Do Not Read This Post

Topics I feel I should write about:

• Obama's State of the Nation address
• Osborne blaming the economy on the weather
• My aching upper body and how I think climbing might be the world's greatest cure for bingo wings ever

Topics I have the energy to write about:

• A big, fat zero in a harness

I got home yesterday full of good intentions for a productive evening at home. I was initially efficient, cleaning my bathroom and the 'utility area' where the plumbing work had created a lot of dirt, and then making peppers stuffed with couscous. At 8pm I sat down on my sofa with the intention of checking my emails and then starting to write. At 8:30pm, my eyes were stinging so much that one actually released a tear. I admitted defeat and went to bed, where I did some meditation and was asleep at 9:15pm. Woke up at 8:05am this morning. Just under 11 hours sleep. Something is not right. Maybe it's still hormones. Maybe it's that I'm so old now that I am STILL catching up from my 4am night on Saturday, even though I slept for 11 hours on Sunday night too. If that's the case, I find it seriously unfunny. I can't be sleeping this much on a regular basis, life's far too short as it is. Growl.

Here endeth the World's Dullest Blog Post, which I sincerely hope marks LLFF's nadir. I never know if it's better to write this than not write at all. I'd normally argue for quality over quantity but apparently in the blogosphere, different rules apply, and you need to go for frequency above all else. Meh. Shut up.

In other news, I desperately want this dress. I actually think I would look better than Angie in it, such is the scale and unpredictable nature of my body image. If anyone is stuck for a Happy January present to get me, this would be a good start. I don't need the Brad Pitt, she can keep him.

Six lessons and carols

Gosh it's been a long time since I wrote anything approaching a 'normal' blog entry, where 'normal' = general recap of the life I've been living outside my head, unburdened by mammoth discussions concerning my very mental state. Maybe it's time for a brief summary of things I've done and things I've learned as a consequence, NOT that everything in life has to be justified by also being a learning experience but that's a habit it'll take a while to shake.

So last Monday I had a top-up laser appointment at 5.30pm, which isn't nearly as exciting as it might appear to my male readers, although it does involve me lying nearly naked on a bed while another woman points a gun-shaped item at my nether regions while I writhe and moan, but honestly, it's not remotely sexual, I swear. I did learn that laser, pure laser, is much better than the stuff I used to have, which is called IPL (unknown TLA). IPL involves ultrasound gel and you come out all red and blotchy plus your skin is left all tacky from the gel, and it hurts like nothing I've ever experienced. Pure laser involves no gel and almost painless. Why would any salon buy an IPL machine when they could have a laser machine? Because one costs £15k and the other costs £55k. So that's fairly conclusive.

Then I went to choir and against my better judgment we went to the pub and I got home late. On Tuesday I met Em and we did a quick bit of shopping and then went for a drink and I battled with what to have in order to maintain my current dieting status (lesson: M&S nut snack pot should be illegal, and certainly marketing it as a healthy item is in violation of several trades descriptions acts, unless eating a handful of nuts and consuming approximately the same amount of calories as there are in a McDonald's Happy Meal is healthy), and then we went to Georgie's for the Christmas session of our book club, where we laughed a lot and played a hideous version of Secret Santa where the first person picks from the pile of presents and opens one, then the second person can either steal that one or pick another at random from the pile. Then the third person can steal either of the first two's, and so on. It's about as brutal as gift giving gets - particularly if some people are happy to steal while others feel uncomfortable with the concept. I came away with lovely white wool bedsocks from Accessorise: they weren't quite a white porcelain dish with rabbit figurine from Anthropologie, but could definitely have been worse. (Lesson: Prisoners' Dilemma - play hardball).

Then on Wednesday I went out with Grania for a catch up and we celebrated the fact that she is a brainbox and passed her fiendishly difficult exams, while many of her peers did not. (Lesson: she is cleverer than she thinks). Thursday we had a choir concert and I had too much to drink and took a duvet day on Friday, which I spent lying around until the afternoon when I got up and got ready for my ukulele Christmas party, an evening which began fairly sedately, continued at a noisy pub down the road until 12ish, then moved to a dive bar until 3 or 4ish, then moved via Boris Bike back home, holding hands as we cycled along in the bus lane, and ended up passed out, fully clothed, in bed after too much vodka. (Lesson: alcohol is amazingly fun but not in the long run. Actually, that can hardly be called a new lesson. What did I really learn...? I can stay up later if I drink spirits rather than wine. Useful.)

Saturday was a write-off - I was too tired even to watch The X Factor final, fell asleep on the sofa, failed to make soup and got a bit cross with myself for being unproductive. Sunday dawned clear and bright: I made the soup, tidied bits of the flat and was all ready to leave on time for the 3pm rehearsal when I applied my make up a little too enthusiastically and knocked my nearly-new glass bottle of foundation all over my black bathroom tiled floor, where it shattered dramatically, splattering its contents all over the floor, the side of the bath, the side of the sink, my brown suede boot, my tights, my dress, the shower curtain and the bin. Predicting that I might well return home, after the concert, slightly under the influence and perhaps needing to relieve myself as a matter of relative urgency, I thought that leaving my bathroom floor covered with shards of thick glass and Estee Lauder Double Wear was probably not the best idea. I thus hurried to pick up all the fragments I could see and then tried to mop up the foundation. It was not a success. In a crazed rush, I sprayed ready-mixed Tesco mopping solution all over the floor and went off to the concert, desperately hoping that my floor wasn't porous and that I wouldn't return to a streaky beige tile effect in the centre of my bathroom. (Lesson: haste makes absurdly inconvenient, expensive, tardiness-inducing waste.)

