lot of bollocks. I'm still glad I voted for them, because the vaguely-hinted-at referendum on AV in 2011 will mean the next election is slightly fairer than it would have been, had the coalition not been formed. But the Labour leadership candidates look pretty uninspiring at the moment so right now I really have no idea who I'll be voting for in 2015. With the education system going down the pan thanks to a 'solution' that will make the existing postcode lottery situation look like a pleasant dream, this country might be so freaking scary that I might not even be here next time around. Grumpy grumpy.

Thirty two year old dog; new trick

So it's very quiet in my office - all I can hear is the hum of Sky News next door, which has been reporting the BREAKING NEWS about the election, which is that ABSOLUTELY NOTHING HAS BEEN DECIDED. Across the road, a pneumatic drill or similar has just started doing its thing on the Crossrail site works, but other than that, it's been pretty silent here all day. That said, I can hear something else: a soft moaning, interspersed with the occasional sob. At first, I couldn't work out the sound's source. It was so plaintive, so sad, and every time I heard a new moan, I felt a stab of pain for its owner, who was clearly in some discomfort. Eventually, I realised what has been making the noise all morning. My liver.

After a heavy night on Thursday, a relatively quiet one on Friday, and another major assault on Saturday, the last thing I should have done yesterday is headed out, fully hungover, on a date, which of course entailed compulsory Dutch courage from the moment we met at 15:30 hours until we parted company at around 23:30. How people can meet for the first time over coffee I have no idea. Anyway, it was fun, but today I feel like it would take a seven or eight year detox to give my body a chance to recover. To assist it, I ate a bacon sandwich for breakfast and a tuna sandwich for lunch - the latter included a healthy five slices of cucumber and is thus surely bringing me back up to prime fitness levels. Just to gild the lily, I drank a berry smoothie and now rival Usain Bolt for optimum muscular power. My internal organs, however, require some further work.

The guy I met was on his first ever internet date (allegedly), and basically slipped up at every hurdle with impressive panache, telling me that he'd lined up dates with other women (massive faux pas - although obviously everyone is seeing several people, and we all know that they know we are too, the great game is to pretend you are only interested in whoever is seated across the table) and, having examined the Popular List for the first time on my iPhone, asked if I would take a new profile photo of him to improve his chances. I reminded him that this was not ideal flirting etiquette. He agreed, but then a few minutes later said that one of the men on the Popular List looks like a guy he knows from Hull who was taken to court on a rape conviction. I said that, again, this possibly wasn't the best first date chat. Later, I was at the climax of my story about the guy who vomited all over himself on the tube, when our food arrived. So really, it was probably about even in the end. Ultimately, I did like him quite a lot - he is the first guy who's ever made me cry with laughter twice in one evening - but he has plenty of flaws I can focus on if he decides he doesn't like me too. Plus I was so tipsy at the end of the night that, en route to the loo, I saw a dark haired guy in a nice overcoat standing alone by the bar, holding a pack of cards. I asked him if he could do magic. He replied that he could. I told him emphatically that I hate magic. He proceeded to do some amazing amazing card tricks. I got progressively enraged. He gave me his number. I went to the loo. So that's a first: picking up a guy while on a date with someone else. I'd be disgusted with myself if I wasn't so impressed.

Ehowtogetbeatenup

Still on yesterday's school reunion tip, I feel I must share with the uninitated a selection of suggestions that I stumbled across here, describing how to prepare for a high school get-together.

1. Dedicate yourself to an exercise regime. In the months leading up to the big event, tone up, burn some calories and get physically fit. You'll not only look better, but you'll feel more confident.

OK. Given that I found the site less than 24 hours before the reunion, I left it a little too late to action this. Even so, I had fortunately considered that my appearance should be at top notch on the big day, so I was thrilled when I stepped on the scales on Saturday morning and found that I'd actually gained nearly a kilogram last week. Additionally, my face had chosen to reward me for my largely spot-free teenage years by breaking out in a liberal sprinkling of zits. Excellent.

2. Splurge on a stylish outfit. Don't break the bank, but treat yourself to some flattering new duds that accentuate your assets.

Assuming that turning up to the reunion wearing a burka might be thought of as a little odd, I didn't have many options. It was far too late to buy something new so I went in an old dress from Marks and Spencer's, the only selling point of which is its low neck - normally I'd hope that my cleavage may distract from my face, but in a room full of heterosexual girls, I knew I was barking up a tree of desperation. On the upside, I gained solace from the knowledge that I am not a person who uses the word 'duds' instead of 'clothes'.

3. Pay a visit to your hairdresser. Update your look with a new cut or color. Whatever you choose, make sure it's different from the style you had in high school. If you're not ready to lop off those locks, opt for a trendy up-do.

This tip had me crying with relief that I no longer have to write crap like that for magazines. And also slightly panicking that my appointment with my beloved Japanese hairdresser isn't until next Tuesday. My roots are almost longer than the dyed portion of my hair and the style doesn't know whether it's 60s or 70s, long or short, blonde or brown. In short, it looks awful. Ah well. I reminded myself that these people knew me when I went to school, so there's little point pretending that I'm anything other than rank - they know the truth.

