Breaking news: I am mental

Well, my therapist certainly earned her £45 yesterday, although I suppose it's possible that I was just being brilliantly insightful. Whatever the cause, I don't really care - it was an excellent session and I feel like a new woman, my mood not even dented by a fairly unsettling hangover.

We picked up where we'd left off, with me unable to love someone if their love is consistent. Why can't I respect someone who just straightforward loves me? Because it feels too easy, thickie - you're not even testing me! I'm used to jumping through hoops for love, having to be on top form at all times, having to excel, and then you come along and love me without challenging me, without pushing me to my limits? Well, pah to that. OBViously your standards are rock bottom, my friend, and you're just a teeny bit desperate. Because if you were worthy of my respect, if you really were a valuable human being, you wouldn't just love me so easily. You would have to test me, hard, to see if I was worth your time. High quality people don't give their love to just anyone, you know. The creme de la creme will challenge my loyalty, challenge my commitment. Can I bear it when their attention comes in fits and starts? Of course I can! Will I buy them amazing presents to persuade them that I'm worth their continued affection? Yes, yes I will. How about putting up with it when they don't keep their promises? Fine with me! It just means I have to work harder, which in turn means you'll really love me, and you'll see that I really love you too! Pant, pant!

I'm fully aware how excruciating this sounds. But jeez Louise, it explains so much. Not only does it justify some of my less equal platonic friend choices over the years, and the fact that I've consistently fallen crazy in love for guys who've only given me glimmers of inconsistent, patchy interest, but it also explains why, once I've won a guy over and we've become boyfriend and girlfriend, I have then become so critical of them - partly because I lose respect for them because they seem to be loving me UNcritically, but also because I'm showing them that I love them the only way I know how: by challenging them, testing the level of their love for me and giving them the opportunity to up their game and shine to the max. "You think you love me?" I'm saying. "I've jumped through hoops for you, so you know I'm amazing. But how do I make sure you're high quality goods too? Don't think you can sit on your laurels now, young man. You have to prove it, prove it, prove it. Look! I made you this unbeLIEVably romantic dinner! I bought you this absurdly thoughtful gift! I painted your portrait! I printed out all our emails and got them bound into a hardback book! Top that, motherfucker! Can't? Then I'll highlight your inadequacies until you want to rip out my tongue and feed it to squirrels." So they eventually dump me, and finally I get that yearned-for taste of them not wanting me, so I suddenly decide that they ARE good enough, after all. Cue me begging them to take me back, them refusing, and me spending the next several months thinking the one who got away was The One Who Got Away while my parents and friends sit around going, "But you found him really annoying!"

What a fucking nightmare. Still, at least I now have a comprehensive answer to anyone who shakes their head, looking mystified, and says, "I just don't understand why you're still single!" I don't respect anyone who goes out with me, but on the rare occasions that someone slips through the net, I put them through an insanely rigorous, constant and unending series of tests, 'generously' allowing them occasion after occasion so that they can prove their worth every single day we're together, and then, when they inevitably fail, I criticise them to the point of mutual madness, until they end it, when I suddenly grovel at them to take me back.

Then, as if that wasn't enough to send me barking for The Priory, I realised that my love for mySELF is hot and cold, too. Sometimes I think I'm great - usually when I've got visible evidence that some current target thinks I'm cool. Then, just when I'm getting comfortable, the target loses interest, I realise I'm actually a fraud and a failure, I go off myself and plunge into depression. My self-esteem is totally conditional on my passing all my own tests, one of which is to be loved by someone, but that someone has to love me in a conditional way, otherwise I won't respect them.

If that's not a complex little web of insanity, I don't know what is. But frankly, it feels great to have got it out in the open, to see what we're working with. On the downside, I can't see how I'm going to stop doing any of this. And right now, as my therapist identified last night, I'm going through a very angry stage. Anyone who is breezing through life being uncomplicated is making me very annoyed indeed, because I feel like it's very unfair that I should be the way I am. But hey, que sera sera; at least now I understand it, I have a chance of breaking the habits of a lifetime. And the sun's shining.

Plus, I am fairly certain that I'm better off than Ruby Wax, in pretty much every way other than financial. After my landmark therapy sesh, I then went for an hour long drink in Borough Market with Emily, a schoolfriend I've not seen for over fifteen years. Well, honestly, we weren't friends at school. We discussed it last night, and I said I'd been thinking about it, and I reckoned the reason we weren't friends was because we both felt unpopular, and both responded in similarly annoying ways: by trying REALLY REALLY HARD to be popular. Which, as we both know now, is not the best way to make friends. Anyway, it was supremely lovely to add some wine to the water under the bridge and, once again, I gave thanks for the internet and social media for bringing yet another wonderful, feisty, intelligent and entertaining person into my life.

Sorry, that doesn't explain the Ruby Wax comment. After seeing Emily, I then rushed over to the Mernier Chocolate Factory to meet lovely Laura and her amazing friend James for a quick drink and a bite to eat before a performance of Ruby's current show, Losing It. I was just tucking into my chicken breast (skin on) and potato croquette, when Laura paused mid-sentence. "It's Palomino Faith," she whispered, only later realising that Paloma was not named after a blond-maned pony. I whipped round, and saw the back of her ginger beehive. Thrilling celebrity spot, we thought. Moments later, James spluttered into his cheese and grapes. "Ohmygod, what's her name?!" he hissed. "She was like Jane MacDonald, but less famous, and she won Strictly Come Dancing or something and, and, SHE USED TO BE IN BROOKSIDE!" Eventually, someone other than me put the clues together and worked out that D-list, red-faced lass, Claire Sweeney, was eating a few tables away. We were awash with excitement. Two famous people in one evening! Never mind that most normal people would never have heard of either of them. We were feeling very glittery.

Then in walked Joanna Lumley. James began to froth.
"This is too much!" he said. "I cannot cope with this level of excitement." Laura was rocking gently in the corner. I used to work for a pop magazine so cannot act excited around famous people without feeling like I will get fired. Then I spied my friend Damian. He walked over to our table, followed by his wife. "How did you get tickets for this?" he asked with a tone of slight surprise. "I know the right people," I said, coyly, neglecting to mention that we had just bought them, online, a few weeks ago, like any normal person would go about getting tickets for any normal event. Clearly, though, we had picked an interesting night. It was the Gala performance, for Comic Relief, and about five minutes before curtain up, the floodgates opened. You couldn't swing a copy of Hello! magazine without hitting someone whose face you recognised but whose name you couldn't quite remember. Between us, we identified Zoe Wannamaker, Nick from The Apprentice, Jo Brand, Harry Shearer, Harry Enfield and someone called Oliver Something.

Keeping cool, we moved through to the bar. I had to pinch James who was identifying people too loudly, and then I left the two of them and went to get drinks. As I reached the front of the queue, I turned to see Ronnie Wood behind me. This was someone genuinely quite cool, but also unquestionably a dick and a womaniser, so I maintained my glacial air of "Do I look bothered?" As I walked back to my friends with our beverages, however, Laura was holding something approaching what Rodney Yee calls Powerful Pose, knees bent, arms tensed, eyes slightly bulging. "RONNIE WOOD IS HERE," she bellowed. "I know," I said, passing her a glass of house white. "RONNIE WOOD!" she repeated, as he stood an inch away, wearing a bizarre Inca-themed jacket.

We took our seats, and Ruby began her show, which told the story of her descent into depression and her experience of living with the illness. The audience were agog, laughing uproariously when expected to do so, and sitting in horrified silence as Ruby described stuff that sounded perfectly normal to me, like not leaving the house for days on end. She is still heavily reliant on medication and says she hasn't had enough therapy. That's when I realised I wsa better off than her. So that was something. In the second half Q&A, an audience member thanked her for being brave enough to speak out, and I realised then what a generational gap there is - that while a large chunk of my peers are openly in therapy and on medication, where we all know several depressives and it's just, sadly, a common fact of in all our lives - for many of those in their fifties and sixties, it's still a taboo subject, still something that's not taken seriously. Basically, our parents should go, but for us, it was all a bit old hat. Afterwards, we muscled into the aftershow party, ate canapés, drank prosecco and dissected the validity of racist comedy. I tottered home, spoke to Grania for way longer than intended, and seconds later my alarm went off.