The concert went well, I felt truly supported by my wonderful family and friends, read my poem and a handsome hipster composer asked to collaborate with me in the new year. We all went to the pub, I ate mince pies, drank white wine and felt a lot of love. After closing time I took the bus home, found dried foundation all over my floor, pine-scented cleaning solution nowhere to be seen, either absorbed or evaporated, and realised something would have to be done before I could wee. I spent the thirty minutes around midnight in my stilletos and one-shoulder black dress, mopping hard with only partial success. Stupid stuff wears off my face after about six seconds in a gentle breeze but can you wipe it off tiles after a night on them? I certainly can't.

Em came over last night for dinner, we looked at photos and discussed ill-advised flirtations. Now I'm exhausted with 100 things to do at home, presents to wrap, admin to sort out, baths to clean, last week's Apprentice to watch, and I'm out the next two nights so I really should get an early one tonight, and what about my bank balance?, but what I'd really like is to get up the energy to go and see Pete's band play in Hoxton as I know it'd be a lovely festive evening. Muster muster muster. Droop. Snore.

Tired Film Waitress Hen Complaint

So it's Monday afternoon, so of course I am doing my customary, weekly on a Monday-afternoon thing, where I sit and think 'I am so tired that I cannot possibly go on. How is it that I yearn, week after week, for a week when I look in my diary and find that I have not much on, but then look in my diary in real life, and find that every night this week is busy, and then I complain about it to myself, but then spend my working life making plans for future engagements, ensuring that my future is then filled up with engagements? Why would I be so silly?' but then I remember that I do enjoy the engagements. It's a hard knock life although I don't get kisses *or* kicks which I suppose makes my life a smidgen better than Miss Hannigan's orphans but fractionally worse than the average girl's.

So on Friday, I met up with Sara and we went to see In Our Name, a film showing as part of the London Film Festival. I'd read up about it in advance and thought it sounded interesting - the psychological impact of being on the front line for a woman who, after 18 months in Iraq, returns to her family in Middlesbrough. Annoyingly, though, the plot went a lot further - her husband was a horrible, violent, racist fuck-up, and what could have been an enlightening insight into the PTSD suffered by thousands of ex-servicemen was instead a very bleak, unpleasant look at one extreme, and extremely unpleasant, situation. I didn't like it. Superb acting though. The husband and wife came on for a Q&A at the end and I just couldn't imagine how his real-life girlfriend/wife, if he has one, would be able to separate the real him from what she'd seen on screen.

Then we went to Pizza Express in Soho, where we encountered the world's oddest waitress. She was tiny, around five foot tall, with thin, black, chin-length hair parted on the side and held back with a hairgrip. Her eyes were terrified, and on the corner of her alabaster forehead was a dark, shining bruise that looked both recent and painful. As we gave her our order, she gave a series of approx. 1000 tiny nods of her head, as though being charged with the most important mission of her life to date. There was an issue with one of our requests and she said she had to ask her manager. Several billion years later, she returned saying she was so sorry but she hadn't managed to find out the answer to our question because her manager had been talking to someone and she'd felt it would have been very tactless to interrupt. We said we understood, and asked if, while we were waiting, she would mind if we gave her the five branded Pizza Express advertisements that had been on our table - pizza of the month, special wines, another notice around the flower vase etc. etc. Her eyes became even wider, giving her the impression of one of the girls in Soundgarden's video for Black Hole Sun, and she nodded sympathetically, before explaining at some length (and we're talking several minutes here) that she was from Slovenia and felt like the amount of corporate branding and advertising in the west was a real problem and that she thought there should be strict controls on what, where, and how much. You can take the girl out of the former Communist bloc...

Saturday was another big day - my friend Emily's hen, where I and a few others were entrusted to spend the hard-earned cash of Emily's 14 closest friends on their behalf, an endeavour that I found challenging and enjoyable. I think that, in the end, we struck a good balance between boat rides, ritual humiliation, drunkenness, new skills, old photos, gifts and bad music. Or, at least, the balance was there. I did not strike the balance quite so well on a personal level, as I awoke on Sunday morning feeling as though I possibly had food poisoning and remain nauseous and exhausted to this moment. I managed to go to a three hour singing rehearsal, which showed a level of dedication I wasn't aware I possessed. And I watched a lot of The X Factor. And I ate. Good lord, did I eat.

As a public service, however, I do feel that I should mention the hen activity we did on Saturday afternoon: a cookery class with a company I'd found online called The Urban Kitchen. I wouldn't suggest you use them, should you be in the market for a relaxing, fun group activity. To save me typing it all out again, below is the email that I sent the boss this morning. On the upside, in comparison to her, I seemed carefree and even laissez-faire, which was excellent for my ego.

I've now transferred the £11.00 to you for the extra wine on Saturday night. Everyone agreed the food was delicious.

Having received a few questionable emails from you prior to the event, including one where you seemed to accuse Joanna of deliberately ignoring or losing the forms you'd sent through, and being more than terse that all 12 hens had not filled in the dietary requirements form only a couple of days after you'd provided us with the link - oh, and the one where you asked us to start late and then said actually no, let's start on time, but it might be difficult as there's another group directly before us (not the best way to make us feel special) - we were hoping that our issues were only in print, and that in person it would be a more pleasant experience.

However, I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that we won't be recommending The Urban Kitchen - several people overheard you making sarcastic remarks about us to your team, and the way you publically reprimanded people for accidental cooking errors was a long way from good client management. I had many comments from the group saying that they were terrified of you and that they'd been"told off" - it should surely go without saying that people don't pay nearly £70 to feel uncomfortable.

I wasn't sure whether or not to say anything, but I know repeat business is important for a small enterprise such as yours, and I felt it was important that you should hear that, at times, we found your manner very aggressive and unfriendly.

I am sure you can catalogue ways in which you didn't like me/us, but I'm afraid in this scenario, the customer should always be right!