4. Define yourself professionally. Even if you're in-between jobs and not exactly sure of your career path, prepare an impressive response. You're likely to be asked what you do for a living more than once.

Define yourself professionally?! FFS. I've been trying to do that since the late nineties. My career path is about as easy to define as irony. At this point, the tips were making me want to skip the reunion and stay at home doing something more fun, like stabbing myself in alternate ears with skewers. Mercifully, on the day itself, the only two people who asked me about my job were two old teachers - my peers either know the truth already or didn't care, and for that I love them.

5. Count your blessings and your bragging rights. From your perfect children to that marathon you ran, recall your many accomplishments. You'll want to mention these things at the reunion.

Oh yes! Of course! Thank god you reminded me about the CHILDREN I DON'T HAVE AND THE MARATHON I HAVE NEVER RUN. I recall my many accomplishments. They include interviewing Britney Spears on the phone over a decade ago and then listening back to the tape and becoming convinced that the PR had sent a stand in, so the rest of my office were helpless with laughter that I'd actually spent half an hour on the phone talking to 'Jipney'. And there was that time I fixed my washing machine unaided in 2008. I no longer feel like doing the ear skewer thing. Suicide is clearly the only option.

In addition to the five dos, there are also a few additional pointers, including the helpful suggestion that I bring my business cards (which I don't have because I am SUCH AN UNDERACHIEVER) and a warning not to drink away my nerves. Apparently it's fine to loosen up with a couple of drinks but we should be careful not to overdo it. Lolz etc. As if I would need to be told not to overdo it! Moi, the epitome of self-control and abstinence?! In the event, I took things at my usual refined pace, only having very small, delicate sips of sparkling wine, white wine and red wine, and going to bed at the civilized hour of 3am after re-straining my right groin muscle while attempting to pole dance in the sixth form common room.

So, thanks to ehow for telling me that I should turn up in precisely the opposite state to that in which I managed to arrive, and then behave in a manner absolutely not like my own character, while handing out BUSINESS CARDS.

LLFF's tips for a reunion are as follows:

1. Don't bother getting too dressed up, losing loads of weight or doing an 'ornate up do' because you'll look like a wanker. Plus, everyone will know you never normally look like that - we've all seen you on Facebook.
2. Don't worry about your job or your achievements - no one worth your time gives a flying fuck what you do between nine to five, they just want to see that you're happy and healthy.
3. Take business cards and hand them out. If you truly are that much of a dick, this is a helpful way of identifying yourself to the people who aren't over-formal nightmares.
4. Drink as much booze as you can possibly pour down your gullet. You've paid for it, you may as well enjoy it.
5. Finally, never ever rely on the internet for tips about anything. The content is written exclusively by morons. Oh.

It's a rich man's world

So like any good citizen, I totally forgot to watch the Chancellors' debate on Channel 4 last night, and only managed to catch up on the highlights via Newsnight. Paxman was as annoying as ever, making everyone look absolutely shit without allowing anyone an opportunity to redeem themselves or clarifying anything for the viewer; at one point his battering ram approach actually made me feel a degree of sympathy for Ed Miliband, in itself a staggering achievement.

One thing that always strikes me in discussions about government is the gulf between the soundbites and the actual complexity of each department. I am still gobsmacked on an hourly basis by quite how much waffling goes on in the big company where I work - so many people having eternal meetings to make fairly straightforward decisions, everyone inputting, designing charts, trying to cut costs in order to justify paying themselves more money - it's the same everywhere, I know, but there was quite a funny moment last night where the Tory guy was criticising Alistair Darling's plans, and the Labour guy said 'Well, you say you're going to make X amount of cuts, where's the money going to come from?' and the Tory guy said he couldn't say because as an opposition party, they don't have access to the information they need to be precise about things. So they say they will make cuts, but they can't say where from. And Labour are saying they can make cuts too, and we're all wondering why they weren't making them already, and Miliband's saying 'We are already making cuts, but these are on top of those cuts - we are already making huge cuts in my department' and I did just think of the office where I work, and if they were suddenly required to make huge cuts (which they were last year after the crash) and how people just had to pack up and go - and that if the government starts sacking loads of civil servants, they will be accused of boosting unemployment etc. It's a reet mess innit.

