More moans

As the Faithful will know, after someone described LLFF as 'about mental health' I became a bit unsure. I'm happy to be honest about the rubbish that goes on in my noodle, but I didn't really want this blog to be labeled as single-topic when I've tried quite hard to make it fairly broad.

If I'm to be truly open, though, there's another reason I quash the compulsion to share my deepest thoughts. I know deep down that this is utterly absurd but that's hardly a rarity among my observations... and... well, OK, out with it: I worried that some handsome (or bearable) young man could be reading, and that my admitting to being a divider short of a lever arch file might deter him from, one day, tentatively emailing me to ask me on a date. Yes, I know: absurd. I cringe even to admit it. I mean, a) Fictional Bearable Man has four years of LLFF to read back on, so only writing about HILARIOUS antics from now on will hardly cancel out 650 entries of questionably certifiable content. b) In four years, I've only ever had one person get in touch with me flirtatiously as a result of what they've read here, and let's just say that didn't end well. c) I AM MEANT TO BE ON A FREAKING BOYBAN so any worrying about Fictional Bearable Men is absolutely against orders, and should be ceased IMMEDIATELY.

So with all that in mind, here's a description of my mental state over the past few days. You can read about it as long as you allow me to apply the caveat that I really don't think I'm THAT much more mental than anyone else, just fractionally more open about it. Allow me that indulgence, I prithee.

Last Monday I thought I felt the symptoms of PMT. I'm not sure what our problem is, but it seems like, despite menstruating more or less monthly for around two decades, the women I know tend to greet each new period with irritated surprise. You'd have thought we'd know exactly when it was going to happen, but no - the last one finishes and we just bury our heads in the sand and forget about it until the next one creeps up like an unwelcome drunk houseguest and ruins an otherwise perfectly good week. For the record, my PMT symptoms tend to include: body temperature always being wrong; near-constant exhaustion; physical sense of having ingested around ten pints of thick soup or porridge that has oozed through my intestine and is now filling up legs and arms et cetera; a perpetual feeling of foreboding. It is not unbearable, but equally it is not rib-ticklingly good fun. After about five days of this, I become convinced that the PMT is about to end and that good ol' MT should surely be about to begin. But no - I had a fairly over-sensitive weekend feeling anti-social and quiet, and then yesterday, day eight, I metaphorically hit the fan.

It started when Chris came into my office at around 11am for a chat. We nattered harmlessly for a few minutes and then he made some very light-hearted but unarguably derogatory comment about the Welsh, and then the Scots. I told him not to be racist, he (quite sensibly) told me to lighten up, I refused, and he (entirely reasonably) swore at me and stropped off. I sat there wondering what to do. I knew I was being insufferable and deserved to be firmly mocked. Equally, I do think that people should stick to their principles, and that 'harmless' prejudiced jokes between friends, even friends who know the other isn't really racist, aren't ideal. I get miffed when people use 'gay' as a derogatory term too. It's boringly puritanical, but I'd feel really awful if I went the other way. There's loads of ways to slag people off without relying on their nationality or their sexuality. (As an aside, I'm not even sure he was theoretically being racist. I don't think Welsh is a race, is it?) Either way, I didn't like him being prejudiced, but I should have let it go.

So I was a bit upset about that, annoyed at myself for being a dick, but I went off to Boots at lunch and got a few things sorted out, and the nice lady at the Benefit counter gave me 'dramatic eyes' (think Twiggy in the Sixties rather than this) and I went back to the office feeling slightly better. And then I got a phonecall from a very chipper friend, who told me I should be being more positive about something that I was being negative about, and for some reason I was so determined to persuade her that I was right to feel negative about it that I started crying. Fortunately my colleagues weren't in their offices so no one could see me as the decidedly-non-waterproof Benefit products coursed down my cheeks but I still worried that someone might come in and ask me something, so I thought it best to hide. I ducked under my desk and sat there, cross legged and sobbing, for about an hour. Then I got up, not really very sure at all why I had been crying for quite so long, wiped off as much of the sediment as I could, sat back on my posture stool and stared into space for another hour, unable to decide what to do. I didn't want to go to my non-negotiable evening engagement that I'd been excited about for AGES because I felt antisocial and ugly and boring and I knew I'd be expected to be loud and opinionated and hilarious. But I didn't want to go home to an empty flat. And I didn't want to see anyone else because I felt rubbish.

Then I realised that I had presents for two of the people at the non-negotiable evening engagement and I accepted that I had to go, but I couldn't shake off this weird under-confident paralysis. In the end I had to ask Chris to come and get me out of my office, which he did (after he'd emailed me to tell me he wasn't a racist). And he gave me a hug and I cried again and FUCKING HELL his dad is recovering from a stroke but will be paralysed for the rest of his life, and I know Chris must look at me like 'SHUT UP with your insignificant issues' but these freaking hormones are just so powerful - half the time you don't know why you're crying, you just feel so utterly negative and fed up. I wish boys could experience it just once because there is nothing more frustrating about knowing something isn't real but still not being able to ignore it. I imagine it's a bit like having a bad trip. And there's part of me that thinks we should all keep schtum about how it feels, that it's blog entries like these that spread the idea that women are mental and difficult and that boys are straightforward and superior. Perhaps it'd be better for women if people didn't come out and say 'Yes, I'm irrational. Yes, I cry when very little seems wrong. Yes, it sucks to be me sometimes' and instead, for the sake of equality, acted like all the other ladettes and said 'We're just like you but with bigger boobs!' Anyway. It's too late now. I write, therefore I press 'Publish Post'.

I went to the evening engagement for half an hour and handed over the presents. And it was weird - I'd felt so withdrawn, so utterly shy and gross, but then I got there and we were carol singing outside the Southbank Centre, and this crowd had gathered to listen to us, even though it was really flipping cold, and people were filming us on their phones and it was all sounding lovely, and I realised we didn't have a hat down to collect any money, and I put my furry hat down and everyone laughed, and then Christina said we weren't allowed to collect money and she picked up my hat. But what I thought was odd was how, even when I'm feeling utterly awful, I still can't quash my instinct to show off or get attention or put a stamp on things, to walk into the middle of the semi-circle and ask strangers to give us money, when thirty minutes earlier I couldn't even get the strength to re-don my Moon Boots. And I hate that. I wish I'd just be consistent and stay quiet rather than act up like some seal with a compulsion to bark. As soon as the singing had finished and a few people came up to say hello to me, I panicked again and went straight home. I watched the final of The Apprentice, which was long enough to take my mind off things, and then I went to bed.

No tears today but haven't managed to leave the house yet. I dunno. I'm off to the doctor in a minute. It's not remotely life threatening but I'd rather not hang round waiting for this to happen all over again in 28 days. And if the NHS don't have any answers I'm going to have to get me some waterproof mascara. To all the women out there: I love you. To all the men: love your women. We need you.

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.

Miss me?

Heave an hours-long sigh of relief, my Faithful, for I am not dead, nor am I unable to type for your amusement and continued edification. I have been abroad, often without phone reception or access to the internet, and my enforced separation from these facilities has been strange and wonderful. And at times slightly unpleasant.

Even before my travels began, however, I was aware that my desire to blog has been sluggish at best, and over the past weeks I have spent some not insignificant time musing over my writing. Not to get too spiritual at this early stage of what promises to be a scroll-heavy edition of LLFF, but my psychological goal has long been to become as self-sufficient as possible. Like most people, I need and thrive on human contact, and have a deeply-held belief that love is all we need. I am not aiming for some sort of hermetic existence atop a girthy Tibetan telegraph pole. However, true love is truly selfless, and doesn’t work too well if one half of the partnership is constantly craving attention, affection or none-too-subtley pointing out that the other person owes them a present because she bought them that T-shirt last week and you haven’t even worn it yet, and for fuck’s sake how many times have I asked you to please phone me if you’re going to be late?

