Sentence structure

Things I feel I would like to write: a review of my trip to see Clybourne Park at the theatre on Tuesday, a paean to vocabulary, a summary of yesterday's budget, a rousing call for Saturday's march, a record of my dinner at Bob Bob Ricard and a rant about the difficulties of hiring an RV in California in late August. Clearly I can't possibly get into all of those topics, I am far too distracted. Hmmmm. Drums fingers. Adds another line to the epic poem I am co-writing with Kate about the wonders of white wine. Hmmmm. Thinks again. Maybe I will do them all in one sentence. Depending on which ones are popular or generate feedback, I can then expand on them at a later date if necessary.

A play about changing attitudes to race in the Chicago suburbs, Clybourne Park disappointed me while seeming to delight ninety percent of the audience: they thought it was shocking and hilarious, while I felt jaded and unimpressed - the acting was patchy at best, the Big Shock moments weren't shocking, and there was no insight into current race divides that you couldn't find in an episode of The Office.

Partially inspired by this most amazing flowchart, I've realised that, possibly even more than my health, I am grateful for my vocabulary, a gift I received from my word-loving, crossword-solving parents - if you can't express your feelings, if you can't explain why you are thinking something or articulate your motivation, you're effectively rendered mute - I see it in teens who fight, not because they're violent, but because they can't tell the other person what they mean - and I'd argue that an ability to speak about the contents of one's head with precision is the greatest asset we can have.

I haven't really investigated the budget fully yet - my concentration levels are not at their highest at the moment - but it doesn't seem to have said anything too pleasing, and the thing that jumped out at me is that they are now going to tax private jet travel, to which I say, WHY THE FREAKING HECK WASN'T IT BEING TAXED BEFORE?

In the pub after choir on Monday, I became aware that none of my right-leaning singing friends had even heard of this Saturday's March for the Alternative, which a) means that they're not reading my blog (outrageous) and b) means that the right-wing press are not even covering it, even to slag it off - not something that should have surprised me, but since it's been on the front page of The Guardian's website pretty much daily since its announcement, the realisation that huge swathes of the populus don't even know it's happening is slightly frustrating - so for one last time (maybe), please read about it, and please come if you can.

I kind of don't want to tell anyone how much I like Bob Bob Ricard because obviously I am childishly possessive of a popular restaurant in central London and want it to be my place and no one else's except the people who know about it already, but in the spirit of sharing, it really is a gorgeous restaurant in Soho that has only become nicer since I was last there three years ago - the food is reliable, the menu has a good selection of prices and the atmosphere is basically my idea of eat-out perfection; on the downside, the wine list is a bit expensive, the waiting staff sometimes top up your glass even if you haven't taken a sip since thirty seconds ago when they last came round, and if there are celebrities present you can't see them because each table is curtained off, so opportunities for spying are limited - but basically, if I was richer and/or famous I'd go there constantly and if you want to take me out for a romantic meal, you could do worse than choose this place.

Hiring an RV in California in late August is freaking difficult, not just because there is a massive shortage of RVs for hire, but also because all the websites work like this: you type in your dates, they show you a list of possible vehicles that they may or may not have for hire, you are allowed to select one (and only one) of the vehicles that you're interested in (even if you'd be delighted to hire any of the twenty or so results they've found), and a new page loads asking for your details including your credit card number to secure the deposit, which you fill in, and then you get an email saying that they will look to see if the vehicle is available and then get back to you when they can, usually within 48 hours but no promises, and they can legitimately charge your card if the vehicle IS available, so you're loath to give your card details to anyone else, but you also know from experience that it's unlikely that that particular RV is going to be available and time is of the essence and there are possibly only two RVs available for that week on the whole of the West Coast, but you can't request a quote for any others because what if they all are available and your card gets charged twenty times and you end up paying a non-refundable 20% deposit on twenty RVs when you only want one?

