Dick

So there's this urban myth about a girl who had a huge snake as a pet, and she loved it so much that she let it sleep in her bed, and after a while she noticed the snake wasn't eating much any more, and also that it wasn't curling up in the same way it had used to, and she went to a vet and asked him what was going on, and the vet did some research and concluded that the snake was fasting and straightening out because it was preparing to eat her. Which is fairly rank.

I don't sleep in bed with an actual snake, but the Faithful will know that there is a metaphorical snake in my life, and I haven't told you, but a couple of days ago I became aware that it might have been starting to fast and straighten out.

It was weird, because last week the snake was safely hidden away in its locked cage and munching happily on live rabbits or whatever it eats when it's not preying on me. I had the most gorgeous time on Thursday when my parents came over for dinner, and we laughed like drains and I felt exceptionally lucky. On Friday night I went to this month's Secret Cinema, which turned out to be Lawrence of Arabia, which I didn't watch, and there were stupidly long queues for food and it was really way too over-ambitious, but it was a very fun night with lovely friends and good conversation, and I went home on the train and climbed into bed with a smile on my face. And then I woke up on Saturday morning and got ready for my friend's wedding, and things got a bit disorganised all of a sudden, and I realised I was running a bit late, and I was rushing around my room putting things in my clutch bag and I discovered that my gorgeous eight month old camera was nowhere to be found. I ripped my duvet off my bed, looked among my sofa cushions, tore around my flat looking in places where it could not possibly be and, indeed, wasn't. And eventually I had to accept that I was running really late, so I found my old compact camera and ran off to the wedding, stressed and upset as I'd had far too much wine the night before and was fairly sure that I'd been idiotically unvigilant on London public transport and that I had been deservedly pickpocketed. And I clearly recalled thinking on Friday night that I was drinking more white wine than I normally do, and knowing deep down that I have been a bit sad and hormonal recently, and suddenly losing my camera was a direct punishment for being a sad, hormonal loser, and it all became a bit upsetting.

So then I went off to the wedding, and it was absolutely one of the most romantic and intimate weddings I've ever been to, the beautiful bride and adorably emotional groom facing us throughout much of the service, the hymns sung with great gusto, the congregation unendingly friendly and happy to talk to new people - it was truly wonderful. But I was feeling a bit shaky, and no one said I looked pretty, so I probably didn't, which was annoying, and I didn't know one other girl at the wedding - the only familiar faces were boys, and even then only three or four, so I was definitely going solo, which is fine, but you know, when you're feeling a bit weak and feeble, it's nice to have a wingwoman. Still, I was brave and good fun and had a few really nice chats with new girls and boys at the fantastic reception, and the meal and dancing were off the scale, the band was exceptional, but underneath it all I felt very alone, which was annoying as I was in a room full of wonderful, interesting, happy people and I so wanted to be happy in my head too, not a self-indulgent, spoiled whinger. I spoke to at least two guys who were single - I sat next to one at dinner - and both of them confused me a bit. My dinner companion was definitely a charmer, putting his arm round me early on in the meal and turning towards me, clearly cutting out the young guy sitting on his other side. And we got on well, and had feisty dinner chats, and then after the meal we danced together a bit, but then he disappeared. And there was another guy, a lovely man who had played the piano beautifully at the service, who also touched me unnecessarily on the arm a few times while we were chatting, and asked me to get him a drink at the bar while he had a cigarette, and then came in and chatted to me again, and then he too made an excuse and wandered away.

And I remembered again that it is so hard for two single people to meet and feel mutual chemistry. I am on a boyban, so I wasn't wanting anything to happen. To be perfectly honest, I don't think I would have chosen either of those guys to go on a date with, post-boyban, had either of them wanted to see me again. But it would have been nice for my ego if they had shown interest. I would dearly love to stop feeling rejected if a guy I don't like doesn't like me either, but I've been like that for as long as I can remember, and I don't see it stopping any time soon. On Saturday night, when I realised the guy from dinner was definitely not dancing with me quite as closely as he could have, I felt like he'd slapped me. I was quite upset. Even though I didn't want to kiss him at all. It's insane. I am a dick.

Later on, a third guy was very interested in me indeed, to the extent that I had to enlist a friend to help me persuade him that I didn't want his, erm, offerings. He is handsome and nice, but his drink-fuelled, sweat-drenched, testosterone-driven desire didn't feel like a compliment - more like late night, last-ditch desperation. Far from making me feel more attractive, it made me feel like I must've looked desperate myself. I'd wanted someone to want to date me, not want a one night stand with me when they've had so much alcohol they can barely see. Far from an ego boost, his attentions were actually pretty insulting. You just wouldn't do that to someone you respected. My lovely protective friend was saying, 'This is Jane, for god's sake. She is far too cool for this. You can't speak like that to her,' which was very nice of him, and the guy was saying to my friend, 'You're just jealous,' and I was saying, 'He's not jealous, because nothing is happening,' so it briefly did feel like a scene from Hollyoaks, but then I ran off to the night bus, got home a long time later, alone, looked in vain for my camera which I'd dearly hoped had been hiding all along in the folds of my sheets or under my bed, and then crawled into bed feeling crap.