And release.

So. Yeah. I know that love should be unconditional, and, like millions of others, I know that in the past I’ve sometimes struggled with that. After much thought over the years, I've reasoned that the best way to be able to give unconditional love, whether to friends, family or lovers, is to need them as little as possible. I am about six tons of cherished possessions away from being a Buddhist, but ideally, I’d like to be fairly zen about this whole life malarkey, and work towards needing less, not more, the idea being that the less you need, the more you are free to give.

Which is where the blog comes in. Is it right to write? If it is informative – yes. If it brings pleasure – yes. Clearly I don’t blog for money, but I still receive two rewards: the immense satisfaction and flow I gain from the act of writing, the decision to structure a sentence like this (and not like that), the clarity and stability I feel having recounted an incident in black and white. And secondly, the flush of gratification I receive when I discover that my efforts have brought others pleasure or support.

BUT.

If I'm going to be serious about self-sufficiency, shouldn't I fight this urge for third party approval, and take the decision not to write at all? Shouldn't I conclude that the very nature of blogging cultivates a needy side of me from which I should be moving away? I thought that I should.

But then I thought of all the wonderful stuff we'd never have witnessed if a desire for appreciation was unacceptable. All the plays and paintings, poems, programmes, companies, children, families, restaurants, songs and pizzas that might not have come into existence if financial remuneration was the only possible reward for effort, if humanity's enjoyment of recognition vanished altogether.

The experience of choral singing is meditative, transformative, but the surge that follows when the audience appreciates your sound is another rush altogether - not more pleasurable than the performance itself, but nonetheless a huge part of singing, one which makes the night of a concert so strikingly different to a rehearsal. Would I still go to choir practice if I could never sing in front of an audience again? Probably not, but not many people would think that's weird. You join a choir to sing - and to be heard singing. Only a few people would, on learning that you are in a choir, conclude that you're an attention-seeking spotlight-whore. But choose to write and publish your work on the internet, and the implication is that you think you've created something worth others' valuable time. There is a question that's asked when any creative output is put in the public domain: 'Do you think this is good?' And if that question is left unanswered, it hurts. Some performers say they don't care what others think. I think they're talking out of their asses. Anyone who puts work out there, hangs it in a gallery, plays it onstage, creates and shapes a young mind, offers themselves to the lives of strangers - if you do that, you care. You need.

Before I went to Morocco, I went on a one-day travel writing course, which was immaculately structured and very helpful, in that it made me decide that I do not under any circumstances want to be a travel writer. The hardest thing about it was that we had to do four short written exercises throughout the day. After the group of around 25 people had finished the first written exercise, I sat, heart in mouth, as the course leader selected who would read – and I wasn’t picked. No one heard my astonishingly original and hilarious efforts. I was livid. Mystifyingly – or rather, demonstrating vast social intelligence – others seemed to feel remorse when they were picked and, like true Englishmen and women, they carefully indicated that they were embarrassed or uncomfortable to be in the spotlight. I did my level best to seem relieved not to have had to share, but as my second and third efforts also went unwitnessed, I became more and more desperate to be heard. I was finally selected to share my attempt for the fourth and final exercise, the last person out of the entire group to read aloud, only a couple of minutes before the workshop’s end. After hours of anticipation, the hoped-for laughs I received for my work were gratifying and immediately internal order was restored, the butterflies went back to their locker and my heart rate returned to its un-attention-seeking-nightmare levels.

That night I went to stay with my mother, and read her the three exercises I’d written that hadn’t been heard. She said I was brilliant. I was fully aware that a) she is not objective and b) I have my moments, and it was all OK.

I will be frank: I want to write and I want to be read. Does that make me needy? Yes, but no more than anyone else who puts their time and effort into a project, a baby, that doesn't give them financial reward. And in my defense: I could be needier. I could be trying to be famous, writing bad chick-lit and living on a permanent diet. That's not what I want. I want to carry on trying to put words together in an order that makes me proud, and I want to receive recognition for any pleasure my hard work brings to others.

To conclude this absurdly overlong and introspective introduction: Lost Looking For Fish will go on. I've missed it while I've been away – not just the praise, but the process. And if one or two of you are still this side of comatose and are kind enough to tell me I rock every now and then, I’ll be happy as a lamb in a field full of tussocks on a sunny day.

On to where the hell I’ve been. Morocco has been a fantastic break. I flew out two Fridays ago, and went to an unexpectedly swanky hotel about 45 minutes south of Marrakech, where I felt like I should wear floaty dresses, light candles and be filmed by Zeffirelli singing songs about love in a plaintive but effortlessly beautiful folk voice while playing some sort of north African lute. Instead I wore floaty dresses, did yoga, read books, ate my own bodyweight in couscous and discovered an hitherto unknown penchant for Moroccan rosé.

My true Faithful may remember that I went on a yoga holiday last June to Dahab in Egypt, where I discovered upon my arrival that no one else had had the foresight to sign up for the same holiday, and that I was thus going to have around four hours’ private yoga tuition each day, just me and the lovely instructor. In between classes, I was left to my own devices, and spent my time lounging, reading, snorkelling, scubaing, horse-riding, shopping, battling with local internet cafés and climbing Mount Sinai by night.

This year was somewhat different, and for ‘somewhat’, read ‘a bit meh’ and for ‘different’, read ‘by comparison’. I meeeeeaaaannnn, the people were nice, the yoga was stretchy, the pool was glorious, the hotel was far better than I deserve, my books were fantastic but… it turns out that I am not one for set meals with 24 people split up into three groups of eight, seated round one of three rectangular tables for breakfast, lunch and dinner every single day, plus four hours of yoga together, plus nowhere to go outside the hotel, no sea to swim in, no horses to ride along the beach, no internet cafés, no internet, no cafés. I slept a lot, I relaxed, I even think some people may have enjoyed my company, and I feel rested and grateful, but I won’t be rushing back. The routine made me rebellious and by the end I had lost interest in mealtimes and yoga, desperate to assert my independence by doing the only thing I could think of: not joining in.

Oh but it wasn’t bad, it really wasn’t. The sun shone, I went brown, there were some absolute gems of people there – 22 women and 2 men with an age-range spanning five decades from twenties to seventies, a male/female ratio which inevitably descended into discussions about the topics women so often discuss when left to their own devices: periods, the menopause, tanning, biological clocks, raising children and the mirena coil. I spent some time imagining how the holiday would shift if five or six single, heterosexual men arrived, and envisaged games of waterpolo ruining Margaret’s laps in the pools, cheers from makeshift boules games upsetting the meditation sessions on the sun terrace, late night drinking games distracting many of the group’s less committed members from their 7am yoga practice the next morning. As it was, one of my principal bonding conversations involved a chat with a mother and daughter about how the woman with the world’s longest fingernails wipes her bottom.

Most people were very well behaved, and it was often left to one fantastic character called Kay to provide the hilarity. In her late forties, vocally somewhere between Frances De La Tour and Roseanne Barr, she was sorted and straightforward during the day, but a few glasses of wine down and she transformed into one of the most fantastically belligerent women I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.
“I don’t mean to make a scene,” she slurred gently on our second night, having made a mid-dinner trip to another table, “but everyone else is very dry. I know it's awful, but we definitely have the best table,” she emphasised, her voice rising an octave or so. “And I think we would do very well if we could just do a little wee, go on, everyone in their chairs now. Mark your spot and then no one else can sit here tomorrow. Go on. Just a few drops – you’ll thank me later, I promise you.” I never want to party without her again.