OK that's it for now. I am bored and busy and grumpy and very happy all at once. Also: read Siddhartha, it's amazing. And this is brilliant too. Also, Boots own Skin, Hair & Nails supplements are just as good as Perfectil's and half the price. And I bought Pureology shampoo and conditioner for coloured hair - extra volume version - and it makes my hair really greasy. And I think one of the crayfish in my salad this lunchtime was funny. I spat it out but if I die in the next 12 hours, that's probably why. Also about a month ago, I got my highlights done by a girl and then quite soon after I saw my mum, who was like, 'When are you getting your hair done?' and I was all defensive and like, 'I just HAD it done!' and she was like, 'Oh! Sorry! Aren't they meant to dye the roots so you can't see them any more?' and I was like, 'They DID!' and she said, 'Hmmmm,' which she says quite often, and I said, 'It's HIGHLIGHTS, Mum - they take a section of the hair and then split it in half, and dye half of it and leave the other half undyed - it's meant to make it look more natural rather than just a block of solid colour.' And she nodded and realised she wasn't going to get anywhere with that argument, so she stayed quiet. And then I looked in the mirror, and my mum was right, I think the girl in the salon must have chosen each section, dyed about 10% of it and discarded 90%. And it's freaking annoying but it was too long ago to complain so now I'm going somewhere else to get it done again. Boring boring boring annoying. BYE.

In which I go to the cinema

Last night I saw a film called Slackistan at the ICA. I'd read a couple glowing reviews about this movie, made last year about the lives of a clique of young trustafarians in the years following their graduation from university - Reality Bites set in Islamabad. If it had been set in Detroit or Manchester, I'd be laying into it: the script is more dire than Knopfler, wincingly bad; the camera work suggests a work experience project; the sound and lighting are awful. The soundtrack is hideously clunky too - songs about love at moments about love, songs about heartbreak at moments about heartbreak - and even though I was briefly distracted by the breathtakingly handsome leading man, no one is gorgeous enough to hide the fact that the cast's acting makes Bennie Hill look like Marlon Brando.

But this wasn't made in Detroit or Manchester, it was made in Islamabad, and with as little patronising generosity as possible, I'd say that makes it a bit different. Despite all the crappiness, I still enjoyed it and certainly learned a lot from story, which showed a far more liberal, Westernised portrait of the city than I'd imagined - not necessarily a positive picture at all, but very different to my preconceptions, and lord knows it's important we challenge those as much as possible.

The sold-out central London cinema was full of youngish Asians and what interested me was that the environment in the auditorium was WAY more like seeing a film in Mumbai than just off Pall Mall. Girls were gasping and giggling at crucial plot points, bad jokes received huge belly laughs, people wandered in and out frequently and mobile phones were checked every few minutes. There was definitely the frisson of a special communal event and it served as a stark reminder to me that the young, westernised, Pakistani community in London rarely, if ever, see films about their Pakistani peers. It must be seriously odd to be so under-represented by the culture of the country in which you were born and have grown up. My parents are immigrants too, but with American and Scottish roots, I don't feel like my cultural past is particularly elusive.

Anyway. I'm glad I saw it.

I'm not doing anything tonight which is lucky, as my hair is so dirty that if I took out the four pins holding it off my face, it would stay put - except if I stood with the wind blowing on my back, in which case the whole structure would flip inside out and my face would be stuck in a tunnel of my own lank barnet. Sometimes I think it is extraordinary that I am not pursued down the street by hoardes of gift-carrying wooers. Today is not one of those days.

Hair brained

Right. I am handing control of my hair decisions to a triple panel of Sarah, Sara and Grania. They have not yet been informed of this but I think they'll be fine with it. From this day on, I am not allowed to cut, dye or even have my fringe trimmed unless all three of them have approved it. No more rash decisions. Ever.

I genuinely think I have some sort of mental condition, in addition to the other six million already detailed. Every time my hair even slightly annoys me, regardless of how innocuously it does so, I have to get it cut INSTANTLY. Based on previous nightmares (e.g. here), I now insist to myself that my hairdresser must have English as a first language, but in my desperation today I threw even that miniscule fragment of caution to the wind and accepted an appointment with Daniele, pronounced Danyellie, whose English was broken but OK, but I did that thing of sitting down in the salon opposite the mirror for my consultation and then realising that my hair looked absolutely amazing and that I didn't want him to cut it at all, but not being able to run away for fear of being rude. And now my hair is quite a bit shorter and a lot more boring and I hate it and I'm £30 poorer and less feminine and more ugly. Such a DICK.