Which brings me to the end of today's episode of LLFF. I have had a lovely day, a fast run this morning, a delicious and highly enjoyable lunch with my wonderful dad in the heart of the City where he ruffled my feathers about Thatcher ("But how can you criticise her?") and the Middle East ("They're all morons") while simultaneously being completely hilarious and utterly charming. Winner. I'm off to uke band practice in an hour, then home for some TV and meditation. I'm still not sure why I feel quite so lifted having identified myself as Definitely So Mental As To Be Surely Beyond Hope, but I do. Long may it continue. Love love love to you all xx

Almost famous

I have a dirty secret and it is as follows: I am literally thrilled to be back at work. It's not that I've missed the people in particular, although it's really nice to be emailing Chris and Laura with warp-speed frequency once again. It's more that I have a role here, I'm needed, and that feels nice. Doubt it'll last long but there you have it. I am a grateful hamster, running in my little wheel and scampering over to my water bottle every now and then to lick the little silver nozzle that's sticking through the bars of my cage. Maybe later I'll go to bed in some newspaper.

There's been a funny hashtag on Twitter today, #lametofame, where people list their most spurious brushes with celebrity. Due to my past life as a pop journo, I have more than I can count, but those would be cheating. So, magazine life aside, here are a few of my non-working highlights:

• I have Rod, Jane and Freddy from Rainbow's autographs
• The house I used to live in (with my parents) had previously belonged to Michael Ball's ex-girlfriend
• I once saw Graham Norton in the Covent Garden branch of Pret a Manger, but he was too far away for me to see what sandwich he was buying
• My dad once played golf with Mark Knopfler
• I was so gripped talking to Jonathan Phang, ex-judge of Britain's Next Top Model, at my friend's wedding that I set fire to the shawl I'd borrowed without asking my mother on an exposed tealight
• Kirsty Young admitted to me that she fancied Sting a lot while we were in a portaloo. Sting was also at the party - it wasn't a propos of nothing, that would have been really full on
• At the same party I danced with Sting to Dr. Alban's It's My Life, a song known at the time for its use in a Tampax ad
  
• I stayed in the same hotel as Amanda Holden when I went to Cuba and she took a photograph of a stone column with my camera. 'Stone column' is not a euphemism
  
• I saw David Gest in El Pirata in Mayfair
• When I was about 12, my dog ran away near the Thames, and Nigel Havers helped us find him
• I once spent New Year in the same pub as Sally from Home & Away and she kissed me (and everyone else in the room) on the cheek at midnight
• I shared a lift in Los Angeles with Jon Bon Jovi and Matthew McConaughey or however you spell it. At the same time. Both of them were shorter than me
• I deliberately blanked Lisa Snowdon at a party once because I don't like her. I bet she was gutted
• I served Gwyneth Paltrow a canapé when I was waitressing at a film premiere
• Chesney Hawkes pinched my bum. We were in a pub and I was 18. There is a chance that he didn't so much pinch it as accidentally brush it while we were at the bar waiting to be served. But I've told the pinching story so many times that it has become true

That's all I can think of for now although this is definitely going to be one of those things where I remember more the moment I put it live. Still, fun though it is, I'd rather go home. So I'm gonna. A demain.

Gagantuan

It's been several years since I walked into a packed concert arena. I'm older now, and possibly wiser, but the impact of the screams, the heat of the humans and the headiness of the adrenaline is still arresting. Breathless and flushed from dancing about like loons in a weird greenscreened white pod for the O2 promotional video we'd just recorded of ourselves in the foyer, Grania and I took our seats and fumbled about trying to fit our plastic cups full of wine and back-up tiny bottles of more wine into our limited cup holders. The fifty year old man on Grania's left was bursting to talk to us.
"Have you seen her before?" he asked. We shook our heads.
"I saw this tour in Birmingham," he said. "You're not going to believe it. It's amazing."
"Are you her biggest fan?" I asked.
"No but I love her. Two of her dancers follow me on Twitter."
Grania shuffled imperceptibly closer to me. The lights went down. The volume of the screams made my ears do that weird vibrating thing that I think is probably not good. A screen came down. Lights went on it. In more than a nod to MJ, Gaga was silhouetted and massive. And so it began.

I've seen some good performances in my time: Michael Jackson, Madonna, Prince, Elton John, the Stones, The Prodigy, Justin Timberlake, Eminem, U2, Blur, Rufus Wainwright - like 'em or not, they all know how to put on a show. At 24 years old, Gaga has comfortably taken her place among those seasoned pros. She is one of those unbearable people who manages to be clever, funny, innovative, self-aware, courageous, talented and really good at dancing without making you want to maim them. Anyone else with that many amazing irons in life's fire and I'd be dreaming up graphic ways of shoving them off their pedestal for good, but with Gaga, I'm fine for her to stay up there and preen. She's a real one-off and not only did her show fill me with admiration, it also made me think that anyone with a passing interest in current culture should go see her live.

She's fucking weird, there's no doubt about that. Throughout the night, she wore a selection of extraordinary outfits - shoebox-sized shoulder pads, a Where The Wild Things Are-inspired costume that made her look like a big tree trunk, a futuristic silicone dress with white pants and plasters on her nips, a glitter catsuit for Poker Face, a black cleavage-revealing bodice which she accentuated with liberal smearings of fake blood, a little girl green frilly number that clashed brilliantly with her American mustard-coloured hair, all vulnerable on the big black stage while the Fame Monster roared and gurned in the background. Gaga is gaga for monsters. Her fans are Little Monsters, and they're encouraged to be as invidual and extraordinary as possible. "Do not, for God's sake, leave here loving me more," she panted. "Leave here loving YOURSELVES more." She has a fairly scary shouting voice, hints of Miss Hannigan. Her fans screamed on demand. "I'm like Tinkerbell," she cooed later, lying back on the stage. "If you don't clap, I'll die. Do you want me TO DIE?" We clapped.


Her self confidence is infectious. It's impossible feel vulnerable when one of the most famous women on the planet is standing in front of you and twenty thousand others, wearing a black leather studded bikini and strutting around stage, happy to let her thighs and buttocks wobble in full view of everyone, her arid hair tangled around her microphone. It'd be inevitable if a fair amount of what she says on stage is scripted, but there's no doubt that she makes an impact - even if her truisms do seem heart-threateningly cheesy in the stark winter light of Friday. "I didn't used to be brave. I didn't used to be this way. I used to be a geek," she said. "But your support has made me brave. You make me brave." We screamed.

Much of her act is spontaneous, though. Every time she ventured down onto the catwalk extension in front of the main stage, she was showered with gifts from her most loyal Little Monsters, and she took a generous amount of time to notice each item and appreciate it. "Does this say 'Born This Way'?" she asked, picking up a desperately proferred T-shirt. Without hesitation or concern for her stage outfit, she pulled it on over her leotard and performed the next section of the show wearing the cropped vest. Can't see Cheryl Cole doing that. Another person gave her a Penguin Classics edition of Warhol's diaries. "Oh, you've highlighted!" she said, charmed. She flicked through the pages briefly and read aloud to us from a passage about beauty:

"When you're in Sweden and you see beautiful person after beautiful person after beautiful person and you finally don't even turn around to look because you know the next person you see will be just as beautiful as the one you didn't bother to turn around to look at — in a place like that you can get so bored that when you see a person who's not beautiful, they look very beautiful to you because they break the beautiful monotony."

Then she nattered about the beauty that comes from variety for a minute or so, not lecturing us, not sounding patronising or naive, just being honest and confident and aware of her position of power and determined to use it for all our benefits. A plush Santa toy landed at her feet. "I do love Christmas," she said, "but for those of you who are lonely or angry, this is for you." She tried to rip off his head with her teeth but St. Nick clung on, until she impaled him with the stiletto heel of her white patent ankle boot, tore him apart and plucked out his kapok.