Yesterday I spoke barely ten words aloud and didn't leave my flat, canceled my plans and instead just watched TV, slept, and eventually took a Melatonin and got an early night. Today I woke up feeling like the snake was certainly extremely close by, and I couldn't imagine leaving the house, let alone sitting at my desk and pretending everything was normal. Those mornings are so weird. You aren't sad, exactly. You aren't physically incapacitated. But the sheer weight of normal existence is just too much to bear. I am sure to the uninitiated it seems truly pathetic, since all that happened was I got pickpocketed and two boys didn't fancy me, and that's hardly an excuse not to go to work - surely I just need a firm and unapologetic kick up the backside? Believe me, sometimes in retrospect I think the same, but when it's happening at the time, all the strength goes out of you, and you lose the ability to think rationally or fight. All you can think is what a failure you are, what a waste of space, and the thought of being near other humans is unbearable. Even pushing the duvet back and standing up to go to the bathroom is too difficult. Bed is the only option - even if you're lying there desperate to wee.

I slept fitfully until 1pm this afternoon, a total of 13 hours, on top of 12 hours on Saturday night plus two or three hours napping during Sunday. That amount of shuteye is just odd, but when being asleep is better than being awake, it's my body's clear way of telling me I'm not happy. I am dealing with stuff - therapy, believe it or not, is going really well, but I'm only a few weeks in to this stint and I have a lot more stuff to work on. It's hard. I need to start really exercising again, but that's hard too. Clearly galivanting around on a Londike for 20 minutes a few times a week isn't adequate. I think I lost motivation when the boyban kicked in. I associate the quest for thinness with trying to attract men, and if I'm not trying to attract men, why bother exercising? I actually quite like my curves, believe it or not - and in the past few weeks have actually been feeling pretty good about my appearance. Then something like Saturday night happens, the boyban methodology goes out the window, I feel rejected by two men I didn't fancy and insulted by the attentions of another, and then I stop functioning as a normal human being for 48 hours. And then I remember why I have to exercise. Because if I don't, I go mental. Growl.

Still, I'm glad to say that it's not all bad. I eventually got up around 2pm this afternoon and shuffled to the hardware shop down the road for some DIY items. I installed new chrome dimmer switches in my bedroom and sitting room, and then moved the old white plastic dimmers to the previously undimmable switches in my spare room and hall. Then I installed a new chrome plug socket in my bedroom. I hadn't known how to do either of those jobs when I woke up this morning, but I found an instruction page on the internet, and I remembered an ex-boyfriend saying it was really easy to change switches, so I knew it couldn't be too hard. And it wasn't. It was really satisfying, especially because I got to use my headtorch. And then I berated myself for being too capable and independent, remembering that men like to look after their women and that I'm always one step ahead and that's unattractive and threatening and emasculating, and then I berated myself for giving a crap what men think, and then I berated myself for being sad, and then I berated myself again for losing my camera, and then I watched Big Brother Winners' Come Dine With Me, and then I berated myself for that too. And then I wrote this.

It's just a blip. I'll be fine in a few days. Bear with me.

It's a rich man's world

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

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

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

You win some, you lose some

So on Saturday, everything looked rosy. The sun was shining, I got up on time, and, in an act of heroic proportions, managed to fix my own washing machine by emptying the filter, catching all the water in a bucket, cleaning out the filter, and restarting it all. This may sound like child's play, but when you can visualise my washing machine, whisch for several complex reasons involving pipes that I was too tight to reroute, sits atop a raised platform in a tiny room, you will understand that the aforedescribed deed required me to jump on top of the machine, swivel around to lie on my chest, legs extended out of the door, while reaching down with thankfully disproportionate arms to push the drainage pipe to one side and switch off the plug at the mains. Prior to this, I'd tried to reach up to the plug from underneath, lying on my back among my boxes of Persil and bottles of Lenor, but I couldn't quite reach the plug, and as my eyes adjusted, I realised that I was absolutely surrounded by spiders. I was nearly sick, extracted myself from the confined space, did the universal get-the-insect-off-me dance accompanied by the universal squealy song called 'Get The Insect Off Me Now'. Then I got out the hoover and fed the spiders to Henry. As a result of the protracted process, I bruised both shins fairly substantially, broke a nail and cut my arm. Still, it was all counterbalanced by my success in retrieving a nondescript but troublesome piece of black fabric from the filter, and I apologise unreservedly for the smugness that must have oozed out of the headset when I phoned back Hotpoint to cancel my £160 call-out.

As a result, I positively skipped in to Em's birthday brunch at Tom Aikens. After a delicious meal at Quaglino's on Friday night following the absurdly fun Steam Temple Experience at the spa in the Hotel Intercontinental, Em and I were glowing from top to toe, but nonetheless the assembled troops bravely managed to forget about health long enough to force bagels, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, blueberry muffins, bacon, milkshakes, coffee, juice and white wine into our undernourished systems. We were the nightmare noisy table that is a bit hysterical, laughing a bit too loudly and having a bit more fun than everyone else. I slightly hated us but couldn't stop laughing. What do you call a cheese that doesn't belong to you? Nacho cheese. Ah me. Those were the days...