I hope you can use this feedback to your advantage.

Between you and me, the above isn't the whole story. We did actually have a lot of fun - but it was no thanks to her. I've always agreed with Napoleon that it is important for group morale to have a common enemy (or was it Nelson? Isn't that where scapegoat came from...? OK... That was fascinating. Scapegoat comes from a mistranslation in the Septuagint, the early Greek version of the Bible. And I can't find anything on Google re. what I was talking about with common enemies. I remember reading somewhere that there was a captain at sea who, as a management tactic, deliberately made himself unpopular so that his crew would unite and work well together. Anyone know who or what I'm talking about? I clearly will never remember). Anyway, we all giggled a lot. It was a bit like being back at school: the more stressed the boss got, the more naughty and careless we became. We also ate extremely well (having cooked the food ourselves), so in many respects the event was excellent, but basically the woman in charge needs to sort her management skills out. That's all. I am now preparing myself for some sort of defamation case (which is not in any sense to imply that the above is inaccurate), so enjoy this blog entry while you can, I suspect it may not be here for long.

Whirlwind.

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

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

Today I am mostly trying to stay upright.

Holding blog

I'm back and it was, beyond a whisker of a doubt, awesome. However, I am too tired to write about it just now. I think that between my arrival on Wednesday lunchtime and my departure yesterday, I managed an average of around 5 hours' low-calibre sleep a night. I have fallen asleep at my desk so many times today that I look like a nodding dog. My hair is sun-bleached, my skin is brown and there is a dark bruise on my chin from where I fell off a see-saw at approx. 3am on Sunday morning.

Back soon. Thank you for your continued patience.

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.

Czeching Out

My eyes are stinging with tiredness but now is as bad a time to write as any. New Year's Eve was truly wonderful. We went to a restaurant we'd spied earlier, and had a delicious four course dinner including pizza underneath a gorgeous vaulted ceiling, chatting non-stop to the Hungarians at the table next to us and the stammering Germans opposite, and later to the enthusiastic Greeks at the table even further away. At 23:47 we rushed out into the Old Town Square, determined to see the Astrological Clock chime us in to the new decade, but there was no way we could muscle through the packed crowd, so we celebrated midnight opposite the Christmas tree, as thousands of impromptu fireworks were set off all around us, with scant regard for health or, indeed, safety. Nick got through his hatred of NYE by pretending he was reporting back for a local BBC News channel, asking everyone who would make eye contact with us where they were from, and what their hopes were for 2010.

After the big moment had quietened down somewhat, we returned to the restaurant for a final drink, and a lovely waitress chatted to us for ages and then revealed herself as the place's owner, saying we didn't have to pay for any of the extra drinks we'd had. Result. We gave her a fat tip. Then we wandered, headily, through the streets and over the Charles Bridge, photographing things and reveling in the fact that although everyone was undoubtedly drunk, no one was being aggressive, unfriendly or anti-socially loud. It was lovely.

This morning started a little slowly and we missed the hotel breakfast so had a snack from the Christmas market, me feeling optimistic that the Nutella and crepe that surrounded my banana did not detract from its 'one of my five a day' status. Then we wandered over to the Jewish Quarter. Now, I know as well as you do that it is impossible and deeply stupid to generalise about an entire race, so I won't, but I will say that the Jewish section of Prague is the most badly organised and stressful area in the city by a country mile. Everything is numbered, but the numbers don't correlate to the buildings on the map they give you, and the numbers on the map don't correlate with the numbers on your ticket. Then there are long rooms full of displays of things, but you have no idea what the things are/mean, because the panel of information explaining their significance is behind the door through which everyone is walking. The Holocaust was, undeniably, absolutely horrific. The things those people went through, whether they survived or died, are beyond my powers of imagination - or, perhaps, I just don't want to have to think about them. And I totally buy the whole 'lest we forget' argument - we should be reminded, regularly, of the horrific elements of humanity's past, sometimes shockingly recent, so that we don't let such atrocities happen again, if possible. But, that said, it does seem to me that Judaism's PR is almost entirely negative. If it were me, I would focus on the Sho'ah, sure, but I would also talk about the wonderful things about my faith that make me proud. I'd like to hear a bit more about the positives. Maybe that's just me. The cemetery, the synagogues and the exhibitions were interesting, once we worked out what was going on, but the tourists were disrespectful and the highlight was probably the tiny menorah that Nick bought on a stall outside.

After the Jewish Quarter, we walked back over Charles Bridge and had yet another deep fried lunch before heading up to St. Nicholas' church, where we arrived at 15:48 and the last admission was at 15:45, so we grumpily went on to The Church of Our Lady Victorious, just down the road, where Nick had read about this little statue of Christ that was donated by a Spanish woman ages ago, and is thought to have magical powers and is one of the most sacred icons in Catholicism. We'd started calling it the Waxy Jesus, because it is made of wax. And so we went to see the Waxy Jesus, and sweet Mary mother of God, if it wasn't the most gloriously kitsch thing in the history of the world. There's this tiny, alabaster-pale doll, perched high on a wall, surrounded by ornate metalwork, wearing an elaborate white gown, and in front of it are people praying. Real people. And upstairs, in the museum, are glass cases full of all the Waxy Jesus' other outfits. For there are many. All donated by other countries. Gorgeous ruffled cuffs and collars on a gown sent from Columbia, a beautiful embroidered cape from Shanghai, a deep red get-up from Vietnam and a case full of white, lace undergarments to protect Waxy from damage, accompanied by a photo of three nuns helping him into a new costume. He changes every feast day. It was fantastic but simultaneously deeply worrying. Nick can't stop thinking about him.

