Square eyes

No way to catch up on all that's been missed, so let's dive right in. I've been off work today, trying to finally kick a cold that I've had pretty much since 2010. It has been driving me SPASTIC so this morning I realised that something drastic had to happen, and by drastic I mean static, and by happen I mean not happen. I have lain very still indeed all day, and weirdly, I do feel better.

While I was lying still, I watched a lot of television - two episodes of Stephen Hawking's Universe, which I found annoying, ostensibly because I don't really like speculation and doubt, but probably because I am simply not clever enough to understand him, so watching him talk makes me feel thick. I also watched three episodes of Masterchef, where I became increasingly convinced that Jackie must be giving a lot of incredible blow jobs to Greg and/or Jon, because there is simply no other possible explanation for the fact that she is still in the competition - she has childish tantrums, jumps up and down with stress like a bizarre combo of Su Pollard and my old ukulele teacher, she dropped her Phad Thai on the floor in a panic about four weeks ago and had ten minutes to make another one, and then in the food critics' test episode, she was running so behind schedule that she cut her thumb and was banned from cooking her pudding. Yet she still got through. Triumph despite obvious weakness is my bete-noire and weirdly something I've been talking a lot about in therapy. Can't handle frailty - it should be non-existent, and, if it's not, it should at least be hidden. She wears her faults like poshos wear Jack Wills: loud and proud. Anathema. Get her off.

Then I watched the last three episodes of Jamie's Dream School, which was about as frustrating a programme as I've ever witnessed - it's basically The Secret Millionaire, but without the secret and where the beneficiaries don't realise they need any help and so swear and shout instead of saying thanks. What could have been a fascinating experiment into how to change the behaviours of some of society's most determined cast-offs became an excruciating, upsetting farce, where thousands (millions?) of pounds of expertise and facilities, and some of the most experienced and respectable experts in the world came to teach 19 young people, most of whom didn't give a flying fuck. Just like most of the naive, entitled upstarts at private schools have no inkling of just how lucky they are (and I wholeheartedly include my teenage self in that), these kids didn't seem to understand what they were doing at Dream School - and certainly, four weeks was never going to be enough to get them qualifications.

Instead, they got an unrivalled taster course into privilege: students went sailing with Ellen MacArthur, cooked stirfries with Jamie, oil painted on seemingly unlimited canvases with Rolf Harris, used top of the range photography and lighting equipment with Rankin, went swimming with Olympic gold-medalist Daley Thompson, ran a scene from Romeo & Juliet onstage at The Globe with Simon Callow, had science lessons with Robert Winston that were so good I was seething with jealousy and music with Jazzy B in a room packed with production equipment, mikes, synths, percussion. I get the concept - this is Dream School - but if it had worked, the message would have been devastating: kids won't change unless they have world-class facilities and celebrity teachers.

As it was, the kids (and I kind of loved them for this) remained steadfastly unimpressed, smoking, swearing and storming out with boring frequency, except for a fortunate minority who were given a fast-track into some of the best work experience placements in the country - one wannabe lawyer had a meeting with Cherie Booth, another girl did a day's work at Jamie Oliver's Fifteen restaurant while a third spent a morning in surgery at St. Mary's Hospital. Inspirational work experience is hard to come by, and is of course only available to those with the contacts or the confidence to find a place, and the money to afford not to work while they're doing it. It's hardly a fair system and I was profoundly disappointed that, in the end, this had to become the programme's only success story.

I'd hoped Dream School would say something profound about the problems in education, and make some practical suggestions about changes that could be made nationally and which would make a perceptible difference to those students while they are still at school. The kids on the programme were disruptive and angry for very good reasons - just like the hundreds of thousands of disruptive, angry kids across the UK. I wanted to explore how best these kids can be helped while they're still in education. Unfortunately, a well-meaning but fundamentally weak headmaster, combined with the clear uselessness of a four-week timespan, meant that Jamie's Dream School only had one lasting message: 'You lot haven't got qualifications and we can't give you any, so if you just shut up for five minutes, we'll throw a ton of money at the problem and give you an unparalleled celebrity leg-up. It's up to you what you do with it - you might be inspired to change your life forever - but whether you like it or loathe it, it'll make great TV. For those of you not at Dream School, I'm afraid the problem's the same as it's always been - the noisy minority ruin it for everyone, and we don't have the authority to change that. You can't all have Rolf Harris teach art. In short: you're fucked. Soz.'

I'm not advocating caning. To be honest, if you'd given me those same 19 kids and the same budget, and one month, I would have sent them all into therapy. Wouldn't have made quite such dramatic TV, and poor old Jamie wouldn't have been able to polish his halo or show off his celeb contacts list, but I guarantee a bit of introspection would have helped. That and some basic English language skills, which weren't addressed once in the programme. Communication and meditation. Janey's Dream School. How about it, C4?

I cannot write about last Friday.

The only thing I really want to tell you about is my Friday night. I went to Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley, a Michelin two-star restaurant and a treat and a half. Only problem is, I have no angle. Every pseudo-writer knows that there is no story without some sort of character development. I can't just say 'I went to this place and had a really nice time. The End.' That's not why you read LLFF. Unfortunately, that seems to be precisely what did happen. It was amazing. I didn't fall over, or see a celebrity, or get dumped while I was there. I just went, and it was amazing, and then I left. I've had my head in my hands for the last twenty minutes, trying to find a way in which to write about it, muttering, 'But how did it change me?' and the only thing I can think of is that my bank balance is now substantially lighter.

Imagine, I told myself, that you had to write about it. Imagine you were writing a restaurant review for a national magazine, what would you say then? What would be your angle? That it was really nice, I thought. It could be some indication of how perfect the evening was if I tell you that my only - and I mean literally the ONLY - gripe was that the wine menu, displayed in a thick black photo album, was quite heavy and difficult to hold. That was less than irritating, a barely-registered nark, that vanished when the sommelier brought me precisely the wine I wanted, a fact made all the more miraculous given that the help I'd given him consisted of handing back the wine list, saying I didn't know what to order, but that I knew I wanted my wine to be white, a bit oaked, a bit fruity, very dry, strong enough to counterbalance the powerful flavours of the food I was about to enjoy, and that I was sick of New Zealand Sauvignon. A moment later, there it was, in my glass. I fervently wish that all of life were that simple.