I also am sick to death of my freaking crap memory. Last night after a glorious first-Christmas-rehearsal-of-the-year choir practice, I was walking to the pub and introduced myself to a guy who then informed me that I'd already had a fairly long conversation with him two weeks previously, concerning my new parlour game for classical music losers: The Ultimate Mass (where players compile their ultimate mass from all existing movements of all existing masses by any composer). I had no recollection of this conversation until he reminded me. I didn't recognise his face, I didn't know his name, and it wasn't until I heard his Belfast accent that I could place him at all. It is a bit like being in an even more terrible version of 50 First Dates called 50 First Rehearsals.

But it wouldn't be so terrible, except last week my attention was drawn to another, more serious, memory lapse, and I am still feeling a bit fragile about it. Lucy came to my flat for Em's hen and left a belated birthday present for me on my pillow. A couple of weeks later, she asked if I'd got her present. I had no recollection of ever seeing it. I looked all round my bed and under it. Nothing. My only idea was that Em must have found it and thought it was for her. I texted Em: "Did you by any chance take my birthday present from Luce by accident? It was apparently on my bed and wrapped in polka dot paper." "I have your present!" she replied. "We found it on your bed and thought it must be for me since there was no card. I'll give it to you next time I see you." I was relieved that I hadn't lost or thrown away the present by accident, but slightly miffed with Em. It was a bit weird of her (and whoever else 'we' was) to go into my bedroom, find a wrapped gift on my pillow and take it for herself. Still, I supposed I could understand it - she was giddy, it was her hen night...

Last week, I saw Em. I couldn't resist a small dig.
"I can't believe you just STOLE my birthday present!" I laughed. She laughed back.
"What are you talking about?" she said. "You gave it to me!" My eyes widened.
"What the actual fuck?" I said.
"Yep. You came into my room and handed it to me."
"Tell me we didn't open it."
"We did." My jaw dropped. Then the consumerism kicked in.
"Did I like it?"
"I can't remember. I'll wrap it back up and give it to you again."

So there we have it. After I unknowingly re-read The End of the Affair, I thought my memory had reached its nadir, but clearly not. Now I have found a present on my bed, given it to someone else, watched them open it, and have no recollection of doing so. AND I pay people to make me look worse. If that isn't a lost cause, I don't know what is. Somebody stop me.

Higher state of subconsciousness

I had a nice evening on Friday night, kicking off with a haircut at a salon that I'd chosen deliberately as looking like the kind of place where a customer might be able to communicate with the stylist using actual words rather than the combination of charades, gritted teeth and passive aggression that I'd tried last time. The new guy was so high up the hair food chain that instead of using sectioning clips to secure the top of my hair while working on the layers beneath, he actually had a minion to hold the locks for him. I've never seen this happen before and it made me feel slightly dirty. But the cut was good and I, as usual, look precisely the same as I did before.

Then I had a lovely dinner and drinks combo with Sarah, and then I journeyed home via Londike, woke up on Saturday, lay around, went on the computer and had a nice time, and then I went off to Victoria Park for Field Day, a one day 'festival' which was made awesome by the universe's greatest headline act, the sun, the actual sun, which beamed down on all of us and made what had been a non-descript cloudy morning into an ethereal, light-kissed evening full of beer, dancing, plastic pigeons and good music. It was really fun. And Sunday was good too, in that I did more lying around, and cleaned out my bathroom and planned a holiday and talked on the phone and did laundry and made delicious food. And I watched the Sondheim Prom on iPlayer, and then calmed down and watched Sherlock, and went to bed with a big grin on my face after what had been, by my reckoning, a most successful weekend, and although I was admittedly a little over-excited by some of the evening's events (the Prom in particular got my pulse racing), I didn't in the least expect to wake up at 2am gasping for breath as if I was being strangled. But that is actually what happened. My heart was pounding, and I recognised the symptoms of a panic attack, and I did all the deep abdominal breathing that you're meant to do, but my throat just felt like I was having an allergic reaction to something, like a cold fist was tightening round my larynx. Not pleasant. I slept patchily for the remainder of the evening and still feel funny.