I started the weekend at an excellent party on Friday night, where, after several hours chewing the fat, it became clear that three of my friends were slightly the worse for wear. One of them took herself off home at a sensible hour. Another stood around smiling benignly as I made her drink water and then she took a taxi home. A third was put into a cab by a helpful accomplice, who assured the driver she wouldn't be sick. Throughout all this, I was extraordinarily capable and smug, delighted that I had managed to consume lots of wine and feel pleasingly footloose and fancy free without becoming emotional, tired or aggressive. But the moment tipsy gal number three had left, I treated myself to a reward glass of white and immediately tipped myself over the edge, lurching attractively across the dancefloor, having to let the window of the cab down to stay this side of violently ill and then standing on my parents' top floor, sticking my head out of the Velux to provide continued cool air. Fortunately, I managed to avoid doing anything other than sway gently, and after a motorway McDonald's milkshake and fries the following morning (on top of hot cross buns for breakfast) was feeling much better until I saw a photo that someone took of me that made me look as though I'd been injecting heroin into my face for the last four years, while smearing a uniquely staining excrement beneath my eyes. Despite the emetic physical appearance, my mood wasn't much dented by the hangover, and I giggled to tears with the girls at Lucy's as though we were back at school. A wonderful three days, culminating back at home with the successful erection of my new chest of drawers. We won't tell anyone about the fact I put the top on the wrong way round and then had to lever off all the nails I'd hammered in to the back and redo it all again. It looks beautiful now and that's all that matters. Could not be more excited or more crippled. Turns out DIY requires specific muscle groups, but I was just kneeling on the floor for most of it so I don't understand how my mid-back and outer-hamstrings specifically are quite so painful. Nothing Rodney Yee can't sort out.

Misnomer

Wisdom teeth, it turns out, are thick as pigshit. If they're so intelligent, why do they half emerge and then get bored and stop, leaving me open to external forces of evil? Where is the Einstein IQ that causes a TOOTH to create a situation whereby I have to take antibiotics that make me spaced out and unable to cope with the most basic of tasks and, more extraordinarily, unable to consume alcohol?

For I, ladies and gentlemen of The Faithful, have just gone An Entire Weekend Without Wine. And my god, if it wasn't one of the most challenging experiences of my entire middle-class existence, up there with boycotting Primark on moral grounds (resounding fail) and tearing myself away from West London (belated success). First up was Friday night, when I had to learn and sing some tango music to accompany a bizarre version of a Midsummer Night's Dream in front of a room full of strangers, and a glass of white would have gone down extremely well. And then on Saturday, having been to an a capella singing workshop at the gorgeous King's Place, I rushed home to receive my parents and my aunt and uncle, who had brought three bottles of wine between them, and as I sipped my Britta-filtered Chateau Neuf du Tap (appalling, sorry), my four wonderful relatives enjoyed several glasses of Rioja and others. They were, as always, superlative company but it was odd being the sensible one. I'll tell you one thing for nothing - my dad is freaking hilarious. Literally very funny. Unrepeatable, so you'll have to take my word for it, but even sober, he had me in stitches.

Then it was Sunday, and I went up to Hoxton to meet Em, and we tried very hard to find a hipster venue for lunch, but there were hipsters lining up outside all the trendy places so we ended up walking down to Spitalfields and going to... wait for it... wait for it... so cutting edge I can hardly bear to tell you.... Strada. I had a Fiorentina. I know. Aren't you impressed by my risky culinary choice? It was delicious. But knock me over with a biro if it wouldn't have been massively improved by a fat glass of unoaked Chardonnay or similar.

And from Shoreditch to Waterloo, and a lovely meeting with an old friend, and a seat on a sofa opposite him in an armchair, as he drank a glass of white, and then another and another and another, while I had four or possibly five small bottles of sparkling Hildon and I was almost weak with desire for alcohol, while simultaneously proud of myself that I was able to endure the H20 experience without seeming too uptight. I just kept thinking of how grateful my skin would be for the detox, and how many calories I was sparing my thighs, but frankly, I'd rather be curvy and have booze than thin and perennially sober. This whole toothache thing is certainly not an experience I'm in any hurry to repeat. The drugs finish in two days and the celebration will be emotional.

My name is Jane and I am not an alcoholic, honestly. I just love wine and I love getting a bit tipsy. Judge me all you like, I am unrepentant.

There we went a-wassailing

I visited several pubs in central London last night, and without exception, they were all so full that I think I may have permanent dents in my flesh from being packed in with others in such close proximity. It's always pleasing to see so many people enjoying the city, but it's sad to think that the reason the bars are so busy at this time of year is that most of these people don't go out the rest of the time. Which is a shame. Poor them.

We were out for our choir's Christmas party, and reliving too much of it here would be foolish as only about three of my five readers will know who I'm talking about. Suffice to say that, when we'd spent many hours annoying many hundreds of innocent yuletide drinkers by singing unrequested and unclapped carols, there were five of us gigglingly walking the streets, wondering where to go now that everywhere had shut. And, always the happy hostess with the mostest, I invited these four young whippersnapping lads back to my flat, where we played a kind of uber-drinking game, the highlight of which was a round called 'Bunnies' and one where we had to play 21 using Roman numerals. Alex drew a short straw at one point and had to drink a glass half full of a beer and whiskey blend. At 3am, I was in my trainers downstairs, using a bucket of water to swill away the vomit that he had kindly directed over the balcony onto my ground floor neighbours' gate and front pathway. It was remarkably viscose. Then I put the four boys to bed and slept fitfully, dreaming that I was tidying my flat and then waking up to realise with irritation that I had to do it all again in real life.

Now I'm sitting on my sofa, fairy lights ablaze, candles glowing, Bob Dylan wafting through the airwaves, blanket over my lap. The plan was to make mince pies and go Christmas shopping but that's looking increasingly unlikely. Apologies to family and friends, I appear to be having too much fun to buy you things. I think I need a nap.

