The Capital Lettters Are BACK

The bandages are off and what you can see if you look at the photo is the inch-long wound that's been left behind following my ganglion and metacarpal boss extraction/planing just under a fortnight ago. It is minging enough, but when you add in the fact that 1) the gash itself is slightly blackened with the remnants of the indelible marker line, drawn on by the surgeon to show him where to make the incision; 2) either side of the cut, there are weird, corpse-like, wrinkled splits of skin caused by the adhesive sutures that I've been wearing for two weeks, and 3) the clear lesson I think we've all learned about not sunbathing while wearing a rectangular bandage... well, I am sure you can agree that it is not a pretty sight. Still, it's done now and is unarguably a MASSIVE improvement on a bean-sized, mostly-painless lump that no one but my dad ever noticed. Definitely worth it.

During my recuperation, several things have happened to me, the most life-altering of which is that I have accepted a place on an MA course in Creative Nonfiction (think true stuff written in a narrative, story-like way: Bill Bryson, Jon Ronson, Lost Looking For Fish), starting in September. This will involve lectures on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings from 6-9pm, plus reading approx. one book a week, plus writing a full, long-form work of non-fiction, at least 60,000 words long, to be submitted in two years - or else I fail. I was offered the place a while ago and went through a fairly gut-wrenching process as I decided whether or not I could or should do it, the world doesn't need any more books, what right do I have to write etc. etc., but in the end, lack of a better idea pushed me over the edge and I paid my deposit on Monday. I'm now skint as all my savings are locked into a special account until next February, so I am getting a lodger. The one I want is a 44 year old man who lives in Yorkshire with his wife and three daughters, and only needs the room on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's all go.

In the meantime, I have been wincing over the government's climbdown over the NHS (although OBVIOUSLY I'm glad that they've realised what a lot of mistakes they were making, the whole process has still been a sad waste of everyone's time and money); crying at Terry Pratchett's assisted dying documentary (Monday night - watch it on iPlayer if you missed it - I wasn't crying because I didn't think they should die with assistance, I was just crying because nice people dying before they want to is sad); eating doughnuts but not gaining weight (I appear to be in that cruel, all-too-brief, magic metabolism zone); spending many pounds having my hair cut and dyed to the point where absolutely no one has noticed; going to my favourite London night out of the year, the UK Beatboxing Championships finals, where the crowd is more genuinely diverse than at anything else I attend, a broad sweep of audience by gender, race, age and social group. Plus it's purely about talent - no interviews with the finalists, no sob stories, no Dead Wife Daniels, just young lads - still no girls on stage :( - who practice hard and are very very good at what they do. Tickets £11. Amazing. Oh, and I saw the ridiculously sad Senna, and was a bit ashamed when I admitted to myself that I wouldn't have been quite as sad if he hadn't have been pretty much one of the most attractive men I have ever stared at. Because apparently, in the appalling world of my head, ugly people dying in Formula One accidents isn't as tragic. Seriously, I don't deserve to say things out loud.

Some better news

Apparently if you are an atheist and want to be buried in the UK, you can have a secular burial. The list is here. Thanks very much to 'Body, Disposal' legal expert, Philippa, for the heads up - hope the baby does its thing soon.

Jesus

So after Chris and I discussed my death yesterday, we walked to M&S, and started talking about poor David Cameron, whose dad had a stroke while on holiday in France and died yesterday afternoon. And Chris said, 'I've always feared that would be how my dad died.' And then a few minutes ago, less than 24 hours later, I had an email from Chris, the same Chris, who is meant to be out of the office on a day's holiday sorting out his finances. The email read, 'I'm in hospital. Dad's had a stroke.' I've just spoken to him, and apparently there's a fifty fifty chance that his young, healthy father will make it through the next two days. Fuck. Ing. Hell. Life is bloody terrifying.