Cannot work out why I would be having a panic attack since I feel absolutely fine at the moment and officially declare the boyban to be the best decision I didn't make (forced on me, as it was, by a third party). Maybe this is what my brain does when it's not worrying about men. Stupid, stupid brain. Hmmm. Rock. Me. Hard place.

Other than that, I have nothing to report.

Cheese alert

Two weeks on and I'm still thinking about Glastonbury. There's something so extraordinary about standing in a field with 80,000 other people, all united by a common purpose, listening to songs that make your hairs stand up on end - that crowd mentality that explains football obsession the world over, but which, I would argue, reaches a higher level when there are musicians onstage rather than players on the pitch, because of the lack of competition - we are all bound by one shared goal, there's only one team playing and we all want them to win. It's an enormously uplifting experience, often literally as you're lifted off your feet by the force of the heaving crowd. "Some people think I'm bonkers, but I just think I'm free, man I'm just living my life, there's nothing crazy 'bout meeeeee." Gotta love Dizzee.

And then there's the other extreme, standing in an empty chapel at 8pm on a Monday night, knackered from the weekend, rehearsing heavenly music by Monteverdi or Pergolesi, hopefully doing it some sort of justice, concentrating properly, no room for thoughts of men or motors while you're reading notes, singing and watching the conductor simultaneously, a meditative space in the maelstrom.

And there's my burgeoning ukulele addiction, my growing opera buffery, Chopin, Elgar, Rachmaninov, West Side Story, some lesser musicals, dancing to blues on Charlotte Street or indie at The Roxy. All are forms of release, all are heady, luxurious and emotional, all are necessary. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to enjoy the full spectrum. Spain just won the World Cup but for us music lovers, well... we're all winners every time a good song comes on the radio.

Ick.

In fringe news: it's actually OK. I wore it back in some sort of makeshift turban thing on Friday (odd decision, I'll admit) and he didn't seem to mind. Since then, I've found that, provided I spend six or seven hours styling it each morning, it actually looks OK. This would be unmanageable except I still have a skin-rippingly annoying cough which wakes me up with agonising frequency every night, so there's plenty of time to do hairstyling. Or read past entries of my own blog. Which is obviously more fun.

Q: How long does it take to RUIN MY LIFE?

Right. That is IT. I have fucking had it up to here and, worst of all, it's all my own stupid fault. I have a date tonight, my hair is looking lank, and I thought I'd go and get my fringe trimmed. My usual Japanese hairdresser doesn't work on Fridays, so I had another Japanese hairdresser.

"Freenge treeem?" she asks.
"Yes please," I say. "I was growing it out but I've decided I don't like it. So I want a blunt fringe, very chunky, taking in more hair than it was before." I explain what I mean by pulling forward some hair from closer to my crown. She nods and gets to work, cutting with precision until it looks just like I want it. Then she pins about half of it back and starts thinning out what's there. I wiggle uncomfortably.
"Please don't thin it out too much," I say. "I want it to be quite chunky. Blunt. You know?"
She nods and smiles and keeps going. And I sit there. I sit there like I'm fucking paralysed, all the while knowing that what she is doing is RUINING MY HAIR.
"You ok?" she asks. "You hot?"
"No, I'm not hot," I say, "just please don't thin it out any more. I want it blunt. Straight across. Not thin. The whole point of taking more hair into the fringe was so that it was thick. I have thick hair. Why are you making it look thin? Are you deaf? Why the hell are you working here if you can't understand WHAT I AM SAYING? STOP FUCKING SMILING AND NODDING." OK, I didn't say most of that, because I am polite and pathetic and PC. I tried to make my point though, and she nodded and smiled and then busied away doing the exact opposite, and I couldn't move because I am a moron.

And now my fringe is lank and pathetic and I hate it and no one will ever fancy me again, and I paid her the £3 she charged to trim it and gave her £1 extra as a tip and I will never go back and I will never have my hair cut again by someone who can't speak English, and yes, that's probably an awful thing to say and I am a keen supporter of global migration and immigration into the UK and diversity and variety of services and melting pots and tolerance but THIS IS MY HAIR we're talking about and it is serious.