Then we went back to St. Nicholas' church and bought tickets to a 5pm concert, and sat quietly in the back pew while a good flautist and a semi-good soprano and an excellent organist played a selection of hits old and new, and I admired the trompe d'oeuil ceiling and snoozed, and a woman sat down next to us and knocked my antique Czech metal paint pot onto the floor, and then we left fifteen minutes early because we had to go back to the river to see the wonderful New Year's Day fireworks, which were great, and then we thawed in a bar and I had a heated conversation about wine with an argumentative Frenchman who, it seemed, deliberately misunderstood my point. And then it was time for the JAZZBOAT, and we were sharing a table with a very cute couple, early-twenties, she was from Holland, he was from Hungary, they hadn't seen each other since early October and god they were so happy, it was quite moving. The jazz was good, the boat travelled, I kid you not, about half a mile before we stopped at a lock for ages, and then went on a little bit and turned around almost immediately, stopped at the lock again for ages, went back to our starting point and a fraction beyond and then turned round and docked, but it was fun anyway. And now I'm at Prague airport, having started writing this last night and then passing out. I loved Prague. The people were very friendly, the architecture was stunning, the history was fascinating and had a good spread of interesting incidents through the ages, the tourists were nice, the items for sale were excellent, especially in the area of miniature things - I am most excited about my tiny matches and my tiny glass snail - and the food was, while perhaps not the healthiest, definitely delicious. The ratio of couples to non-couples was approx. 93:1, so if you are feeling particularly sore about your unwed status I might suggest avoiding it, but other than that I have no complaints. That said, I've just seen a photo of Vegas on my computer and I slightly wish I was in the States, and I am so excited about getting back to my flat that I might weep. London, I'm coming home.

AWOL

It had to happen eventually, didn't it? Either my liver was going to grab some essential possessions and slink out of my slender frame, or my brain was going to call 'Time.' I think it is the latter that has happened, although it may be a combination of the two: I developed a sore throat last Thursday after my choir night out, and now appear to have two colds running concurrently, a delightful circumstance that offers me continual surprises as I never know which merry new symptom is going to hit me next. This is despite taking it relatively easy over the weekend. I had a great night out on Friday with a lot of old faces, held at a Hammersmith pub, where I felt simultaneously comfortable and strangely out of place. Before the booze kicked in we talked about new media and Twitter and politics and the Middle East, and after about 9pm we talked about kissing and flirting and, honestly, I have no idea what else. I am the Queen of Sincerity, I tell you, earnestly engaging in these chats with true interest and then sweeping down the decks moments later to make room for some other gems.

After the party, I took a minicab back to my parents, driven by a man who was, himself, the size of a taxi. It was a bit like an Escher drawing and I couldn't work out how he managed to fit inside the car's frame. The next 36 hours are a haze of Christmas familial love and involve me wearing a huge jumper, lying on the sofa listening to festive music, while my mum brings me amazing snacks and cooks beef brisket, sitting up briefly to eat lunch and dinner at the table, even standing once or twice to help put up the Christmas tree, and then sitting down again to watch Gavin & Stacey and Take That's incredible Circus tour at Wembley over the summer. God they are amazing, aren't they? What lovely young men. I'm very proud to have supported them since the start. Gary's voice is just gorgeous. Yum.

On Sunday I went to Waterloo to meet Grania and we watched In The Hood or Into The Hoods or In Da Hoodz or something, which was (as it was billed) a cool, festive, dance-off thing for teenagers, so I couldn't be legitimately disappointed, but it was all a bit Sylvia Young Theatre School and not enough genuine edge. The fact that Gra and I knew most of the music suggested it was a little more mainstream than it tried to suggest - more The X Factor does hip-hop than convincing urban grime. Fun though, with a kind of depressing undercurrent as I had to face up to the fact that, even after a thousand hours of classes, I'd still never look that good on the dancefloor. Still. I have many other special talents.

Then I went home for another early night, and my body, I think, saw me relaxing a bit more than I have of late, and sent a message to HQ that this was the start of a permanent hibernation rather than a brief hit of R&R before getting back onboard the party train to oblivion. Since the weekend, I've been in an ME-esque haze, my face contorted into a permanent yawn and my desire even to put on a bra at its lowest ebb. The concept of getting dressed up in high heels and putting on make-up makes me want to laugh very sarcastically, weep a bit, and pull the duvet up over my head. Last night I went home after work and wrapped presents in front of the TV, and even that seemed like an excruciating amount of effort. I am meant to be going to a party tonight, a lunch tomorrow and a party tomorrow evening, all of which are full of fun people, but I think my chances of making any of them are slimmer than I'll ever be. It's the kind of day when I feel like I should get high fives and back-pats for even turning up at work at all. Mmmm... massage...

And so this is Christmas

I am still recovering from one of the happiest weekends of the recent past and the prospect of writing down the events (or, at least, those events that aren't X-rated) as they occurred seems like an unassailable incline. It is not impossible that I am still drunk from Saturday.

But the story begins on Friday afternoon, when I got changed in the loos at work into my gladrags and headed over to Clerkenwell for my friend's wedding. I sang at the service as part of a quartet, which was fun and festive, and the organist was hilariously bad, and the vicar was almost unintelligably Italian, which was fantastic, and then we went to the reception and gorged ourselves on canapes and delicious champagne, and the speeches were brilliant, and then Harry started playing the piano, and then Dom took over, and then I put my foot in it really really badly but it was funny, and then the bride and groom left in a rickshaw, and we all went for a lock-in at a pub down the road, and then had more to drink, and took bad photos, and then I started chatting to two guys in the pub, one of whom was being quite flirtatious, and later when I left I went to say goodbye to him and he said, "Bye," and I was outraged and said, "I can't believe you're not asking for my number!" and he just shrugged as if to say, "Deal with it, love." I had a brilliant time other than this incident and then went home on the nightbus to Elephant and Castle at about 3.30am, singing all the way to songs on my iPod, and woke up on Saturday morning surrounded by a champagne flute that I'd taken from the reception, an empty packet of Roast Beef Monster Munch and the wrapping from a Reese's peanut butter cup. In a moment of almost unrecognisable self-restraint, I had put the remaining two cups in the fridge, along with a Dime bar. And another packet of Monster Munch. Which I ate for breakfast, washed down with a Diet Coke. Then I went back to bed.