Even I can't be self-obsessed after that. Love to you all. xx

Meh of the same

I was hoping to give you a positive update that I now look back on Sunday and Monday and think, 'Wow, where did that come from? I feel AMAZING now! Look at me gambolling through this poppy field and playfully throwing handfuls of blossom at this attractive Boden-wearing stranger.' But in fact, I'm thinking, 'Wow, where did that come from? It couldn't be less logical, yet I am getting more and more sad with each passing hour and I don't understand why. And in the moments where I am not holding back tears, I am UNBELIEVABLY ANGRY at EVERYTHING. In short: a joy to be around.'

Something did make me laugh yesterday though. I had approximately the following conversation with my workmate, Chris.
J: God I'm grumpy. I hate being mental.
C: Yep. It must suck.
J: Maybe I'll die.
C: Don't die, I'll have to take time off for your funeral and I don't have any spare holiday days.
J: You'd definitely get compassionate leave for my funeral if you could pretend to be upset. I don't know how it would work though, because I want to be buried, not cremated, and apparently all the burial grounds in the UK are consecrated land, so basically, you have to have a religious ceremony in order to be buried. Which I don't want.
C: Just get cremated. We could scatter your ashes from the 5th floor.
J: No. I want to decompose slowly. Go back to the earth. Or I guess I could be buried at sea. Once I've donated my organs, you can do what you like with me.
C: [visibly shudders] Oooh no. That's one thing I could never do.
J: What, be buried at sea?
C: No, donate my organs. Yuck.
J: [aghast and pompous] Don't be ridiculous. You can't not donate your organs. That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard.
C: Maybe, but I'm not doing it. It freaks me out.
J: But you could potentially save, like, eight lives. I'm going to secretly register you on the online organ donation register and you won't know about it until you're dead.
C: [looks genuinely scared] Please don't do that.
J: [more pompous] What you need is someone close to you to desperately need an organ - then you'd see how important it is.
C: I have seen that. My cousin. But I'm still not doing it.
J: [Gobsmacked silence]
C: I tell you the other thing that freaks me out. Clock faces.
J: [proper shouty guffaw]
C: I'm serious. I'm OK with little ones but big ones terrify me.
J: What about digital ones?
C: No, it's just the big ones with hands. When I went to Prague, I had to be physically dragged up the clock tower because I was so scared.
J: And you call me mental?
C: You are mental.
J: I'm scared of failure and dying alone. You're scared of clocks and donating your organs AFTER YOU'RE DEAD. I think it is clear who is the weird one here.

He just sent me an email saying the following: "Just hit myself in the face with a phone receiver. As far as uncool ways to get a black eye go, that’s pretty high up there…"

Glad someone is making me laugh. And no, Mum, romance is not blossoming.

In other news, both mine and Chris' combined mentalness is put in the shade by some utter twunt of a priest in Florida, who is 'commemorating' 9/11 by burning 200 copies of the Qur'an. I hope his cassock goes up in flames and then he goes to purgatory and spends the rest of his life being shunned by 72 virgins. What. A. Dick.

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 list and some links

Ooh, the last 36 hours have been splendid in the most wonderfully mundane way. See here:

1. I had the day off work.
2. I got up just before noon.
3. My bedroom was warm, thanks to my new retro heater.
4. Davina went into the Big Brother house on Wednesday night and all the housemates were dressed up in animal costumes and god it was funny in quite a strange sinister way.
5. Also funny was this.
6. Then there was this which is also amazing.
7. Then I was opening my post and found a letter from the bank which said that the mean bankrupt skiing people had refunded almost all our money! Hooray!
8. Then the Tesco man came and brought me lots of lovely food.
9. He also brought me two bunches of daffodils (I'd ordered them, they weren't an impromptu gift although that would have been great) and now they are sitting in my flat in jam jars, about to pop and it's the best thing ever.
10. I had sardines in tomato on toast for lunch and it was freaking delicious.
11. I listened to lots of new (to me) music. If you are bored of waiting for the new Fleet Foxes album, just buy Person Pitch by Panda Bear. If you don't like Death Cab For Cutie's album on first listen, give it another go. It improves. Although not a huge amount.
12. I tidied my whole gorgeous flat from left to right and put things away and did laundry and bleached my shower curtain and wiped down the fronts of all my kitchen cabinets and hoovered and now it looks like a show home but in a kooky, unique and extremely comfortable way. Not like this (thanks Sara).
13. I watched some of the new series of American Idol and am now comforted that there is reality life after Big Brother finishes.
14. I marinated the lamb that I'm going to cook tomorrow night, and slow roasted some tomatoes and made some raita. Yum.
15. I realised that the amount of money that Grania and I were going to be spending on a skiing holiday was equivalent to the amount of money someone might spend travelling somewhere absolutely extraordinary and having a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, rather than getting drunk in Switzerland and pointing at over-confident Etonians. So maybe we will go somewhere extraordinary instead. We are discussing it over the weekend. More to follow.
16. For dinner I had an absolutely amazing Thai prawn curry and some very nice white wine. And a Nobbly Bobbly. Yes. You heard me. A Nobbly Bobbly. It is an ice lolly.