So yeah. The wine list was a bit cumbersome. But that was it. Aside from that, it was perfect. The lighting was perfect. The starters, main course, inter-course snackettes and desserts were perfect. The wine was perfect. The service was perfect. The furniture was perfect. The other guests were perfect. The truffles-to-go in their cellophane bag were perfect. The tour around the kitchen at the end was perfect. The bill, I'll admit, was not perfect. But it was really nice and worth every penny. I have no angle. So I'll stop writing.

The End. (Unless you want to read on.)

WARNING: as opposed to the edge-of-your-seat paragraphs above, the below is a literal description of what we ate and has absolutely no literary merit whatsoever. It is recommended that you only continue if you actually want to know exactly what was on the tasting menu at Marcus Wareing last Friday. On no account read the below and expect to be entertained.

So you sit down and you are brought canapes - one was pork balls, a bowl of four (two each), about the size of an average gobstopper, crispy thin breadcrumby batter around delicious moist pork mixed with pine nuts, like a really posh hot Scotch egg without the egg. The other was this weird amazing thing - like one of those rectangular ice-cream sandwich things you used to get but tiny - actually, it wasn't anything like that. OK, so it was these two small rectangles of crispy cheese wafer, about the size of the long side of a small matchbox. Between them was sandwiched the most out of this world truffle moussey stuff, tanged with mustard, light and rich and deliriously delicious. It was probably my highlight of the entire meal, depressing to start so high but there's a middle class gripe if ever I wrote one ("My canape was too nice, the rest of my two Michelin-starred tasting menu was slightly less exciting"). Two of those each. Then the amuse bouche proper - their 'witty' take on fish and chips (it being Friday) - a shot glass of fish soup topped with chip foam, which was beyond compare. Beautiful, fine salt and pepper breadsticks (two each) in a third shot glass. Then the fish course - heritage tomatoes - this turned out to mean a slice of red, yellow and green tomato - topped with clam and crab and some delicious potato croutons. Oh shit, I forgot the bread. The bread was potato and something else... god, I can't remember, but it was amazingly soft, although I guess at heart just posh ciabatta. What was unbeLIEVAbly exciting was the fact that you were offered your choice of salted or unsalted butter. Anyway. Despite knowing the amount of food I was about to consume, I still had two slices of bread. I know, call the obesity police. That was a joke.

So yeah, the fish course I could take or leave, to be honest. It was very fresh and healthy and had moments of niceness but it's nothing to write home about, nor, indeed, on a semi-popular blog. Too late. Then was another serious peak, the quail. Two tiny quail breasts, skin-on, crispy on the outside, so tender beneath, sitting atop some sort of parmesan frothy sauce, and sweetcorn kernals and another sauce, and then these adorable and perfect-in-every-way shallot onion rings, two of them, stacked on the top like the best glace cherry of all time. Oh and some coriander but I picked it off. One of those plates of food where all the individual ingredients are pretty good, but together it creates an oral sensation akin to bliss. The combination of textures, the crunch of the quail skin, the smoothness of the flesh, the burst of the sweetcorn, the creaminess of the parmesan, the sticky bite of the shallot ring... it was a work of art. We ate slowly and with many sighs of pleasure. Emily found a small fragment of onion ring in her teeth a few minutes after our plates had been cleared and let out a woop of delight.

Then the main course, which I lost. There was a choice of two, and I felt like we should sample them both, so I ordered what Emily didn't. She had the lamb (which would have been my staple choice) so I had the beef. Mine was good, hers was exceptional. The beef was served with baby turnips and red onion hearts, lightly roasted I think. And some delicious carrots. But the lamb was served with some sort of yoghurt and roasted peaches and something else - I can't remember as I only had one mouthful, but blimey it was tear-jerking. Then a pre-dessert, an immaculate layered chocolate and sponge creation that must have been made by the Borrowers, so precise was it. And an almond jelly I think. And another shot glass with their version of a virgin mojito - crushed ice, mint, a cucumber jelly layer and something else. A sorbet to cleanse and refresh our battered palates.

Then the cheese course, one portion between two, six slivers of fromage selected from a trolley the size of a child's bed, there must have been fifty or sixty on offer, our selection beautifully presented on a heavy dark brown plate in a circle, to be eaten clockwise, from mild to strong, with a streak of the ambrosia that is apple sauce down the middle. Heaven. Then back from the savoury to more sweet - a supreme tarte tatin shared between two, with a pot of creme fraiche and a pot of ginger crunch ice cream, the pastry layers sticky, dense but crispy, the apples caramalised just the right amount. Then coffees and the truffle trolley, a five foot high silver wheeled beast with hooks holidng silver baskets filled with six or seven types of homemade truffles. I forced two down and we got the rest to go, taking our cue from the next door table.

And that was how we celebrated Em's engagement, me keeping a promise made several years ago. I will be fat forever.

A terrible, terrible thing has happened.

As if things in my dietary existence weren't bad enough, I had a further upset a little over two hours ago. Feeling ill and full of self-pity, I went out to forage for some lunch. The terrain near my workplace is heaving with familiar options, but I had heard talk of a new place around the corner, and innocently made my way towards it today, fully unaware of the nightmare that awaited me therein.

As soon as I stepped over the threshold I knew I had committed an appalling error. The place was rammed full of heavily satisfied customers. It was sparkling clean. And the brightly lit, glass-fronted counter winched me in, displaying its wares like a vindictive peacock. In front of me was a vast selection of the most tantalising, the most inventive, the most drool-forming sandwiches I have ever seen in this or any world. In fact, to call them sandwiches would be to do them a disservice. These were beyond sandwiches. They were masterpieces of sandwich craft, the Platonic ideal sandwich, the uberwich. I felt nervous and humble in their presence, so obvious was their greatness. It was unclear whether I should buy one or bow down.