Saturday afternoon I got up and went to choir practice, and then we did our concert and the church was rammed and I read my poem and it was really fun (although my mum later said that she'd spent most of it panicking that I was going to be struck by heaven-sent lightning while I was up in the pulpit), and after we'd finished singing, my boss started the standing ovation, and everyone was on a massive high, and we went to the pub afterwards and I had such wonderful friends there, people from school, people from uni, people from my first job, and people from the last few years. There was so much love in the room and I felt extremely lucky indeed. At 11.30 the pub shut and we tripped into Soho to meet a few other choirboys who had gone to Sketch, which I'd heard of but hadn't been to before. There was a queue outside and Grania and I got a bit lairy and barged to the front and demanded to be let in and they (sensibly) refused, and then we called our friend and asked him to come and get us, and they sent a different guy who is a member and the doorman was livid as he'd thought we were just chancers (as we had also believed) and he had to let us in and I felt like Madonna. So then we went to this ridiculous room at the back with the bar sunken into a pit in the centre and the space-age seats around looking like something out of a Star Trek strip joint. It was bloody brilliant and we all had a ridiculously fun time and were the last people to leave at around 4am, and I had to be told more than once that I wasn't allowed to leave carrying my glass of white wine, and Grania and I shared what was left, gulping it down as if the gallons of alcohol we'd already consumed were not sufficient. Then I went home and the next bit is embargoed but god it is quite literally one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me and when I deem the moment right to reveal all, I guarantee it will have been worth the wait.

And then it was Sunday and I was a bit over-emotional having had no sleep and no vegetables or fruit since Friday, so all I did was compound things by eating pasta with pesto, hot dogs and fun size Crunchie bars out of the fridge. It turns out they're not so fun on their own, and, like kittens, are demonstrably better the more you have. I watched The X Factor final, got annoyed with the Great British Public for forgetting that this shouldn't just be a singing competition, but rather a contest to find someone who can actually contribute to the body of pop music that is churned out every year by doing something slightly unusual and fresh and original, and Joe, the winner, is no more likely to release a cutting edge record than I am to be described as demure. Grrrrr. But god it was a fun weekend. I went to bed at midnight, having become trapped in a void syncing my iPhone, a task I only ever seem to start when I am so tired that I've started hallucinating. This morning I woke up at 7.15am to do yoga and accidentally switched my alarm off rather than pressing snooze. I didn't get into work until 10.30. Oops. Off to the Private Eye Christmas Quiz at the National now. I think I might need illegal substances to maintain consciousness.

Open wide

One of the things that my hypnotherapy recording, Bounce Out Of Bed, asks me to do to aid early morning perkiness is to think about three things that you're looking forward to doing the next day. The idea is that when your alarm clock goes off, you'll think automatically about those three things rather than thinking, as I occasionally do, 'Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......... why did I have that last glass of wiiiiiiiiinnnnnne.... my bed is soooooo amaaaaaazing...... It is inhumaaaaaaaane to expect me to leave the warmth. Inhumaaaaaane......' etc. The hypnotherapist, Mark Someone, seems to have created an equation whereby the excitement you feel about the exciting thing outweighs the appeal of staying in bed. Unfortunately, given how I feel most mornings, even those when I haven't touched alcohol for days, it would take the prospect of... actually, I can't think of anything that would ever make me want to bounce out of bed. Nothing. It is always, always done reluctantly. Even if I'm going on an incredible holiday and I have a plane to catch, even if I'm having lunch with Gandhi and dinner at Gordon Ramsay with a taller, better looking version of Simon Cowell, when I hear the alarm, I'm tempted to cancel.

Even so, I do what Mark tells me, and dutifully list and picture a few good things about the next day when I lie in bed each night. It is never hard to find things to be excited about when I'm still awake. It's the morning after where they lose all their currency. Last night, I was buzzing following a rousing trip to the Young Vic to see Annie Get Your Gun, ably but by no means perfectly performed by Jane Horrocks. We had a good night but it was definitely a bit clunky - I'd give it a solid 9.5 out of a possible 14. I hummed S'wonderful all the way home, clambered under my incredible duvet, the gift that keeps on giving, and settled down for Bounce Out Of Bed. My highlights for the following day came thick and fast: 1) see who has responded to my survey about the planned school reunion; 2) go to La Clique at the Roundhouse; 3) go for delicious dinner in Camden afterwards and poss. have amazing steak; 4) have first ever medical.

And there I ground to a halt. How could I possibly be looking forward to my first ever medical? The last person I knew that had a work medical found out they had prostate cancer. They are not associated with fun in my head. But, I guess in keeping with my eternal quest to know and control as much as I possibly can while still enjoying life to the max, the idea of being tested for lots of stuff appealed. I pay for this healthcare, so I may as well use it. And this morning, at 10.15, I scampered over to the medical centre near my office, filled in a lengthy form where I detailed all my various health incidents, crossing most of the boxes but filling in a few. I had to phone a friend, my dad, to help with family history - apparently we're in the clear - but other than that, it all went without a hitch.