The naked truth

Last night at choir we were talking about hair maintenance and the effects of age. "Don't get me started," a fellow singer said, pointing firmly between her eyes, "my pubic hair starts here." I laughed a lot and then began a nineteen hour reflection on the many ways that growing older has changed my body and mind. When I was younger, I thought that people started getting noticeably old in their sixties and seventies. There were children (who were short), grown-ups (who were tall but basically the same), and old people (who had wrinkles and grey hair). The idea that I would start getting old while still in my thirties didn't cross my mind. Now that I'm here, of course, reality has hit like a netball in the face. And since revelations from others about their secret pubic monobrows make me feel better about myself, I thought I'd perform a public service and admit the dark secrets of my own moribund form.

I'll start at the top. My hair used to be lovely. Now it is drying at the ends, itches in the mornings, gets greasy when I moisturise my face and occasionally produces dandruff. This alone is enough to make me want to be sick. Then there's my face. It used to be smooth and even. Now it is spattered with large pores. I get regular spots - more every month than I had in a year as a teenager - and I have scars where I've squeezed them. There are tiny red veins visible all round my nose, which make me look like I have a permanent cold. There is hair on my upper lip. If I dye it, it appears blonde but thicker. If I wax it, I get a red rash and ingrowing hairs. If I have it threaded, I get spots. There are hairs on my neck, around the place where my Adam's apple would have been if I had been lucky enough to have been born a man. And there's a patch of skin stretching up my larynx to my chin where the pigment is strangely white. I think this is the onset of vitilligo, an incurable and ridiculously unattractive condition of the epidermis. Hooray.

Moving down, my bingo wings, which are here for life, now seem to be developing baby cellulite and, unless they are suntanned, are emetic, making the wearing of strappy sundresses ill-advised, a shame as my shoulders are basically the only part of my body that don't make me want to hurl myself into the contents of an open bottle bank. My fingernails - once strong and glossy - now peel and ridge. My back aches. My breasts, while still a fairly nice size, are covered in stretchmarks - white furrows that don't tan and thus become more obvious in summer, and when I bend over and look at them hanging down, the 'rocks in a sock' label becomes acutely recognisable. My stomach is no longer flat and the dark hairs known as a garden path on men have emerged, although I doubt they serve as such an enticing invitation to any visitor that should find himself in the vicinity. There is a weird white mark around my solar plexus where there was once a mole. My body surrounded it with a white 'halo' (official medical term) and then basically consumed the mole, so all that's left is a white, pigmentless blob. I think it's quite clever that my body got rid of something dangerous, but I wish it hadn't left a residual stain that looks like some bizarre fungal condition in the middle of my abdomen.

Lower still, and we're getting beneath the waist, into the truly nuclear zone. Beware the truth. As admitted recently, a good portion of my considerable buttocks is covered with red spots, as persistent as cockroaches and possibly less erotic. Thanks to my beloved course of laser hair removal, my bikini line is less horrendous than it might be, but unfortunately the laser was not able to remove several inches of fat and thus leave my legs in perfect order. My thighs are rippled with cellulite. I have always had it, inherited at a young age from my mother, but the older I get, the worse it becomes. It is deeply, deeply unattractive. If my legs were otherwise slim, brown or smooth, the cellulite might be able to be borne. Needless to say, my vast, white thighs resist all tanning attempts, and the hairs are dark. There are even several long ones that grow horizontally on the back of each leg in a patch around the size of an average paperback. These make me wonder whether I am actually human and not some sort of minotaur sent to confuse people.

Beneath the cellulite and the hairs are the onset of varicose veins, a blight that I have miraculously fought off thus far as my father was having operations on his when he was in his twenties. I have several patches of blue behind my knees, waiting to pop at the most inconvenient moment and ensuring that - if the girth, orange peel effect and wolverine hirsuitedness weren't enough - I will never wear hotpants.