Then after a week, a short taxi ride into Marrakech, the pink city, a place I’ve wanted to visit for a very long time, a place I’m glad I’ve now seen, a place I won’t be hurrying to visit again. Wow I’m sounding like a grump. I had a great time. It was fascinating, very different to expectations and I could have stayed longer. But did I like it? Not exactly. The divide between touristville and normalville was so harsh – the souks were 3% functioning market and 97% get-your-hands-on-the-Western-dollar desperation – Times Square without New Yorkers, Leicester Square without the cinemas. I felt guilty for perpetuating it, but not so guilty that I wasn’t able to select so many of their wares that I had to buy another suitcase to get them all home. We had a great trip through the new town, Gueliz, where the real Marrakechis live, the ones who have a life other than that portrayed in SATC2. But the expensive restaurants are all full of white faces, sweating men from Bournemouth stuff dirhams into the bra tops of bellydancers in swanky bars that serve pink Champagne at £50 a bottle, while a few minutes down the road, veiled women sit outside tourist attractions using their cute kids as bait. I guess there’s the same mix of wealth and abject poverty in any other city, but the tourist market is one huge whopping part of their economy and it felt a bit gross, like holidaying in a theme park, escaping to my luxury air conditioned riad every night while the ride's staff just carry on living in the Pink Kingdom, never able to take off their uniforms.

That said, who am I to say their life isn’t fun? Maybe they’re having a whale of a time. I guess I often felt pretty uncomfortable – the women wouldn’t look us in the eye, while the men muttered obscenities under their breath while we walked by, desperate to woo us into their shops, angry when we ignored them, unbearably obsequious when we didn’t. I can't blame the girls for being pissed off - I'd be livid if London was 95% full of gorgeous women that all the men leer over while ignoring me. Oh.

Anyway. I can’t deny I found the attention fun for the first hour, my daily experience in Marrakech being the exact opposite of my life in London: I was getting so much male attention it was almost embarrassing, but when their hands started brushing against my ass, I quickly began to feel a bit sick about the whole thing. I’d been warned about this by other visitors, and wore my (blonde) hair back and up so as to stand out a bit less, but no matter what I did with my hair, my ass was, as always, shall we say, a ‘feature’, and on my final night as Trace and I wandered round the main square I was almost in tears, as every few seconds, a complete stranger would violate my dance space and lightly touch my buttocks as he walked by and disappeared into the crowd. Arguably, I should have chucked on a birka and been done with it, but there was a part of me that felt that would have been a capitulation that'd assist those people who say rape victims who wore short skirts were asking for it. Long sentence. Sorry. It's late and I'm out of practice.

Anyway. It was interesting. Other points of note:

• Within a few hours of arriving in the city, Trace and I were in a local spa having a reflexology foot treatment, and I was amused to notice that the pan pipes were playing ‘Speed Bonny Boat’. You can take the girl out of Scotland…
• Moroccan horses stop at “Woah” too. I noticed no other Arabic/English convergences.
• Another day, another spa experience – Tracey and I went to a hammam for a steam and scrub, and were sitting semi awkwardly in our bikinis in the treatment room, waiting for further instructions, when a brusque woman with limited English came in, pointed at my boobs and said, “Off.” Clearly it was to be a topless treatment. We complied, lay down on an L-shaped bench, Trace along one wall, my head perpendicular to her feet. Another woman came in and started to rub black soap oil into Tracey’s front. “Tournez,” she barked. Trace slithered over onto her belly. I tipped my head back over my right shoulder to see what was going on, precisely at the moment that the lady gripped the lower hems of Tracey’s bikini bottoms and firmly jerked them up, giving a professional but unexpected wedgie that sent my friend giggling for some time to come.
• Moroccans aren’t without a sense of humour although their favourite joke is fairly simple: you ask a fairly innocent question, e.g. “Can I have a bottle of water?”, “Please can we have some lunch here?”, “Can we check out?” and they look you square in the eyes and say, “No.” And you say, “Really?” and they say, “No! Not really! It is fine! Of course you can have water/lunch/check out.” And they laugh as if it is a brilliant ruse. It is a bit funny the first time it happens. After that not so much.
• I did laugh one night though, when we were at the uber-swanky Western restaurant Foundouk, seated on the first floor mezzanine, overlooking a huge chandelier which hung deep down over the ground floor diners. The chandelier held twenty or thirty creamy wax orbs containing tea light candles, which any fool knows have a burning time of around four hours. How, I wondered, were these new candles replaced and lit every evening, when the chandelier was a good distance from any table or platform. I asked the waiter. “Nous avons un singe,” he said. “A monkey?” I said. “Oui,” he said, straightfaced. Then he laughed and showed us how the wrought iron panels in the balcony of the mezzanine slide to one side so someone can reach out and change the lights. I’m not a massive fan of animal cruelty but I’m afraid on that occasion the reality was a little disappointing.

So it was fun. It was relaxing and enlightening. I’ve learned stuff. I know now that my ideal summer getaway needs to involve the beach and, ideally, snorkelling with fish. I know that DBC Pierre’s new novel is a masterpiece, as is The Way Young Lovers Do by Van Morrisson. I laughed often and I whimpered with pain a fair bit, and I nattered away a lot and made new friends. And it was great, and I’m very glad I went and I’m happy to be home, and I don’t need much, but a bit of love every now and then doesn’t go amiss.

Now leave me alone as I have a ton of X Factor to catch up on.

Whirlwind.

I've been crap and I'm sorry to all three of you. Thursday I had a second date. It was good and now I wish I'd never met him. Nothing less fun than the vulnerability associated with actually liking someone. Will try and forget all about him forever. On Friday, Lucy came to London and placed upon me the heavy burden of the fact that she has two children and doesn't live in town and rarely gets a night off and had driven all the way just to see me so, well, you know, we just HAD to go out in Hoxton and eat Thai food and drink much wine, and then go to another bar and have fruit smoothies for health and cookies for fun and wine for stupidity, and Lucy decided to see what zambuca coffee tasted like (fail), and then go to a club and dance until 2am with boys who were born in the latter half of the eighties, boys who were good looking enough to take their shirts off when they got hot, and of course I had to kiss one of them although I can't remember which one, even when I look at the photos - all I can remember is pulling away and going, "Urgh, you taste of Red Bull." What a charming and petite nymph I am. And then chips from a kebab shop and absurd and unexpected self-control from me, only about seven hours too late, and home on the nightbus.

And then on Saturday I woke up in that curious and deeply unpleasant wasteland between still drunk and more hungover than you'd ever known it was possible to be, and Lucy and I had bacon sandwiches and then I got on a coach in Waterloo and drove to Cambridge to sing in a concert in King's College chapel, to the best of my knowledge one of the most glorious buildings in the whole world, with a nine second acoustic and, at 8pm after five hours of rehearsal, a distinguished audience; and at the party later I was able to say thank you to my choral hero, nonagenarian Sir David Willcocks, without whom etc. etc., and when he'd thanked me and turned away it was all too much and I burst into tears. Pulled myself together afterwards with some Oyster Bay and then tepid rosé in plastic cups on the coach, got home, passed out, woke up on Sunday aching as though I had been a woefully underprepared contestant on Overnight Gladiators without my knowledge, did yoga, sweated as though doing Bikram while actually just in my normal-temperature flat, then went to see Eva's new baby and then off to Mayfair for more rehearsals during which I thought I was going to faint or be sick, or both simultaneously, collapsing into a pool of my own vomit, a bit like I was dissolving into bile a la the Wicked Witch Of The West, or was it East?, but managed to avoid that attractive end by sitting down, and then drinking Lucozade and eating Soreen, and then we performed another whopping great concert, exhausting and exhilarating, followed by a restoratative pint with my parents and an unexpected lift back to my home and a phonecall with Grania where my tattered sanity was hacked into some semblance of shape with her cat o' nine tails and Polyfilla.

Today I am mostly trying to stay upright.

