Since I've been gone

Clearly I am losing the will to blog. We can discuss what this says about me another time.

I am going to tell you what you've missed in reverse chronological order.

Today I am counting down the hours until I can go to see Aida at the Royal Opera House.

Last night I had a racist French waiter at Les Deux Salons in Covent Garden. This was the conversation:

Waiter: I am afraid we are all out of the chicken on the menu tonight, but we do have a chicken special, it is black leg chicken served with leeks.
Jane: What is the difference between black leg chicken and normal chicken?
Chris: It's just a different type of chicken. Stop being difficult.
Waiter: [Thinks about it...] The black leg chicken he runs faster.
Jane: I think that might be racist.
Waiter: [Nervous giggle.]
Jane: [Grinning] It is! You're racist. I think you should leave before we have you fired.
Chris: Shut up Jane.

You see, it's weird, I've been putting off writing for days, and now that I'm doing it, it's really fun.

On Tuesday I went to see Kevin Eldon at the Soho Theatre - he is a stand-up comedian who was almost exactly 50% funny. I think I might recommend you go see him in about five years when he is a bit better at his job. Don't bother now. If you need to see stand-up comedy now and you want it to be funny, I think there is only one good one: Terry Alderton. Also Daniel Kitson.

Last Sunday evening my choir done a concert innit. We sang Bach and other stuff and it was really good. My life is a wonderfully varied cultural melting pot, sprinkled with croutons of self-doubt and interwoven with noodles of reality TV and a rouille of fake tan.

Last Sunday morning, I went to see David Eagleman speak about neuroscience and ting. He is amazing - I would pass on the pearls of my wisdom but I wrote them down on the handout, and the handout is in my bedroom. I am in my office. I have no memory. Something about there being as many neuron connectors in our brain as there are galaxies in the Milky Way. What was best though was that I got to feel really superior as he used all these anecdotal experiments in his talk to back up his points e.g. the runaway trolley one and the if-you-are-holding-a-cold-drink-you're-more-likely-to-be-grumpy-in-some-measurable-way-than-if-you're-holding-a-hot-drink one. And everyone was laughing in shock at these fascinating stories and I sat there smugly unimpressed, thinking 'I know this already' which is, like, my favourite state EVAH. I was not holding a cold drink.

Last Saturday, Kate and I finished the Capital Ring. It was an amazing achievement and we should be really proud. So we are. We went out to dinner in Highgate to celebrate, and I ate too much greasy food and drank some red wine, and then when I got home I was sick.

Last Friday, I went on a date. I don't want to discuss it, but I feel like I'm lying if I don't mention it.

So there you have it.

Breaking news: I am mental

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spun

So no one rejected me yesterday, neither in my conscious life, my unconscious or my subconscious. It was a good day, involving old friends, delicious halloumi, white wine and stand-up comedy and I felt very lucky. Probably not feeling quite so sprightly was the guy sitting on a stool high up in the slips at the Soho Theatre who, halfway through Greg Davies' winning set, started having a massive fit. The lady next to him shouted out, the house lights came up, and we all swivelled our heads, Wimbledon-like, to the right where we helplessly watched the man slither off his stool and vibrate on the floor. The floor manager called out for a doctor and eventually a man went over and knelt down, trying to calm the fitter down. It initially worked, but he then started up again, probably freaked out by the fact that he'd come round to realise an entire theatre audience was watching him jerk and flail. The man had been alone, so no one could confirm exactly what was going on. After a minute or so, we were asked to decamp to the bar, and it was a fair while before the stretcher arrived and he was carried out. Returning to our seats in the auditorium, I asked the gentleman next to me (who hadn't decamped as requested) if I'd missed any major excitements, and he said that the guy had seemed fairly wrecked when he came to, slurring his words and being a bit aggressive with the paramedics, but he wasn't sure if it had been too much booze or if everyone's like that post-fit. After another couple of minutes, Greg bounced back on stage and we all got back to laughing.

I often don't have a bent when I'm writing - I just tell you what's going on in my head. Maybe I should start trying to be more polemical, but I can't really find an angle on the guy-has-fit-during-comedy-gig story. I didn't learn anything from it and it was handled well by the theatre. Still, it seemed like an anecdote worth recounting.