Finally, my feet - once so long and slender, now covered in mysterious lumps and knobbles. There are several dark hairs on the neck of my big toes. I have bunions emerging, in particular on my left foot - a condition that I would consider justified had I spent my life in stilettos, worn while successfully wooing Russian oligarchs, but given my absurd shoe size, I have spent almost all my life in men's trainers and lesbian Birkenstocks and have wooed a succession of men that have been almost universally labelled Not Good Enough. My high heel use has only emerged in the past three years or so, during which time I have researched the incidence of bunions and discovered that they frequently occur even when people spend their entire life in orthopaedic flip-flops and barefoot. My mother's toes are ghastly, veering off in different directions like bizarre coral, so I think it's clear what's coming to me, in the pedal sense.

And thus we reach the end of my thorough physical examination, a study driven not by self-pity but by a selfless desire to alleviate the panics of others through the admission of my own flaws. It is a sign of my own unbelievable arrogance that I do not believe my physical appearance to be the reason for my single status - rather, I think that, when covered up, I am actually quite attractive. I know for certain that I will never pull while wearing a bikini, but it's safe to say that I've missed the boat for a starring role on Baywatch, and anything that keeps me out of the arms of Mitch Buchannan is fine with me. May the fictional god bless physical imperfections - I'd be unbearable if I was beautiful.

Ehowtogetbeatenup

Still on yesterday's school reunion tip, I feel I must share with the uninitated a selection of suggestions that I stumbled across here, describing how to prepare for a high school get-together.

1. Dedicate yourself to an exercise regime. In the months leading up to the big event, tone up, burn some calories and get physically fit. You'll not only look better, but you'll feel more confident.

OK. Given that I found the site less than 24 hours before the reunion, I left it a little too late to action this. Even so, I had fortunately considered that my appearance should be at top notch on the big day, so I was thrilled when I stepped on the scales on Saturday morning and found that I'd actually gained nearly a kilogram last week. Additionally, my face had chosen to reward me for my largely spot-free teenage years by breaking out in a liberal sprinkling of zits. Excellent.

2. Splurge on a stylish outfit. Don't break the bank, but treat yourself to some flattering new duds that accentuate your assets.

Assuming that turning up to the reunion wearing a burka might be thought of as a little odd, I didn't have many options. It was far too late to buy something new so I went in an old dress from Marks and Spencer's, the only selling point of which is its low neck - normally I'd hope that my cleavage may distract from my face, but in a room full of heterosexual girls, I knew I was barking up a tree of desperation. On the upside, I gained solace from the knowledge that I am not a person who uses the word 'duds' instead of 'clothes'.

3. Pay a visit to your hairdresser. Update your look with a new cut or color. Whatever you choose, make sure it's different from the style you had in high school. If you're not ready to lop off those locks, opt for a trendy up-do.

This tip had me crying with relief that I no longer have to write crap like that for magazines. And also slightly panicking that my appointment with my beloved Japanese hairdresser isn't until next Tuesday. My roots are almost longer than the dyed portion of my hair and the style doesn't know whether it's 60s or 70s, long or short, blonde or brown. In short, it looks awful. Ah well. I reminded myself that these people knew me when I went to school, so there's little point pretending that I'm anything other than rank - they know the truth.

4. Define yourself professionally. Even if you're in-between jobs and not exactly sure of your career path, prepare an impressive response. You're likely to be asked what you do for a living more than once.

Define yourself professionally?! FFS. I've been trying to do that since the late nineties. My career path is about as easy to define as irony. At this point, the tips were making me want to skip the reunion and stay at home doing something more fun, like stabbing myself in alternate ears with skewers. Mercifully, on the day itself, the only two people who asked me about my job were two old teachers - my peers either know the truth already or didn't care, and for that I love them.

5. Count your blessings and your bragging rights. From your perfect children to that marathon you ran, recall your many accomplishments. You'll want to mention these things at the reunion.

Oh yes! Of course! Thank god you reminded me about the CHILDREN I DON'T HAVE AND THE MARATHON I HAVE NEVER RUN. I recall my many accomplishments. They include interviewing Britney Spears on the phone over a decade ago and then listening back to the tape and becoming convinced that the PR had sent a stand in, so the rest of my office were helpless with laughter that I'd actually spent half an hour on the phone talking to 'Jipney'. And there was that time I fixed my washing machine unaided in 2008. I no longer feel like doing the ear skewer thing. Suicide is clearly the only option.