Near miss

Nothing like narrowly avoided humiliation to make you feel grateful for mere existence, is there? I went to the loo at work this morning, came out of the cubicle, washed my hands, pouted at myself in the mirror, mentally criticised about thirty six elements of my appearance and admired about nine, and then turned to walk out the door. As I turned, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a potential thirty seventh criticism, and reversed to look again in the mirror. And thank goodness I did. For the first time in (my) living memory, my dress was tucked into my tights. This is probably every woman's worst nightmare. Forget the Special K bitch prancing around in her boyfriend's oversized shirt, her eyes saying 'Look at me, all toned legs, unreasonably white teeth and glossy mane'; in Real Life, there is very little that is less sexy than normal woman's bare buttocks and backs of thighs below a shirt. A fully naked rear view is one thing, but like a starkers man in socks, female nudity appears to be a kind of all or nothing deal. Cover those same buttocks and thighs in tights, and tuck the shirt into the waistband, and I don't know about you, but it's not my idea of an erotic masterpiece. So you can appreciate my joy that I had managed not to stride between the ladies' loo door, the water bubbler and back to my desk with this most sensitive of areas revealed to the assembled masses. It was, in short, an excellent start to the day.

Since then, I've been running in the snow and. That's it. Last night I went to choir practice where we were being filmed by the BBC for some reason that will never be aired, and we were all a bit hysterical as a result. At one point, someone was making an announcement saying that if people were running late, they should phone someone in the choir, and that if they didn't have anyone in choir's number they... "were a total loser" I finished off, in a Green Day / surfer dude accent, to slightly lower than my usual hit rate of around 76% laughter and 24% awkward silence. Feel bad now. Then again, merely being in a choir is normally considered a fairly loserish thing to do so I guess we all need to come to terms with that at some point. Plus I'm sure they'd miss me if I never said anything at all - can't win 'em all...

Am also grumpy because I spent all morning trying to get tickets for Traviata or Aida at the opera house, except if my boss is reading, in which case I spent the morning streamlining office efficiency and upping revenue. Anyway, I couldn't get onto the ROH webpage or through to their phone line as today is the first day of booking, but a few minutes ago I finally managed to access the website and all seats under £170 are sold out on all dates. Gah. I haven't been to the opera for months and was really in the mood. But hey. I've got a fun night lined up for tonight, a fun few days ahead, I'm off to see Nic at the weekend and my skirt isn't tucked into my pants. [Double checks]. Nope. My skirt isn't tucked into my pants. Things could be worse.

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.

The real meaning of Christmas

As any singer will tell you, Christmas isn't about celebrating the birth of the saviour x many millennia ago, it is about singing carols in four or eight part harmony and then drinking wine to celebrate. I am enjoying singing so much at the moment that I wasn't even the most vocal complainer when we rehearsed a single piece for over an hour last night. And tonight is the third of our four carol concerts. I am VERY EXCITED, not just because we get to sing wonderful festive music and make people feel joyous, but also because there is a celebrity reader on the programme and although I have it on reliable authority that he is an absolute unmitigating idiot in real life, and married with children, I fancy him like mad (or at least I do in the TV programme that I've seen him in) and although I will try not to stare up at him with visible beams of hopeless love streaming out from my eyes while he is doing his reading, I think I will fail miserably. Ah well. A lovely boy with a flat cap emailed me today so I am feeling perky on the romance front.

Of course, the other thing that Christmas is about, apart from singing, is presents. And the problem with Christmas shopping is that I just find more and more things that I want to buy for myself. I was incredibly close to spending £190 on a Pakistani quilt on a US online store at about 09:08 this morning, having clicked there from a site where I was looking for presents for my mother. I am yet to buy a single gift for anyone. Unimpressive. I imagine that most only children revel at Christmastime, only having to buy presents for their parents, but present-buying is literally my favourite thing to do in the world ever and I am award-winningly brilliant at it, so not having anyone else to buy for other than two adults who routinely take back every single thing they are given by the other at Christmas is a bit like being a world class opera singer and living in a prison where the inmates are, without exception, deaf. Consequently, whenever I get a boyfriend I shower them with incredible gifts that I've been seen in shops previously and filed under 'brilliant gift idea for fictional boyfriend'. Then I sit back and wait to be showered in a similar fashion, but end up having to cry with gratitude when he books tickets for the cinema. Life is so unfair. I asked my father what he wants, and he said 'Nothing' and then requested that I don't spend any money on him. It's impossible that we are related. I mean, obviously I don't NEED anything. I am so far from needing things that I could lock down into some nuclear bunker for around ten years without repeating an outfit. But once I've seen the Pakistani quilt, it is all I can think about. My bedroom suddenly looks barren without it and I will toss and turn restlessly until it lies atop my duvet, adding a £190 sheen to my previously stark and boring (read: cluttered and frantic) sleeping set-up. Hmmm.

No title forthcoming part 342

Last night could have been bad. We were singing at our first carol concert of the year, in a huge London church. One of the readings was a comedic poem about Father Christmas getting drunk. It was read by a lovely-seeming man standing high above us in the pulpit, who put a lot of feeling into the words while we sat on chairs on the well-lit stage below, looking up at him. And then the story reached its present-delivery stage, and the reader said a line that was, at best, brave. "Santa emptied his sack," he told us, without a glimmer of awareness that this might be a risky statement. Immediately, my throat clenched and I knew from the silence around me that several other people had been stricken. Slowly, I turned to my right and saw a wide-eyed Ed in the row behind staring round in disbelief, convinced as I was that there would surely be an outburst. Rob was looking down at his music but his grin indicated that he too was struggling not to erupt. I knew that any noise I made would be lethal. Trying to let the laugh out slowly, I exhaled through my nose, but the contractions of my giggling abdomen forced the air out in short bursts. And then - horrors - an audible murmer, the tiniest of hums, emerged. I knew this would be death for my fellow laughers, but I also knew that looking at them would be fatal. I bit my lip and thought about a kitten massacre. Very slowly, my heart rate returned to normal and finally I knew I was safe. After the concert, we poured out of the church and roared with relief, safe to rejoice in the double-entendre, and I was proud that I had managed to keep it together. We had sung well in places but my abiding memory of the evening will be that moment.

About 14 years ago, when I was in the school choir, we were told to learn a very long song with several verses in Latin. Before our debut performance at a nearby old people's home, few of us had managed to get the words off by heart, and decided that we would cut out the photocopied lyrics and hide them in our hands - eight or so squares each, a verse on each square, turning them surreptitiously during each chorus. Our choir master wasn't having any of this, though. Furious when he realised what was going on, he tapped the hands of the guilty very firmly during a verse, and one by one, snowflakes of illicit paper fluttered to our feet as we were forced to make up a Latin carol in front of a room full of elderly locals who were probably wishing we were singing It's A Long Way To Tipperary.

Some things never change, and that makes me extremely happy. I love singing in choir, but I love the opportunity it gives us all to indulge our naughty sides. I'm one of life's goody-goodies. I hate being told off. But I also can't resist a good laugh. Ultimately, if you stand up in public and read words aloud that conjur a mental image of a masturbating Santa, people will giggle. They'll know that it's naughty, they'll try and contain it, but the laughter is inevitable. And that is exactly as it should be.

I don't like writing, I just do it to avoid going to the gym

I am in some degree of shock about A.A. Gill. Not that I ever thought he was a flawless character - rather, it was his arrogance and swagger that made him so appealing. But "I wanted to know what it felt like," is an acceptable justification for smoking cannabis, or getting in to a bath filled with warm maple syrup. It is not an acceptable justification for harming another creature, let alone killing a baboon for no other reason than to experience the sensation caused by the act of killing. If he'd eaten the baboon, I wouldn't have minded nearly so much. But he didn't want to eat it, he just wanted to kill it, in all its harmless, defenceless glory. Sure, it's 'just a baboon'. It's not like he tried paedophilia. But I find his behaviour gross and I no longer want to marry him. I'm sure Nicola, his life-partner and the mother of his children, will sleep easier at night as a result.