In a slightly more opinionated fashion, I can admit with pleasure that I am grinning from ear to ear at the news that David Cameron's chief spin doctor has had to resign due to being a lying, unscrupulous, Murdoch-loving hack. It is a glorious moment of karma and one that I'm sure is bringing a lot of shadenfreudic happiness to a lot of people. I can but hope that Coulson's departure will assist in exposing some of the disastrous decisions that have been made of late, the sneaky dismantling of our treasured NHS being only one example of many hideous neoliberal choices that are changing this country for the Much Worse. I'd be furious about it all but, as usual, I feel powerless and completely unrepresented, so whinging on here and on Twitter is about all the vitriol I can muster. I used to think it was laziness that stopped me getting involved - now I think it's a total unwillingness to compromise my ideals - I'd rather do nothing than pour a phenomenal amount of time and effort into a system that is inherently flawed for very little reward, safe in the knowledge that my incalculably large sacrifice will be shortly forgotten. Actually, that's basically laziness isn't it. Either way, I'm aware that it's a sad response to the current political state, but I don't think I'm alone in doing the maths and finding the situation doesn't add up. I've always suffered from black and white thinking, and a political life strikes me as a very grey area of no man's land: an over-academicised, over-wrought, out-dated, unfair system that I'm happier ignoring. Except when twats like Coulson get exposed - that bit's fun.

What else is news? I'm off for the weekend shortly, a lot of cleaning to do and then Black Swan and a reunion tomorrow and hangover brunch on Sunday. In amongst all that I need to squeeze in a run, some yoga and a substantial chunk of writing. I don't have much hope that the latter will happen, but maybe if I state my intentions here, I'll be forced to do something about it. Because looking like a failure in front of you would be unbearable, given that it's never happened before. Oh no. Not ever. Not even once.

Pretty complicated

Well, this complimenting-pretty-people thing is certainly interesting, in that most people think I am indeed insane, and that pretty people do still get told they're pretty, and that being told you're pretty is not some perverse code for 'You aren't that pretty.' I guess what it comes down to is that some of my friends get approached by guys in bars left, right and centre and I never do. I just assumed that it was because they were much prettier than me. Maybe it's more complex than that and that instead of worrying about my appearance, I should worry about the fact that my face says, 'I will eat you for breakfast. STAY AWAY.' Anyway. Food for thought. Unless you want to be thin, in which case don't eat it.

I went out with Grania last night to watch some comedy including the v. clever Abandoman, an Irish hip hop improviser, very impressive. There were four other acts too, some excruciating, a couple fairly funny, but no one made us laugh even an eighth as much as we did after they'd all finished and were clearing away the chairs, when we suddenly started reminiscing about Lapland and went through the runaway reindeer incident in graphic detail. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop laughing at the sight of the shockingly empty sled behind us, no sign of the Germans, the blankets, the expensive camera bags, just a bare slab of Scandinavian plywood. Categorically the funniest moment of 2010, possibly ever.

Tonight it's Lady Gaga at the O2 - can't wait. Have donned my festive meat bikini in her honour, trimmed with tinsel. I'll send you a photo.

Fringe

So I'm back from four days at the Edinburgh Festival, four days older, about £300 poorer (most likely much more but I can't bear to look) and approximately four stone heavier. We ate and drank like fat monarchs and then burned off around 0.4% of it charging up and down the Scottish capital's not-insignificant slopes from one venue to the next. Organising a trip to the festival is not for anyone who struggles to schedule a doctor's appointment. The book of options is as thick as Edinburgh's phone book, stuffed with details about the shows, plays, comedians and musicians that are performing for our applause. As an example, the Udderbelly is one of the larger companies at the Festival, with stages in (I think) three or four different parts of the city that range from the huge McEwan hall (where the university students go to graduate) to tiny rooms for one-man plays that seat only 30 audience members - and they had over 120 different shows playing each and every single day of the three week festival. Then there's the Pleasance, Assembly, the Caves, and countless less official rooms-above-pubs where there are shows that range in price from 'We'll pay you to come' to £20 a ticket. So you work out what you want to see, when it's on, how much it costs, where it is, how long it will take you to get from that venue to the next, whether you've got time to meet someone for a drink or lunch in between, whether you'll manage to stay awake given that you stayed out dancing until the wee hours at Silent Disco or similar, whether your feet will freeze off given that it was baking hot when you left your hotel at 11am and now it's arctic and you can't wear tights with flip-flops without looking like a retard.