In addition to the five dos, there are also a few additional pointers, including the helpful suggestion that I bring my business cards (which I don't have because I am SUCH AN UNDERACHIEVER) and a warning not to drink away my nerves. Apparently it's fine to loosen up with a couple of drinks but we should be careful not to overdo it. Lolz etc. As if I would need to be told not to overdo it! Moi, the epitome of self-control and abstinence?! In the event, I took things at my usual refined pace, only having very small, delicate sips of sparkling wine, white wine and red wine, and going to bed at the civilized hour of 3am after re-straining my right groin muscle while attempting to pole dance in the sixth form common room.

So, thanks to ehow for telling me that I should turn up in precisely the opposite state to that in which I managed to arrive, and then behave in a manner absolutely not like my own character, while handing out BUSINESS CARDS.

LLFF's tips for a reunion are as follows:

1. Don't bother getting too dressed up, losing loads of weight or doing an 'ornate up do' because you'll look like a wanker. Plus, everyone will know you never normally look like that - we've all seen you on Facebook.
2. Don't worry about your job or your achievements - no one worth your time gives a flying fuck what you do between nine to five, they just want to see that you're happy and healthy.
3. Take business cards and hand them out. If you truly are that much of a dick, this is a helpful way of identifying yourself to the people who aren't over-formal nightmares.
4. Drink as much booze as you can possibly pour down your gullet. You've paid for it, you may as well enjoy it.
5. Finally, never ever rely on the internet for tips about anything. The content is written exclusively by morons. Oh.

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.

Science and not much progress

Last night I met up with Laura after work (not the Laura I work with but another one) and we went to Science Museum Lates at the, er, Science Museum - they stay open late one night a month, and no kids are allowed in. It was brilliant. We made origami and played on the machines and watched a talk about rockets, both volunteered to be assistants, got free drinks as a result, and accosted one of the incredibly knowledgeable curators who had tattoos up one arm to find out where the Apollo 10 capsule was hiding. He showed us - but not before he'd boasted about the satellite display he'd put together, showing the location of the approx. 11 thousand satellites there are currently whirring around our planet. Some of them are really far away - they're the ones that are static, like the ones for our Sky TV. It was fascinating.

After we'd tired of the exhibition (and personally, it was the site of all the sickeningly happy couples drooling on each other next to the party games), we went for some food and Laura's friend joined us, who was really nice and she works for a London website and wanted to hear about the Late night so she could write it up, and I offered to do it, and I wrote the review this morning and now it's on the internet. Clever me.

Writing's a funny one. I still stand by my assertion that, unlike every other human on earth, I don't have a novel inside me, but I do love the process of rambling on through the medium of typing. There are plans afoot. That said, I think there are a lot of people out there who are a lot better than I am. But with that attitude, no one would ever do anything. I've never been good at being medium at something, though. I'm either pretty good, or I don't do it at all. The prospect of just being an OK writer makes me feel a bit queasy. I'd rather not try. Blogging doesn't count as I can write exactly what I like. No one is paying me to do it, and you are not paying to read it. I owe you nothing, rooooer, nothin' at aaaalllllllll. Hmmm. Once you start writing for money, everything changes. Even you. We're a thousand miles apart but I still love you. Anyway. I have decided that Sundays in 2010 are Writing Days and I'm going to Do Something Constructive if it kills me.

Goodness what a lot of self-absorbed blathering. I have nothing else to report - all I can think about is myself, and when I briefly take time off from doing that, I am unable to cope with the panic I feel following the discovery that my lovely Hungarian hairdresser has left the salon and the unreasonable bitch at reception wouldn't give me his mobile number so now I can't stalk him and track him down in the street when he's out with his wife and demand that he trims my split ends immediately. That is all.