For a while, I did neither, merely standing slack-jawed in front of the display cabinet examining my options. Did I want the one with the sunblushed tomatoes, charcuterie meat, mozzarella slabs and avocado fanned out atop feather soft brioche? Or the perfectly-pink roast beef wafers rippling among a duvet of rosemary loaf? Like a rabbit in the headlights, I was unable to move, well aware that any choice would be my downfall but utterly powerless to leave. Eventually, I chose the tuna melt, reasoning that its lack of red meat made it a 'healthy option' and choosing to ignore the fat implications of the word 'melt'. The speed at which I returned to my desk must surely have counterbalanced the imminent weight gain in a small way. Unwrapping the paper bag's contents, I was well aware that I was stepping into an abyss.

The first bite was like some sort of edible joke. It far outstripped any mouthful of any lunch I have ever had in my life. The bread was ostensibly foccacia, but as foccacia should surely be - not rubbery and cakey, but thin, salty, floppy and flavoursome. And of course, there was tuna and mayonnaise and melt, but there was also tomato, small chunks of aubergine, spinach leaves and tarragon. I don't even LIKE tarragon but in this combination I was confused and delighted. It would be a lie to say that I wept, but for the five minutes that it took for me to eat that sandwich, I was as close as I've ever been to a Damascene conversion.

And now there is, of course, no going back. I can vomit up the sandwich, but I can never not have eaten it. Forever, there will be the memory, not just of the tuna melt, but of the other sandwiches on offer at that glorious place, so close by, with its friendly staff and ability to accept card payments. From this day onwards, lunch will be an eternal battle of self-will, one that I will inevitably lose (and yet win) day after day until I explode or go broke. No longer is the Breakfast Bowl in Pret my biggest temptation. Kids, we have a new enemy in town. If you are passing through the City and are in need of a coronary for any reason, I could not recommend Birley's highly enough. But if you fancy remaining at a safe weight, then stay the hell away from there. It's too late for me, but please, for the love of god, save yourselves.

Becoming round again

Fascinating though I am in every possible way, my weight is so cyclical that even I have started to find the pattern massively boring. Massive being the most appropriate word. I start at Bad Weight A. I feel fat, so I exercise and eat less. My thighs tone up a bit, my bingo wings shrink, and over the course of a few months, I reach Good Weight B. Good Weight B is never as low as my original goal, Unreachable Weight C, but it's OK. I fit into some thinner jeans. I get cocky.

And then I get ill, or I go to a festival, or the snake bites, or some other event disrupts my routine, and I stop exercising. Without the threat of undoing lots of hard gym work hanging over me, I then just give up altogether and start eating normally forbidden food such as cake. And this is where the cruel part kicks in. For a blissful couple of months, I don't gain. I remain at Weight B. "This is brrrrrrrrilliant!" I think, delightedly, inwardly clapping like a seal. "I've finally done it! I've permanently altered my metabolism! I'm now one of those people who can eat Pret a Manger pizza wraps for lunch every day and never go to the gym and still remain lithe and slender like a standard lamp." For several weeks, I cruise along at Weight B in a haze of smugness, wearing skimpy clothes while knocking back Krispy Kremes with gay abandon.

But gradually, inevitably, I start to creep back towards Weight A. At first, I am in denial. "I'm not heading back to Weight A," I chuckle confidently. "That muffin top over the edge of my jeans? An optical illusion - it's my shit Ikea mirror. Fucking Swedes." Or later, "I haven't got fatter! OK, my dress is tighter - but that's because it shrunk in the wash! Yes. Even though I've washed it on the same setting a billion times, this is the one time that it's shrunk. Yup. Definitely. That's what's happened. It's all Hotpoint's fault." And then a few days or weeks later, I finally concede that I'm heading back to where I started, with 'motivation to exercise' about as high on my things to do list as 'drink Rooney's vomit' and no desire whatsoever to eat anything that isn't topped with melted cheese or mayonnaise.

No prizes for correctly identifying that I am currently reaching the nadir of Bad Weight A, tired and a bit ill after Glasto, DESPERATE to avoid the gym, unrelentingly and frantically craving deeply unhealthy food and booze from the moment I awaken to the moment I go to sleep. I'm not sure what will kickstart me onto the slope to Good Weight B, but it sure as hell better hurry up before I need to be wheeled around by a third party and have to buy two seats on aeroplanes. Hmmmm. Maybe I'll go on a gym kick as of Monday. Yes. Monday sounds plausible. And still pleasantly distant. I'm off to the vending machine.

Amazing news

Readers, something WONDERFUL has just happened. I found this sentence:

"Omega-3 fatty acides are said to cut heart disease risk, with the best sources mayonnaise and full-fat salad dressing, followed by fish such as tuna, salmon and mackerel."

MAYONNAISE!

I could not be happier if they had written that doughnuts cure cellulite. Actually, that's not true. But discovering that the consumption of mayo could stave off heart disease has got to be the best thing I've read in a while. Oh beloved Hellman's, giver of flavour to chips and adder of je ne sais quoi to countless sandwiches, how I already cherished thee - but now, to discover you have also, quietly, without asking for thanks or repayment, been protecting me from fatal illness: truly, it is too much. I prostrate myself before you. My forehead toucheth the ground at the base of the pedestal upon which I have placed thee. I weep with humble grace at your extraordinary bounty.

In other news, did everyone see the volcano in Iceland? It's pretty spectacular. I love the idea of the Earth getting more and more tense, and then finally going 'RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH' and just exploding with burning rage, like a huge global whitehead filled with bright orange lava pus. But let's not write about mayonnaise and pus in consecutive paragraphs as that's not nice.

Formation anxiety

There appears to have been a shift in my local EAT while I was in Lapland, although I am not the only one who missed the memo. The EAT in question is a rectangular room, with sandwich refrigeration units running along the long left hand wall and the short back wall. The short front wall looks out onto the street and is glass, and along the right hand wall are the tills. Pre-Finland, in the busy lunchtime rush, we would all collect our chosen items and stand behind one of the tills, hungrily awaiting our turn. But yesterday, when I went to buy my sandwich, something had altered. A new, one-queue format had been adopted, with a snake from the front door, running along the length of the left hand refrigeration units and then doubling around the top, with the frontmost person going to the next available till.