Sorry for the slight hiatus in LLFF - I really have been quite lost looking of late. It's all been a bit much, to the extent where I had to curtail a perfectly pleasant social engagement on Saturday afternoon so that I could go home and re-don my velour. Last Thursday I went out to see Dizzee Rascal in Brixton, an event that warrants an extensive blog entry in itself. Points of note were a) EVERYone was white. That must have been weird, no? To be a black guy, pretty urban, grown up in South London, come back to your turf to play a gig, and most people who feel your music are of a completely different demographic? Or is it just that concert-going is a white thing to do? It surprised me, anyway. b) I couldn't understand a single thing he said, which made me feel weird and old. Lucy and I tried to interpret the lyrics to each other. At one point, I came up with something like 'I don't wanna be a cyborg' which sounded reasonable but wasn't, I don't think, accurate. c) Two boys flicked my ponytail repeatedly so we had to move. Well, they weren't boys, and we didn't have to move. They were men, and I chose to relocate, because it was distracting. d) I danced like I haven't danced for literally years. The perspiring began almost immediately and it was clear that staying unsweaty was absolutely out of the question, so I gave into it and danced my trainers into the tacky, beer-stained ground. My t-shirt was soaked, my hair was plastered to my head, and it was fantastic.

On Friday I met up with Lilly from choir and we sat atop an open-topped bus to film an ad for a mobile phone company. We sat on the bus, without food or 'convenience stops' for about six hours. Our role in this pantomime was to be a guy's backing vocalists, so we sang and harmonised obediently, ignoring the cameras, shaking our percussion (no euphemism intended) and smiling at strangers. After an hour or two, my hangover became quite unfunny but, meh, you know, I was there, there wasn't really time to go home before I had to leave to come out again for the evening, so I just stayed where I was, getting more and more grumpy, as the bus drove us around London and we wooped and waved at passers-by. And I tried to smile at the production crew, but they just weren't engaging at all, and initially I thought they just didn't like me, but then I realised that they saw me as one of a herd of tragic idiots who are either a) unemployed or b) have (more worryingly) taken a day off work to sit on a bus with strangers, all in the name of what will be a maximum of 1.5 seconds' screen time. And I thought "You know, you're right. I did this for the experience, to see what it was like. But I've got the idea now. I'm going." So I got off the bus, went to the UK's first Anthropologie, where it appears they have carelessly forgotten to change the price-tags from dollars into pounds, and then had my fringe trimmed.

On Friday night, I went to see Singalonga Sound of Music in Leicester Square with about twelve people from choir, and laughed so much I was nearly sick. It was an exceptionally fun night. Highlights were Rob, whose gran had made him a fantastic pair of lederhosen especially for the occasion and the fact that Harry was also in lederhosen, but not a pair he'd bought for that night - no, he had them already and, it emerged, these were actually his spare lederhosen. His favourite pair stay at his friend's house in Austria. Extraordinary.

On Saturday morning I woke up and my body spoke to me clearly and firmly. "Stop," it said. And I realised I had no energy left. So I stopped. Well, I still went to the Tate Modern to look at the big black box (verdict: good) and met a boy and we went for a drink, but it was all in the afternoon and I didn't have any alcohol and then I went home and rested.

Sunday was my choir concert so the day was filled with tension and drama, and we rehearsed and performed and it was all OK in the end, although there was very nearly a crisis when one of the hook-on straps of my corset-topped catsuit pinged off as I executed perhaps my third handclap of a very vigorous gospel number, and I wondered whether the audience were going to get a bit more than they bargained for, but fortunately things stayed mostly in their intended places and I escaped without too much humiliation. After the concert, we all went to the pub and 'let off steam', and I was just about to go home at about 11, when a wizened man came up and said in a Texas accent, "Are you Jane?" and I said, "Yes." He said Grania had sent him, he'd bumped into her by her bike outside, and she'd said I could help him. "What with?" I asked. He explained that he was writing a book called 1000 Strangers, where he asks 1000 strangers the same four questions. So quick, you can do it too and beat him to the publishers. Anyway, the four questions were:

1. If you could be anywhere, right now, where would you be?
2. Who do you most admire?
3. If you had one wish, what would you ask for?
4. What do you fear?

I was drunk and it was quickfire. I said:

1. Japan.
2. Anyone who has a goal, sets out to do it and then achieves it.
3. A secular world.
4. Early death.

Yesterday, Grania and I compared notes. Her answers were:

1. Right here.
2. Someone who strives to make a difference.
3. A magic carpet.
4. Loneliness.

OK. I think that's enough for you to be getting on with.

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.

Two photos and a momentary revel

Oh god oh god. This photo actually brought tears to my eyes. The whole G20 summit has been absolutely gripping to follow, but as you all know too well, underneath all the attempts to be worthy and educated, I am of course just another superficial girl and despite my best attempts, I can't help myself. I have to comment. Just look at it. Have you ever seen anything so depressing? Poor, poor Sarah Brown. It is an absolute disaster. The first thing my eyes are drawn to is her pronounced womb, hugged so cruelly by the synthetic fabric of her ill-advised pencil skirt. What is she doing?! She is clearly and undeniably a pear-shape, so why on earth is she wearing something that would only be vaguely bearable on a true hourglass? Her shoulders look tiny, her waist appears only to be defined by the clinging waistband of her tights and, horror of all horrors, there is actually a visible dent in her upper thigh from the bottom of her underwear! Then there's the fact that the suit itself has never been in fashion, the buttons are slightly straining, her opaque tights aren't right for the look and her shoes make her calves look clumpy. It's just too sad. Swap the two women's outfits and things would have been far better - Sarah's womb and thigh nightmare would be completely disguised in Michelle's prom skirt, while Mrs Obama could have dazzled us with her smile and made us forgive the royal blue error beneath.

Of course, Sarah Brown is nothing to do with fashion. There's absolutely no need for her to be glamorous or cool. But you'd have thought, as the most senior wife in British politics and clearly an extremely clever, capable, nice woman in her own right, she might have asked for a tiny bit of clothes advice on this most high-profile of occasions. Next time, Mrs B, just try to go for something a little less corporate, a little more loose, make sure you buy the right size - and, for the love of god, woman, please avoid any sort of VPL.

And this is the other photo that had me squinting forward at my monitor this morning. When I imagined the G20 dinner, it wasn't anything like this. I must admit to finding the Arab wearing his headphones over his scarf childishly funny, and wondering how it is possible to relax for even a second with all those microphones, translators and aides surrounding them. The man peering over the shoulder of the far off delegate on the left seems to be at least 8 feet tall, while the young guy hugging the curtain on the right appears about to enter a new orbit of stress. I have to be honest, I preferred my vision of how the evening might look: everyone chilling out, slippers on, ties off; Angela Merkel with her hair in a topknot, wearing a facemask; the men smoking pipes, shouting out requests to the iPod controller; an arthritic spaniel wandering in and out; Jamie Oliver coming in to admit that he dropped the pasta in the sink when he was trying to strain it and everyone saying 'Oh, don't worry, it'll taste fine,' in concilliatory tones. Surely more conducive to a fun evening? But possibly not such a great environment for an evening which ultimately concluded in the announcment of a $1.1 trillion dollar cash injection. So far, the markets seem to be pleased about this, but until my house price rises, I'll be raising a cynical eyebrow and refusing to comment.