The only irritant of the evening came from two rows behind us, where there was a ledge surrounded by a barricade. One of the girls on the ledge was making an extraordinary amount of noise, mostly in the "Wooooooooo! I LOVE YOU GAGA!" genre, constantly during the 'Please cheer now' sections and, more vexingly, fairly regularly in the 'Please don't cheer here, she's talking and we want to hear what she's saying' moments. She also sang along, fairly tunelessly but word perfectly, throughout every song, which was fine when it was a deafening upbeat hit but slightly more annoying when it was fully audible over the one slow number, Speechless. "Shut up!" yelled someone further down our row, to no effect. I turned around to see who was making this noise. There was a definite possibility that the ledge area was reserved for wheelchair users but it was hard to see in the dark. "Is she disabled?" I asked Grania. "WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" shouted the girl. "I don't know," said Grania, who turned around and tried to climb over the row behind to take a closer look but ended up almost kissing the man behind her and returned, shocked. "I LOVE YOUUUUUUUU!" wailed the girl. "There's no excuse for this level of noise," I said. "Not even muscular dystrophy." I turned and said, "Please can you shut up?" Another man joined in, "Yeah! I paid for tickets to hear Lady Gaga, not you." The reaction was not ideal: the girl's companion was guppying, gobsmacked in a my-friend-is-disabled-I-cannot-belive-you're-saying-this fashion, but thankfully the volume from their quarters diminished before a very un-PC fight broke out.

That decidedly unbeautiful moment kindly broke up the monotony of the rest of the evening's perfection, so for that I'm grateful. As soon as Bad Romance faded away, we wished the fifty year old uberfan farewell, bought our commemorative T-shirts and ran back to North Greenwich pier to get the final westbound Thames Clipper back to Waterloo. Freezing, we stood on the outside deck giggling and taking thousands of terribly blurred photos. Then we hugged lots and went our separate ways. Music doesn't make the world go round, but love is all you need.

Taken

It is earlier this year. Robbie Williams, Gary Barlow and Mark Owen are in a New York recording studio, tentatively laying down some demos for a new project that could possibly see Take That reuniting as a five piece after nearly twenty years apart. Following a successful morning's work, the band's remaining two members, Jason Orange and Howard Donald, arrive at the studio from London. They shake hands with their old bandmate. Robbie is keen to play them what they've achieved that morning.
"Actually, if it's alright, Rob, I'd just like to relax a bit first and wind down before listening to anything," Jason says, smiling thinly, looking around at the rest of the group. Robbie nods. An innocuous enough statement, but if you'd seen me and Lucy watching the footage last night at the IMAX, you'd have thought we were being faced with a scene so horrific that it threatened to bring up our dinner. Jason, Take That's Minister Without Portfolio, felt so threatened by the return of the uber-talented but uber-volatile Robbie that he kicked his old friend's eager exuberance with steel-toed boots. Robbie seemed to shrink in size. My hands were clutching my jumper, my stomach was tense, my neck so tight that my head had gone off at a weird angle. Lucy was wincing as if in excruciating pain and had reached across to grab my arm in a pincer grip.

We were at the premiere of Look Back, Don't Stare, the new Take That documentary, a 100 minute feature that will be shown in a slightly shortened version on iTV this Saturday. Told through face-to-face interviews with the five band members, the black and white film tells the story of the band's rise, fall and rise again, with particular emphasis on the past 18 months since the idea of Robbie rejoining became a serious possibility. Pretty much anyone with a passing interest in music and celebrity culture would enjoy the film, but for two people whose lives revolved around Take That for far longer than it's cool to admit (i.e. more than six seconds), watching this was an exhausting and intense trip. It was a bit like we'd spent our teens going out with five boys, who we thought about all day every day, who infiltrated our entire lives, who we dreamed about, whose radio interviews we recorded and listened to over, and over, and over again, who we occasionally cried over, for heaven's sake. And now, having not seen them together for nearly two decades, here they were all again, hanging out together. We were seeing how our childhood loves had grown up. And it was fascinating.

Having been five very average teenagers, the five of them have grown into pretty exceptional adults - all around their early forties now, they're articulate, thoughtful, philosophical, scarred, honest, and still very funny. There were many huge waves of laughter that blasted through the cinema last night, as well as gulps of pain when we saw what they'd suffered. And yeah, I know, suffering schmuffering, poor them with their millions, my heart bleeds - but these are five men who have gone from the bottom to the top to the bottom to the top again - a more extreme existence than any of us would surely wish for. Alongside the money and the adulation, there's been addiction, adultery, rejection, failure, agoraphobia and clinical depression. They've suffered public ridicule and private shame, and they've dealt with it all admirably. It was an exceptionally entertaining, humbling and thought-provoking film and I recommend it unreservedly. Maybe not to you, Dad. But I'd be staggered if most normal people didn't find it an extremely gripping and raw account of an extraordinarily turbulent time in the lives of five average British men.

What I found most affecting about the film was a) the lads' palpable closeness, the fact that they feel complete when they're together in a way they didn't before. And b) their awareness that, in spite of this connection, they remain completely on their own. They have the most special and unique of bonds, but that still has not been able to prevent them from spinning out, overloading and breaking down through the years. And, exhibiting a remarkable ability to relate absolutely everything back to myself, their experiences cemented a lot of what I've been thinking and feeling of late. We are always alone. We can love, we can parent, we can succeed, but we are the only people living our lives, we are the only people in the world who know what it's like to be us. We live - and die - on our own. That might sound horribly depressing, but I don't think it has to be. I reckon that those facts must be faced up to and accepted before one can be truly let go of one's crutches and be happy. Last night in therapy, I discussed a void that I feel is within me, a huge metaphorical space that I have had for as long as I can remember - a space that needs to be filled, that craves. And through my life, I've tried to fill it with a variety of things: food, friends, Take That, lovers, jobs, celebrities, clothes and hobbies. But no matter what I've consumed, the space has always remained. And now I'm learning to accept that it's there. I'm not trying to fight it or fill it any more. It's a strange kind of passive respect for reality and we'll see what comes of it.

In the meantime, if you're still awake, you can enjoy the fact that you are spinning around the earth's axis at somewhere between 700 and 1000 miles per hour, depending on your distance from the equator, and that in addition, the earth is moving around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour. We're going at a fair lick. Totes amaze.

Let the self-pity begin

Be gentle with me, Faithful, for I am feeling well fragile today innit. If my eyes were plugholes, the tears would burbling up through the U-bend and heading for daylight.

The almost-four-month boyban has been amazing in illustrating that I was pretty much obsessively judging my success as a woman on whether or not a man was telling me I was attractive and good company. With dating forbidden and no flirtatious emails to distract me, I can clearly see the error of my way: I was doggedly pursuing a goal, thinking it would bring me a sense of self/satisfaction/fulfillment, when in fact we all know that getting a boyfriend is not really the answer to any of the above - and if it is, it shouldn't be. So it's been good, I've got a new sense of perspective and I am sincerely glad of that.

However, it probably won't surprise many of you clever readers that, if you take away someone's raison d'etre (however unhealthy it was) without lining up anything else to replace it, an existential crisis is fairly inevitable. And so, ta da, here I am, no career to speak of, no babies, in a society where having one or the other is pretty much essential if you're going to have any sense of self-worth. Oh, and I'm an atheist, so the world's best psychological crutch isn't an option for me either. You're left with a verbose hedonist with no sense of purpose, just night after night of pleasant, middle-class pasttimes. I am one big fat hobby.

In the meantime, Grania has spent the last several months dedicating almost all her time to preparing for some of the toughest exams I've ever known, learning a zillion planning laws and documenting her every waking action, turning down countless fun events to pursue her goal. And Sarah's been promoted, and Sara's started a new role helping people, and Kate is bursting with job satisfaction, and Olivia's been promoted and got pregnant again, and Mills has had her second child, and Lucy's dealing with her existing two, and Em and Erf are on honeymoon, and Marina, Justin and Lucy G are changing the media world, and Lilly's going freelance, and Charlie's had Gabriel, and Nick's doing his writing course and an internship while being Deputy Editor, and Georgie's directing, and Hatta and Astrid are engaged, and two other friends are trying for babies but it's all hush hush, and Don's making a feature film, and Ed's having intimate dinners at The Wolsey with A listers.

And I know, I know, everyone can take this kind of highlights-only snapshot of their friends, filtering out the quotidian, ignoring the fact that everyone has down days and everyone panics, but it's human nature to compare ourselves to our peers.

I can only see three ways to cope with this kind of barrage of achievement:
1. Persuade myself that I'm still valid, but in some different way. I am finding this difficult.
2. Find new meaning elsewhere under some previously unturned rock.
3. Accept, as my mother suggested, that my time will come, and right now just "bob along" (her words).