I am a big fan of the one-queue format. It is the most fair system, without doubt. It didn't quite work in EAT, physically, due to the layout of the store and the volume of people attempting to line up, but I was enthusiastic about the shift in procedure and willingly took my place at the tail-end, putting up with the irritation as people leaned through the snake to get their sandwiches. Gradually, I moved further from the front door, up along the left hand side, and eventually rounded the top corner. Then I noticed that, with only two people ahead of me, the snake was being abandoned. No one was joining the back, instead reverting to pre-Finland protocol and standing in front of individual tills. Most frustratingly, the staff at the tills could plainly see what had happened and did nothing to rectify the shift. My blood sugar was low and I was furious, so I did what any self-respecting Brit would do: stood politely in silence, not wanting to be a pedantic dickhead, knowing that eventually my time would come. Victory.

EAT today was back to multi-queues. It may be less fair, but one-queue only works if everyone adheres to the system, and sadly EAT's vertical layout just doesn't allow for it. Frankly, I was relieved.

Last night I went to see Blaze at the Peacock Theatre in Holborn. It was excellent and rubbish in equal measures, almost schizophrenically so. My favourite bit was the beginning. There were approx. 12 pairs of trainers in a row across the front of the stage, and the three of us chose our favourite ones. Then suddenly, as the lights dimmed, Grania announced that we had to kiss the people who put on our shoes. A tall ugly guy put on the red velcro boots I'd picked. I was annoyed. Then I saw that Grania and Emily's favourite shoes were both being put on by girls. I felt better. The dancing started and it was very cool. But there just wasn't enough street stuff to sustain an hour and twenty minute show, so the choreographers padded it out with nods to Wii games, 80s pop and acid house that just didn't sit right. Inexplicably, the lighting was absolutely superb for about six minutes in total, and pretty rubbish the rest of the time (how does this happen?); similarly, a lot of the music was original and it was occasionally very good, but mostly a bit lame. And while there were three break dancing guys who were absolutely exceptional, several of the others seemed about as street as Prince Philip - they could do the moves, but it was all a bit staged and I felt like I was watching an end-of-term performance at Sylvia Young, and then I was, like, 'Well what do you expect, Jane - this is a theatre, they're on a stage, of course it's choreographed.' And then I was, like, 'Well, maybe street dancing shouldn't leave the streets,' and then I was like, 'Well, then you wouldn't be here and none of these lovely people in the audience would be having this nice night out,' and I was like, 'Well, I'm fine with that,' and then I was like, 'Well FINE.' So much for the show being schizophrenic. I think it's clear who is the mentalist.

Live and let liver?

So do you like my new drawing? It's not quite as astonishing as I had imagined it, but then life rarely is. I like that the whale looks so happy.

I am happy today. I didn't go to the gym yesterday but I went this morning, and washed my hair, and now I am perky for no real reason. I met up with Em last night after work and we went to Tooting to be threaded at Shilpa's - 99p for eyebrows, it's a joke - and then for dinner at 409 in Clapham. It was nice. We shared foie gras to start, an example of my abject hypocrisy, where I disapprove of it with every cell in my body and yet can't resist it when I see it on a menu. Pathetic.

I was about to move on to another topic, but really, it is pathetic. OK. I'm going to address this. I'm off to Wikipedia....

...Right. Force feeding of birds has been going on since around 2500 BC, where the ancient Egyptians did it. I wonder if Joseph ate foie gras before the famine? I can just see him lying around in his dreamcoat and loin cloth, asking a nubile servant to bring him another tranche.

The Romans were fans, and apparently the emperor Elagabalus fed his dogs on it. That's a bit much, even for me. The last time I had a dog was a decade ago, but I'm pretty sure that if we'd given him pate, he would have been sick as... a dog. Very sick. But then Ernest was always a delicate fellow.

Anyway, back to the present - apparently France produced 18,450 tonnes of foie gras in 2005, which is 78.5% of the world's production. Hungary is the second largest producer. Apparently migratory birds are the best victims because they have a good capacity for weight gain (in preparation for their long journey). OK, this bit's worth pasting in:

"The geese or ducks used in foie gras production are usually kept in a building on straw for the first four weeks, then kept outside for some weeks, feeding on grasses. This phase of the preparation is designed to take advantage of the natural dilation capacity on the esophagus. The birds are then brought inside for gradually longer periods while introduced to a high starch diet. The next feeding phase, which the French call gavage, involves forced daily ingestion of controlled amounts of feed for 12 to 15 days with ducks and for 15 to 18 days with geese. During this phase ducks are usually fed twice daily while geese are fed up to 4 times daily. In order to facilitate handling of ducks during gavage, these birds are typically housed in individual cages or small group pens during this phase...

"The feed is administered using a funnel fitted with a long tube (20–30 cm long), which forces the feed into the animal's esophagus; if an auger is used, the feeding takes about 45 to 60 seconds. Modern systems usually use a tube fed by a pneumatic pump; with such a system the operation time per duck takes about 2 to 3 seconds. During feeding, efforts are made to avoid damaging the bird's esophagus, which could cause injury or death, although researchers have found evidence of inflammation of the walls of the proventriculus after the first session of force-feeding. Several studies have also demonstrated that mortality rates can be significantly elevated during the gavage period...

"Foie gras production has been banned in nations such as some members of the European Union, Turkey, and Israel because of the force-feeding process. Foie gras producers maintain that force feeding ducks and geese is not uncomfortable for the animals nor is it hazardous to their health."

OK. I feel bad about it. But is it worse than buying clothes that are made in sweatshops? I think it's less bad. I think I'd have to give up Primark before I gave up foie gras. And not just Primark. Pretty much shopping on the high street entirely. And, while I love vintage more than the next girl, second hand pants are not going to cut it with me. Then again, not giving up one bad thing because you do something that's even worse is just as pathetic as deliberately staying in denial about it all. So. Come on Jane. What are you going to do? Give it up, or continue to eat it despite knowing how it's made? Meh. I dunno. What do you think?

I'll tell you one thing for nothing. I bet my liver would be fucking delicious.

I fancy a Snickers. Unexpected craving.

BFI, Blitz, Big Walk.

Apologies for yesterday, that was rubbish. I have a good excuse but you don't want to hear it, trust me. Let's just get on with the show.

