I blame Helen Hunt

I am experiencing levels of exhaustion that are potentially dangerous. Who knows when a casual slip of the finger might send an inappropriate email or a badly-timed yawn might be spotted? Any number of accidental tiredness-induced actions could lead to my being fired or - better - meeting with some form of physical accident that prevents me from working for a number of weeks. Despite a full awareness of my perilous situation, I am still unable to be vigilant or concerned about consequences. Frankly, it's a miracle that I am able to remain upright.

In an effort to keep my mind off depressing subjects, I am keeping my diary fairly packed. This is a double-edged sword - stay busy and you become tired and more likely to feel down; arrange nothing, spend too much time alone and find yourself curled up in a tear-stained ball on the floor between the wall and your bed. Or maybe that's just me.

As my sleep debt grows, I am experiencing increasing remorse for my viewing of As Good As It Gets last Sunday night. I yearn nostalgically for those wasted hours, fantasise about the precious pre-midnight slumber they could have provided and wonder how buoyant and self-confident I would be feeling now, had I not frittered away so many valuable minutes viewing the utterly implausible and faintly embarrassing sexual chemistry between Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. Next time I do karaoke, I'll update Edith Piaf with a version of 'Je Regrette Rien Que Regardant As Good As It Gets Le Dernier Dimanche'.*

*French corrections welcomed provided that they are accompanied by grammar explanations. I'll never learn otherwise.

Daily French Podcast Love

When I am not lusting after Rodney Yee or my actual boyfriend, I can often be found sitting in the world's most comfortable £10 armchair, headphones snaking into my ears, salivating unostentatiously over the clichéd vocal resonance of Louis, the 'native French speaker' who presents iTunes' best podcast for the intermediate French learner.

Whether he is explaining the order of multiple adjectives around the noun (which he charmingly pronounces 'noon') or slowly breaking down the sentences of a recent French radio broadcast to aid our chances at comprehension, Louis' patience and understanding are rare and wonderful to behold on an aural level.

It was, therefore, slightly disappointing when I logged on to the podcast's companion website this morning and unexpectedly happened across a photo of Louis himself. Light years from the Sacha Distel-alike I had imagined, my favourite Frenchman was wearing a sensible suit-jacket-and-light-polo-neck combo last seen in the pages of a C&A catalogue or sported by a smooth-talking villain on Murder, She Wrote. His face was also a let down - no drooping cigar or winning laughter lines, but rather thin lips and an ill-advised haircut.

Much as I hate to confront my own shallowness, it is undeniable that, since I saw the photograph, my enthusiasm for the daily French podcast has plummeted like a Shire horse down a mine shaft. And with the lunchtime episode of Neighbours already three minutes in, it's impossible to think of an optimistic conclusion. Apologies.