And now I have been to the gym and done rowing and other cardio, and am off to enjoy my weekend, kicking off with a trip to the BFI for another Ozu masterpiece. But before I do... I am aware that two of my most loyal Faithful have had very sad news this week and my thoughts are with both of you. The death of a parent is something that I am so lucky not to have had to deal with - yet. But the funeral I attended recently showed me that, no matter what wonderful terms you are on with the deceased, no matter how expected it was, no matter much pain they were in nor how much of a blessing in disguise it may be that a long illness is over, the loss of someone dear to you is agonising. The thought of never hearing my dad crack another joke, or not receiving another email from my mum telling me she loves me a propos of nothing, oh, it makes me feel physically sick. I am grateful for every moment and my attempts at levity above are not to suggest that there is nothing more important going on in the world, but merely to highlight my belief that taking this crazy little thing called life too seriously is a terminal disease in itself. Kisses to you all, my pretties. Tell your loved ones you love them. And then look at some daffodils.

TGIF. Not a new photo format.

Ooh goodness. I am one sleepy kitten. The antibiotics are definitely working their magic, but not quite as fast as I'd hoped. On the upside, I was only woken up once last night by the pain of my teeth. On the downside, I was still in an unfair bit of discomfort. I haven't slept through the night for about six days and I'm properly exhausted.

On top of teeth-induced tiredness, there was also the fact that I was all over-excited on Wednesday because it was the first night of my six-week ukulele beginners' course in Soho, so that probably wore me out. I can now play Wild Thing and Stand By Me like a pro. I've been told to practice for ten minutes a day every day and I missed yesterday; not the best start. I had a good excuse though: I had spent the day in Leicestershire, singing at a funeral with a few others. I didn't know the deceased, but from the eulogies it was clear that he had been a remarkable man. Blimey funerals are sad. Even though this guy was apparently 93 and had suffered with a long illness, meaning that his death was a bit of a release, the family obviously loved him deeply and almost everyone was in floods. My last grandparent died when I was 11, and I'd never known any of them particularly well. Watching this man's children and grandchildren unable to speak with grief at his loss left me a) crying and b) strangely envious of their relationship. I can't imagine what it would have been like to have had a close bond with someone nearly seventy years my senior. Even if they had not died when I was still a young girl, for purely geographical I don't think my relationship with my grandparents could have been very close, with one in Scotland and the other in the US. I hope that my kids, if I have them, are able to get to know their grandparents. Because they rock.

I don't know why the puppy is here. He just is. In Any Other Business, I'd just like to reiterate an earlier post and draw your attention to the check box next to Show Me You Love Me at the bottom of every blog post. I don't seem to be getting nearly enough ticks for my liking. I know from my Google Analytics stats that there are hundreds of you out there reading every week, but only about three of you comment, and hardly anyone ticks the box. Go on. If you've enjoyed something I've written, TICK IT. It takes less than a second and it makes me feel like I've had a pat on the head. I received an email this morning from a friend, who said that her friend (who I don't know) was talking to two other people (who I don't know either) about a wedding, and the two other people hadn't been to the wedding but said it sounded vaguely familiar, and it turned out that I'd been and they'd read about it on LLFF. Brilliant. I'm practically required reading. Meeting adjourned.