So then Em, Erf and I meandered down to the King's Road and I splashed out on some cute jewellery for Nicole's daughters, a dress from Zara and a long-desired pair of Havaianas from Office. I was wearing heart-shaped sunglasses and all was well in the world. Will the joys of consumerism ever cease to make me happy? I do hope so, but it seems unlikely. Shortly after 3pm, I took my leave from Em and Erf, and got on the Circle Line round to Paddington. I arrived at the station in plenty of time, found my reserved seat at the front of the train in Coach A, the quiet carriage, and sat down to read my book with ten minutes to spare. Then I realised with absolute certainty that when I exited the Circle Line at Paddington, I had picked up my handbag and my rucksack, but left behind the Office bag containing my new shoes, my new dress, the jewellery from Accessorize and a smoothie from Boots. Fuming, I stood up, grabbed my two remaining bags and pegged it back down the length of the train to the ticket barrier, just to check the station concourse on the offchance I'd left it there, even though I knew without any hint of doubt that I had not. I was right. I hadn't. My bags of newly purchased items were winging their way towards Moorgate on the Circle Line, assuming they had not already been discovered by a lucky vulture. The protective glow of self-satisfaction that had been emanating from me just moments before vanished immediately. All that remained was an aura of dejectedness and, following three trips down the length of the Paddington platform, a sheen of sweat.

But it's impossible to be grumpy for long with Nicole and her adorable brood, even when they are covered in pasta sauce and iridescent mucous, and all they want to do is see your boobies or show you theirs. I had a fantastically restful time on Saturday night, Sunday and Monday, continued to attempt to break the world record for most Weight Watchers points consumed in a single weekend, took some great pics, groomed Millie the pony, walked the dogs, sprayed one of the chicken's feet with some sort of scaly leg stuff, (kind of) helped to move a shed, looked after all three children single-handedly for an hour while Nic went riding (it went OK but I think two hours would have been beyond me), made a sauce for a sticky toffee pudding (indicative of health levels throughout stay), discussed mental health virtually without drawing breath and was back in my flat just before 4pm yesterday, when I watched back-to-back Britain's Got Talent (am outraged) and tidied everything in preparation for the week ahead. I'm trying not to think too much about my lost items, or be too grumpy about the fact that their combined value is almost precisely what it would cost me to claim for them via my insurance policy (no claims bonuses are SO ANNOYING), and now I am avoiding having to exercise by typing every minute detail that pops into my head. You'd have thought that with my holiday less than a fortnight away, I'd be working out non-stop, but I almost fear I'm past saving, and seem to have misplaced my mojo. Right. Must go down to the murky basement gym and punish myself after the weekend's excesses. Back asap.

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.

Middle class rant

As the minute hand clicks onto 12 and the clock outside strikes six times, indicating that it is now 18:00 hours on Tuesday 25 March, my excitement reaches unhealthy levels and my risk of heart attack increases approximately threefold. For at 18:00 hours, I have been told, it is possible that a nice man, or perhaps a nice woman, will arrive in a Tesco's van with a large quantity of extremely heavy and essential groceries for my eating pleasure. Of course, I tell myself at 18:05, they probably won't arrive on the dot of six. Mentally, I prepare myself for the possibility that they may not even arrive until the end of my window, at 8pm. This will be a disappointing outcome as it will delay my dinner further - I am already knee-deep in anticipation about my first home-cooked meal in my new flat and the kitchen is not presently full of options, containing two pots of out-of-date milk, some spreadable butter, some leftover smoked mackerel pate that is crawling with invisible food poisoning and a Twix.

19:00 hours. My excitement has dropped to a simmer but I am still poised and ready to leap the moment the door buzzer sounds.

19:45. Anger has set in. I try to stop myself from working into a psychopathic rage, reminding myself that they are not actually late until 20:01.

20:01. Psychopathic rage culminates in terse, barely civil phonecall to Tesco's. Unaware of the levels of my fury, a blameless young man unwittingly tells me that my order has been cancelled and that I 'should have been informed'. No shit. He puts me on hold while he checks what happened. Apparently my card didn't work - which is ridiculous as I entered all the details correctly and have no shortage of funds - and instead of phoning me to verify it, they cancelled the order. At this point, pins and needles start shooting through both of my legs and I start to exaggerate. "This is my only free night until next Tuesday [true]. I cancelled several plans to make sure I was in tonight [false]. Plus I am having people over for the next three nights [false] and people staying this weekend [false] and now have no food for them [would be true if the last two claims hadn't been false]. I will complain about this online [true] - my blog is read by thousands of people [white lie] all over the world [true] and I hope that this will deter them from using your service in future [false: I'm not that bothered]."

After I requested compensation, the man emailed me a £10 discount on my next online shop. It's interesting to me that, in the eyes of the Tesco's system, waiting in all evening for shopping that never arrives is half as irritating as almost (but not actually) breaking a tooth while eating sultanas, for which we were paid £20. I wonder who calculates these things...

Perhaps the people at my local branch of Tesco read my blog yesterday, decided that I'd been too smug about my lovely Easter minibreak and saw an opportunity to sabotage my happiness. Their efforts were in vain, however - after my early stumble into irritation brought on by being stood up by a supermarket, the evening ended well as I ordered a Thai meal (which did actually arrive) and began to seal my birch kitchen counters with Danish wood oil. This is a process more satisfying than I could ever have dreamed, like rubbing really good moisturiser into dry, scaly legs, only without the accompanying feeling of self-revulsion. The instructions advise giving untreated wood three or four initial coats with at least five hours between applications. I did one before bed and then surprised myself by getting up fifteen minutes earlier than I had to this morning and putting on another layer at around 7.10am. I always knew my priorities would change when I had my own home but given that spring cleaning has not been high on my agenda this side of the Millennium, it's a bit of a surprise to be waking up early to rub oil into a kitchen counter with a lint-free cloth wearing a nightie and slippers. Wonders will never cease.

Everybody must get stoned...