I love my mother so much it hurts, but 3. makes me feel like self-harming. It is excellent, measured advice and I desperately wish I could take it; being carried along like a brightly-coloured rubber duckie in a burbling countryside stream, letting the current take me where it will, well, it'd no doubt be good for me, relinquishing control, enjoying the view, but... well, I can't help but feel that time is running out. Not to have kids, necessarily. But to do something. I'm 33. I'm never going to be any younger than I am now, or have any fewer responsibilities. I was already feeling like I was a bit of a wasted opportunity. Then I watched Jamie's American Food Revolution.

That guy, annoying though his perpetual "bruvva"s unquestionably are, is an extraordinary and inspiring force for good. He's married with three kids, and he clearly loves his family dearly, but he has realised that he has a position in society that can change a lot of people's lives for the better. He has a clear mission - to encourage people to eat more healthily; to make cooking from scratch appear easy enough that people turn to it instead of ordering a pizza; and, ultimately, to save lives. It's an amazing goal, and he's already pretty damn rich, owning assets worth tens of millions - but he's still pursuing his mission, heading out to spend three months in Los Angeles early next year to film a second series of his Emmy Award-winning show. He is attacked and ridiculed wherever he goes, but he doggedly continues, spending precious time away from his loved ones, because he believes in what he's doing, and because he is sure that he can make a difference.

I am jealous of his mission. I want one.

And then, as a nailgun in the face to any specks of optimism I'd salvaged, last night, Luke and I saw The Social Network. Bloody hell, where do these people get their drive from? Their certainty that their ideas are valid? Their optimism and confidence, that sense of entitlement, that if they think it's a good idea, it obviously is? The determination to stop gassing about it and actually sit down and fucking do it? I just whitter on, it'd be nice to do this, that'd be brilliant, but I never commit, I'm terrified of failure, and moreover I fear the claustrophobia of being trapped. What if my idea was good? Then I'd have to do it and I'd miss out on doing other stuff. Plus I'm already really tired.

So I do bob along, but resentfully, doing nothing except inhaling as much of this beautiful city as I can take in, and waiting for my Facebook, my Food Revolution, to hit me square between the eyes so that I can start work. Problem is, I know that that's not how reality works. Meaning is often only visible in retrospect. Life missions aren't always obvious at the time. They creep up. They need leaps of faith. They need hard work over long periods of time. They need blind commitment. And they don't always end in positive results. I'm categorically rubbish at dealing with every single one of those things. Need someone with a short attention span who'll tackle a high-profile project, complete it to her own absurdly high standards in two weeks and then, with a rush of 'problem solved' satisfaction, move on in a flurry, never to give it another instant's thought? I'm your gal. Need consistent, shire horse effort over years to lovingly create something that lasts, often for little reward, someone who doesn't let failure get her down, who doesn't crave recognition? Move right along. Nothing to see here.

That book you think I should write? Two years on one project that will be criticised by strangers? Not my idea of fun. The presenting work I could maybe do? I look too fat on camera and I stop being funny because I get too nervous. Politics? MPs have to work too hard and they get criticised. Lobbyist could be good but I can never find an issue that sustains my interest more than any other. I'm not academic or enough of a brown-noser to get into a thinktank or any massive corporation. I hate sucking up to people. I hate toeing the party line. But then I got extremely depressed when I was freelance: irregular hours, irregular funds, irregular job satisfaction, having to be pathetically grateful for every commission and never knowing if the next paycheque would be the last. And with a mortgage to pay, I can't afford to be skint. I want regular hours, recognition for hard work, a sense that I'm contributing to a greater good, a salary that will cover my pension (thanks for the terror lesson, mum), and my evenings and weekends free for wine. It's the blight of an only child: I'm not sufficiently gifted to excel, but I'm too full of myself to bear being average. And I am appalling at compromise.

Don't worry, my weekly therapy session is in under an hour. I'm sure absolutely everything will be solved then.

Woman in pain

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

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

Never forgotten

Today's LLFF is brought to you by escapism. I have spent the past 36 hours in a slight haze, but managed to get through yesterday thanks to a backlog of episodes of American Idol, including a gripping Hollywood Week four-part bonanza. And today, despite mental and physical illness, I battled in to work and found my Amazon order had arrived, containing several exciting books (including our next Book Club book and these letters which I can't WAIT to devour) and a new yoga DVD. But the undoubted highlight was volumes 1 and 2 of the Take That hardbacks.

Take That formed in 1990, but I wouldn't have called myself a fan until 1991, when I was 14. It was a slightly tricky time for me: I wasn't doing that well at school, I didn't feel like I had any talent at sport, I was OK at singing and acting but definitely in the B team... I had minimal identity and, as an only child used to walking around my home with a metaphorical spotlight following me, this lack of Ready Brek glow did not sit comfortably. Pop music and American TV gave me something to obsess over - my unbending love of these unknown purveyors of bad songs and bad acting made me feel different. Of course, I didn't think that Take That would find me special. But at school and back in the pub at home, the level of my obsession did make me stand out. Entire friendships were formed on the basis of love for pop culture, friendships with people I still dearly love today (hi Alex!). Good times.

I won't deny that I was a bit mental though. In October 1991, there was a day trip from our boarding school up to Birmingham for the Clothes Show Live! experience. The idea was, we look around, get free makeovers, watch a live catwalk, and then get back in the minibus and return to Wiltshire. Upon arrival at the NEC, my friend Tina and I noticed that Radio One had a roadshow van there. Far more interested in music than clothes, I stuck around, and was soon gobsmacked to find out that Take That would be performing. Forget the models and Jeff Banks in the main arena - here was someone I'd actually heard of. Best of all, when they came on stage, no one else had a clue who these boys were - so when Tina and I were shouting at Jason and Robbie, they could actually hear us and waved. Buoyed, we ran over the edge of the stage when they'd finished performing, and screamed as they ran by. I wasn't sure what I wanted to happen, but it was unexpected to say the least when Robbie, and then Jason, gave me a wet kiss, with tongues, as they ran off towards their changing room. Extraordinary. Even funnier was that Robbie looked at Tina, who, wanting an autograph more than a snog, uttered the immortal line, 'Do you have a pen?' Strangely, he hadn't gone on stage with a biro.

Buoyed further, Tina and I followed 'the lads' to the lifts, where they went up and started shouting at us over a balcony for us to follow. We weren't allowed up in that lift, but managed to sneak up in another one with a cleaner and then spent 45 minutes with the five of them, sitting on the floor and chatting while they gave us their autographs and Howard admired the red bandana I had tied round my wrist (and consequently didn't remove for approx. the next four years). I'll never forget climbing back into the minibus at the end of the day - the other girls looked at Tina and I with shock, disbelief and scorn oozing from every pore. "You missed the CATWALK to meet TAKE THAT?!" they chorused, gobsmacked. "Yup," I said, without a trace of regret.

Five years later, I was at university when the band broke up, and I remember being late for a lecture as a result - urgent conference calls with Eva had been necessary to discuss the announcement and plan for a Take That-free future. I had seen them live five times, waited outside Capital Radio to photograph them when I should have been revising for my GCSEs, and written them countless letters (unsent) explaining why and how they should come to our school to give a unique performance and allow Howard the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fall for me, the most wonderful, lank-haired, pasty-faced, overly-eyebrowed, awkwardly-curvy, posh-speaking girl he'd never love.

Years after that, in fact, I did finally interview Howard, in a pub in Shepherd's Bush, while he was promoting his DJ career. He was a lovely man, but intensely shy and clearly a lost soul. It's safe to say that we never were, and never will be, a match made in heaven. Still think he's fit though. Funny how life turns out.

Since they reunited, my TT obsession has been more muted. To be honest, I don't like much of their music - although I think Shine is a great track. But I do have a fondness for them that might seem absurd to someone who spent their teenage years grounded in reality. Those boys were, for me, an escape from my life. I wasn't depressed back then, but I wasn't really very happy either, and they gave me a focus and a sense of belonging to something, much as following football has given definition and community to generations of men. I don't need that now, my life is full enough and for that I'm grateful, but I spent a happy hour or two reading those books this afternoon and thinking back to those days when five men in terrible outfits could reduce me to a screaming pulp, and if my Dad forgot to video them on Top of the Pops while I was out at the pub, all hell would break loose. God I was a nightmare.

Haiti, Leona and self-absorption. Just another day on LLFF.