Then I met my doctor, who was very nice, and asked me a few questions, and then asked me to 'slip on this robe' and I panicked because sometimes women's robes don't overlap far enough around my hips and I end up with an alluring isosceles gap around my thighs. Fortunately this was a roomy specimen and I clambered up onto the bench without flashing much of my smooth, tanned flesh. He listened to my heart, and my back, and checked my reflexes with his little rubber mallet (which I HATE), and he took a blood sample, and he did lady things, and he seemed pleased that I rarely eat red meat and I don't smoke or drink caffeine. He said I seemed very healthy, and we talked about infertility and he said not to worry until I'm 35, which seems like it's in about six minutes but hey. Que faire. Then I got dressed and went back to my desk. I get the results in a week. Cross your fingers.

So now two of my four exciting things of today are over but the best two are still to come. Woop. The weekend ahead has been timetabled with razor-sharp precision and if I don't have at least two hilarious anecdotes to regale you with on Monday I'll be disappointed. Go well, my lambs.

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.

Morning has broken

I may be 31 but I am still a teenager at heart, as well as a sufferer of hyponarcolepsy, a rare narcoleptic derivative that is completely fabricated in order to explain a propensity to sleep when stressed. As such, I cherish my sleeping hours with a vehemence that many consider perturbing. My slight hysteria about sleep reaches its zenith at around 7.25am each day, when I awake and realise that my alarm will go off shortly. Desperate to pack in as much kip as possible, I try every trick in the book to scrounge a few more seconds of snoozing before my iPhone's reveille kicks in. Any noise, any interruption during this time will be met with red-eyed anger and possible neurotic whimpering as the exhaustion I am experiencing tells my brain that getting up will be a categorical impossibility without the maximum remaining sleep possible. Without the few minutes left on the clock, I reason, I will reach such a state of exhaustion that I will be forced to stay in bed until mid-afternoon, lose my job and become homeless, a concept that initially seems appealling, allowing, as it does, a fair bit of time to rest. Eventually, good sense kicks in and I either snooze, or panic about not snoozing, until it is no longer possible for me to stay in bed and get to work on time. Then I lie with my eyes open, whimpering further, groaning occasionally, and stretching langorously for a few minutes, all the while desperately searching for a plausible reason why I must stay in bed. Then I get up, always saying 'Alright, I'm up! I'm up!' to some invisible nagging parent.

Such is the waking nightmare I go through every weekday morning. You'll see why I'm not convinced that I'm ready for motherhood. Bad enough, you will agree, without further incidents with which to contend. But this morning, at approximately 7.16am, a full fourteen vital minutes before the first alarm was set to bore its way into my repose, I executed an unexpectedly vigorous rotation, accompanied by an abnormal duvet flick manoeuvre, and in doing so, knocked my (full) glass of water down the back of my (walnut veneer, art deco, bought on eBay, imported from Italy) bedside cabinet, all down my (matt painted) walls, into the back of my (ageing, past-fixing) stereo, over the (four-gang) plug socket beneath the bedside cabinet, over my (dusty) carpet, and deep into the (unreachable) crevice between the skirting board and the carpet's edge. As I typically do in these situations, I lay still for a moment, wondering if it would go away. But realising that I have to be a grown-up these days, I got up, found tea towels, and mopped. As always, I was struck that my average-sized water glass had managed to contain over three litres of liquid. It was 7.23am before I got back to bed and, naturally, I had to stay therein for a long time to recover from the stress. On the upside, I found a long-lost hairclip under the bed.

In unrelated news, I didn't like this joke, but I laughed because it was sad. I think my father will enjoy it, so here Dad, for you, is a joke I read on a BBC blog this afternoon:
A woman is looking at herself naked in the bedroom mirror. "I feel horrible," she says to her husband. "I look old and tired, my hair is grey and my skin is saggy. I could really do with a compliment." Her husband looked up and said, "Well, your eyesight's good."

Lost Looking For Sleep

I think I have yawned in excess of six thousand times today. My candle has burned out from both ends: no remnants of wick remain, just a small pool of hardened wax from the moment the flame extinguished itself several days ago. I am beyond exhausted, Faithful. But it is all entirely self-inflicted and I request no sympathy.

On Friday I went over to Tracey's in North London where we were joined by two others and had a small but vigorous reunion featuring singing into wine bottle microphones, dancing to Ms. Jackson by Outkast, wearing plastic silver tiaras and going to bed late. It was an absolutely brilliant evening. On Saturday afternoon, hungover for the second consecutive day, I crawled home, dumped my overnight bag, changed my clothes and went straight back out again, this time to watch the fireworks on the South Bank. I think I was, perhaps, spoiled by watching the 4th July celebrations in Seattle this year, because the London display seemed a bit of a damp squib. They were beautiful in places, and the reflection of the lights on the Thames, with St Paul's in the background - well, it was all rather lovely. But there was no music, and they only seemed to last about ten minutes. Pah. We consoled ourselves in the BFI cafe for a while and then went for a delicious dinner at the Anchor & Hope on The Cut in Waterloo, which was very busy but very fun and highly recommended if you're not in a rush. Then two of our number left, and the remaining three of us pushed on with the wine before moving venues to another couple of bars. It was a really lovely evening. I made it home by about 1am, slept until about noon on Sunday, narrowly avoiding the nadir of my third hangover, then loafed at home in velour and seventh heaven until it was time to leave for the Albert Hall, where I watched a fantastic Royal Opera House production of Britten's War Requiem, which knocked my socks off. A great way to end Remembrance Sunday.

Since the weekend, I've been running on empty with choir after work on Monday, a friend's birthday party in Mayfair last night, a huge and stressful drama on the Northern Line this morning, a four mile run with Laura in the gorgeous crisp November sun this lunchtime and various need-to-know work dramas. I'm now so floppy that it's a miracle I can find the strength to press the keys to type. Formulating witty and erudite sentences for your amusement is thus out of the question, I'm afraid. Tonight is all about battery recharging and will involve Eve Lom, fake tan, eyebrow plucking, laundry with Lenor, clean sheets, a selection of very bad TV and a bag of prematurely-purchased Tesco's chocolate money. I am so excited I might drool.