Yesterday was stressful. The date, 4 March, had been burned on my consciousness since Mr L'Atelier left for his holiday to the US and Canada over a fortnight ago - this was due to be the day of his return and it's not hyperbolic to say that for the final few days of the countdown, I was about as excited as any girl has ever been in the history of humanity. However, when the day itself dawned, something else sprung up onto the dashboard of my existence: my builder, henceforth absurdly nice, funny and reliable, went AWOL. At 10am, I was livid - it was Tuesday morning, my kitchen needed to be finished by the end of Wednesday so that the carpet could go down on Thursday, so that my sofa could arrive on Friday and so that I could move the rest of my stuff over the weekend. Were all bets off? Should I cancel the most precisely coordinated chain of events since the Beckham wedding? By lunchtime, I was hyperventilating with stress. By 2pm, two glasses of Sauvignon later, I was markedly calmer but still concerned. By 4pm, I had stopped caring about the kitchen and was starting to feel genuinely fearful that he might be dead. I sent him another slightly hysterical text message and crossed my fingers.

Finally, at 4.30pm, he made textual contact and informed me that he'd been doing rather a lot of vomiting. It was perfectly timed on his part - had he been in touch much earlier I would have been furious and possibly sent him a vitriolic and fractionally unsympathetic response, but at this late stage I wasn't being quite so selfish and was instead so relieved that he still had a pulse that I sent him a comforting message and forgot about it. But then - egad! Mr L'Atelier had been pushed to the back burner. Suddenly, the moment for which I had yearned had arrived. I preened, primped, put the finishing touches to his funpack and then headed over to his house for a romantic reunion. So when I found out that our first task was returning his hire car to the Avis depot, I had to readjust my mental picture somewhat. Still, we had a perfect night and this morning I'm giddy and happy and the proud owner of a beautiful new green iPod Nano for my future jogging adventures. Lucky me.

Today's big news was the result of Super Tuesday 2 across the pond - what with the hurly burly of my own life I had almost forgotten about the primaries and when I saw the result online this morning I gasped in shock. It's all too exciting. I did a test the other day on www.whoshouldyouvotefor.com and unsurprisingly I shouldn't want either Clinton or Obama to win the Democratic nomination - they're both far too right wing for my tastes - but it's a gripping contest and I am loving every second. What made me laugh was the assertion by an Israeli academic that Moses was stoned when he received the Ten Commandments. And by stoned, I mean the New Age definition, not the Biblical version meaning that people chucked rocks at him when he returned from Mount Sinai carrying the two tablets. Makes sense to me, and given the rest of the bizarre coincidences and hilariously arbitrary/accidental, grammatical/editorial errors/slips that have formed the basis of the world's Christian beliefs, this is just another nail in the coffin of my religious faith. Not that I have beef with Moses being a fan of hallucinogenic drugs, mind you - just that I'm glad I haven't altered my life's direction as a result.

Skirting Boredom

It's not the least rewarding task in DIY but it's certainly one of the jobs I've enjoyed least over the past few weeks: undercoating skirting boards and architrave is pretty slow work and, let's be honest, how often do you actually notice the paint job on someone else's woodwork? The truth is, you only notice if it's rubbish. I fear that, by that rationale, mine may attract attention.

I arrived at the flat at around 10am this morning and painted pretty solidly until 8.30pm - with the help of my two parent-shaped apprentices until 3pm and a Katherine-shaped distraction for half an hour later on in the afternoon, when I paused and ate fig rolls. Overall, progress has been undeniably and disappointingly slow on the decorating front and I'm having to face up to the reality that neither my bathroom nor my kitchen will be painted when I move in. Still, as long as the taps work, the loo flushes and the fridge is cold, I think I'll survive; it will take a lot more than bare plaster to make me push back my move date.

After the day's DIY was over, it was time to leap in the car and head south to my favourite Croydon superstore, Ikea, to pick up a few essentials for next week's building work. I scampered down the stairs outside my flat to the faithful Honda, trying to force some adrenaline into my system in preparation for the mission ahead. However, my first hurdle was greeting me rather sooner than I'd expected: the car had been blocked in by another vehicle, a small white stick shift that had been thoughtfully parked perpendicular to my automotive rear. The gap that remained was inadequate. I know this because I tried, and failed, to reverse through it. Stumped, I resorted to drastic measures and honked my horn. Twice. But to my irritation, no guilty party shot down the stairs to rescue me.

I was stuck. At 8.30pm. On a Saturday night, when I should have been driving to Ikea. It was time to pull out the big guns. Like a girl possessed, I tried the white car's handle. Miraculously, the door opened. The car's interior light glowed a threatening UV blue and the hazards started flashing, but thankfully no alarm sounded. I positioned myself, took off the handbrake and pushed, 100% uncertain if I would be strong enough to shift the car up the slight incline on which it was parked. Feeling like an unsettling combination of an independent goddess and a massively unattractive, over-capable, butch, Wagnerian heroine, I rolled the car forwards, put the handbrake back on, returned to my car and, in a scene not unreminiscent of the Austin Powers electric buggy 400-point turn, eventually manoeuvred out of the space.

After that, Ikea was a breeze. This time, everything was in stock, the queues weren't too long, the child count was mercifully low and I managed to resist buying a headboard and a chest of drawers as I maturely decided to wait until I've lived in the flat for a bit. OK, plus I had a tragic fantasy about me and and Mr L'Atelier returning Croydonwards at an unspecified future date to pick a couple of things out together. Ikea shopping toute seule is undeniably efficient but a gal can get a bit sick of being solo. It's that same feeling as when you go to the supermarket after work, all excited about your night in watching crap TV, and you find your delicious ready meal and go to the checkout and put it on the conveyor belt and then pause to look around you and realise that everyone else is buying eight bottles of wine for their fun parties and that in between laughing with their friends, they're staring at you with pity and suddenly the evening in doesn't seem quite so fun any more.