I had a great weekend. Friday night, after work, I met up with Em at the BFI and we went to see Late Autumn, one of Japanese directer Ozu's last works. I can't claim to be a true Ozu fan, having only seen two of his films, but it's amazing how calming I find them. Interesting, funny, touching - and peaceful. I was saying in my gimpy film reviews book that I keep that I wonder if it's the rigidity of the social structure that I find relaxing - the behavioural rules are so embedded in the culture that there is barely any risk of anything scandalous, awkward or inappropriate happening. Not that I dream of living in a repressive society - just... it's different to real life. Escapism. Apparently even Ozu's contemporaries didn't recognise the Japan he portrays though, so I guess it was escapism even at the time it was made. Intelligent escapism. Recommended. After the film, Em and I went back home for delicious lamb kebabs and rice and homemade raita and oven-roasted cherry tomatoes and spinach and god it was delicious.

Saturday was all about lying around and getting dolled up for the Blitz party in Shoreditch on Saturday night. I did my hair in curlers and put on red lipstick and drew on a beauty spot, and knew full well that there was no way that the party would be as much fun as the getting ready. So often the case. Love being a girl at times like those. Unfortunately, by the time I got to the venue my curls had kind of spread out and I was slightly less Blitz Belle and more Queen Mum. Ah well. It was a great night, full of beautiful people in cool clothes, esp. dapper mustachioed men in uniform, and we had a lovely time drinking, looking at everyone and passing judgment. Then we went to Diner for a midnight feast and had pancakes. Yum.

Sunday was great too - I met Kate at Highgate tube and we completed the first two sections of The Capital Ring with a stop at The Three Crowns (thanks Thom) in Stoke Newington for roast beef. It was fascinating. We went along the Parkland Walk (a disused rail line), through Finsbury Park, along a beautiful canal running next to Britain's largest council estate, past a reservoir, through Clissold Park and Abney Cemetery, into Stokey, crossed over East into Walthamstow Marsh Nature Reserve, along the River Lee/Lea, down into Hackney Wick, past the Olympic site - and then hopped on a bus to Stratford and came home. The walk is brilliantly clear and easy-to-follow, and 'discovering' these near-silent green spaces hidden away makes you feel special. Plus we saw not one, but two men, within about twenty minutes of each other but clearly not connected in any way, jogging in their normal daywear - coat, jeans, leather shoes. It was absolutely extraordinary.

Now we're on day two of February and it's cold and grey outside. Laura and I were going to go to the gym but we've decided to have lunch at the pub instead. I need deep fried nourishment. Later dudes.

Misnomer

Wisdom teeth, it turns out, are thick as pigshit. If they're so intelligent, why do they half emerge and then get bored and stop, leaving me open to external forces of evil? Where is the Einstein IQ that causes a TOOTH to create a situation whereby I have to take antibiotics that make me spaced out and unable to cope with the most basic of tasks and, more extraordinarily, unable to consume alcohol?

For I, ladies and gentlemen of The Faithful, have just gone An Entire Weekend Without Wine. And my god, if it wasn't one of the most challenging experiences of my entire middle-class existence, up there with boycotting Primark on moral grounds (resounding fail) and tearing myself away from West London (belated success). First up was Friday night, when I had to learn and sing some tango music to accompany a bizarre version of a Midsummer Night's Dream in front of a room full of strangers, and a glass of white would have gone down extremely well. And then on Saturday, having been to an a capella singing workshop at the gorgeous King's Place, I rushed home to receive my parents and my aunt and uncle, who had brought three bottles of wine between them, and as I sipped my Britta-filtered Chateau Neuf du Tap (appalling, sorry), my four wonderful relatives enjoyed several glasses of Rioja and others. They were, as always, superlative company but it was odd being the sensible one. I'll tell you one thing for nothing - my dad is freaking hilarious. Literally very funny. Unrepeatable, so you'll have to take my word for it, but even sober, he had me in stitches.

Then it was Sunday, and I went up to Hoxton to meet Em, and we tried very hard to find a hipster venue for lunch, but there were hipsters lining up outside all the trendy places so we ended up walking down to Spitalfields and going to... wait for it... wait for it... so cutting edge I can hardly bear to tell you.... Strada. I had a Fiorentina. I know. Aren't you impressed by my risky culinary choice? It was delicious. But knock me over with a biro if it wouldn't have been massively improved by a fat glass of unoaked Chardonnay or similar.

And from Shoreditch to Waterloo, and a lovely meeting with an old friend, and a seat on a sofa opposite him in an armchair, as he drank a glass of white, and then another and another and another, while I had four or possibly five small bottles of sparkling Hildon and I was almost weak with desire for alcohol, while simultaneously proud of myself that I was able to endure the H20 experience without seeming too uptight. I just kept thinking of how grateful my skin would be for the detox, and how many calories I was sparing my thighs, but frankly, I'd rather be curvy and have booze than thin and perennially sober. This whole toothache thing is certainly not an experience I'm in any hurry to repeat. The drugs finish in two days and the celebration will be emotional.

My name is Jane and I am not an alcoholic, honestly. I just love wine and I love getting a bit tipsy. Judge me all you like, I am unrepentant.

And I'm back

Given that I am the world's most efficient person, it should come as little surprise to anyone that I decided to organise a New Year party on 2nd January, to start five hours after my plane was due to land. I'd had a delivery of food and Cava before I left for Prague, and miraculously, everything happened on time - the pate was made to schedule, the olives were baked, the chorizo was chopped, the wine was cooled - the only thing I had neglected to factor in was people being absolute wusses and deciding they were too tired to come. My eventual stats for the evening were something like:

Invited: 79
Expected to attend: around 15-20
Responded: 68
Ignored altogether: 11
Refused point blank: 47
Accepted: 12
Maybes: 8
Cancelled on the day: 6
Gatecrashed: 4
Attended: 14
Bedtime: 4am

It was really fun. Really, really fun. Possibly too much fun for Leo, who I had to send home with a bottle of mostly-drunk whiskey as he had disgraced himself somewhat. But everyone else was excellent, the pub quiz went well, the charades were raucous, I LOVE the addition of the sabotage option, only one drop of red wine was spilled and was hastily removed with my beloved power laser carpet shampoo miracle product (thank you OxyKIC), my flat looked lovely and candlelit and I had a groovy time.