They like it long

So last night a bunch of us were in the pub after choir, and someone said that my hair looked nice, and I said that I really like the fringe, but I hate the length. And they said (reasonably),
"Why don't you cut it?" and I said,
"Because I'm trying to maximise my chances and boys prefer girls with long hair." Immediately, there was a loud scoffing around the table as several of the tenors and basses hastened to assure me of the falsity of my statement.
"That's rubbish!" blurted one. "It looks great!"
"I LOVE short hair on girls... very sexy..." murmured another.
"Ah," I said. "You may like short hair on girls, but I bet you only go out with girls with long hair." Many pairs of male eyebrows simultaneously knotted. "I am always the cool, feisty girl with the funky hair and the excellent clothes," I continued, "and at every party, all the boys say I look great and laugh at my jokes, but then they end up falling for the girl with the long straight hair and the round neck jumper. You like short hair on girls, but not on your girlfriends." I spoke with authority, but even I was surprised at the speed at which the boys agreed.
"Actually, you're right," one conceded.
"You know, I've never been out with a girl with short hair," admitted another one.
"So this new hair," asked Aidan, "is your marriage hair?"
"I suppose it is," I said. And we all laughed. Hahahahaha.

Yes. I am growing marriage hair. Hahahahaha. What was yesterday a headful of long, blonde locks is today another symbol of my hope for partnership. Pragmatism or desperation? I don't think it's any different than my decision not to wear my all-in-one velour jumpsuit on dates or my choice to wear make-up rather than turn up with eyes like currants in a face full of unleavened pitta. We all do what we can to look attractive. I'm normal. Just abnormally open about it all. And you love me for it.

Like the Grateful Dead...

Sob.

As feared, the haircut is less 'Olsen twins' and more 'Rod Stewart after a run-in with some bleach'. And, in a monumental triple whammy of disappointment, the seriously, seriously gigantic and over-confident teenager who washed my hair a) didn't turn on the massage chair and b) didn't give me even a paltry attempt at a head massage, merely cursorily smearing some conditioner over about a third of my head and washing it off within approximately eight seconds, aeons before any of the product would have had the slightest chance to soak in, and then roughly towel drying it using a similar action to one you might employ when trying to absorb spilled water from a carpet with a tea towel, so that c) when she took me back upstairs and tried to wrench a brush through my Medusa-esque do, I felt like I was being scalped. Liv. Id. Most of all, I am livid at my total failure to complain. I heard the humming of the chairs and the contented sighs of the satisfied customers to my left, yet I did nothing. It was pathetic.

But on the upside, the hairdresser was waaaaay more handsome than I remembered, and he's not Polish, he's Hungarian, not that that means anything, but just in the interests of accuracy, and he's actually rather charming and I briefly fell madly in love with him. And in a worthy addition to the psychotic fast forward thing that us girls do so well, without even meaning or wanting to, I suddenly imagined us getting together and before I knew it, I was wondering whether this would be the last time I would have to go to a salon to get my hair cut, because my new fictional boyfriend, Alex, would be cutting it on a Sunday morning in front of Shipwrecked. It's really quite extraordinary how it happens. Ah well. Back to the grind.

It's not for lack of bread...

Hmmm. I appear to have misplaced my blogging va-va-voom somewhere around here. It might be to do with the fact that my brain has crashed following three nights out - singing at Damian's on Monday, a very rowdy book club at mine on Tuesday and a night out at Ed's in Brixton yesterday. Far too much cheese and wine consumed for my diet's liking but it's all been very fun. Tonight I am off to get my barnet seen to and I cannot wait - loved my monosyllabic Polish hairdresser last time because he properly argued with me when we were discussing my style ideas, but was also wowed by the fact that the salon has massage chairs at the sinks; the prospect of lying in a massage chair on the 'firm' setting while someone washes my hair is so wondrous that I feel slightly weak-kneed just thinking about it. Bring. It. On. Although obviously the fantasy of haircuts is always slightly better than the reality, in that I go into the salon thinking I will come out looking like one of the Olsen twins, and in fact I come out looking exactly like I did before, but with my make-up slightly washed off and streaky around my forehead, and my hair a lot more blonde and bouffant, in a state of high gloss that will not be recreated until I return to the professional ten weeks later, and you get that weird thing where they whip off the protective gown and you see your same old clothes and your same old thighs and you realise that your hair is about eleven times more glamorous than the rest of your body, and it's like someone's started giving you a make-over from the top down and then got distracted after job one. Hmmm. Slightly wishing I was just going straight home to watch last night's Apprentice.

PS - ten points to anyone who gets the title reference.