Not that that's ever happened to me.

Wino Takes All

Amazing what a couple of good nights out can do for the soul. I am now exhausted but feeling more sane than I have for a long while. Last night's wine tasting was fairly pleasing. I was seated at a table with a couple of colleagues and six other strangers who work in the building. In front of us were eight bottles of wine, four white, four red, covered in foil. The tasting was ostensibly to teach us the difference between Old and New World wines - but we were also challenged to see if we could identify even more details. Our first pairing was two white wines, and the instant I sipped number one, I knew what it was: Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. I knew for certain because it is basically all I have been drinking since I did a wine course last summer - I have it at home, I have it in restaurants, and it's even our tipple of choice when we go to the godforsaken O'Neill's next door to our building.

Now, shocking though this might be, I don't actually see myself as a shy, retiring flower of a girl. On the contrary, and I know this may be hard for many of you Faithful to believe, I sometimes think I can be fairly forceful and persuasive! So I was about as gobsmacked as I get when our self-appointed team captain decided that both the first white wines we were tasting were Rieslings. I tried to show him the error of his ways, gently at first and then using other skills such as rhetoric, patronising scoffing and derisive lip curling, but nothing worked and they handed in 'our' answer sheet unapologetically. I can't deny that I was about as smug as anyone's ever been when we tore off the foil and found a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. I'd even got the year right (by complete fluke). I don't think my head actually came away from my neck with the force of the self-satisfaction, but a rupture wasn't far off.

From then on, my table decided I was some sort of wine genius, a Jilly Goulden of the banking world, and no answer was written down without my say-so. Sadly, since I have only been drinking one wine for the past eight months, I am entirely clueless about every other grape and was thus zero help. All I could do was confirm that something "wasn't Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc" which wasn't that valuable when we were drinking deep reds.

Anyway - it was a fun evening and I let my hair down, ate too much tapas and knocked over a bottle of £90 Bordeaux. Oops. Today I felt so much perkier that I managed to make it to the gymnasium but promptly tarnished those efforts by adjourning to O'Neill's with Laura et al. at 5pm, and quaffing white wine while inhaling ready salted McCoy's before heading to Donald and Bee's and having a delicious curry and several after-dinner chocolates. Now I'm back in bed feeling revoltingly full and almost human: my neuroses are pacified, the gas leak has been fixed and all is ticking over nicely. The fear of needing a new boiler is still looming but denial is not just a river in Egypt and I'll do my best to enjoy these last brief moments of abject poverty before the bailiffs arrive. Keep your fingers crossed.

Two track mind

I think I might still be in shock. It's around 18 hours since I returned from my Ikeathon and I remain a shadow of my former self. Worryingly, not even copious quantities of chocolate seem to be able to lift my mood. I will have to persevere with that one - where the Cadbury's Caramel and Penguin failed, perhaps a bag of peanut M&Ms will succeed...

Something fun did happen on the building front today - I wanted a dimmer switch put in my sitting room and bedroom and, naive first-timer that I am, had no idea whether I'd be able to afford this extravagance, but Lovely Dan said they would cost me about £6 per room, including parts and labour. See, if you don't ask, you don't get. Everything else is costing me a fortune though, and the people who buy the place simply aren't going to appreciate that I had to spend £400 having the kitchen electrics rewired, spend two weekends stripping manky wallpaper off my bedroom walls because the old owner didn't have a big enough radiator installed, or put an extractor fan into the bathroom. But then, I'm not doing this for the potential buyer. I'm doing it for me. Hard to believe that this is for me at the moment, when all it's doing is causing me stress and driving me into debt. Bring on the rewards, I say.

What else can I talk about, other than flats and sickening Mr L'Atelier-related schmaltz? [Long pause] Hmmm. Remove those topics from my mind and I'm afraid the tumbleweeds start rolling by, the wind whistles through the empty channels and somewhere in the distance an old door creaks on its hinges. Fidel's resigned, the government's screwed up on computer data again, Hillary's on her way out, there's been a seventeenth teen suicide in the tiny Welsh town of Bridgend, league tables are unreliable, the Brit Awards are tonight, Pakistan and Kenya are still messy and the UK's immigration laws are set to be dramatically altered but all I can think about is bathroom paint and how many hours there are until Tuesday 4 March. Tragic.

Ikea: Swedish for 'What you most need is unavailable'

My bedroom at home is a metaphorical bomb site. My new flat is a literal building site. It's a sad state of affairs when one's tiny, sterile glass office is the most pleasant environment on offer. The light at the end of the tunnel does exist, I'm sure, but I can't claim to have glimpsed it yet. However, in order to collect some items urgently required by my lovely builder and thus hopefully expedite the moment of first viewing of said end-of-tunnel light, this afternoon I left work, commuted across London, jumped into my mum's car and drove south to Ikea, Croydon.

An hour later after a journey through the rush hour, I started to wend through the showroom. It was really just as I'd remembered it, vast, irritating and invaluable. One question did continually arise as I wove my merry way with wonky trolley through the labyrinthine hell: why, in the name of sanity, do they allow children in this funforsaken place? Besides that, who in their right mind would bring their offspring to an environment that is already so devoid of peace and low blood pressure? I think once one's journey has been delayed by a small person more than five times, it should be legal to mow them down and store their remains in whatever handy Swedish-designed vessel happens to be nearby.