October already

So I spent the first half of this week thinking I may have some mild form of ME. Totally listless, desperately tired every morning, uninspired to write, my flat becoming gradually messier for the first time, washing up and laundry left undone - all very unlike me. But I've made it to bed by 11pm the last three nights and am now feeling a lot more in the land of the non-ME sufferers.

Other than exhaustion, and once I recovered from my SuperSized date on Saturday, I've had a good week and feel full of the joys of autumn. The financial crisis has continued apace, but my boss remains calm and confident on the whole, so I am taking my lead from him and trying not to worry about my paycheque. My left foot (the one I injured running) is now fine; my right foot on the other hand (the one I injured in another way) is still bandaged and bruised - and not helped by the fact that I whacked it hard against a metal chair leg in my office yesterday morning. The resulting lack of ability to exercise hasn't helped my mood, but I'm hoping to be back, if not pounding the pavements of London, certainly enjoying Mountain Pose on a yoga mat, by next week.

And also - I went on another date last night. I know! Two dates in five nights - punchy! This guy was (and remains) South African, and was actually attractive (although I admit my tasteometer may have been blunted by last weekend and I may just have been grateful that he didn't need to go to a specialist shop to buy his jeans) and we had a nice time. He is clever and well-travelled and interesting and funny, all positive things. I am wary about him, however, as his internet profile said he is 'possibly too charming for his own good' and he did offer to 'walk me home', an idea that I quashed very early on. I can't believe anyone would fall for such ridiculous rubbish, but when I asked what percentage of girls would let him come home with them on a first date, he said fifty! I am gobsmacked by this. Obviously, he could be lying in order to make the idea more persuasive - but even if he's exaggerating by a fair bit, the idea that even one girl would be stupid enough to let a complete stranger, albeit one who is charming and attractive, into their home after only one evening together is completely terrifying. I don't blame him for having a go - he's male, after all, and I did look very pretty in my dress - but really. Anyway, he's now off to South Africa for work until the end of October so although we've exchanged emails today and he's tried (and failed) to befriend me on Facebook (Yes! Of course! Have a look at all my photos from the past two years of my life, read all the messages my friends have sent me - and then click on the link to my blog and find out everything I've done since November 2006! That's a healthy start to any blossoming relationship!), I'm not holding my breath about this evolving into anything else. It's just nice to know there are still some handsome, intelligent men out there who haven't already been frogmarched down the aisle.

Flagging

For some incalculable reason, I seem to have regressed into a shell of my former self. No longer buoyant and keen to exercise, I now delay going to the gym as a dentistphobe might delay going to the dentist. Just as I have, in fact, for the last three years - but that's another story. And despite several inspiring topics dangling in front of me like a Magic Tree on the rearview mirror of my life, I have been singularly reticent to write my blog.

I could have written about the man in the gym last week who was roaring with such ferocity as he weight lifted that I eventually stopped laughing and started feeling quite threatened by the brute force of his testosterone-fuelled idiocy. This is the kind of man who needs to be told, quietly and firmly, that he is a moron.

And I definitely wanted to write about the nationwide press coverage today that the results of anti-depressant medication are so similar to those of a placebo as to render the drugs' continuing production unjustifiable. The study's advisors are suggesting that use of SSRIs is limited to all but the most severe cases of depression - partly to cut down on the negative side effects often caused by these drugs and partly to reduce the huge cost of supplying all these to the 16 million Brits who take them every day. Now, I am one of the 16 million. I could be on a placebo - I don't really care. All I know is, a few months ago, I started taking a pill in the mornings and now I feel better. If you stop giving medication (or something purporting to be medication) to people like me, I think that would be a bad thing. That said, I do understand the problem. I saw a documentary about the effective treatment of Parkinson's with a placebo of saline solution not so long ago. Clearly the placebo effect is very real - but it works, and somehow we have to take something that we believe to be medication to get these positive results. Really I think the health service should just give us all water and sugar pills for all our conditions - as long as we never found out, we'd probably all be a lot healthier and happier as a result.

Yeah, so I wanted to write about those things. And I have to go to the gym. But.... meh... I really don't want to. I don't understand how I can have been so enthusiastic about exercise so recently and now feel like even standing to put a letter in the post tray is too much effort. Maybe it's the sheer weight of flat-moving stress that is exhausting me physically. In my defence, I have had a lot on my plate, painting the flat for over 20 hours this weekend, rushing to Brixton to pay for things after work and making big decisions with gay abandon. Then this morning I not only found out that I have a gas leak in the flat but that my boiler is dripping sporadically and covered in limescale. This will be expensive. But what can you do? The show must go on... Thankfully tonight I will find respite in our company wine club's Spring tasting evening which includes 'hot finger food'. Wine and carbohydrate-laden snackage... I feel better already.

Feeling snoozy

After a heady few days, I was so excited I couldn't sleep last night and ended up writing on my other blog until the wee hours. Then I had very weird dreams about being kissed by my boss and then doing a runner from work and spending the afternoon shopping in a huge mall that had the exact same layout as the house we all stayed in during our first year at boarding school. This morning I thought I might be legally entitled to stay in bed until the second equinox, such was the height of my exhaustion levels. Somehow I managed to drag myself vertical and made it into work, where the minutes ticked by and my exuberance faded until finally it was time for the gym and then choir. Now I am back in bed, a shadow of my former self, not low but not high and looking forward to a full night's sleep. My only pre-slumber quandary is whether or not to indulge in the 'handy' lunchbox-sized packet of oat biscuits in my handbag, given that I've already brushed my teeth. Leaving the Egyptian cotton and padding downstairs to rebrush is utterly out of the question, so it's either going to bed hungry or going to bed with crumb-mouth. Choices, choices.