On Sunday I got butterflies when I realised I was going to buy a new camera, and I went to Jessops and did, and it's amazing amazing. And then I went to see Tokyo Story at the BFI, which I absolutely loved. God I want to go to Japan. I am drawn there like a freezing cold moth on a icy night to a roaring log fire surrounded by halogen lamps. Blame Murakami. And Hello Kitty. And my conviction that I'll take, like, the best photos ever. And write brilliant things that have never been thought before, let alone written out loud.

On Sunday evening I met up with Em at the BFI bar and we caught up after weeks apart - she'd been at my party the night before but we hadn't really spoken - and we giggled helplessly over my favourites on Texts From Last Night (still funny, not a passing fad).

Monday was my first day back and I felt so rank and exhausted but I dragged myself to the gym and then went at 5pm and Kazu, a gorgeous Japanese man at the hairdresser next door to my office, gave me the best haircut, not just of my life, but of anyone's life, and I literally can't stop looking at myself in the mirror. It couldn't be cooler. I look like I should be wearing a Seventies ski suit with a white polo-neck jumper. Best of all, even BEFORE he'd cut my hair, Kazu asked me if I'd ever MODELLED! Can you imagine?! I laughed in his face. Too hilarious. But then after he cut it, I suddenly thought maybe I might be in line for Kate Moss' throne. Maybe if I swap fun size Crunchies for heroin, it'll work out. I'll keep you posted.

Yesterday was Tuesday and, even after one trip to the gym, I felt like a new woman, convinced I could see the beginnings of a six pack. It's absurd how quickly I expect to see results. Enthused, I went again in the afternoon, and panted my way through a forty minute stint on the treadmill. And I will go again shortly. I would be feeling absurdly pleased with myself were it not for the fact that I ate approx. three times my own bodyweight in leftover Christmas/party chocolate last night, including, in fact, an entire bag of M&S chocolate-covered raisins that I'd bought yesterday evening because they were reduced to 50p, even though I knew full well that, back at my flat, there was enough chocolate to fill a large skip. I'm putting it down to hormones.

Now I'm grumpy because, although it is snowing heavily, I live and work in a frustratingly warm microclimate, and while many of my colleagues have been unable to get to work due to thick snowfall, I woke up to a feint dusting of white, like a meagre sprinkling of icing sugar on a cake, and was able to travel into work on the underground without incident. I had been dreaming of a snow day, snuggled under a blanket with the heating on Permanent, watching bad movies and live Celebrity Big Brother, and possibly having a little snooze around now. Instead, I am drinking green tea, struggling to stay awake and delaying my gym trip. Nothing more motivating than the idea of me in too-tight salopettes, though. Ick.

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.

Only 362 days to Christmas!

I can’t really explain why it’s taken me so long to write this because I have been doing NOTHING, but as my most privileged friends will attest, the less you have to do, the longer it takes. So the last you heard, I think, it was Christmas Eve Eve and I was about to go and eat. I did, it was freaking delicious, and there began an intense period of gorging that, as yet, is about 53% complete. I had steak at my work lunch that was mouthwatering, with béarnaise sauce and a delicious sweet pea, baby onion, spinach and lardon mélange that was almost the highlight. We played shag, marry or cliff and consequences and it was every bit as funny as last year and I count myself very lucky when it comes to my office existence.

That evening, I went back to my parents’ house and, if I’m totally honest, the next few days are a haze of gluttony, as an invisible conveyor belt (aka: my hand) carried an omniprocess of delicacies over my ever-excitable tastebuds: copious piles of Nigella’s ham in Coca-Cola, turkey, smoked salmon, delicious gastropub lasagne, mince pies, amaretto biscuits, peanut brittle, granary toast with salted butter, soup, homemade Christmas cookies, parsnips, salad, garlic bread, onion rings, Sultana Bran, Bollinger, white wine, red wine, Diet Coke and beer. In the brief pauses while I was chewing, I opened amazing presents including my much-hoped-for ukulele (but a far nicer one than I’d imagined) and a tube of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream. Delighted. There were emotional times with my family as well, of course, but in a shock development, my mother has decreed that I am not to write about them any more. Her rationale is as follows: if I am too honest about them, someone might think that my dad is a racist and want to stab him, and, as my mother put it, ‘They can find out who you are from your blog, find out where your parents live, and come around and kill him in the street. It’s that simple,’ she said, as if finding their address from my anonymous blog requires a similar level of skill to urinating. After the tension that arose over the programming of mum’s Christmas pedometer, I didn’t want to involve either of us in a complex technological explanation of a) how difficult it would be to determine my father’s identity, let alone b) quite how bored and/or misguided someone would have to be to choose him, above all the other mentalists on the internet, to assassinate. So I nodded meekly and promised not to discuss them again. We’ll see how long that lasts…

I do love Christmas but, like a late-night meal in Chinatown, the moment it’s over, you suddenly see what you look like in the hideous fluorescent lighting, realize your foundation is not worth the pump dispenser from which it emerges, accept that you will need to run, fast, for seven consecutive hours to burn off the meal you would have swapped your grandmother for moments earlier, and concede that it is time to go home. I was all up for the festivities, but the moment the presents were unwrapped and the taste of mince pies became commonplace, I was desperate to get back to my nest and recuperate tout seule. I am a creature of habit, it turns out, and fun though Scrabble and beginners’ ukulele undeniably is, I miss being master of my domain. I’m 32, after all, and being an only child in my parents’ house, still unmarried, still childless, while they are getting on with their semi-retirement, feels slightly regressive. So yesterday I went home and cleaned and now I am on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow Terminal 4, en route to Prague, for a minibreak about which I am so excited I may rupture something. Apparently we have free wifi in the hotel so I’ll post this when I arrive. In the meantime, I hope all my Faithful and any LLFF fair-weather friends have had a joyous Christmas. Love to you all.

Curiouser and curiouser

A few weeks ago I started emailing a boy through the dating website I use. He was exceptionally tall and attractive and seemed unpredictable and hilarious, so I let him off the usually unforgiveable spelling mistakes in his profile. After a few messages, I agreed to meet him at some point in the future. Then time slipped away and I realised I owed him an email. To refresh my memory, I checked his profile again to make sure I really did want to spend an evening of my valuable time in his company. And at the bottom of the first paragraph, I saw a sentence I hadn't noticed before. "I'm not a believer in monogamy," it read, "so if that's important to you, be warned." I emailed him immediately. "Hang on," I wrote. "You don't believe in monogamy?!" A day later, he replied, his profile updated and the offending sentence removed. "This has happened a couple of times before," he explained. "An ex thinks I cheated on her, which I didn't, but she found out my password and broke into my page." He apologised profusely, said he knew it wasn't the best start but was pretty funny about it, and I saw no reason to disbelieve him - he said he'd taken the precaution of changing his password. We agreed a date to meet.