It was an experience. Last time I went to the festival was in 1993 - I went with a group from school in preparation for our Theatre Studies A Level course, which I then abandoned after a few weeks. My memories of the festival are: falling asleep in an eternal and appalling Shakespeare production, freezing my 15-year-old ass off up at the castle ruins for a midnight performance of Clytemnaestra's Bairns and calling up our Deputy Headmistress from the payphones in the Waverley shopping centre to receive our GCSE results. This time I had no exams to worry about, just a rapidly diminishing bank balance and a rapidly expanding thigh girth and that omnipresent festival sensation that you can't do everything, which I'm really getting quite adept at handling.

We did do a fair bit, though - the geeksheet above should give you a flavour although it did not remain accurate due to some last minute shifts. We also, despite being as organised as I'd thought it was possible for a human to be, managed to arrive smugly at the wrong venue well over 50% of the time, leading to irritating middle class dashes across the city as we flapped late into plays about teenage gangs, the fallout from Guantanamo detention centre, the sex trade in London, Georgian refugees, or an uplifting performance by the exceptional Soweto Gospel Choir. Late night comedy was probably my favourite bit, Terry Alderton causing me to laugh so long and hard that by half-way through I was wondering if I actually had the energy to go on, half-lying on my chair, weakly convulsing with mascara tears streaming. There were certainly negatives too but I loved the sensation of my critical faculties becoming honed as I saw more and more - so even when I could pick up a flaw, it brought me satisfaction. Certainly I've realised that plays need to say more than 'Slavery is awful' or 'Being a refugee sucks' - the play we saw about women hired as sex slaves in London detailed two tragic stories but didn't tell us anything new, while the play about torture in Guantanamo was spoiled by being too far-fetched - the final oh-so-predictable twist was totally unnecessary and, in fact, the play would have been far more interesting without it. Still, though, in every case I was glad to have attended.

Not sure Em felt the same about our comedy show on Saturday night - Australian Jim Jeffries who swore with evident pleasure, daring us to squirm, laid into women (especially lesbians) in pretty disgusting style, and whose graphic accounts of sexual antics had me wincing. There was irony in his performance, though - an underlying sense of 'I know this is shocking' - an irony that was absolutely missed by the 15 drunk Scotsmen in the row behind us, who yelled 'Hibs - CUNTS' all the way through; burped loudly, pungently and frequently; and who used Jeffries' jokes as vindication for their own revolting views. There were more mysogenistic, anti-Semitic and xenophobic comments coming from the guys 30 centimetres behind me than there were from the comic onstage - and eventually their lewd behaviour started bothering Jeffries, who called the show to a halt and asked for the guys to leave. Security filed up the aisles but the men refused to move, and we later found out that unless the guys had been physically violent or threatening, the guards couldn't lay a finger on them. In the end, a guard sat down next to them, which was basically as effective as saying 'Ah, ok lads, as you were' and indeed, they did carry on chatting and shouting for the rest of the gig. Not pleasant, but certainly an experience.

Worst show for me was probably Flawless, now known as Flawed, who are undeniably talented dancers - but their stage management was about as complex and well-orchestrated as our dorm plays were when I was a 12 year old boarding school girl. Achingly long gaps between numbers, unclear song-endings, bad props - this an act who (I believe) came second in Britain's Got Talent - and their performance was put to shame by the Soweto Gospel Choir and the Cambridge University Footlights, both groups who know how to run a show. Flawed weren't helped, however, by one of their video clips showing a dancer as saying that this was an exciting time for young people, "what with role models like Obama and Susan Boyle." I blast-laughed loudly and alone, remembering quickly that we were not at a comedy show.

Got to go to be therapised. Festival summary: very fun, very expensive, very white, very privileged, bit guilt-making, not as emotionally affecting as Glastonbury but recommended nonetheless.

Woman in pain

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

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

New choice

Last night I was at home on my sofa, all geared up to sit there all night and mope and feel sorry for myself, and then somehow I managed to shake myself out of it, and I stood up, changed my clothes, put on my make-up, left the house, walked down the road, got on a bus and a train and then walked to a strange bar, walked purposefully down the stairs into the dank basement room and joined a circle of a group of total strangers who were all pointing at each other and shouting loudly. It was a warm-up game for an improvisation comedy workshop, and I went along because I went on an improv beginners' weekend course a month ago, and it was absolutely excellent.