A couple of weeks ago, when Islamists were protesting in the town of Wootton Bassett, Newsarse, the brilliant satirical UK news website, posted a headline saying that all over the country, left-wing Guardian readers' heads were exploding because they couldn't find the correct stance on the matter - the conflict between a true commitment to freedom of speech, a desire not to write off all Muslims as violent wannabe bombers and a simultaneous and firm dislike of terrorism put us into a state of mental overdrive, whereupon we blew up. I'm going through a similar situation with cruise liners in Haiti. What's happened over there is utterly devastating, the piles of corpses stacking up outside the morgues is heartbreaking and the thought of such a turbulent country being kicked so conclusively in the nuts when it's already so weak is just mind-shattering. And now we read that hundreds of tourists are being shipped in to a port sixty miles away, where they are free to sunbathe, jetski and relax. The Guardian article points out that the boats and their passengers bring valuable money to the port in this time of urgent need, and one of the commentators rightly says that if there was a huge disaster in London, we wouldn't want tourists to stop going to Brighton. But there is something undeniably gross about holidaying so close to human agony. I know, I know, it's a pointless question of geography - would we give someone a hard time about going ahead with a planned holiday in Marbella while the earthquake is being cleaned up in Haiti? Probably not. So what does it matter if they happen to have booked near the site of a recent natural disaster? But, like sitting down next to a homeless person and tucking in to a Big Mac, it seems more than a little insensitive. The cruise ships justify it by giving 100% of their profits to the rescue efforts. How about giving the profits anyway but diverting the cruise somewhere else? I dunno. I'm only a born again liberal. I don't have the answers. I just feel a bit sick. I gave £100 to the relief effort this morning and my company, in a rare it's-good-to-work-for-a-City-bank moment, will double all its employees' donations. I'm not sure if any of it will get to where it's needed, but I can do nothing else. Please visit Unicef and donate, if you haven't already. I wouldn't normally mention the amount but I thought it might add gravitas. Yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck we're so lucky.

In other news, it appears that Leona Lewis forgot to remind her skivvies to iron her dress before the Golden Globes. Oops. Sure, there's the crushed silk look, I know about that, but what she's wearing isn't it. She looks like she did my usual trick of pulling the garment out of the washing machine, brushing it down firmly while it was still damp and hoping for the best. Instead, the thigh-height creases just draw attention to... the wrong places. Obviously if the girl had even a spectre of a personality I might be more forgiving, but as it is, I feel like I'm poking fun at a waxwork, which is not only fine but to be encouraged.

And finally, I am thrilled to confirm that the anti-biotic stint is working its way to a close. I'm off out tonight with Simon and I'm so excited about my first glass of cold white wine that I could weep. Given that we're seeing The Road first, I'll probably already be inconsolable, either with disappointment that it's not a patch on the book, or with genuine grief, the tears might be less hilarious hyperbole and more actually embarrassing. You'll read it here first.

Happy Wainwright Christmas

Warning: the first part of this post may be serious and slightly over-sentimental. And I have no idea what I'm going to write in the second part yet, so don't hold your breath for hilarity.

Last night, Mum and I went to see A Not-So Silent Night, the Wainwright family festive specatcular at the Royal Albert Hall. Rufus and Martha sang, as did their mother and aunt (Kate and Anna McGarrigle), Guy Garvey from Elbow, Ed Harcourt, Boy George and several others. And several moments stood out for me. Firstly, Rufus' voice. I love Guy Garvey, I really do - his version of a Joni Mitchell song last night was outstanding, and I'd still marry him now if he asked me, but Rufus... his control... it's truly something else. Just like last time, he did his 'singing without mikes' trick, which is no mean feat in the RAH, and it blew us away. O Holy Night will never be the same again. Secondly, Martha wasn't pregnant any more. After a few songs, she told us that while she usually leaves the talking up to her big brother, she wanted to say that she had been expecting to perform this concert eight and a half months pregnant, and how grateful she was to the doctors and nurses at UCL hospital who, three weeks ago, helped deliver her son. She thanked the NHS, and in a profoundly-unBritish moment, we all spontaneously cheered. It's one of those rare topics where we know full well how lucky we are.

But what was even lovelier than happy Martha and gorgeous Rufus was the slightly wonky singing of their elderly mother, and Boy George, who simply isn't as good as he was, and Rufus' German boyfriend who was nervous as hell during Stille Nacht. But that's what life is all about, isn't it, loving and respecting those who have been important to us. So what if Boy George doesn't sound like he used to? His transvesticism (word?) broke international barriers in the eighties and Karma Chameleon was number one in sixteen countries. I watched all these hugely talented musicians last night, and what seemed most important was not their voices, but what they were doing with them, and I railed at The X Factor for pouring yet more superb singers with nothing to say onto our iPods. I want people to have a message first, and then a voice, not the other way round. Still, if I'd applied that rule to myself, you'd have been reading someone else's blog for the past four years. And I do flipping love The X Factor.

Surface tension

Last night I went to see Martha Wainwright sing songs by Edith Piaf at the Barbican. I've been a fan of Martha for a few years, having discovered her through my love of her brother, Rufus. Like her brother, she is classically trained, Canadian and pretty much bilingual. She's also had a pretty rocky time of it, albeit in a fairly privileged way, and where Rufus is openly gay and has written a lot about that, Martha is straight but has struggled with relationships, writing songs like Bloody Motherfucking Asshole and I Know You're Married But I've Got Feelings Too. I think she is clever and hilarious and in possession of an incredibly strong and sensual voice; I was extremely excited about last night.

And then she walked on stage, and I gasped: she was pregnant. Very pregnant. Last I'd heard, she was singing about being a mistress, and now she was having someone's baby and wearing a wedding ring. I was thrilled for her, genuinely thrilled, but then, through all the beautiful Piaf songs, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted to focus on the music, I wanted her pregnancy and marriage to be irrelevant, but the mental image I'd had of her had always been of a battler, and now she was happy. I think I'd feel the same if I'd seen Gordon Brown with a suntan or Jesus doing a 100m sprint - it was incongrous and, shame on me, I found it distracting. Her clothes got me as well. Her leggings in the first half were too tight, her top was unflattering. And after the interval, she came back on stage wearing a black silk dress over a strapless bra that squashed her boobs into a flat plank, making them look like a little shelf. The dress needed to be ironed and the hem was irregular but not in a way that made me think it was a deliberate design choice.

And so this gorgeous, hair-raisingly beautiful music is being performed by fantastically talented singers and players, including a seriously hot pianist, and all I can think about is the fact that Martha's going to have a baby but her bra is a disaster, and whether they have ironing facilities in the dressing rooms at the Barbican. What is wrong with me?! Why can't I pierce the outermost layer and get stuck in to what's really important? I'm like the worst bits of Trinny, Suzannah and a magpie, distracted by anything sparkly, or, in my case, helplessly drawn to unsightly bulges.

It doesn't matter who's talking or what extraordinary life changing information they're imparting - a stray facial hair or a sweat patch will render me entirely unable to hear anything other than the voice in my head that's going 'Should I tell them? I probably should. I'd want someone to tell me. But then, what can they do about it? Maybe I should tell that other person to tell them...' and on to infinity. Some people just don't even see these things. They are the people who walk around with unplucked eyebrows and VPLs, the hanger loops dangling out of their waistlines, labels sticking out of their neck, whose dyed hair looks perfect from the front but a wreck from the back, who are happily talking to a boy they fancy with red wine encrusted into the cracks on their lips, and they don't give a damn. They're blissfully ignorant and god they're lucky. I want to be like them. Maybe if I stopped wearing glasses I wouldn't see as many flaws, but my new frames are too cool for school. Hmmm.

1.5 seconds of fame

It's been 41 years since Andy Warhol predicted that in the future, everyone would be "world-famous for 15 minutes", and I am pleased to announce that, as of last night, I am 0.16 recurring % of the way there. While I was on my way home from choir practice, Thom texted me to say that he'd just seen me on TV. He also said I was on YouTube. So I got back to my flat, and looked, and he's right. I'm there, on a nationwide ad campaign, in glorious technicolour, for everyone to see. My teeth look very American.

Now, of course, that doesn't make me famous. But we've all got to start somewhere. And I've only got 898.5 seconds to go before Andy Warhol is proved right.

Thanks to Murray for answering my call while he was in Switzerland and giving me assistance with the percentage calculation. I'm tired and thick because I couldn't sleep last night and then couldn't stop reading Texts From Last Night. The fallout from Hallowe'en has been fantastic e.g.: "You tried to wear your Jesus costume into Family Christian stores and say it was a book signing." LOLZ etc.