Miraculously, despite the junior hold-ups, I managed to make it through the showroom and down into the pick-up aisles fairly quickly. Excitably, I started collecting all my items, stacking the first couple of doors onto my flatbed trolley and feeling rather independent and capable. Full of the joys of minor achievements, I wheeled over to the appropriate place for my bathroom sink unit, where I had been personally assured that a box would be waiting, but - horrors - found only an empty space. My jaw dropped. This was the vital component. I had come all this way specifically for my bathroom sink unit. All the other purchases were secondary. Sure, I could buy the sink that would sit atop the unit, but without the unit, my builder would be unable to plumb anything anywhere. At first I was agog that, despite having checked stock availability online earlier this afternoon and then rechecked in the bathroom department on arrival at the store, there was still no sign of the unit. Then I became a bit grumpy. But then I realised that there was nothing else for it. I bought what I had found, got back in the car, and set off for Wembley.

An hour later, I arrived in the West London Ikea and began the process all over again. Thankfully, the missing items were present and correct and I think by this point it must have been bedtime because the child-count was dramatically and blissfully lower. Things were generally calmer and I left the store, shopping list completed as far as was possible, feeling much happier. There is not a cell in my body that believes I will finish this project without at least eighty more late-night trips to one or other of the branches, and returning to Homebase/B&Q is also inevitable, so there's no point developing too passionate a hatred. But for future reference, don't trust the stock check. It ain't over 'til the sink unit's in the boot of your car.

Can I see the light or am I merely hallucinating with exhaustion?

MacFlurry

Well, one thing I'll say for my blossoming relationship - things with Monsieur L'Atelier haven't been gathering dust. After our dreamy Valentine's Day, I met a few of his lovely friends for a delicious Thai meal on Friday night, had a drink in a Soho pub with his gorgeous sister on Saturday night and then on Sunday morning, my mum caught us kissing in the street outside my house. Classy...

Now he's gone on holiday for a fortnight and normal business can resume. Yesterday afternoon was spent continuing the marathon wallpaper stripping at the flat with my sub-contracters/parents. Today I have written a things to do list which is so long that I shudder at the sight of it. Now I must head into the dungeon and visit the office gym - all this wining and dining is heavenly for my soul but hell for my thighs. And tomorrow I will revisit Ikea - but this time, I'm going alone. Wish me luck for my journey into the known unknown.

And the winner is...

Much as I hate to admit it, I was wrong - again. The Least Rewarding Task In DIY (TLRTIDIY) is not Painting White Celings White, Painting Behind Pipes or Stripping Wallpaper. The true winner is, in fact, a glorious conglomeration of previous claimants to the title. I'm honoured to announce that the LLFF Award for TLRTIDIY in February 2008 goes to:

Stripping Old Wallpaper From Behind A Pipe, Two Inches From The Floor Inside A Cupboard That Will Soon Be Painted Over And Later Filled With Clothes.

As an entrant to this esteemed category, I fail to see how this can be beaten in future rounds but it seems that with each twist and turn, my merry route through decorating takes me to new lows. So watch this space, I fear the contest is not over...

That said, stripping wasn't all bad. Here follow my top three tips for happy stripping. One: buy a steamer. Without a shadow of a doubt, the best £20 I've ever spent. Two: cleanse, tone and moisturise immediately following the steaming session for that just-facialed look. And three: avoid the wearing of glasses during the steaming process. Visibility is reduced which is initially funny, then annoying, then dangerous, especially when fast moving scraping action is combined with being up ladder. Of course, the best tip I can offer when it comes to wallpaper stripping is 'get someone else to do it'.

On a more sombre note, I did see something while driving through the estate where my new flat is situated that made me feel a bit sad: two Asian kids, one a little girl wearing a headscarf, playing a vigorous game of football - but using a plastic bag filled with other plastic bags as a ball. It was getting blown around all over the place. They were howling with laughter so I guess there's no problem but the absence of a toy ball in my neighbours' lives did give me a jolt.

But it's not all complaints and sobriety: last night was the hotly-anticipated second date with Mr L'Atelier and I'm pleased to announce that he totally lived up to my internal hype, a feat rarely, if ever, achieved by any human. He's spent the past week skiing in France and after taking me out for Valentine's Day this week he will be heading off to Seattle and its environs for a fortnight. I'm pretty sure he's worth the wait but will keep my cards close to my chest. Although he does read my blog. D'oh.

Slow progress

I was wrong. Oh, so wrong. The least rewarding part of DIY is nothing to do with painting. Even painting the bits people will never see is, in fact, rewarding on one level - because just for that moment when you paint that patch, you are seeing it, and you are rewarded. No, the least rewarding part of DIY has to be when you work on preparing a surface for paint. It's too awful. No one will ever see the surface unpainted. No one will ever appreciate what you've been through. Arguably, in a a few weeks, even you will forget the hours of miserable, thankless toil.

More alert readers may have guessed that today I prepared a surface for paint. The walls in my bedroom-elect are mouldy and I have to strip off all the paint and liner paper, treat the mould, seal the concrete and then paint on the topcoat. I thought it was going to be fairly easy - on Wall 1, the paper came off in huge strips big enough to wrap up a giant's fish and chips. I was feeling fairly upbeat until I started Wall 2, where the previous decorators had clearly and inexplicably used Superglue to affix the liner to the wall. I became deeply nostalgic for the huge strips - now the pieces of paper I was removing were around the size of a postage stamp. Suddenly the area to be stripped loomed very large.