Finally, as warned in the title of today's posting, a brief and (I hope) uncharacteristic revel. I am a very lucky bunny, but I must just quickly note, as I never have said it out loud before, that I freaking love being able to sing. Last night, three of us met at Harry's flat to rehearse for a wedding at which we're singing in a few weeks. And suddenly, the black and white notes on a page were able to bring tears to the eyes of the happy-couple-elect. It's just the most wonderful feeling, to be part of something that comes from your body alone, that can be done anywhere in the world: complete and joyous escapism, a mental and physical act that challenges and rewards. I'm not the best singer, and I tend to brush off comments about enjoying it for fear of looking uncool - but, in case I'm hit by a bus in the next 24 hours, I'd like the records to show that singing, whether in the choir or in smaller groups or even on my own, makes me very happy indeed and it's a hobby I'd recommend without hesitation. I was in fine fettle on my bus journey home, humming along to Stevie Wonder and feeling pretty self-sufficient and massively fortunate. Then I woke up this morning with the sensation that thirty or forty smallish beanbags filled with a warm, leaden gel had been placed on my skull and shoulders, and that two large thumbs were slowly and methodically attempting to push my eyeballs out through their sockets from the inside. Depression: it's a fascinating beast and for reasons of self-discovery alone, I don't regret having it but ooh, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. TGIF.

Goodness

I had no idea that I haven't posted since November. How shoddy. Many apologies, but... well, it's been absolutely freakin' mental around here. I now have so many anecdotes that I am actually weak with the weight of them, and won't even remotely be able to recall them accurately now, on the spot.

Anyway, not to worry. I'll just ramble on in my normal style and you can do your best to keep up. So... let's see... where were we? Monday 1 December, our choir performed in the first carol concert of our season, a charity service in aid of prostate cancer. It went OK but we did have to suffer the indignity of the inaugural performance of our choreographed routine accompanying Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree, a moment of intense humiliation for me and several other choir members. I stayed out far too late in the pub afterwards when I should have been rushing home to pack, so then ended up throwing random and disassociated items together into my suitcase well after midnight.

Tuesday 2 December I took the Northern Line to King's Cross in the morning, met my parents, boarded the Eurostar and travelled to Paris. Having moved out of the family home in March this year, this two night, three day break was the longest uninterrupted parent time I've had for over eight months, and I must say it was rather a shock to be back in the fold. They are both almost everything wonderful and I love them to pieces, but my dad's insistence on stressing about possible negative future occurences is nothing short of debilitating. I bore it by taking the mickey out of him as much as possible, but there was a moment at Gare du Nord on our final afternoon where I was tempted to stuff him into a left-luggage locker and go sightseeing alone. Other than that brief blip, we had a wonderful time, eating and drinking far too much (as is correct at such times) and having a good look round Versailles, which created historic overload within almost a few seconds of arrival, but was still mighty impressive. I especially loved the hilarious contrast between the temporary Jeff Koons artworks that were being exhibited both inside and outside the palace, and the traditional ostentation of the original building - but the oversized metallic balloon animals upset my father a little. The driving horizontal rain and icy wind made looking round the gardens impossible, so maybe I'll return another milder day to enjoy those. Certainly a trip worth making. And the double-decker trains out there and back were cool too. On Thursday we tried our best to walk alongside the Canal St Martin and had OK food at the very cool Hotel du Nord. It was an area of the French capital I'd never seen before and I'm glad we made the trip. That said, I think that most of the reason why Paris is wonderful is that it's a fun city to meander around. If the weather is minging (which it really really was), it does reduce the funcount quite substantially. I don't know if I'd rush to go back there in winter again. And yes, I know that sounds like I'm an ungrateful, heartless daughter. I'm not saying I didn't have fun: I did. And my parents are well aware of that. I hope.

Friday I saw the Chief Superintendant - we went to see Waltz with Bashir which was fascinating, although the policeman has just got back from six months in Afghanistan and I was aware of him wincing every time a bullet or a missile whizzed across the screen. Did bring an even more intense resonance to the viewing experience. Saturday, my friend Toby brought me carrot cake and drank a lot of my tea, and then we went for a walk along the river which was lovely until we reached the area by the Millennium wheel, when the tourist build-up became unacceptable and we both gave up and headed for Waterloo. That night was the X Factor semi-final, which was unremarkable in every way except adorable 16-year-old Eoghan's absolutely heart-wrenching devastation on finding out that he had made it through to the final and Diana, his 17-year-old love, had been booted off the show. I know a bitter old cynic like me should be more hardy but I must admit that my eyes did brim with tears as the young hobbit sobbed 'I love you! I love you so much!' with a conviction that only a teenager can muster.

Sunday was fairly hilarious. The choir I'm in had a day trip down to Poole, in Dorset, to perform in a concert. When we arrived, after a three hour coach trip, we found that the gig was 'Christmas with Morse', featuring a few songs by us, interspersed with many, many readings by two men connected with the popular book and TV series, Inspector Morse. The performance itself was pretty unremarkable with the exception of a lady in the front row who was obviously Morse's number one fan, and, when a vaguely Christmas-themed extract from one of the stories was read to the audience, she mouthed along with every. single. word. and then gave the speaker a solo standing ovation at the end. Oh - also, on our final song, we were given a note and were expected to come in, singing a beautiful, lilting chord. Unfortunately, none of us could work out what we were meant to be doing, and all sang a note plucked at random. It sounded horrific. Ed, who was conducting us, turned to the audience and said 'I think we'll try that one again.' Fortunately it was better second time around.

On the way back to London, we bought a lot of booze in a BP garage. I was charged £1.49 for a bottle of nice Chilean Sauvignon Blanc and a large bag of blue Doritos. "That can't be right," I said to the man behind the counter, waving the receipt at him. "Don't worry about it," he shrugged. Delighted. Then we sang raucously the entire way to town, including such hits as The Lion Sleeps Tonight, Jingle Bells (Cockney remix) and I Know An Old Lady Who Swallowed A Fly. Brilliant.

Monday I was desperately hungover at work, which wasn't a good start to the week - and in the evening there was another choir rehearsal, which was a bit grumpy-making for various reasons, although it was useful in that it helped me decided that I definitely did a little bit fancy one of the new guys in the choir. Helpfully, around 24 hours later, i.e. late last night, he sent me an email asking if I knew if another girl in the choir was seeing anyone romantically, as he wanted to ask her out but didn't want to face the embarrassment of being knocked back. It was like being back at school. Well, not my school, obviously, as we barely knew what boys were, let alone dreamed that they might one day want to go out for a drink with us. But that high school cliche of the boy nervously approaching the girl, asking if he can ask her something, her looking up all hopeful and ecstatic that he's finally going to ask her to the prom, and then him saying 'Do you think your friend X would come to the prom with me?' and her getting all crestfallen and having to disguise it - well, it's still alive and kicking, aged 31. Still, fortunately he isn't the only iron in the fire, as it were. And now that I know he doesn't like me, I have actually gone off him. Funny how that works, isn't it?

Anyway, before he sent me that email, we had all performed at yet another concert (this is yesterday, so Tuesday), and had more drinks in the pub afterwards, which was once again really really fun. Choir at Christmas is just brilliant, even when boys don't fancy you. Feel very lucky to be part of it all. But now I am running on empty, big time, and there is no sign of a break - I'm out every night for the rest of the week and most of next week, too. Dead a long time, dead a long time, dead a long time. Will try and be back before too long. Hope you're all having a fun packed Advent.

Blaze of glory

Apologies for absence yesterday, wasn't feeling too hot. Am slowly easing myself back to normal today though and am very excited about seeing Alistair Campbell in the flesh tonight on the South Bank. I will have to work hard to stop myself running up on stage and embracing him in some romantic version of Jarvis Cocker's Michael Jackson moment at the Brits all those years ago... how time flies.

Brief recap: Monday night was our choir rehearsal where we were taught a dance routine that revealed approximately two thirds of our number to be in possession of a deeply, deeply worrying cheesy side. They embraced the hideous routine, jumping in firmly with both feet, grinning maniacally and winking at each other during allegedly 'funny' lyrics. The remaining third of the choir stood at the back, some weeping in humiliation and others silently furious at the shame that will follow when we perform this in public. No prizes for guessing which third of the choir I was in. Halway through the rehearsal, I agreed with Deborah that we would rather spend the rest of that evening's practice naked if it would mean that the choir didn't do any movements in any of our concerts, but unfortunately (and, I think, wisely) our offer was rejected. However, a mutiny did occur afterwards and the number of numbers to which we have to do actions has been reduced from three to one, which is a definitely unPhyrric victory.