Right. I'll leave you now. I doubt any of you have read yesterday in its entirity so you have plenty to be getting on with. Go on, my lambs, off you trot.

Cherries and June [needs work]

This advertising campaign for Calendar Girls has been upsetting me. June Brown, aka Dot Cotton, covered in cherry bakewells, aged 82, is not an image that would get me rushing to buy tickets for a West End show. And much as a despise the ageism prevalent in our media, well... it's just a lot, isn't it? I think what I find particularly disturbing is the level surface that appears to be her chest, which made me first wonder if it was just her head stuck on a mannequin's body and then made me consider the possibility that she'd had a double mastectomy, which would certainly be a brave concept for an octogenarian photo shoot, but possibly not quite suitable for cheery family fun at the theatre... In my news, the spot went down but not quite enough. And the date was fun but not quite enough. This afternoon, I have goosebumps and I'm very tired. And that, I believe, is all.

Once a gossip girl...?

I love my boss. He had to take the exam for UK Citizenship today, so that he can extend his visa. I don't know if you've tried to take the test but it is actually quite tricky in places. A lot of it is basic stuff that you would pick up through living here, but there are some historical dates/questions about Hansard that are harder. My boss was taking a practice test the other day, invited me in to his office to see how I did, and was gobsmacked when I got 22 out of 24 questions right. As was I. Anyway, then yesterday, this other guy asked Percy if the test was hard, and Percy said, "It is hard if you haven't revised - lots of history and strange facts."
"So I wouldn't pass if I tried?" he asked.
"No, you wouldn't pass. Jane did, but she is the exception."
Brilliant. Making me feel good while the other guy feels sick that he's been beaten by a PA. Mwah ha ha.

In other business... Somehow I doubt I will ever be naturally highbrow. I logged on to the Guardian's website this morning to check the news, and dutifully scrolled through stories about the economy and conflicts abroad. Then my eye was lassoed by an article called 'The Wisdom of Boybands'. My mouse shot over and opened the page and I devoured its contents like an emaciated hyena let loose in a butcher's. In shameful contrast to the articles about serious news, in this piece, the names were all familiar to me - Nicky from Westlife? Yep, interviewed him several times. Tony Mortimer? Lit his cigarette at the Ivor Novello awards when I was given special permission to come up to London for them while I was at boarding school. Simon Webbe from Blue? Yup. He used to know me as 'the posh bird'. Richie from Let Loose? I bought Crazy for You on CD single from Kiosks in Calne when I was 15, and we made a mix tape for Nessa when we paused the CD in the break between the first chorus and the second verse, and left the tape running, and then tried to get her to sing the beginning of the second verse really loudly and embarrass her. The only one I wasn't so familiar with was one of the Jonas Brothers, but even then, I'd recognise them in a line-up no problem.

Even worse, it's not like I now scoff at their opinions. I know there are more important things to be worrying about, but I genuinely never knew that Louis had fired Westlife twice for mucking about before they made the big time. And I really enjoyed reading what Tony Mortimer had to say about the fact that his ex-bandmates are still touring with his songs. I was following these people during my most formative years. Peter Mandleson, Alistair Campbell, IPPR, Afghanistan, immigration, nuclear disarmament, global warming and third world debt were all around in the eighties and nineties too - I just didn't give a monkey's. And now I'm wondering if it's too late. The vocabulary is still a struggle. Reading Prospect magazine takes weeks out of every month because I would rather stare into a stranger's shoulder on the tube than read a fascinating exploration of the use of neuroscience in developing political ideology. And then I notice a gossip piece about Cheryl Cole in someone else's London Lite and I get butterflies because I am so desperate to know what she's alleged to have been doing.

Should I give in? The siren calls emanating from the trashy, dangerously confidence-slashing women's media are powerful but I've fought them for several years, earnestly trying to boost my general knowledge through continued non-fiction book buying and a complete refusal to read Heat except while in hairdressers'. To relent now, to admit defeat by politics, seems like a shame. But we only live once. No one ever lay on their deathbed saying, "I wish I'd spent more time learning about the conflict in Darfur." Actually, maybe they did. But somehow, I don't think those will be my last words. More likely? My predictions are as follows:

1. "Ow."
2. "Morphine."
3. "Promise me you won't remarry."
4. "Can you pass me that bit of garlic bread?"

Non et in Arcadia ego

OK, so I met up with Joanna at Bertorelli's, and we sat at our table, excited about wining and dining before the showing of Arcadia. I had arrived first and thus was seated on the banquette (sp?) and she was facing me. Within about seven seconds of her joining me at the table, members of the waiting 'team' had banged into the back of Joanna's chair approximately eleven times, so we moved. Joanna, having been on the outside edge of the first table, reached the new table first and so got the coveted not-in-a-thoroughfare seat, but being nice, I didn't comment. Until now. But I'm not bitter.

At approximately 18:17 hours we ordered our food. It arrived at approximately 19:06. By this time I was about to have a hernia and had lost my appetite, although needless to say, when my tagliatelle carbonara (yes, I am that adventurous) finally reached me, I somehow managed to force it down in a matter of seconds. To the best of my knowledge, they didn't show Johnny 5 eating in Short Circuit, probably because, being a robot, he doesn't eat or have a digestive system, but if Johnny 5 had eaten tagliatelle carbonara, he would have looked a bit like me. Although I have better boobs.

The manager was very apologetic about the delay we had suffered and, without us having to ask for a discount, gave us our wine on the house, which was brrrrrrrrilliant and definitely worth the stress, although obviously I then wished I'd ordered a more expensive bottle. So we paid for our food and went across the road to the theatre. I then got embroiled in a sarcastic exchange with the woman on the door who insisted on double checking that her colleague had checked my ticket correctly and then looked at me accusingly when she discovered that my ticket stub had not been torn off, as if I was deliberately trying to enter the theatre with my stub still intact. What purpose this random act of subterfuge might serve, I have no idea. Then after a further stress (where Joanna and I were trying to order interval drinks and the announcer said 'This evening's performance will begin in one minute' and we panic bought wine and ditched the Minstrels idea, even though I wanted chocolate WAY more than I wanted booze, and then hotfooted it back to our seats only to find that the curtain didn't go up for at least seven or eight more minutes, during which time elderly theatre goers wobbled in as if going for a stroll, not a care in the world, and I wondered (not for the first time) if my perception of punctuality is actually flawed and if I should realign it so that it is more consistent with the remaining 99% of Western civilization), we were finally in our massively uncomfortable seats and the show began.

And it really wasn't that good. Everyone has been raving about it, so with irritating yet characteristic contrariness, I sat there looking for flaws, but it sadly wasn't difficult to find them. The playwright, Tom Stoppard, is undoubtedly very, very clever indeed. I mean, seriously, seriously clever. But why does he feel the need to ram his intelligence down everyone's throats all the time? Sure, do it once. Write one play so that everyone knows how brilliant you are. But then, after that, must you keep doing it? I was sad, because there were lines in the play that were brilliantly funny, moments of Wodehouse that I just wished would continue, but then he had to go all high-horsey and talk about Fermat's Last Theorum (does that Need To Be Capitalised?) and algebra and academia and science vs. nature and all these things, which are all valid preoccupations of course, but must they all be crammed into one play, along with the whole 1800s vs. modern day setting? It was all just a bit exhausting. And not that well cast, IMHO. But what do I know? And maybe I missed the best bit while I was asleep. The carbonara caught up with me at the end of Act 1 and I had a bit of a snooze during what was inevitably the key scene that had all the critics wetting their pants. Anyway, everyone else loved it and I'm glad I went.

On our way out I noticed that Dr Robert Winstone of Child of Our Time fame was in the audience, which made me perk up, but then this morning I found out that Mick Jagger had also been in the audience just a few rows further forward, which made even my celeb spot feel markedly B list. So - another night out in London. Off t'country in a minute and can't wait. See you on the other side.

And the beat goes on...

Yesterday, shortly before 11am, I wrote the following paragraph:

I just read the headline in the Guardian, which reads "Cabinet ministers press Gordon Brown for radical shake-up of politics: Elected upper house and caps on party donations on modernisers' agenda". And, with the whining voice of a six year old complaining about having to go to bed early, I said to myself, out loud, sitting at my desk, on my own, in my glass box office, "But I don't want an elected upper house."