On the upside, I had a fantastic time singing along to the whole of Starlight Express and the first act of Chess before I gave up. And now I'm off to see Sweeney Todd, so it could be worse. But really, if you're lucky enough to be landed with this task in future, hiring a steamer is probably wise. And for the record, professionally, if given the choice, I actually think I'd rather be the other kind of stripper.

DIY Day 5: Retail therapy

As the trite fridge magnet says, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Having had about enough of painting and admin and phonecalls and delivery men for one lifetime, today I went to Homebase to buy a sink. In order to fit in with my builder's schedule, I need to find my bathroom sink in the next week to ten days. Of the three or four I found in Homebase that I liked, the quickest they could get me one was in 4-6 weeks. So I sighed, picked up some extra paint, bought some smoke alarms and a doormat and a light for my kitchen and went on my merry way. This afternoon I went to Habitat where I found a fantastic mirror for above my fireplace and some picture frames. Much more fun than shouting down the phone at the Sky installation 'team'.

Plus, when you're decorating at home, you don't get to witness the Great British Public's unique sense of humour, amply demonstrated this morning in the Signs and Lettering aisle at Homebase:

DIY Day 4: Insania

It's all become a bit much. I have approximately forty five thousand things to remember and eight billion chores. I'm loving the challenge, the flat looks fantastic - especially the new and improved spare bedroom with its first coat of Extra Deep, courtesy of my parents' sterling teamwork - but there's a shamefully large part of me that wants to remortgage and hire Sarah Beeny to finish the job. Sky came on time and left within two minutes, having established that a bay window in the flat next door is blocking the satellite signal to my flat; now I have to schmooze my neighbour to see if he will let me hang the dish on his external wall. I can't see him minding as he is a carefree young whippersnapper who probably wouldn't notice if Parliament was hung outside his window, let alone a Sky dish but still, it's another thing to add to the list - and even if he agrees in principle, I have to obtain his written consent which may be pushing it. In other news, my miraculous plumber appears to have fixed my boiler (again) so I'm relieved about that but another £100 poorer. And I moved about a tenth of my books over there this morning in two Ikea bags each weighing the same as a small Mercedes - I can't quite imagine how I'm going to fit all my possessions in the flat but anything I can't take I have to sell or chuck so the incentive is there - again, though, the temptation to hire a minion to do the hard labour for me is increasing with each passing hour. There are so many pressing things for me to consider but all I seem to be able to focus on is whether to organise my books aesthetically (all Penguin Classics together etc.), alphabetically by author or in categories. And I think it may finally be time to ditch my CDs and VHS tapes. The whole process is all very emotional and strangely solitary. What is cheering, however, is the prospect of dinner at a swanky restaurant tomorrow night: I need a break.

DIY Day 3: Apathy

I was perky. Then I was bitter. Now I'm just jaded and cynical. I still love Antelope and my place is looking better by the hour. But there's a lot to do and I can't quite conceive of it all being done. I gave the bookshelves their first coat of Satin today and then fell asleep on the sofa in the afternoon sun. I had my second dinner party tonight: more home delivery from Thai Silk with Emily and Sarah. It was really lovely, although the benefit of hosting is usually that you don't have to commute home from your own house, so the tube and bus ride back to my parents' at the end of the night was bittersweet. Still, it's centrally heated here which can't be underestimated right now.

Flat aside, I feel empowered and full of beans while simultaneously wanting to sleep for several eternities. I'm in shock about Jeremy Beadle, feel scandalised about Kenya, am gripped about Super Tuesday and am so excited about having Sky HD installed tomorrow that I think, despite my exhaustion, that I may struggle to slumber tonight. My head is a complex place to be.

DIY Day 2: The Aftermath

Oh, how I long for the naivité of yesterday, when I thought painting white ceilings white was a chore! Compared to my tasks today, painting ceilings is a job so rewarding it makes finding the cure for a debilitating disease seem like a mere frippery. At around 12 noon I realised that the least rewarding job in the decorating sphere is, in fact, carefully painting the back walls of shelves that will always, always be hidden from view by books. But then at approximately 3pm I accepted that the least rewarding job in decorating is actually painting behind the pipes that run underneath a radiator, an area that would only be visible if one were lying face down on the floor about a foot from the wall and took it upon oneself to scrutinise the zone in question. Not only will a good 60% of what I painted today be invisible to the naked eye for the majority of its span, but I had to pay good money for the paint.

To give myself credit where credit is due, I did a good job picking the paint. Now, I'll admit that I really only bought it because the colour's name is Antelope and I felt inexplicably drawn to it. Having seen it on the walls, I can see that the Honesty team at Dulux must have fought hard to label the shade Wet Cement but I do understand why, as a name, Antelope won out. Thankfully, it looks great and I'm really quite smug about it all.

Along with that minor excitement, today was a little trickier than yesterday. I had very little sleep last night (for a very good reason) and was consequently extremely tired this morning. When my new dishwasher and cooker hood turned up in south west London rather than at my new flat, therefore, I was a little tetchy. Then my central heating wouldn't work. But the Argos men arrived on time, the BT man was lovely and I had a delicious Thai takeaway with Luke tonight, while he stole 8Gb of my music. You win some, you lose some.