Last night I put on a reluctant brave face and headed out to the local pub quiz. Of my real-life freinds, I'd only managed to round up Ben, but I had also found out that another person who I know vaguely from an online forum would be in attendance with one of his friends, so we combined forces and made a rather motley crew of four. Sadly, our combined knowledge had a large crossover, so we all knew the answers to most of the questions, and none of us knew the answers to the few that would have won us the competition. I had been recruited solely for my promised expertise in the 'half-faces' round, where the top half of a photograph of one celebrity's face is stuck atop the bottom half of a different celeb's mouth and chin bit. Sadly, I was absolutely useless, guessed the top half incorrectly as J.Lo (correct answer: Kim Cattrall - livid) and was even less helpful in my contributions to the bottom half attempts. The boys all said it was George W. Bush and I said 'No, it's not,' but failed to supply any better suggestions. I thought it looked like Martin Sheen but I knew that would be too obscure. Sadly I wasn't awarded any points for correctly knowing that it was 'Not George Bush'. It was, in fact, George Clooney.

There was, however, a highlight - a shining moment in an evening that otherwise cemented my fear that my general knowledge is general noledge. Between rounds one and two, there is a quickfire question that guarantees the winner a small prize. It was a fastest-hand-in-the-air type situation, and the question was as follows: In which city is the Kentucky Derby held? Now, I don't know much, but half my family live in Louisville and if I'd have got that wrong, I would never have forgiven myself. My hand shot in the air and, like an unbearable swotty student, I couldn't help an involuntary 'Me!' escaping from my lips at the same time. I cringe at the memory. But the quiz master saw me - I answered - and won! My prize was two bottles of warm Russian beer that, despite its authentic seeming label, is in fact brewed in Edinburgh and was worryingly close to its expiry date. I 'generously' gave both bottles to Ben.

I had good intentions of gymming today but then someone in my office emailed round a voucher for 30% off at Gap, and one for 20% off at New Look, so I think I may go for a quick browse now and perhaps find something nice to impress Alistair. Although something tells me he might not be a New Look kind of guy...

Emotional rollercoaster

I'm not sure this photograph is one of my better ones, but you'll have to trust me that it illustrates perfectly the idiocy that is displayed around this wonderful planet all too frequently. It was taken yesterday evening on the ground floor of Zara Homes, Regent St. It is the third or fourth time I've visited this establishment, and the third or fourth time I've been stopped in my tracks by the lettering on their stairwell. On each occasion, I browse the ground floor, and then meander towards the staircase to continue my shopping experience. To help me decide whether to go up or, indeed, down, I peer at the steel art deco letters on the wall - but instead of telling me what I might find, should I walk up or down the stairs, the sign merely has an arrow pointing in an 'up' direction, labelled 'First Floor', and an arrow pointing 'down', labelled 'Lower Ground Floor'. I mean. Has it come to this? That when we're on the ground floor, we need instruction labels to help us know that, by walking up a flight of stairs, we will find the First Floor? Or that by walking down, we may come across a basement? Growl. Like any good shopper, I went both up and down the stairs, possibly as a result of the mystery and intrigue provided by the lack of labelling (perhaps this was their intention), and my rage died down when I spotted the most incredible gold leather sausage dog. It has shot straight into my top five favourite purchases of 2008, along with my Bookworm shelf, my sugar bowl from Anthropologie in Seattle, my cherry blossom fairy lights and my carpet.

My life has been extremely weird since approx. last Thursday when overnight, any hint of the summer ended and it suddenly became Autumn. As soon as I started wearing my delicious pea-green coat and little blue hat, so beloved last winter, I started experiencing the most overpowering feelings of deja vu and nostalgia, so intense as to be almost unpleasant. The Faithful will know that I am up there in the World's Most Unspiritual, and weird sensations such as these are unheard of in my past. I think it's something about having an August break-up and then going on a couple of interesting dates, which is precisely what I was doing a year ago - I feel like a completely different person in so many ways, very much happier, older and wiser than I was in 2007, but history still repeats itself...

Last summer, I went on a weekend in Devon with a group of friends and remember feeling startlingly relieved to return to the varieties of London. And similarly, this weekend just past, I went to stay with a girlfriend in Wiltshire, who is now married with three gorgeous children and three dogs. I had a fantastic time helping out and going for long walks, interspersed with drinking Cava and watching The X Factor, but there was just no denying the breath-taking hit of relief when I boarded the Bakerloo line at Paddington and looked around me at all the different, unfamiliar faces - people from every walk of life, going through every permutation of experience. It is just impossible to feel alone in London. Whatever you're going through - someone else has got it worse, someone else has it better, someone else has been through it before. I never feel isolated here - but the anonymity also allows one to have time to oneself, soul-space to consider and grow. In the countryside, the geographical space is beautiful and wonderful and energising - but the lack of people mean that there is an intense claustrophobia, a blinkeredness that, while it may also exist here in London, is so much more easy to avoid in the Big Smoke. The dream of retiring to the country is popular for many - but I'm a City girl through and through and I'm proud of it.

So I was feeling very odd. But then last night was the start of the new choir term and it was so incredibly lovely to see everyone again that I felt almost emotional. And we sang Christmas music which just filled me with atheistic joy. And then today, I received an email from a prospective suitor, a 46 year old currently living '15 miles north-west of New York' who effectively sent me his CV, including his diet, his exercise regime, his background (where his parents were born and where his mother died) and the fact that he is looking for a permanent relationship. Terrifying. I won't be dating him but it made for interesting reading. I showed Laura his photo, which is admittedly not the most reassuring, and she said:
'Jane, he looks like a serial killer.'
'What does a serial killer look like?!'
'That.'
I had to concede that he had a guilty mouth. Sad really, but what can you do. Thankfully I have also received messages from other young men who sound lovely. And, just in case, I'm keeping schtum about that this time! And then I received a phonecall from Westminster council, admitting that they'd been idiots, and dropping the charges against me for when they towed my car from Soho Square back in May, and so I'm going to be refunded £260. All that and my unbelievable gold dachshund - ah me! All of a sudden, life is good again and I am appreciative.

Early Autumn summary

So on Friday after work, I rushed over to King's Cross to meet Astrid and various others for our choir trip up to Cambridge. After a packed train journey with no possibility of snack facilities, five of us pelted into a handy M&S Simply Food for post-train nourishment, fearing (rightly) a long rehearsal period before dinner. Armed with a selection of sandwiches, couscous, vine leaves and jelly babies, we hailed a nearby cab and within seconds of pulling away from the kerb were vigorously enjoying our hard-purchased snacks. But not for long.
"Are you aware," the driver shouted over his shoulder, "that there is an £80 soilage fee?" We snickered. Soilage is, after all, a very funny word.
"And I will charge," he continued ominously. Some of our number stopped eating. I, however, was halfway through a hastily-purchased ham-and-mustard-mayo-on-wholegrain and extremely loath to return it to its triangular case.
"Really?" I asked in my most pleading tones, weighing up the likelihood of a soiling incident involving a ham sandwich. "What if we absolutely guarantee that we will not soil?"
"Yes," continued Deborah. "What if the soilage is of a crumb-based nature and easily brush-offable?" Eventually, the driver's icy heart thawed and he agreed that, so long as any soilage was contained on our person, or brushed away immediately from the vinyl flooring, we might be allowed to continue our munching.
"£80 seems such an arbitrary amount," I remarked quietly to no-one as we continued on our way.
"Do you want to know why it's £80?" barked back the driver, who had hearing like a bat on kryptonite. He didn't wait for an answer. "The soilage fee used to be £20, but it was £80 on the streets. So it was actually more cost-effective to hail a cab and soil in there." You learn something new every day.