Then, the day before the date, I saw that his profile had been updated again - and this time, the changes weren't even in the meat of his description paragraphs, but rather in his headline, the first thing anyone reads about you. "Looking for an easy lay," it read. Charming. I emailed him again. "Fuck fuck fuck!" he wrote back. "I'm going to delete my profile. Do you have another email address I can reach you on?" I said I was pretty wary, and he said he didn't blame me. I emailed him my real email address. Five minutes later his profile was deleted. And I never heard from him again.

I think he deleted my email address accidentally when he deleted my profile. Grania thinks he is schizophrenic and was altering his profile himself to create drama. I'm unconvinced, but I do think it's fairly unlikely that if someone broke into your profile and changed stuff in a way you didn't like, and you decided to take action and change your password, that you would ever change it to something even REMOTELY guessable. Surely you would choose the most obscure combination ever? How could she possibly have broken in more than once? Then again, if it was him making the changes for a bit of excitement, why would he delete his profile, which he'd paid for? All very odd. And thus my list of incredible vanishing men increases by the week. I can't really be offended if they disappear before they even meet me, but still, I spent Monday afternoon half-waiting for an email that never arrived and it's annoying.

That said, he clearly wasn't my husband because he can't spell and has psychotic ex-girlfriends, and I would have had to cancel the date anyway, as it was meant to be last night, and last night I had to be horizontal in velour. I was asleep on the sofa at 7pm, having made 24 mince pies that looked beautiful before I baked them, and now could be mistaken (and used successfully) as orangey-yellow hockey pucks. The pastry to filling ratio that I was advised to maintain by Delia turned out to be erroneous, and I am left with hard balls of pastry containing a small pocket of mince within, like a rock solid, shrunken mince doughnut crossed with a festive gobstopper. That's not to say they're not absolutely DELICIOUS. They're just not mince pies. Whatever they are, I've eaten three of them - two last night and one for breakfast. And now I'm off to my work Christmas lunch at a steak restaurant. Drool.

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.

Three things I can tell you:

1. This short clip of giant jellyfish near Japan is a bit freaky and a bit beautiful. I think I'd find it less scary if the theme tune to The Flintstones or Baby Elephant Walk by Henry Mancini was playing instead. Maybe the filmmakers can consider that for next time.

2. I bought too much mincemeat, but it doesn't go off until 2011 so hopefully I'll force down all the mince pies by then. I principally told that story (if it can be described as such) so that you'd be impressed by my Nigella-esque skills, but then I feel I should also admit that I bought frozen shortcrust pastry, so basically all that remains for me to do is roll, cut and use a spoon. And it would have been cheaper to buy them. In an attempt to claw this back from being both tragic, wasteful and pointless, I have this instant decided that my pies will have festive drawings pricked on them with a skewer. I will supply a photograph when I make them. Which will probably be in around February.

3. I have submitted my Christmas list and am now experiencing my annual panic that I will think of something ESSENTIAL and it will be too late. The fact that I am old enough to buy it for myself is, of course, a logical beta blocker, but the post-list-submission jitters are beyond my control. As usual, to give the elves some flexibility, I have thoughtfully requested more than I am likely to receive; however, due to space limitations at my flat, I have finally stopped asking for a pony. My top two hopefuls are this and a pineapple-shaped ukulele. Santa, if you're reading, I have been a good girl, probably one of the best there's ever been, so do the right thing and reward me with the material possessions I so desperately need. Thank you.

Enough is enough

Taste buds are weird, aren't they. I mean, we all have thousands of them (millions? billions?) and I suppose, thinking about it, that it's inevitable that everyone's will work in different ways. But what is odd is that so many people's appear to be faulty. It is laughable to me (and I know my father agrees with me on this matter, if few others) but it seems to be an oft-held perception that coriander is not a poisonous, meal-ruining, acrid leaf from HELL but in fact a tasty herb that is effective as a garnish. I know! It's patently absurd. Of course coriander is the devil's plant, devised solely to make all food take on the flavour of water that has been used to wash up after a dinner party and then left in the washing up bowl for approximately one week, during which time a mouse has crawled into the bowl, drowned and started to decompose.

So the mystery is how coriander has found this ubiquity in the past 3-5 years when all our natural instincts are, of course, to reject it. And it is my honest belief that the herb has been promoted by insiders at Sainsbury's, determined to test the limits of Jamie Oliver's powers of persuasion, in preparation for his still-secret bid to take over the world via a threat of chemical warfare to be unleashed at the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics. Yes: everyone who claims to like coriander has been duped into doing so by these evil corporate hounds. Just like tabacco, everyone hates it at first, but if you try hard enough you can override your own good sense and develop a taste for something truly harmful and wrong. But there is good news! It is not too late to reverse the process. Please, I implore you, save yourselves. Train your tastebuds to do the right thing. Reject coriander and show Jamie Oliver who's boss. At best, you'll save the world from destruction in three years. And perhaps if more people see the light and face up to this herb's true evil, then local sandwich chains will catch on and stop RUINING MY LUNCH with needless, covertly-hidden leaves chopped so fine that they are IMPOSSIBLE TO EXTRACT. Rage.