It's excellent for me in particular, because I am a control freak and I like boundaries and rules and clarity and I hate surprises and unplanned events. I particularly hate the thought of failing, especially when I have been seen to be trying hard at something, and most of all what I hate is the thought of making a fool of myself in front of other people. And improv is all about doing all of those things for fun. And after a while, the threat of not being 'good enough' or 'funny enough' starts to evaporate, and you just laugh and find yourself rolling on the floor with people you've never met, pretending to be a cup of tea for the amusement of others. Last night, two men were in a zoo scenario, talking about shooting one of the animals with a tranquilizer gun, and so a few of us started being the animals, and crawled on stage on our hands and knees, and then I got quite close to the zookeeper, who felt threatened and shot me, and I reared up and then died on my back, and lay there while the two humans decided what to do, but meanwhile the rest of my pack of animals started dragging my carcass across the floor back to our lair. I ended up covered in basement pub dust and giggling like mad.

One of the best exercises I've had to do is called 'New Choice'. You're working with a partner and improvising a story, but at any point, after any one of your suggestions, if they don't think it's good enough or it jars for some reason, they can say 'New choice' and you have to try again. So it might go:

J: I was walking along the street last night...
P: New choice
J: ...along the seafront last night, and I saw a dolphin...
P: New choice
J: ...a walrus...
P: New choice
J: ...a man drowning. I stripped off my clothes...
P: New choice
J: ...without stripping off my clothes, I ran straight into the sea and swam towards him. I could hear him screaming, 'Help!'
P: New choice
J: ...I could hear him screaming, 'Sandwiches!'
P: New choice
J: ...'Fuck off! I want to die!' but I didn't believe him. I reached him and started trying to drag him ashore, but he was lashing out...
P: New choice
J: ...he started trying to drown me
P: New choice
J: ...trying to kiss me. And his breath was terrible.

You get the idea. What was wonderful for me was that, the first time I was 'New choiced' I thought I'd feel like the person was saying, 'FAIL, that was a STUPID SUGGESTION you MORON', but in fact, because everyone gets 'New choiced', it feels way more like 'Hey, c'mon, you can do better than that, sexypants' and instead of shrinking in confidence, you actually start to enjoy it. The less you think about it, the more free your choices feel and the more funny they often are. It is all amazingly liberating and, for £5, I challenge people to have a more fun night out in the smoke. I'll be going again.

And then, of course, because I'd finally forgotten about vanishing guy for a whole two hour period, when I then checked my emails on arriving back at home, I found he'd messaged me. A lame message, an 'urgh, thank god I dodged your bullet' message of 'I need to sort my head out and I don't want to hurt someone who I like and respect.' Like and respect so much that you leave them hanging for FOUR DAYS while you piss about being selfish. Wow, I'm flattered. Anyway, I sent him a blinder of a reply this morning, three paragraphs of unadulterated pleasure that should, if I'm any good at this writing lark at all, make him feel like a total twunt. Case dismissed. Let the weekend begin.

I Am Not Dead

Well, obviously I might be. I might have a heart attack five minutes from now and then by the time you read this I might be out cold on my sofa. But if that happens, know that there would have been worse places to die. And at least I'm 50% in velour, so you'd know I'd been cosy in my final moments. Of course, you could be reading this blog in sixty years, by which time I will almost certainly be dead, or at least wishing I was from the safety of my padded room, and you will be looking at LLFF as a valuable historical artefact, wondering at us old fuddy-duddies who used to think that typing with fingers was normal and getting married was a sensible idea. Hmmm. If I were bored I'd analyse the fact that, when challenged to think of two things we all do now that will become outdated soon, I came up with typing and monogamy. Don't know what that says about me. But anyway, I'm not bored. Or dead. No. I am alive and semi-busy. And I've just faced up to the fact I should probably write a will at some point.

So anyway. I haven't written since last Friday, and the reason is that I have been having a meltdown. The snake has stayed away, but I have been going a bit mental in other ways. The China/sabbatical/career break thing got me thinking, and then I started thinking about my future, which is obviously never sensible at the best of times, and then I started thinking about writing as a career, and then I worked quite hard at turning the blogs I wrote when I was in Finland into an article of sorts, and then this evening I went to meet a guy I know who works at The Guardian to talk about jobs and ting. It was really helpful, in that it confirmed that I probably shouldn't go back into journalism or writing. I mean, there's writing work there. But I don't want to be freelance (the snake looooves irregular working hours, financial instability and extended periods of time spent home alone) and I don't want to write about shit the whole time.