All too soon, we arrived at the stunning Queen's College, which dates back from the 15th century. The city and the college were as awesome and breathtaking as I remembered them, and once again I found it extraordinary that each year, thousands of little 18 year olds head off to Oxford and Cambridge, eagerly becoming part of this ancient and remarkable tradition of learning and pomp, while the rest of us either go somewhere a lot more like Real Life, or choose not to bother with further education at all. It doesn't suprise me at all that Oxbridge graduates are so often over-confident - I imagine I would be too if I'd passed the entrance exams and made it through the course. I couldn't have gone, of course: even if I'd have tried and succeeded to get in, I would have been miserable. There's no way I could have engaged intellectually to such vertiginous levels at that age, and I know people who were so terrified of wasting time while revising for their Oxford finals that they used to run to the loo to save valuable seconds. Not my idea of fun. Then again, perhaps it's not meant to be fun. Perhaps it's an in-at-the-deep-end experience from which you'll benefit for the rest of your life. That all requires a bit too much long-term thinking from a teenager though... Either way, there's no denying that they are simply incredible, unique places and I find them intriguing and compelling and fascinating while, simultaneously, feeling as though there is something a bit uncomfortable and weird about it all, so far from normality that it's almost alien - and not necessarily in a good way. But hey, I'm probably just jealous.

Anyway, enough with the seriousness. We went straight to the chapel, rehearsed, giggled a lot when the voice of one of the hidden sound guys unexpectedly asked "Can you hear me?" through an echoing PA system and Aiden said "God?", did some recording, went back to the incredible Lodge, had delicious food, drank a lot of lovely wine and then repaired to the Music Room, where there were books signed by Elizabeth R. and a fantastic baby grand and a harpsichord that's doubtless older than Cliff Richard - and suddenly it emerged that I am about the only member of the choir who isn't a professional pianist, as performer after performer emerged to regale us with Chopin and Oasis and Debussy and Celine Dion. It was all going wonderfully and then we were sent to bed. Clearly feeling rebellious, Astrid and I stayed up chatting until far too early in the morning and regretted it on Saturday morning when we were hit with the unpleasant force of an 8am start and a day's full-on singing, knackering at the best of times. Miraculously, the recording session went well and I headed back to London late afternoon, fell asleep on the sofa, woke up in the evening, watched and sang along to the Last Night of the Proms, tried and failed to avoid feeling patriotic and then went to sleep.

Today I slept in far too late, read a book, worshipped at the altar of Rodney 'Yoga God' Yee for an hour and then went into the deserted City to meet Kate and go to see an obscure production of Hamlet for which I'd bought tickets on a whim a couple of weeks ago. I usually don't 'do' theatre any more these days, unless it's a) a musical, or b) at the National, or c) I really, really like one of the actors, or d) if it's Avenue Q. But this production has had rave reviews so, on this occasion, I made an exception. The troupe is called The Factory and the gimmick is, they perform anywhere and everywhere, never the same venue twice (our performance was in CASS Business School near Old Street) and they all rehearse the lines of several characters in the play and then switch around at unexpected moments during the performance. The audience were asked to bring props along and these were incorporated randomly into the scenes. I thought it might be fun - but it turns out my four rules of theatre-going were spot on. It was absolutely unbearable, winning the dubious honour of being the only play I've ever wanted to walk out of before it had even begun, as when we walked into the first scene's room, the cast were wandering around the audience doing the most unbearable warm-up exercises, sounding every bit like the pretentious, self-conscious luvvies they so clearly are. One man was doing elaborate Pilates moves on stage while others were doing rubber lipped exercises and saying 'Ya Ya YA Ya YA Ya' in top projection mode. I groaned and Kate rubbed her hands together eagerly.

The conceit of switching actors mid-soliloquy was distracting, entirely unnecessary, whacky for whacky's sake, and showed just how little the production team cared about the words - the meaning of so many speeches was utterly lost. This was an arrogant production, impossible to follow unless you know the play intimately, seemingly a self-indulgent ruse to allow a group of drama school toffs to show off their ability to switch between parts unexpectedly. Their memories for the lines were undeniably good and there were several talented actors - but on the whole, I found the experience awkward, cringe-inducingly self-conscious and painfully smug. Kate loved it though, as did the Evening Standard and almost every other reviewer, so go figure.

Now I'm at home, drinking mint tea and about to head to bed. One final nugget: I've done a lot of research, Faithful, and the truth is this: Lenor is, by far, the best fabric softener I have ever sampled.

The Day After Yesterday

If I was starting to forget what it is like to be very hungover, today has been an ample recap. I'm really not feeling too hot. And I'm pretty sure I'm not looking too great either, in a thick navy wool socks and white Birkenstock sandals combo; jeans; a thermal top covered in small pictures of woodland items including toadtools, thistles and squirrels; a fantastic cardigan with retro puffed sleeves knitted by my granny before I was born; topped off with no make-up, broken glasses and a scraggly ponytail. That said, when one is properly Hungover, such things as appearance are irrelevant: all that matters is getting through the day without one's head exploding. I met Nessa in the Kennington Park cafe this morning, and we ate a lot of carbs, which helped - but it's now nearly 7pm and I'm still a little shaky.

Last night I went to my friend David's 'First Weekend' (website under construction at time of writing). He is an outstanding chef and, things being what they are, it was brilliant to be able to get dressed up on a Saturday night, head out and meet a nice bunch of new faces while consuming a spectacular selection of the finest "aggressively seasonal" food and wines. We had squid and ceps and prawns as finger food, and two starters, one of which (the crab) was perhaps the highlight of my weekend, a beautifully inventive lamb main course, slightly scarily-scented cheeses, ice cream with almond pesto followed by phallic vanilla biscuits dipped into molten chocolate. By the meal's conclusion, I was starting to regret my outfit choice of a bold horizontally striped dress.

It's been a long time since I've been to an event of this sort without a wingman or wingwoman of any kind, but I think I held up under the harsh anglepoise of nine strangers' first impressions and have been poked on Facebook more than once since my return home, so I'll take that as a compliment. It's always interesting to see how one presents oneself in that kind of situation, since it is about as much of a blank canvas as life ever provides these days. I seem to be fairly confident, which I knew before, but also older and wiser than I expected; a surprisingly authoritative-sounding expert on modern celebrity culture; more accurate about the number of Britons who voted in the last general election than I was made to feel; more blunt than some, fractionally more tolerant of alcohol consumption than others; more internet savvy, more in possession of an iPhone; less wealthy, less married, less together in general; less insecure than some, less secure than others; perhaps less self-satisfied than a few, maybe less pigeon-hole-able, hopefully more hopeful and less pessimistic; less trapped, certainly less certain than some, less serious, less knowledgeable about wines and suspended sevenths than others. Which I suppose makes me equally human.

Along with the crab starter, the other contender for Highlight of my Weekend occurred mid this afternoon, when I slotted the drawers of my Ikea chest back onto their runners, having painted the whole thing white three times yesterday, with a final coat of white-mixed-with-a-soupçon-of-brown (as instructed by Sara) and then finished it off today with two applications of Briwax which have given it a lovely dull, matt sheen. Many thanks to My Little Helper Emily, who came to stay on Friday night for TV and chatting and world setting-to-rights, and then strangely and lovelyly volunteered to assist with the painting on Saturday morning.

Now I am satisfying the emotional neediness of my hangover by giving in to every craving, and have been lying on the sofa eating Penguins, drinking milk and taking a trip down Aural Memory Lane by listening to the favourite pieces my choir has sung over the past few years, singing along in a rusty alto to the certain joy of my above and below neighbours, although I feel like the saxophone habits of the latter and the stentorian bedroom antics of the former mean that I can justifiably get away with murdering Bach cantatas and The Dream of Gerontius for a while longer. Next: last night's X Factor.