Full

I'm not quite sure why I feel so strongly about sharing my birthday with the POTUS, but finding out that Barack Obama is not only a lion but a 4th August lion was enough to make me gasp with excitement. Then again, I was almost dizzy when I found out while I was watching the opening credits of Newsnight last night, having arrived at my parents' house in the late afternoon to find my dad fixing four Birthday Girl balloons to the front gate, and then eating almost my own bodyweight in crisps and dip, so that none of us were remotely hungry, and then wolfing down delicious fish starter and amazing ribeye and bearnaise sauce and homegrown beans and homegrown salad and then apple tart with vanilla icecream plus extra chocolate cupcake for me with candle. I didn't eat the candle. But I did drink a lot of wine. And I woke up this morning still unbelievably, palpably full, and then came to work and went out for an horrifyingly early lunch to a really swanky steak restaurant with my boss and his right hand man, and almost got into a tussle because they were having calamari to start and wanted me to order a portion, and I could still taste the ribeye from last night, and so eventually my boss agreed to give me one of his rings, and then I managed not to be coerced into ordering steak for my main, and instead had seabass with spinach and bacon and peas and onions which under any other circumstances would have been absolutely delicious but on this occasion was absolutely the richest and most unnecessary meal I've ever eaten, and tonight I am going out for dinner with Emily to a supper club in Brixton where we are having at least four courses, and I can't cancel as it's been booked for weeks and I am so excited about it in principle but obviously in practice am tempted to take up bulimia just for this afternoon so that I can conceive of fitting in more food. I bet Obama doesn't have to go through this.

Disaster

About four or five years ago, when the Krispy Kreme donut ship had just docked in the UK, and everyone was going insane in the membrane about them, I decided to see what the hoohah was about. I consider myself to be a huge fan of donuts, in every sense, and these were said to be the Kreme de la Kreme of their genre, so my expectations were high. I bought my favourite, a simple glazed ring, and bit in. As I chewed, I could sense my thighs and buttocks sighing with relief as I realised that it just wasn't that nice. There was an overpowering vanilla flavour that was too strong, the glaze was too thin and the texture was too gooey. I would certainly be able to resist them in future.

And since then, I have resisted completely. I regularly walk past a Krispy Kreme outlet in Liverpool Street station, and am never tempted. I turn down all offers when people buy the huge KK selection boxes for an office celebration. All it takes is for me to recall the slightly sickening sensation of the glazed ring of yore, and I remember that eating one would be wasted fat. There are plenty of other ways for me to triple my recommended daily calorific intake that are far more delicious.

Or so I thought.

Claiming hunger a few moments ago after a diminuitive lunch of an EAT chicken salad and a few sticks of pineapple and mango, I emailed Laura for assistance. Seconds later, she entered my office with a donut reverently held before her on a white napkin. Like the one I'd sampled years before, it was round and glazed, but this one was covered with an additional sprinkling of white chocolate curls. We performed the dissection. Nuclear-red jam oozed out. Cautiously, I took my half, unconvinced: if the glazed ring circa 2006 had been was sickly, how bad would it be with the addition of further dough, neon jam and white chocolate? Nonetheless, weak and frail with post-lunch starvation, I bravely pushed my fears to one side and took a bite. Sweet god of all things heavenly and unhealthy, but it was delicious. Firm but moist, smooth and sweet, offset with a good and unusually central pocket tangy jam and the textural surprise of the thick chocolate shavings. My half was gone in a matter of seconds. And when Laura said she didn't want the rest of her section, I picked up the remaining third and forced it down too.

Now they are all I can think about. Much like Pringles, I fear I have popped and will now be unable to stop. I have opened the sluice gates, and an obsession with Krispy Kremes has begun. My mouth is awash with donut-infused saliva. I need more. I must have more. I will stop at nothing to get another. Although I can't quite be bothered to stand up. If the only thing that will save me from clinical obesity is my own laziness, I think we're in a serious situation here.

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.

And the beat goes on...

Yesterday, shortly before 11am, I wrote the following paragraph:

I just read the headline in the Guardian, which reads "Cabinet ministers press Gordon Brown for radical shake-up of politics: Elected upper house and caps on party donations on modernisers' agenda". And, with the whining voice of a six year old complaining about having to go to bed early, I said to myself, out loud, sitting at my desk, on my own, in my glass box office, "But I don't want an elected upper house."

I was going to edit it, by the way. It is unfinished. Regardless, I was going to follow it by a written down (and obviously hilarious) version of my internal dialogue concerning the House of Lords. But then Laura came into my office and we were chatting about Weight Watchers, and then at about 11:20, Eva phoned and told me she had a spare ticket to the Ivor Novello awards in the Grosvenor Park Hotel, and that I was welcome to the ticket if I could be on Park Lane in forty minutes. My lovely boss gave me the afternoon off, I hot-footed it to Bank and across town on the Central line, did my make-up en route (apologies Mum and all others who hate public make-up application: I am of your number but sometimes needs must), found applying my newish Laura Mercier eyeliner with fine brush onto inner upper eyelid somewhere around Chancery Lane fairly complicated, and was obviously livid to be wearing relatively subdued work clothes to an event where there would be dressed up people, but excited all the same. And then there we were, heading into the Grand Ballroom, just as we did the last time I went to the Ivors, when I was approx. sixteen and the highlight of my day was when Tony Mortimer asked me for a light. Now no one is allowed to smoke inside and Tony Mortimer is probably in his forties with seven kids by nine different women.

But that's not the only thing that's changed. To my utter relief, I'd heard of almost everyone who was nominated for an award, including Elbow (yay!), The Ting Tings (yay!) and Duffy (yawn). But what shocked me was that after the event, given the opportunity of returning back to Eva's house to watch Aladdin with her two toddling kids or staying out with the others to drink more booze and hang out with famous people, I unhesitatingly chose the former. Something dramatic has shifted within me and I'm afraid that, once again, the answer is clear. I am old.

Shortly after Jafar's henchmen had sent Aladdin to the bottom of the sea with a ball and chain around his leg, I reluctantly stood up and took the tube back to Russell Square for week four of the politics course, where we discussed the law, and when, if ever, it is appropriate to act outside it. Having consumed disappointingly large quantities of delicious food and wine at lunch, I was unable to resist the platters of charcuterie, bread, olives and chocolate biscuits that were laid out for our mid-evening break, and when Laura and I totted up my Weight Watchers points this morning, a rough estimate puts my score at an impressive 54, approximately 2.5 times my actual daily allowance. Hmmm. Not doing so well. Trying to think of the beach and the bikini horror but it appears to be particularly difficult when I am having fun. If only I could have a more miserable life, I would clearly be much thinner. Sigh. It's so unfair.

And after all that, I am still not sure about an elected upper house, even though it is clearly undemocratic. I need to work on that. And I'm still working on my theory of immigration. So much to do, so much to do. A bientot.