And so this is Christmas

I am still recovering from one of the happiest weekends of the recent past and the prospect of writing down the events (or, at least, those events that aren't X-rated) as they occurred seems like an unassailable incline. It is not impossible that I am still drunk from Saturday.

But the story begins on Friday afternoon, when I got changed in the loos at work into my gladrags and headed over to Clerkenwell for my friend's wedding. I sang at the service as part of a quartet, which was fun and festive, and the organist was hilariously bad, and the vicar was almost unintelligably Italian, which was fantastic, and then we went to the reception and gorged ourselves on canapes and delicious champagne, and the speeches were brilliant, and then Harry started playing the piano, and then Dom took over, and then I put my foot in it really really badly but it was funny, and then the bride and groom left in a rickshaw, and we all went for a lock-in at a pub down the road, and then had more to drink, and took bad photos, and then I started chatting to two guys in the pub, one of whom was being quite flirtatious, and later when I left I went to say goodbye to him and he said, "Bye," and I was outraged and said, "I can't believe you're not asking for my number!" and he just shrugged as if to say, "Deal with it, love." I had a brilliant time other than this incident and then went home on the nightbus to Elephant and Castle at about 3.30am, singing all the way to songs on my iPod, and woke up on Saturday morning surrounded by a champagne flute that I'd taken from the reception, an empty packet of Roast Beef Monster Munch and the wrapping from a Reese's peanut butter cup. In a moment of almost unrecognisable self-restraint, I had put the remaining two cups in the fridge, along with a Dime bar. And another packet of Monster Munch. Which I ate for breakfast, washed down with a Diet Coke. Then I went back to bed.

Saturday afternoon I got up and went to choir practice, and then we did our concert and the church was rammed and I read my poem and it was really fun (although my mum later said that she'd spent most of it panicking that I was going to be struck by heaven-sent lightning while I was up in the pulpit), and after we'd finished singing, my boss started the standing ovation, and everyone was on a massive high, and we went to the pub afterwards and I had such wonderful friends there, people from school, people from uni, people from my first job, and people from the last few years. There was so much love in the room and I felt extremely lucky indeed. At 11.30 the pub shut and we tripped into Soho to meet a few other choirboys who had gone to Sketch, which I'd heard of but hadn't been to before. There was a queue outside and Grania and I got a bit lairy and barged to the front and demanded to be let in and they (sensibly) refused, and then we called our friend and asked him to come and get us, and they sent a different guy who is a member and the doorman was livid as he'd thought we were just chancers (as we had also believed) and he had to let us in and I felt like Madonna. So then we went to this ridiculous room at the back with the bar sunken into a pit in the centre and the space-age seats around looking like something out of a Star Trek strip joint. It was bloody brilliant and we all had a ridiculously fun time and were the last people to leave at around 4am, and I had to be told more than once that I wasn't allowed to leave carrying my glass of white wine, and Grania and I shared what was left, gulping it down as if the gallons of alcohol we'd already consumed were not sufficient. Then I went home and the next bit is embargoed but god it is quite literally one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me and when I deem the moment right to reveal all, I guarantee it will have been worth the wait.

And then it was Sunday and I was a bit over-emotional having had no sleep and no vegetables or fruit since Friday, so all I did was compound things by eating pasta with pesto, hot dogs and fun size Crunchie bars out of the fridge. It turns out they're not so fun on their own, and, like kittens, are demonstrably better the more you have. I watched The X Factor final, got annoyed with the Great British Public for forgetting that this shouldn't just be a singing competition, but rather a contest to find someone who can actually contribute to the body of pop music that is churned out every year by doing something slightly unusual and fresh and original, and Joe, the winner, is no more likely to release a cutting edge record than I am to be described as demure. Grrrrr. But god it was a fun weekend. I went to bed at midnight, having become trapped in a void syncing my iPhone, a task I only ever seem to start when I am so tired that I've started hallucinating. This morning I woke up at 7.15am to do yoga and accidentally switched my alarm off rather than pressing snooze. I didn't get into work until 10.30. Oops. Off to the Private Eye Christmas Quiz at the National now. I think I might need illegal substances to maintain consciousness.

You are getting veeeeery sleeeeepy

So after the Events of last Thursday (which Kate is, I think cruelly, insisting on calling Puke Night), I then went to an amazing gig at the Roundhouse on Friday night - we saw the Cinematic Orchestra, who had written music to play over the top of some gorgeous old Soviet-era footage. It was absolutely mesmerising but even more noteworthy for being a night out when I had nothing to drink. I was still feeling very nauseated so the desire to consume alcohol was nil but nonetheless, there was something unusual about hearing such gorgeous, languorous music and watching such hypnotic footage that would have gone perfectly with a couple of pints of lager. Still, I resisted and felt better for it on Saturday, when I mooched around Habitat and had one of those moments when I thanked the world that I don't have a boyfriend because every single couple I saw was experiencing some sort of fractious, hungover tension. This was good timing as the night before, at the Roundhouse, every single couple was Crazy In Love and it was getting On My Wick. Saturday night was fireworks - front row at Ally Pally with Grania and then back to dinner at the Gay Hussar in Soho and out for drinks with our new friend on Percy Street to a random chintzy bar with much dancing to The Kinks and Wham and the Killers, and then, having missed the last tube, on to a weird pub and then tripping down Charing Cross Road to the night bus, back home around 3am. Sunday was filled with lovely parents and ham cooked in Coca-Cola (thanks to Nigella for the recipe and Sara for telling me about it) and DIY and The X Factor. Yum.