I think it's time for something new. New new new new new. But not yet. Right now I'll just stay where I am. But one day I'll do something else.

Good. Glad we've got that sorted out then.

What I was thinking was the civil service. But then I have to take scary exams and stuff, and I tried them before and failed miserably. I know one person who passed them and countless people who failed them. Anyway. I was also thinking of property development, but that's just selfish and stupid. Plus it's freelance and financially unstable and involves extended periods of time spent alone. Stupid snake, hampering my property development possibilities.

Meh. I dunno. I'll be fine.

What else is news? On Friday night I went to Sir John Soane's Museum in Holborn, and was ashamed that I'd never been there before in my 32 years, but delighted that London really is the gift that keeps on giving, and glad that I hadn't gone until I was old enough to be truly appreciative. They were open for a special candlelit tour, complete with complimentary sparkling wine, and it was fascinating. The Hogarths were every bit as amazing as I'd hoped, and bloody Nora if that gallery isn't the coolest thing ever. I'd tell you all what I'm talking about in a bit more detail but I don't want to ruin the surprise for my mum. Sunday I went to see Showstopper! at the Udderbelly, a temporary performance space shaped like a gigantic upside-down purple cow near the London Eye. What will they think of next? The venue is great, and the show was excellent - an eighty-minute improvised musical with a fantastically funny cast that made me really annoyed that I'm not quite good enough at singing or being funny to join in. I will return and growl in quiet jealousy on at least one other night before the run ends in June. I've done other fun stuff too, but tonight I'm taking it easy, skiving off my uke class, eating Coco Pops and doing laundry. Mmmm. Coco Pops. Might be time for that second bowl.

A lot.

Action items for today:

1. Last night
2. Digital economy bill outrage
3. Boys are MENTAL

Last night, I went to see comedian slash activist slash smug man Mark Thomas present his people's manifesto at the National Theatre. He's been touring the country compiling audience suggestions for a real manifesto - and the results have been fairly funny. Last night we decided (among other ideas) that a) if it pisses with rain on a Bank Holiday, it will be considered a rollover and b) people who complain that there are too many immigrants will be banned from restaurants serving anything other than British food. We also voted in favour of invading Jersey, on the basis that they have around one billion UK tax pounds there, and that a maximum wage should be announced. I'd thought about that previously, and had concluded that no one could reasonably argue that they need to earn more than £250,000 a year. Mark Thomas had spoken to a Marxist accountant, who said that you could never cap it at a set figure, but rather at a multiple of the national average wage - say, ten times. Coincidentally, our national average wage is £25k, so I was pretty much on the money with that one. And, as the Marxist accountant pointed out, if you wanted to raise your own income above £250,000, the only way to do it would be to raise the national average wage. Brilliant.

Other suggestions that got my vote were the idea that all models for fashion/photography/film/TV should have to be selected at random from the electoral roll, and that all 4x4 vehicles should be required to drive at least 50% of every journey they make 'off road'. Everyone seemed to agree without question that drugs should be legalised, a Tobin tax should be introduced asap, and that newspaper retractions should be printed in the same font size and on the same page as the offending article.

It was an interesting night, not really realistic (sadly), but still good to get your thinking cap on and think about how you would change things if you had the power - and thus realise how powerless we all actually feel. There was a painful irony when Mark announced they were fielding a candidate in Bristol West to represent these issues and there was a woop of delight from the audience - four weeks today, there will be hundreds of candidates standing all over the UK, and they're all supposed to represent us. We shouldn't be wooping - we should be taking it for granted. But no one feels represented and everyone's furious...

...which leads me nicely on to the OUTRAGE that is the Digital Economy Bill, which a nasty group of Labour and Tory MPs shimmied through Parliament late last night. Apologies to any people with their finger on the pulse, but this is a deeply complex issue, where the wording of the Bill has been revised three times, based on the objections of any sane person who cares anything for the internet and freedom of speech, but it's finally been pushed through in a deeply suspect fashion, meaning that the secretary of state for business can now legally order the blocking of "a location on the internet which the court is satisfied has been, is being or is likely to be used for or in connection with an activity that infringes copyright", an absurd catch-all definition that could easily be applied to hundreds of sites, including the vital Wikileaks resource (which I last linked to when they published the BNP membership lists in 2008) and even Google. The web community is fuming with Labour, furious with Mandelson and livid with the Tories (see the comments here for a taster) - the only party who has consistently argued that examination of the Bill be held off until after the election is the LibDems. Either way, this is two fingers up at democracy and a fatal stabbing for freedom of expression, and it's mighty depressing.