Once a gossip girl...?

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

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

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

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

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

Today is crap

1. It is pouring with rain.
2. I am ill with a sore throat and aching limbs.
3. Patrick Swayze is dead.
4. I have just dropped a buttered, Marmited corn thin, Marmite side down on my cashmere jumper. This is the cashmere jumper I wear when I'm ill. I can't take it off or I will get a lot iller. So now I smell of ill person and Marmite. FFS.

Saturday was really fun. I went for dinner with my friend Eva and then walked some of the way home, from Holland Park to Marble Arch, where I caught the bus. When I'd left my house at about 5pm that afternoon, I'd looked pretty cool - I was wearing a new spangly cardigan, my eye make-up was excellent and my hair looked slept-in. And, several hours later, as I walked past all the patriotic tourists who'd been watching the Last Night of the Proms in Hyde Park, I was filled with a sense of worldlove and contentment, and I beamed happily at many of my fellow flaneurs as I strolled towards London's heart, while listening to music by Lambchop, Crosby, Stills & Nash, DeVotchka and Quiet Village.

Then I got home and looked in the mirror.

My eyeliner hadn't just disappeared, it had sunk about two inches, increasing the depth and intensity of my bags and nestling into my crows' feet so as to define them with greater precision for the partially sighted. My hair, previously fluffy and full of joie-de-vivre, was now lank and clinging to my perspiring forehead following my walk. And, as the crowning glory, I beamed into the mirror as I had done at so many passers-by, and found a peppercorn the size of a grapefruit lodged between my left front tooth and the neighbouring incisor. My mental image of myself as an attractive, healthy thirty-something, humming along to her walkman as she smiles at strangers had to be updated quickly to a sectionable, sweating mentalist. Far from an advertisement for happy independence, in retrospect, it was a miracle I wasn't arrested.

On Sunday I saw two films. One was absolutely brilliant: The September Issue - not so much a triumph of skilled film-making as one of those cases where the subject matter is so extraordinary and fascinating that almost anyone could have held up a mobile phone camera and made a similarly gripping and eye-opening movie. I wished it could have lasted several days. Then I came home and watched The Family Stone, a film I was recommended by a friend who shall remain nameless to spare her any humiliation. It was absolutely the worst film I have seen in some months, derivative, embarrassing to watch, patronising and as subtle as a kick in the storecupboard. Take the opening scene, where a gay couple arrive at the home of one of their parents for Christmas, and are seen unpacking bags of beautifully wrapped gifts from their expensive car. So far, so PC. But one of the pair is black, while the other is white. Sigh. And - why not go the whole hog? - the white one is deaf. Actually deaf. I laughed out loud. Anyway. The mother, we discover, has breast cancer and is soon to die. Of course. So I was ironing away, scoffing at the increasingly absurd and irritating plotline where another (straight) son falls in love with his girlfriend's sister, but it's all OK, because his brother fancies the girlfriend, even though her character is genuinely less sympathetic than Hannibal Lecter, and later the bus drives away but then the brakes come on and he sprints to catch up with it and she gets out and asks if he has plans for New Year and I am trying not to be sick, but in the middle of it all, there is a scene where the dying mother is looking out of the window at the snow falling and you know that she is thinking, 'This might be the last time I see snow falling,' and in spite of myself I welled up, suddenly struck by the thought that, shit, this might be the last time I watch a movie, or iron a pillowcase, or get into clean sheets at night. I try to appreciate how lucky I am, but sometimes I forget to appreciate the normal things. I shouldn't have to be dying or confronted with death to appreciate living. So, for the record, I'm truly glad that today is crap, and I am grateful to have a sore throat and to be breathing in and out. And I'm happy that I'm seated here on my sofa, wearing one slipper and smelling strongly of Marmite. Yes.