But it all caught up with me on Monday, coinciding with the frowny face I write in my diary to remind me that PMT might be striking, and I was very blue and no fun whatsoever. I got home from choir, had a bath and then plummeted into a pit of sadness. I thought about my Disconnect hypnosis and I thought how nice it would be if there were other ones on other subjects, and then I remembered my friend telling me about Hypnosis Downloads, and I checked out the website, spent about sixteen thousand pounds in a matter of minutes and am now miraculously completely better. Flippancy aside, if you hold any truck with hypnotherapy, this is one of the most addictive sites in the world. It's not the type of hypnosis where the guy tells you to pretend to be a sex pest and you gyrate on stage in front of thousands of laughing audience members. It just lulls you into a very relaxed state and then tells you ridiculously obvious things that you can't argue with.

But the amazing thing about this particular website is the range of titles. There are over 500 of them and, much like herbal medicine counters, it was hard to be selective. When I go to Boots and see pills for 'a healthy liver' or 'a strong heart' or 'a boosted immune system', I begin to panic. What right-minded person would look at those bottles and say, "Nah, actually I don't want a healthy liver fanks." Basically, every single pill has positive benefits for pretty much every human. I don't know how I am supposed to make an informed choice. I end up buying a multi-vitamin and some fish oils and running away before I get sucked in to everything else.

Hypnosis Downloads are similarly hard to resist. Overcome Perfectionism? Yes please. Perfect Body? Sounds good. Stop Negative Thoughts? Well, if you insist! Within about five minutes I'd put ten in my shopping basket - about five hours of hypnosis for several of my hard-earned pounds. The one I was most excited about was Bounce Out Of Bed, which I listened to last night, and this morning, when my alarm went off an hour earlier than normal, I did find it easier to get up. I did my yoga, and I feel much better. Like all these things, it's probably bollocks, but if it's bollocks that works, I don't give a monkey's.

What was most brilliant was my power to reject some of the titles. It made me realise that, troublemaker that I am, there are still some areas in which I find life easier than others. Telesales Confidence, for example, is not a subject I need help with. Nor is Skin Picking, Porn Addiction or Vaginismus Treatment. And I'm very glad not to have hungrily downloaded Gag Reflex, Fear of Others Vomiting or Stop Thumb Sucking. That said, if I ever develop any of those issues, I'll know where to look. There is basically a 30 minutes programme for pretty much every single human phobia, insecurity or panic apart from Fear of Only Meeting Idiots Until You Finally Stumble Across Mr or Mrs Right But Then Discover That One Of You Is Infertile Or That You're Both Fertile But Then He Or She Dies In A Tragic Road Traffic Accident When The Baby Is Six Weeks Old which is clearly so rational a fear that it's impossible to logically soothe someone out of the panic in a half hour .mp3. Ah well. Can't win 'em all.

Social Hurl

You know things are desperate when the first thing you Google of a morning is 'Burger King'.

Last night was interesting. Kate and her brother had a party in their 12th floor flat to watch the various fireworks displays around London. It was extremely, violently fun. I had a lot to eat and a lot to drink. Then I went to the bathroom and was extremely, violently sick. I mean violently. I haven't been sick from alcohol misuse for 11 years. But my god, I made up for lost time. I was so sick that I saw food that I last ate in July. Tears and sweat streamed down my face. It was awful. To add insult to injury, while I was vomiting, I remembered that someone once told me that bulimics have to vomit within 45 minutes of eating otherwise the fat in the food is already being stored by their body, and I'd eaten way more than 45 minutes previously, so I wasn't even avoiding weightgain. Livid.

There was not a chance that I could go back into the party to say goodbye. I turned right out of the bathroom, grabbed my bag, left the flat and soon found myself on the Embankment near Lots Road. I remember thinking that my footwear was unsuitable, so changed out of my boots into my trainers. Then I lurched off in the direction of my flat. I couldn't even remotely walk in a straight line. I was staggering, hair everywhere, still sweating, still wondering if I might be sick again, desperate to get home but uncertain whether getting in to a moving vehicle was sensible. I jolted east for god knows how long, spitting occasionally (yup), and eventually realised that I was really quite far from home. So finally I got in a cab. £4.20 later I had to ask him to let me out as the sickness was imminent. I stumbled the rest of the way home, a good couple of miles, made it to my bathroom, and then was sick again.