I was going to edit it, by the way. It is unfinished. Regardless, I was going to follow it by a written down (and obviously hilarious) version of my internal dialogue concerning the House of Lords. But then Laura came into my office and we were chatting about Weight Watchers, and then at about 11:20, Eva phoned and told me she had a spare ticket to the Ivor Novello awards in the Grosvenor Park Hotel, and that I was welcome to the ticket if I could be on Park Lane in forty minutes. My lovely boss gave me the afternoon off, I hot-footed it to Bank and across town on the Central line, did my make-up en route (apologies Mum and all others who hate public make-up application: I am of your number but sometimes needs must), found applying my newish Laura Mercier eyeliner with fine brush onto inner upper eyelid somewhere around Chancery Lane fairly complicated, and was obviously livid to be wearing relatively subdued work clothes to an event where there would be dressed up people, but excited all the same. And then there we were, heading into the Grand Ballroom, just as we did the last time I went to the Ivors, when I was approx. sixteen and the highlight of my day was when Tony Mortimer asked me for a light. Now no one is allowed to smoke inside and Tony Mortimer is probably in his forties with seven kids by nine different women.

But that's not the only thing that's changed. To my utter relief, I'd heard of almost everyone who was nominated for an award, including Elbow (yay!), The Ting Tings (yay!) and Duffy (yawn). But what shocked me was that after the event, given the opportunity of returning back to Eva's house to watch Aladdin with her two toddling kids or staying out with the others to drink more booze and hang out with famous people, I unhesitatingly chose the former. Something dramatic has shifted within me and I'm afraid that, once again, the answer is clear. I am old.

Shortly after Jafar's henchmen had sent Aladdin to the bottom of the sea with a ball and chain around his leg, I reluctantly stood up and took the tube back to Russell Square for week four of the politics course, where we discussed the law, and when, if ever, it is appropriate to act outside it. Having consumed disappointingly large quantities of delicious food and wine at lunch, I was unable to resist the platters of charcuterie, bread, olives and chocolate biscuits that were laid out for our mid-evening break, and when Laura and I totted up my Weight Watchers points this morning, a rough estimate puts my score at an impressive 54, approximately 2.5 times my actual daily allowance. Hmmm. Not doing so well. Trying to think of the beach and the bikini horror but it appears to be particularly difficult when I am having fun. If only I could have a more miserable life, I would clearly be much thinner. Sigh. It's so unfair.

And after all that, I am still not sure about an elected upper house, even though it is clearly undemocratic. I need to work on that. And I'm still working on my theory of immigration. So much to do, so much to do. A bientot.

Hanging with Mr Cooper

Last Tuesday, I was having a post-work drink with Ses on the balcony outside the South Bank Centre when she spotted someone she thought might be famous. I turned round to look in the direction she'd indicated, and immediately met eyes with Dominic Cooper, who is indeed a bit famous, having starred in The History Boys (play and film) and Mamma Mia, among other things. I was livid he busted me looking round at him, as ever since his appearance on Never Mind The Buzzcocks last year, when he came across as a wee bit full of himself, I have felt like he might need taking down a peg or two and in an ideal world I would have pointedly ignored him. Still, once I'd been spotted spotting him, my cool was already lost, so I maximised my opportunity by having a longer look when he went past. He was dressed fairly like he is in this photo: scruffy jeans, biker boots, a black or very dark brown cropped leather jacket (zipped up) with a longer T-shirt hanging out - and longer hair. Facially and follicularly, he looked, as always, a bit grubby - poss. through over-use of bad fake tan. I long to exfoliate him.

So far, so unremarkable. But last night, also a Tuesday, I was back at the South Bank, this time at the National Theatre, and lo and behold, there was Dominic again. This time I managed not to make eye contact with him, but it was all I could do to stop myself making a Tim Henman fist of satisfaction, as this too-cool-for-school celeb was wearing exactly the same outfit as before. There are, of course, many possible explanations for this, but I have chosen to believe that Dominic has seven mufti outfits, one allocated to each day of the week, and that by spotting him on two consecutive Tuesdays, I have uncovered his fashion simplicity and am now revealing it to the world. Take that, Mr Smug.

I, of course, was not wearing the same thing to the South Bank on two consecutive Tuesdays. Last night I went straight from work in flat shoes, black trousers (slightly too tight as I am between sizes at the moment), red babydoll T-shirt (slightly misshapen as it's from Hennes and I have washed it, ooh, three times so it's really a miracle that it's still in one piece), black cropped jacket (not warm enough for suddenly brisk spring winds). I met my mother in the NT's tapas restaurant (disappointing) and then we went to see Burnt By The Sun, a play about Russia just before the Stalin onslaught, which was given five stars by The Independent, five stars by The Daily Telegraph, and about two stars by me and my mum. I had really wanted to see it as my Russia knowledge is woeful, and the acting was OK - but I didn't learn much and the script sucked. Sucked, I tell you. Not impressed. I was seated alone as mum and I had bought our tickets separately, and I had a mouth-breather on my left and a rustly woman on my right who did not sit still for more than six seconds. Every time she moved, her scratchy jacket fabric rubbed against itself - not deafening but certainly distracting, and, like all noises (particularly snoring), most annoying in its inconsistency. Growl.

This morning I woke up early again to do yoga. It actually appears to be getting more difficult the more I do it. I'm not sure how that works but I'm not particularly happy about it. My Half Moon Pose is noticeably wobblier, particularly on the left hand side, and even Camel's Pose, which I used to find quite pleasant, is now a dread-worthy moment on the DVD, especially as it is a warm up for the three Upward Bows, my nadir. Ah well. It's all part of the fun, isn't it. Right. That's enough for now. I'm off. A demain.

There where things are hollow

Oh dear. How terribly unBritish last night's blog posting was. I have just reread it and felt distinctly uncomfortable at its unabashed happiness and overflowing joie de vivre. It was all true, of course, and I reluctantly admit that I am still feeling fairly fleet of foot and frisky. But how deeply uncharacteristic.

The only thing I can think of that might rectify this is a more lengthy complaint about the monstrous T-Mobile commercial that I witnessed being filmed in Trafalgar Square yesterday eve. First of all, the crowds gathered round the stage were huge. Yes, that's 'crowds'. Many, many people, all willing to give up their free time, desperate to be in a thirty second TV ad. The fame obsession of the British public will never cease to amaze me. I don't know what it says about me that I was willing to give up my free time to stand on Charing Cross Road and watch the proceedings, but I hope it's slightly less awful than actually wanting to be in the ad. I suspect it's a gossamer line.

A camera on a huge boom swooped over the masses, who obliginged by screaming mechanically and waving and sticking their tongues out, trying to do something - anything - to stand out long enough to earn their 0.15 seconds. Then the distinctly underwhelming celeb, Vernon Kaye, strode onto the temporary stage and shouted at those gathered beneath him, welcoming them to the next 'event' for T-Mobile. It was all so gross and I felt wrong and dirty for staying - but just when I was losing all self-respect, the karaoke began. After a fair bit of delicious wine at lunch, I was sucked in, hook, line, and singer.

We were getting into our stride a few tunes in - I had especially enjoyed Summer Loving - when the camera zoned in on a funky-looking blonde lass wearing a hoodie. As she saw her face on the big screen, she pushed off her hood and started really working the mike.
"Urgh," I thought to myself, "typical wannabe, making sure none of her fake-tanned mug is obscured on TV." She started singing - quite well, to be fair - in fact, staggeringly confidently for someone in the public, although it seemed like the sound balance on her mike was a bit more favourable... I felt briefly outraged for the other singers who'd came across as a bit breathy and understandably under-rehearsed, but then the man next to me said, "It's Pink," and I looked again, and from the mole on her face and a piercing somewhere, I realised that he was telling the truth, and the hoodie-wearer was, in fact, an American C-lister, with a moniker that matches T-mobile's logo colour, paid handsomely to turn up and give the advertising event of the afternoon a bit more star girth. All around her, everyone was smiling and reaching up to her, and suddenly I felt very protective of all the people who'd been happily chanting along to Build Me Up Buttercup before a Pop Star arrived. Sure, they'd only been there to get on TV too, but underneath all the commercialism, it had briefly seemed like a bit of harmless, inexpensive fun. But that's not enough for us these days. We can't just sing and look happy. We need additional endorsement from a well-known face. We need to be shown how it's done. We need to be put in our place. And it stinks. I wandered off shortly afterwards, leaving the fame-hungry hoardes to their worship.