Tomorrow I'm moving off vinyl matt and onto eggshell emulsion for the woodwork and metal pipes. Sarah and Emily are coming over in the evening to snoop so I'm hoping to have the heating back on by then. Thursday we're into the spare room. And by Friday I'll probably be at the osteopath with a shoulder injury caused by RSI. I'm having the time of my life. Seriously. I'll be in serious debt for the Rest Of My Life but it's worth it.

DIY Day 1

Well, that was satisfying. I just sat down to write this and then I thought ‘Hmm. Maybe I’ll just see if I can rip out that disgusting faux-beech mantelpiece and faux-marble fire surround.’ And fifteen minutes later, it’s all gone. OK, everything apart from the bottom piece of marble. I lifted it a few inches away from the wall and underneath it was a suspect pile of miscellaneous white matter approximately six to eight inches in diameter. Of course, it could be a harmless building substance such as insulation or adhesive but there is also a slim chance that it is a bulging sac of larvae which will explode on contact with light, and as a result of that slim chance, I have returned the stone to its original position.

Today has been extremely fun. The Ikea men delivered my kitchen, the Corgi man came to check my boiler, take out my gas fire and disconnect my hob, and the EDF man came to look at my electricity meter. Then I changed into my painting clothes, last used in 1999, and painted the ceilings in my sitting room and my spare bedroom. I’ve had my iPod on random at a respectful volume, have eaten a random selection of unhealthy items but feel no guilt due to all the good work I’ve done, and now I’m going to choir. It’s all go.

I’m quite glad to have done a fair bit of ceiling painting today. Painting a white ceiling white is surely one of the most thankless tasks in the decorating sphere. I was quickly covered in spatterings of matt emulsion and suddenly became paranoid that I would be building up only my left arm muscles, leading to a bizarre pterodactyl bingo-wing situation where I may still take off while running, but once in flight will only travel in a clockwise circle. Consequently I have developed a unique ambidextrous roller action which I hope will prevent the occurrence of this potential pitfall.

Other than that minor gripe I have no complaints. Tomorrow I will begin on the bookshelves in the sitting room with the aim of finishing them and moving my books over from home by the end of the week. And in the evening I will have my first dinner party. Admittedly, there will only be two of us, and we’re having takeaway, but still, it’ll be the first time I’ve entertained at the new place and that’s still a milestone. High five.

Sunday summary

There is a unique type of moment when I'm sitting amongst a large and intimidating group of people and I realise that, in a few seconds, I will put my hand in the air and ask a question. My heart - thankfully fairly unnoticeable and reliable at all other times - will seem to shift north around five inches, coming to a halt at the base of my neck. Lodged in its new position, it will start to contract and expand with terrifying force and velocity, giving me the sensation that an angry racehorse is trying to kick its way out of my body through my sternum. Simultaneously, the blood will rush through my ears, my face will redden and I will be unable to hear anything except the pounding hooves. The sensation is not pleasant but I will be powerless to resist the pull towards my question, for once the process has begun it will not cease until it has reached a satisfactory conclusion.

I went through just this involuntary cycle on Thursday night when I went to see Tony Benn speak in Bloomsbury. He really is incredibly inspiring and made me feel fairly small for doing so relatively little to change the existing status quo. He mentioned that he'd left Parliament to concentrate on politics and that he now spends his time campaigning for several issues about which he feels particularly passionate. I asked him which of these he felt was most important and he said, 'It has to be peace, doesn't it. Because without that, everything else shrinks into the background.'

On Friday I was disgruntled when my boss clarified that the amount he was giving me as a bonus was, in fact, in Euros, not Sterling, wiping a third off the figure I'd been expecting. But later I laughed when I realised that an hilarious and select group of items are supplied by 'mongers': cheese, fish, iron and doom. The English language really is fantastic.

On Saturday I decided that the price difference between B&Q and Homebase is entirely justified. Dad and I went to B&Q first to buy my paint and various other sundries. After standing for several minutes, unassisted, at the paint mixing desk, we were eventually startled when a tiny, young, male helper appeared in front of us with more gaps than teeth in his mouth. When we asked for a meagre 5 litres of paint, he informed us chirpily that our request was impossible as, due to a computer error, they didn't currently have any in-store. We drove to Homebase which, after the apocalyptic hell of B&Q, seemed like an oasis of order created by Capability Brown. Everything was serene and efficient, there was a surplus of paint, a helpful assistant with excellent dental work and a 10% off deal.

Last night I had a blast from the past, attending a dinner party in west London with a few schoolfriends and their boyfriends. One needs to be a fairly serious Trivial Pursuit fan to insist upon playing with the old board and the new questions, but I was in the company of fellow obsessives. The if-you-knock-the-piece-of-pie-out-of-the-holder-by-accident, you-lose-it-forever rule was invoked, as was a new (to me) condition, that, once all six pieces of pie have been collected, you 'parachute' straight to the middle for the final countdown. I loved the use of the term parachute. Once at the centre, we played the standard 654321 method, where in your first go, your team must answer all six questions on one card correctly to win the game. If this fails, at your next turn you must answer five correctly to win, then four, then then three until a victory is reached. We were playing girls against boys and I'm pleased to say that we won comprehensively in an extremely irritating fashion by eventually working out the answers after several minutes of intense and wide-ranging discussion. 'Was it Japan? No, no - South Korea. No, I'm sure it was Germany. Ooh, no, it was Spain, I remember we did it in Middle IV.'

Now I must go for a run to clear my head and thin my thighs, then to Hammersmith buy a bathroom sink and some taps, then to the flat, then back here for American Idol. And tomorrow, the painting begins. I'm genuinely not sure I can handle the excitement.