I woke up this morning at 09.31, precisely 31 minutes after I should have been seated at my desk. I texted my boss and told him I'd forgotten to set my alarm (true) and then rushed to work, although I had to get off the tube at Borough for a rest from the swaying carriage, which was taking my nausea levels from 'dangerous' to 'red alert'.

I had a Coke at 10am, which helped, and a gargantuan McDonald's at 12, which was fantastic. I feel much better now but despite drinking a litre of water, a can of coke and then a large coke with my McDonald's and a chocolate milkshake, I haven't had a wee since 09:32, which gives me some indication of quite how worryingly dehydrated I am. I still feel somewhat weak and feeble, and am perhaps over-emotional, given that I saw the headline 'Which minature animals make good pets?' on the Guardian website and was so excited by the concept alone, I welled up. I would question the idea that there is anyone alive who wants a Pygmy goat more than I do.

I certainly did have too much to drink last night, but, I'm afraid to admit, no more than normal, and I was wondering if my reaction was disproportionate, until I found out that someone else at the party was sick too, having drunk a lot less than I did. I now am convinced that we both had a reaction to something we ate. Sure, I was drunk, drunk enough to think it was acceptable to take back the slab of Hotel Chocolat deliciousness that I'd given to Kate, but I wasn't that drunk. I am never sick. This was odd. Anyway, the good news is that I had a really fun time at the party, from what I can remember (Kate kindly texted me today saying that I had been on 'brilliant form'), and I have £12.50-worth of chocolate in my fridge. I'm slightly surprised I wasn't arrested on the way home, but other than that, it was a splendid night.

LLFF on tour

I'm back from France. God it was fun. Here is what happened.

It was Thursday and Astrid, Rob, Suz and I flew to Lyon, got in our rental car and I drove us on motorways and through vineyards (where we stopped for lunch in the 36 degree heat but quickly had to take refuge in the aircon) over to the obscure town of Romans-sur-Isere, where we'd decided to spend the night. It used to be a shoe-hub. Now it is not up to much and I probably wouldn't say it justifies a detour even if you are driving directly through it and have several hours to kill, but we are all really fun and nice so we had a brilliant time. Harry and Aidan joined us for dinner.

[Chorus] We had too much to drink.

Then it was Friday and the six of us drove in convoy to a Cistercian (sp?) abbey somewhere deep deep in the glorious mountainous countryside. We took some self-timer photos in the churchyard and then we went inside to look round the abbey. Rob suggested that we sing something. Aidan objected on the grounds that it was really arrogant to force our music on other people, but by then it was too late as Astrid had asked the lady in charge of the church and she had enthusiastically accepted our offer. Five of us (minus Aidan) sung Jonathan Dove's Into Thy Hands and it was pretty lovely to sing something so whopping in such a quiet, empty space. But the debate with Aidan continued after our performance. I'm really not sure where I stand on it. It is arrogant. But then, as Aidan kindly pointed out himself, if you extrapolate his argument to its furthest conclusions, all performance is arrogant. Anyway, fortunately on this occasion the assembled eight people seemed to like it and we drove off thinking it had probably been an okay thing to do. We took a road up an unbelievably big mountain to reach a famous view point, but when we got there, we couldn't see anything because it was too cloudy at that altitude. Then we went for lunch. Then we drove on to... god, where did we go on tour again? My memory... Argh. It was in the Ardeche region. Okay, I've checked my Gmail. We went to Saint-Agrève, which is a small village in the middle of nowhere, about 1100 metres above sea level. Glorious. In our hotel, we met with the rest of the choir, about twenty of us in total I reckon, and an amazingly nice bunch.

[Chorus]

We played music loudly on Harry's iPod speakers in the hotel dining room and did lots of dancing to Thriller and others, and then we got complaints, so we went up to the second floor and listened to music loudly there instead. Jess chucked water in Leo's face because he asked her to. Some people kissed. Other people did more than just kiss. Other people did more than just kiss and it was very naughty because they should be committed to other people. They were Tour Single (i.e. not really single but single while on tour). We were also keen to find out who may or may not be Tour Gay. Having been initially sceptical, many people drank from the box of acidic rosé I had bought.

[Repeat chorus]

Then it was Saturday, and some people thought that maybe they should have drunk a bit less the night before a day on which we were expected to rehearse from 10am to 1pm, then from 6pm to 7pm, and then perform a concert from 9.15pm to 10.30pm. But we battled through. In the evening, the girls rehearsed outside while the boys rehearsed inside and Jess was sick because there was a grass snake. Then we went over to the concert venue and did the concert, and we got three encores which was really nice. Afterwards we all piled into the tiny little sauna room they'd provided for us and Aidan said, "This is where we turn off the lights and play a quick game of 'Who's In My Mouth?'" Then we went back out into the concert venue/barn and had wine and local produce with the locals.

[Chorus]

Then we went back to the hotel.