Running on empty

In general, I think I'm a fairly bright spark. But I will concede that, every now and then, I am an unadulterated idiot. Sometimes, for example, I will find myself holding a carton of orange juice at an angle at which it is certain that my glass will fill extremely quickly and then overflow. 'Readjust the angle you nightmare,' I whisper to myself quickly, 'or you'll spill it everywhere.' But for some reason, I don't. I battle against all the evidence, perhaps convinced that I will beat the odds. It's moronic but I've had moments of stupidity like these all my life.

After an emotionally draining week, last Sunday night I was exhausted. I clambered into bed around 10pm and shuffled down under the duvet, revelling in the high thread-count and oozing with excitement about my early night. Casually, I flicked on the TV for thirty minutes' leisurely viewing pre-sleep. Yet all-too-predictably, thirty minutes turned into sixty, and before I knew what was happening, I was watching Paycheck, a film starring Ben Affleck and Uma Thurman that was not due to finish until after 1am. From the outset, it was abundantly clear that the movie would be terrible – even the title’s spelling was enough to irritate this British pedant intensely. But I became gripped by the absurdity of the plot; it seemed impossible that anything so bad could actually have been funded, distributed and aired in cinemas. And despite the screams of my eyelids and the panicked moans of my brain, desperate not to start the new week in a state of excruciating tiredness, I continued to watch, completely unable to tear myself away. Like the orange juice pouring problem, I knew with certainty that I was doing something a) stupid and b) regrettable, but I was powerless to resist.

This happened last year when I was sucked into watching As Good As It Gets - and, to be fair to myself, I didn't make the same mistake again for a long time. But sadly, the lesson does not stay learned for months every time. Last night, just four days after the Paycheck lunacy, I learned the lesson again. At around 11pm, I was up in my lair with not much to do, deliciously sleepy and with no reason not to hit the hay, when I opened up a new online cataloguing service that allows users to register, review and compare all the books they've ever read. Instantly, I knew this was an error - and sure enough, ninety minutes later, weak, aching and almost hallucinating, I was still entering banal self-help books into the system.

Today has been one of the busiest days I’ve had at work and I’ve spent the entire thing bemoaning the geek portion of my brain, the segment that would rather type the names of all the books I’ve ever read into a little box on my screen for the ostensible benefit of no-one rather than sleep.

Tonight I’m off to watch the incredible Tony Benn share some pearls of wisdom with an audience at the Bloomsbury Theatre – I have been excited about this for some time but am now worried that my head will loll noticeably at a crucial point. Combined with the amazing and fascinating book club I went to on Tuesday and with the number of things I’ve got whirring round my brain at the moment, from paint colours to spreadsheets to half marathon training schedules to taxi bookings, I wouldn’t blame it if it packed up altogether. Time for a holiday methinks. Or a big glass of white wine. Bring on the weekend.

I blame Helen Hunt

I am experiencing levels of exhaustion that are potentially dangerous. Who knows when a casual slip of the finger might send an inappropriate email or a badly-timed yawn might be spotted? Any number of accidental tiredness-induced actions could lead to my being fired or - better - meeting with some form of physical accident that prevents me from working for a number of weeks. Despite a full awareness of my perilous situation, I am still unable to be vigilant or concerned about consequences. Frankly, it's a miracle that I am able to remain upright.

In an effort to keep my mind off depressing subjects, I am keeping my diary fairly packed. This is a double-edged sword - stay busy and you become tired and more likely to feel down; arrange nothing, spend too much time alone and find yourself curled up in a tear-stained ball on the floor between the wall and your bed. Or maybe that's just me.

As my sleep debt grows, I am experiencing increasing remorse for my viewing of As Good As It Gets last Sunday night. I yearn nostalgically for those wasted hours, fantasise about the precious pre-midnight slumber they could have provided and wonder how buoyant and self-confident I would be feeling now, had I not frittered away so many valuable minutes viewing the utterly implausible and faintly embarrassing sexual chemistry between Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. Next time I do karaoke, I'll update Edith Piaf with a version of 'Je Regrette Rien Que Regardant As Good As It Gets Le Dernier Dimanche'.*

*French corrections welcomed provided that they are accompanied by grammar explanations. I'll never learn otherwise.

Today's questions

1. Why do I want to have cellulite? I know I must want to have cellulite because I never do the one thing guaranteed to help get rid of it: exercise. I have Rodney Yee's Power Yoga DVD sitting in front of me. He is arched in a perfect cobra on the front cover, his muscly toned form a continual humiliating reminder of my own shapeless self. I am turning in to one big bingo wing.

2. Why do I want to remain unemployed? I know that I must want to remain unemployed because the job application I have been trying to complete since this morning stubbornly remains uncompleted, while I have, in the meantime, booked myself up over Christmas with tutoring a-plenty. This is good for my finances in the short-term, but, as I am continually reminding myself, provides little in the way of career progression, and nothing as far as pensions, holiday pay and maternity benefit go. Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm for this job application says more about the job itself than my desire to become employed.

3. Why do I want to remain exhausted? I know that I must want to remain exhausted because, despite being already truly shattered, I seem to be unable to resist filling my diary between now and Christmas with fun event after fun event. And yes, they are all fun, well spotted, so it's not all bad - but I need some down time too. And with all the tutoring I've got booked in (see above if your memory's that short), the next couple of weeks are going to be fairly mental. The 'burning the candle at both ends' metaphor might hold true as long as we're discussing a birthday cake candle that's on its third use and is down to its last few millimetres. That's not to say I'm not looking forward to the rest of Advent, no siree. I just could do with the help of a few power naps and pick-me-ups between now and the big day. It's a whole lotta hassle considering I don't do god. Still, what's life without some merry hypocrisy? Ho ho ho.