Finally, on to boys - and a shift from the usual 'bad things come in threes' to a slightly tweaked 'odd things come in threes'. I was emailing a random German guy, and we were all set to fix a date to meet, but then he sent me a very curious email, which I couldn't quite understand. It had, for example, included the phrase 'Why do I have to think of a ferret and a bathtub, now?!' I wrote back asking him what he had meant by certain things and he said it was time to surrender, that it had been an attempt to be dadaistic. Riiiiiight. I asked him to clarify further, and he said 'Sorry for playing this the pathetic way, but I needed to find out how you'd respond. Afraid, I'm not up to your personality.' Hmmmm. So he's dumping me before he's even met me. He was too short anyway. And it wouldn't have been that remarkable, but I was simultaneously emailing a guy who reluctantly revealed yesterday that he makes missiles. Missiles. Apparently he'd met people who work for British Tobacco who are appalled and people from the liberal left who think it's fine. I said I thought it was pretty disgusting to spend your nine to five designing weapons that kill innocent people, but then I also think working for a bank is pretty questionable, and I've been doing that for three years. It pays the rent. He said,
"Well, obviously I don't think that weapons are great or that blowing people up is really cool, but then I don't think what I do is disgusting or inherently immoral either. If I did think that way then I wouldn't do it. Personally I think I would have more of a problem with someone who continues to do something which they feel to be morally wrong just to pay the rent rather than someone who makes moral judgements which I disagree with (up to a point obviously)." I think he is trying to say that he'd rather I worked for a bank and loved it than worked for a bank and hated it. I can't see how if you a) think that weapons are not great and b) think that blowing people up is really uncool, you can c) think that designing weapons is not inherently immoral. I haven't replied yet, but I'll keep you posted. And then this afternoon, there was the guy who sent me a photo of his erect penis, while I was sitting at my desk booking aeroplane tickets for my boss. Insania.

Further festive fun

Despite getting into work at half ten yesterday morning, I still snuck off to Part 1 of our double-or-nothing office Christmas lunches at noon. The credit crunch had definitely hit: we started with a splash of admittedly delicious mushroom soup served on a slightly indented plate, and although the main course portion size was more generous, the quality of the food was not. That isn't to imply that we were there for the meal, however - of course, it was all about the conversation. I relayed my embargoed gem from Saturday night and then heard an absolute beaut of an embarrassing anecdote, where a female colleague went to get her bikini line waxed after a fair hiatus, and the beautician said, "Hmmm, it's been a while since you last came in, hasn't it?" and went away and came back with KITCHEN SCISSORS to start the job. That then reminded me of the time when one of my friends went for her first ever smear test, aged around 19 or 20, and the doctor told her to take off her things and get up onto the bed, and when he pulled the screen back, she had taken off all her clothes, bottom half and top half, and climbed onto the bed on all fours. It still makes me weep with laughter every time I think of it.

By the time I was to leave work, my weekend nights out and two glasses of white at lunch had caught up with me, and I was almost hysterical with tiredness. I took the tube down to Waterloo where I met Grania at the National Theatre, who was similarly emotional, and we went to the Private Eye Christmas... thing. I don't know what it was really. A reading of some of their favourite stories from the past year, and a chance for the audience to ask questions to Ian Hislop. There were some definite gems, including a brilliant Nigella Lawson pisstake read superbly by Katy Brand, but the majority of it was very old boys' club and a bit smug, and Ian came across as unattractively pleased with himself, in addition to being merely unattractive. The 'Dumb Britain' highlights were wonderful, as ever, but with no new material, it seemed a little self-indulgent, and the best moment of the evening by far was when an audience member on the level below stood up during a sketch to go to the loo, and tripped spectacularly, landing with an enormous thump on the stairs. Pockets of people spotted what had happened and laughed uncontrollably, while the remainder of the crowd glowered at us, pretending to be furious at us for disturbing their evening with our mistimed laughter, but secretly furious because they didn't know why we were enjoying ourselves so much more than they were. After that we went for some food and then parted, nauseous with tiredness, at Waterloo, where our final conversation was about which rap we should work on learning off by heart. Grania was inspired by the one that Smithy does in Gavin and Stac(e?)y, but from prior rap-learning experience, that was pretty long. I'm thinking more about Kanye's introduction to Estelle in American Boy. Thoughts welcome.