[Chorus]

We started on the second floor but then there were complaints so we moved down to the first floor. We gave each other massages competitively. Someone who shall remain nameless got a text message from one of their friends saying 'Please come to dinner next Friday - no orgy this time, I promise!' Then we locked Rob in the room and straightened his hair which was so funny I thought I might have to go to bed through exhaustion brought on by laughter. But then there were more complaints, and we went outside into the hotel grounds and I woke up. We played Aidan's glow-in-the-dark frisbee for a while. Then it all gets a tad blurry but it involved cartwheels and handstands and lying on the driveway looking up at the Milky Way and Gilly trying to pour the acidic rosé from the box into Jess's mouth but missing and instead getting a lot of it in her eyes and Jess seriously thinking she had been permanently blinded and then we did a bit of running around doing piggybacks. We got to bed quite late.

Then it was Sunday and we had to get up very early to check out and then drive for 45 minutes up winding roads to another tiny village where we sung Byrd's Mass for 5 voices at the Catholic church service, and then when we had to walk forwards in front of the altar to perform the anthem, I tripped over my trouser hem and fell flat on my face and found it hard not to giggle all the way through the next few minutes, which wasn't great. Then we had lunch in the village hall and the mayor said nice things and a couple of local men sung us a local ditty and it was all rather lovely, and then most of the choir caught their bus back to the train station, and Rob, Astrid and I drove slowly to Tain L'Hermitage and looked at some vines and took self portraits of ourselves and I lay on the hot tarmac at the side of the (almost) deserted road because my hangover had kicked in quite badly and I had been banished to the back seat and the windy roads and too much fruit at lunch were not being a happy combo, and then I nearly got run over by a truck, and then we drove to a wine cave and then into Lyon town centre. Feeling that throwing a large sheaf of photocopied sheet music in the bin was somehow wrong, Rob decided to distribute it to the Lyonaise. Astrid taught him to say 'Un cadeau musicale' and he approached total strangers and gave them random pieces from our repertoire. It was quite funny but finding people who accepted our gift was difficult, so after we had a Coke on the river, we started leaving sheets under the windscreen wipers of cars, and then I noticed that the back window of a BMW was open, and so Rob posted a song through the gap and it set off the car alarm, so we had to run back to our hire car and make a quick exit. Then we drove back to the airport and the three of us got the flight back to London Stansted, although unfortunately on arrival back at the airport, we discovered that my luggage had instead taken a flight to Ibiza. Within my luggage had been my housekeys. So that was fun. I went back to stay with Astrid and got up early this morning, came into the City and bought an emergency work outfit. It's been another awesome adventure. Yay.

Back to the grind

Apologies to the Foreign Faithful, but here in the UK, yesterday was a Bank Holiday and I didn't get around to writing. Not that I was out gallivanting, you understand. In fact, I spent most of the day in a fug of confused efficiency, careering from one urgent project to the next in a manner that was both uncharacteristically chaotic and rather liberating. The impetus for said efficiency was the impending arrival of a new temporary flatmate, a young Berliner who will stay in my spare room for a maximum of ten nights a month in exchange for some money. I had to make space in his cupboard for his possessions, and became embarrassed anew at the fact that my clothes will not fit in the two large wardrobes in my double bedroom, even with the addition of a substantial chest of drawers, and that, shortly after moving into the flat last March, my clothing overflowed into the spare room closet, which is now completely full in the way that means that you need both arms and substantial bicep strength to insert a new item into the denseness.

So, with difficulty, I cleared a space in the cupboard, which then meant I had a surplus of items on my bed. I got rid of my second yoga mat, my old Ikea laundry basket and a large bag of old shoes via Freecycle, and was feeling very virtuous when, at approximately 5pm, Emily told me about Music Magpie. I then spent the following six hours typing in the barcodes of around 450 of my CDs, and quickly burning any I hadn't previously copied onto my hard drive. And so it came to pass that, after nearly three decades of jealously hoarding vinyl and then cassettes and finally compact discs, the age of tangible music formats has come to a close for me. It feels unbelievably sad and very wrong, but I simply never listen to them, I haven't bought a CD for years, and... well, it's done. And if the ones I am sending off make the grade, the money I get will pay for my flights to the Impending Summer Holiday Destination. Woo.

Today I feel exhausted in that way that you get when you have more wine to drink on Saturday than you can remember ever drinking before, on what was pretty much an entirely empty stomach, at your lovely friends' wedding, and then spend Sunday and Monday trying - and failing - to rehydrate. I am still very, very thirsty. And my recollection of Saturday is hazy at best, but I can say that all my memories are extremely happy. Apparently I went up to Lucy at a lateish stage in the evening and briefly danced in her vicinity before announcing that I was completely sober and that I was unable to dance due to feeling too self-conscious. This was a massive, massive untruth. At the end of the wedding, I am informed that I went into cheeky mode (which, despite hundreds of examples to the contrary, I always naively believe I can get away with), and took two gargantuan hunks of cheese and a large basket of crackers from the marquee and ran back to the outside table where a group of us were sitting, despite our host's clear desire that we would stand up, leave the cheese and go home. Later I went back to the bar, found three half full bottles thereon, collected them and took them back outside. When someone in a position of responsibility appeared to spot me, apparently I broke into a trot and said 'I'm not here, I'm not here...' accompanied by gales of giggling. Pathetic. I have no defence, I am sure it must be true - but I remember it not much. The next morning, I was feeling substantially less hilarious, and thanked my lucky stars that Justin was also at breakfast at our B&B, as our host decided that it was the time to talk about property prices and the credit crunch. I didn't really engage in the conversation, although Justin later said that I managed to disagree with pretty much everything he said, just barking 'That's not true,' at all his suggestions. Apparently it was like having breakfast with Paxman.