I know, I know, I'm a hypocrite. I shouldn't have gone along at all. But I was curious. And it was a gorgeous sunny evening. Yes, I'm confused. But I do my best. And you love me for it.

Goodbye Dolly

Now Nic, if you're reading, please be assured that I think you are absolutely amazing and I loved every moment of the weekend. But flipping heck, how do these people do it? Nicole is my flatmate from university, who now lives on a farm in the middle of almost nowhere, with her husband, her three dogs and three daughters aged approx. 3.5, 2.25 and 8 months. Her life is fully content and almost incessantly wonderful, and she is mostly a pretty happy bunny, but it is absolutely certain that, were I in her position, I would be locked up. Firstly, I simply cannot imagine living in the countryside and not going insane - although I reserve the right to reverse my position on that statement for any of a variety of reasons at some unspecified point in the future. But secondly, I am clearly, categorically, not ready for motherhood.

I suppose no one is really ready until it happens (and often not until some time the event), but my goodness, the relentlessness of it never fails to shock me. I think I'm going to be prepared, but every single time I spend even a couple of hours in the company of kids, I am stunned anew at the patience and resilience of all these people who manage to parent them, full time, for decades. It is just staggeringly tiring. Rewarding, I'm sure, but oh! The exhaustion. I truly don't know if I would ever be able to cope. And then, when you're at your most tired, they don't let up - they get louder. It is really quite extraordinary. Nic's eldest, Alice, is absolutely gorgeous but let down by the fact that she is obsessed with her doll, Dolly, and, when it suits her, treats it like a real baby. It's the inconsistency that would drive me to distraction - if she's going to bathe it, request real nappies and real baby food for it, request its face to be washed, request real muslins, request it to be swaddled before she'll sleep etc., then I'll do my best to take it seriously - but not when she also leaves it face down on the floor by the fire and doesn't flinch when the dog starts licking the encrusted food off its face. I know, I know, it's tough to expect a three and a half year old to exhibit tenacious parenting skills when I'm nearly ten times her age and still doubt my own capacities in that field, but hey, it's a tough world out there - if you can't do the time, don't do the crime.

The other eye-opener for the weekend was that the family's euphemism for the girls' rude bits is 'storecupboard'. I've heard other families call them fuffies, noonies and lalas but storecupboard is a new one on me, and lends a new, rather sad and unpleasant meaning to my mother's lovingly labelled 'Cary's Storecupboard Chutney'. I'm not sure what route I'd take if I had a daughter, but I suppose the important thing is to make sure a word is found that's not too embarrassing to be said in public, because sure as eggs is eggs, I'm pretty sure it's something you'll get sick of hearing over the years if you get it wrong.

On an unrelated note, I watched this home video by Russell Brand last night and got really sad. I've linked to it to spare you the irritation of not being able to watch it yourselves, but please, if you aren't inclined to click on the link, then don't. It's really very depressing. He's a nice guy, I'm sure, and I am not about to do some sort of rabid character assassination, but really, I don't want the film to get any more views than is absolutely necessary. About a minute into the footage, Russell decides to ask his mother a question, and goes out in the garden where she is making a phonecall on a mobile. He smilingly takes the phone out of her hand, assures the caller that it's Russell speaking, asks if his mother can ring her back in a few minutes and, hardly pausing for breath, snaps the phone shut, ending the call. Throughout this episode, Russell's mother giggles adoringly and unquestioningly: ultimate priority is given to his desire to film an entirely pointless exchange. Beneath the widget showing the film are comments from adoring fans squealing about how cute Ma Brand is and how lovely the mother-son relationship seems to be. But for goodness' sake, how rude! I simply cannot imagine a situation where someone is filming me for a BBC documentary, let alone some entirely random blog posting, and I walk out into the garden where my mum is chatting to a friend, extract her phone and end the call. I am a boisterous, sometimes tricky only child, and even I wouldn't dream of that. Clearly Russell's own mother, her friends and his fans are all in awe of his celebrity, and I think this is a sad thing. That said, I've just been rabbiting on about it myself for the past few hundred words, so I don't have a leg to stand on. Ah, hypocrisy. What would I do without you?

Curses

I've just heard that the choice for this year's X Factor winner's victory song - the one all three finalists have to sing in the last show before the victor is decided, the song that will then sail to Christmas number one and break all sorts of UK chart records - is Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, a near-perfect record that I first heard sung by Jeff Buckley. In fact, forget 'near-perfect', it IS perfect. The song's only flaw is that it ends. What were the producers thinking? It was painful enough when Hallelujah was covered by Buckley's close friend, Rufus Wainwright, who I normally love - but the idea of some squeaky teen belting it out is absolutely appalling. Diana has already yodelled her way through it once this series, but just thinking of Alexandra singing it a la Whitney Houston makes my teeth feel like they are going to spontaneously jump out of my mouth. As my friend Donald said, it'll be like watching someone smash a stained glass window.

It's weird and I'm aware that I'm probably (yes, not for the first time) being vaguely hypocritical. After all, I love the song and I love The X Factor: surely I should be pleased? But I have always been selfish and childishly possessive about music, squirrelling away the songs I love, becoming annoyed or angered when they become popular, whether it's just amongst my friends or among the populus at large. There are few things more infuriating than hearing the middle eight of a tune I adore being played as background music to Goal of the Month on Match of the Day, or noticing that the catchy intro from a much-loved album track is accompanying an ident on Channel 5 (looks with resigned disappointment at Boy Least Likely To, while understanding the appeal of fat cheques). I don't know why I want to keep something as wonderful as a magical song to myself; I guess it's some desire to be special, to have a secret from the others - but it's wrong and, although I'm apologetic, I doubt I'll change.

On another note, I am reading a book about meditation and inner peace at the moment, and it said that as we walk along, we should imagine our feet are kissing the earth. I liked that. That, I will share.

The power of positive thinking?

A dear family friend was out jogging earlier this week, fell and cut his leg. It was more of a graze than a wound, and he thought nothing of it. But a day or so later, he was admitted to hospital with Toxic Shock Syndrome, a very serious form of bacterial poisoning which has meant he has been in an induced coma for the past few days while doctors have removed most of the infected muscle in his leg and given him multiple blood transfusions. It has been touch and go as to whether he will survive, although things are apparently looking more positive today. He will, however, not be able to run again - which with three children under three, is a serious readjustment. This just makes me, once again, remember that we must enjoy every second we have, and try to focus on the positive in all the cards we are dealt by our friendly Life croupier.

Possibly as a result of that news, or possibly as a result of my wonderful friends and the forests of self-help books I've been devouring, I am feeling much better. I've booked a hair appointment, ordered new glasses, and the fruits of my workout labours are finally showing themselves as my trousers are becoming a fraction baggier. High five!

What's weird is that today, Michael Jackson is 50. In 1991, when I turned 14, I genuinely thought I might marry him. Imagine. I don't think it would have worked out. The man who I used to dream about, whose dulcet (now freakish) whispered promises at the beginning of I Just Can't Stop Loving You set my standards for romance, whose dancing and singing seemed to be impossibly perfect - well, it turned out he's probably not such an amazing catch after all, what with the child molestation rumours, the collapsing face, the self-hate and the bankruptcy 'n' all...

Hmmm. Who else did I want to marry...? Dylan from Beverly Hills 90210, aka Luke Perry, now 41, divorced with two young daughters and a film back-catalogue that features an unfortunate combination of raspberries and tumbleweed; Howard Donald from Take That, now 40, father of two daughters by two different women, a history of suicidal depression and a penchant for onstage nudity; Keanu Reeves, who will be 44 on 2 September, notorious loner, motorbike obsessive with a limited vocabulary; and Christian Slater, now 39 with an unfortunate hairline and eyes that twinkle with a fragment of their former sparkle, possibly due to a long history of alcohol and drug abuse, with police records for assault with a deadly weapon and battery. Quite a selection, you'll have to agree... I certainly know how to pick 'em.

Sometimes I'm not sure I should be trusted to pick my husband. Maybe I'll allow my mum to do the choosing next time. Watch out for my next boyfriend: wealthy golfer, Torygraph reader, strange sense of humour, enjoys birdwatching, wears chinos and V-neck sweaters with sensible shoes, knows how to hold his cutlery properly and pack a suitcase well, irons his own shirts, eats and drinks to a high standard, penchant for The Muppets. It just might work...