Today has been harrowing because I was told off before 9am, but I have just given blood so I am feeling very worthy. My atheist halo is brassy and, in certain lights, reflects with a shimmering starburst that makes an audible 'ting'. Now I am counting down to 5pm and taking as many opportunities as possible to roll the sleeve of my jumper up and reveal my telltale plaster. Must receive praise otherwise good act is of less value... Nightmare.

All play and no work makes Jane a... worse than average employee?

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. Why do I insist on doing this to myself? I have such good intentions to be boring and sensible and then I start having fun and I just can't stop. Last night I went out to see Simon Amstell do stand-up at the Shepherd's Bush Empire and I laughed so much I actually pulled one of the muscles around my left ribcage. Towards the beginning of the set, as I let an enthusiastic 'haha' escape from my lungs, the guy sitting on my left loudly said, 'Shhh!' 'You're kidding,' I thought. I'm getting shushed for laughing at a comedy show? No way. Then a few moments later, he did it again when I wasn't even making a sound. And I realised that was his laugh. 'Shhh!' he went, every few seconds, like a steam train pulling away from a station. It was really quite disconcerting, but I got used to it eventually.

My favourite moment was when Simon said that playing hard to get was ridiculous and compared it to walking into a supermarket and thinking, 'Hmmm, I really feel like a potato tonight - I better not look at the potatoes in case they realise I'm interested.' I do think it's different for boys though. As girls, we really are told time and time again not to make the first move. Boys do like the chase. It's fine. I'm used to it. (She says, drumming her fingers impatiently, waking her phone up from sleep mode to check for texts, refreshing her Gmail every six seconds, tearing her hair out, not sleeping).

Then we went back to Grania's with a third musketeer and danced on the table and took a zillion photos and did diabolo and discussed sex and religion and all those other good things until we finally went to bed at half past three, when I listened to Bounce Out of Bed. Needless to say, I was about as bouncy as a car park when my alarm went off at 7.45 this morning but somehow made it to my desk on time and am very much looking forward to this evening, when Donald is coming over and the very most I expect to do is go to the cinema. Thankfully my boss is on holiday so my usually unmanageable workload has been reduced substantially. Tick tock tick tock.

In good news, my guy has dropped one place on the popular list. In bad news, he has been on the site almost constantly today. Hangovers are not good for my paranoia levels. Nor, let's face it, is online dating. I'm not renewing my subscription. For now.

Hesitation, repetition, deviation. All in a day's work.

Last night Grania and I went to a recording of Just A Minute at the BBC Radio Theatre in Broadcasting House. I have been applying to be part of the audience for this show for two or three years, and this is the first time my name has been pulled out of the hat at the time of the ballot. Unfortunately, it appears that my enjoyment of the programme has waned since I first decided I'd like to see it live. Firstly, my enjoyment of the BBC has changed. Not that I don't think it is a wonderful service: I pay my license fee happily. But the smugness of those involved, from the superior snootiness of the woman on the door to the self-satisfaction of the guy with the headset who loved being able to tell us whether or not we were allowed to leave the quarantine area - it was all a bit irritating. And the show itself, with panellists including Paul Merton and Stephen Fry, was simply not as funny as I'd hoped. There were a couple of laugh out loud moments, but (and I feel absurd writing this) it was largely an old boys' club. I feel absurd writing that because of course that's what it is, and the idea that I'd thought it would be anything else is absurd. Stephen Fry made a joke that the brilliant thing about Sainsbury's is that it keeps the plebs out of Waitrose, and I thought the roof was going to blasted off the building by the force of the laughter. And even though Paul Merton occasionally put things from a liberal perspective, by joining in he's obviously complicit in the experience. Consequently, I found the evening uncomfortable and quite disappointing, like when I realised that Howard from Take That was actually probably a bit thick and possibly not the ideal boyfriend for me. Ah well. Another one bites the dust.