Now I'm back at work and struggling to get through a very busy day at work, as I think I am still recovering from my efficiency yesterday and the gallons on Saturday - but I did find five seconds to scan the papers online and must admit that I chuckled a fair bit on finding that the supermarket, Morrisson's, has been selling a spelling toy containing the word Yatch. Yacht has always been a really rubbish Y letter anyway, impossible to spell and both elitist and seaist. I think we should get rid of it. In America, I think it's more commonly Y is for Yak, although perhaps Kentucky Cous can confirm this. How about Y is for Yucca as a substitute? Or we could do a bit of subliminal healthy living stuff and do Y is for Yakult? Alternatively, we could advertise the recent buddy movie, Y is for You, Me and Dupree, although that might be a bit premature... Oooh, how about Y is for Young offender, with a cartoon of a youth behind bars as a preventative measure to deter the baby from carrying out aggressive behaviour in the future? I think it's a winning plan. Right. Must go to gym and burn off several thousand wine calories. Sigh.

Update

I read online today that being green is a truly unselfish act. I thought about that for a while this afternoon. I've long held the opinion that there's no such thing as a selfless act - but [it's difficult to type as I have my hands on my head at the moment. I don't know who that blonde girl is in The Apprentice, but she has to die] this gentleman was saying that, since none of us will see the results of our efforts to recycle or fly less, it would be hard to argue that there's a selfish element. But you know me, I'd argue that [ohmygod, I actually can't watch, this is agonising] night is day, black is white or that cellulite is a turn-on. And I'd say that Doing The Right Thing, even if there is no discernible benefit at the time, is always selfish, because it makes you feel good about yourself. And on that basis, I'm back to my first claim that there is no such thing as a selfless act. I'll let you know if that changes.

Back to today. I couldn't resist beaking in to the Bank area at lunchtime and I'm disappointed to report, I couldn't see anything much at all. Lots of happy, smiling people and happy, smiling coppers, with a lot of drummers drumming. It was a bit like the Notting Hill Carnival but without as much marijuana in the air or empty beer cans on the floor. What did strike me was that, for every protester, there were about 487 people taking photographs. I've never seen so many cameras, it was quite extraordinary. The media presence these days is absolutely gobsmacking. I went back to the office with a spring in my step, and was able to watch the drama unfold throughout the afternoon on Sky News, read about it on the Guardian's online site and a couple of news blogs, got second-by-second updates from Twitter feeds and saw photos uploaded just moments after they'd been taken. It was something else. Regardless, I stand by my earlier confusion that I think the protests were largely pointless and won't change anything. But I'd love to be proved wrong.

[Sir Alan's fired the wrong person twice now. Ah well. No one with an IQ above double figures switches on The Apprentice thinking their blood won't reach boiling point].

In other news, I went out for dinner with Justin last night and drank far too much wine. And then had half a pint in a pub. It was a very fun night and I have no regrets, but times aren't unmitigatingly happy at the moment, and gals like me would be advised to steer clear of that popular depressant, alcohol. So tonight when I met up with Tracey, I resolved to be good. I had a virgin strawberry daquiri in Gordon Ramsay's hotel bar in Camden, and then a single glass of house white in the pub where we ate dinner. I was feeling so pleased with my self-restraint that I came home and ate a mini Caramel, then a yoghurt, then a mini finger of Fudge and then a mini Curly-Wurly. Fear and self-loathing in SE London. Growl.

The pain-nausea continuum

I know I must be really quite ill when a lovely young man offers to come over to see me during his lunchbreak, and I refuse. It's not that I am too tired to receive guests; it just feels as though someone has vacuumed all the energy out of me overnight. I lay in bed with my eyes shut until about 1pm, feeling sick and floppy and very, very sorry for myself: sick to the non-existent back teeth of being feeble and off-colour. I know it is the painkillers that are making me so shaky, but the idea of not taking them is inconceivable, as the little men in the lava boots are still jumping with alarming vigour, and a few of them have been given a new detail which seems to involve firing flaming arrows at my eardrum and then laughing loudly.

I have enough drugs to last me until early next week, although my antibiotics run out this Thursday and my intention is that I will be better by then. Not fully healed, of course, but certainly ready for a glass of white wine. It will have been ten full days since my last alcoholic beverage by then, and it is a terrifying fact that I cannot remember a time when I have been that long without booze. I'm afraid it is several years, perhaps over a decade. Hmmm. Maybe my sickness is actually due to alcohol withdrawal - some sort of hideous cold turkey, where the only remedy is intravenous sauvignon blanc. I admit that it seems a modicum unlikely, but if things don't improve soon, I may be forced to attempt unorthodox solutions.