OK I'm back.

And not just back in a kind of once-every-three-weeks way, like I've been for the past few wishy-washy months. I'm properly back. I think. Let's see. The proof of the pudding is, of course, in the eating, and I need to start as I mean to go on, which means actually writing something.

So I will write about two matters of the heart - last month's Royal Wedding and my own pathetic four-chambered organ, which carries on beating despite being mangled and kicked down the street and covered in bits of gravel and the sticker off an apple.

My mother - and, later, Grania's mother - were very upset with me for not being The Most Excited Person Evah about the Royal Wedding. My parents were both in tears during the service, and my mum, who is American by birth but gave up her US citizenship and became an on-paper UK national some years ago, emailed me that afternoon telling me how proud she was to be British. And I'm happy for all the people who enjoyed it, really I am. I mean, why would anyone nice want other people to be miserable? I am nice and I thus want other people to be happy. However, I could not escape a feeling of sadness on the day that there was all this kerfuffle about a posh boy marrying a posh girl (and seriously, don't get me started on the idea that she's a [retch] 'commoner'), that thousands upon thousands of people lined the streets and waved flags and had street parties and made a fuss, just over some perfectly sweet couple's wedding. I mean, maybe, maybe if they made the same sort of fuss about lots of other things too, it would be OK. But no. This is WAY more fuss than I can remember since the Queen's Golden Jubilee celebrations in 2002. Which means that in ten years, the only two things that have brought the British public together en masse to celebrate are both Royal events.

And let them eat cake. I don't want to stop them. I do wish they didn't give a shit, yes. I'd prefer it if everyone thought that it was a huge waste of money, and that the AV referendum was way more important, but love conquers all, and who am I to dictate what floats others' boats? They can wave their flags and scream and tell their grandkids all about it in years to come, while I'll age into some wizened old crone, wrinkled with cynicism and a miserable inability to join in with populist frenzies, staring out the front window from my wingback chair, wondering why all my friends are out having fun while I'm alone at home worrying about First Past The Post with a strong moral code and a weak liver.

And I bet I WILL be alone as well. The blossing romance lasted, well, about as long as actual blossom, approx. six weeks from start to finish, and the boyban scaffolding is now being slowly resurrected around my battered ego. I'm definitely glad I gave it a go - it was my first foray into That Domain since last June, so it was a real relief to confirm that I haven't completely forgotten how to point out every single flaw in someone else's behaviour, have absurdly long arguments over text message until 1am and feel like utter shit for days on end. Am now back in reality and focusing on the many positives, namely that I don't have to get rid of my feather duvet, feather pillows, feather mattress topper and feather sofa cushions to accommodate his allergies, and that I may still one day have a boyfriend who has bought new underwear since the turn of the Millennium.

It was nice, though, to get a morning text saying 'Hello gorgeous' every day, and even arguing with someone about whether or not we should go out was quite a pleasant change from the normal silence that occurs when I get home each night. Meh. On the upside, I looked at my Hadrian's Wall photos yesterday for the first time in a week or so, and finally realised that it was an amazing thing I did. So that was briefly fun.

Right, I think that's a good start. I'll get back to my busy schedule of annoying my friends with the alacrity of my email responses and counting the hours until therapy. I fully intend to write again tomorrow. Let's see what happens.

Another perspective

"So hang on, you're saying that you could go to a house party, meet a girl, find her attractive, talk to her for five or ten minutes, talk to other girls later on, realise in retrospect that she was your preferred girl of the evening, realise that she'd left before you could ask her for her number, but still not ask the host or hostess of the party for her number, even though you would have loved to see her again and you know for 100% certain that they could get her number for you?"
"Yes."
"So you could go to a party, completely fancy a girl, give her the signals that you fancy her, and then not follow up on it, even though you'd totally wanted to see her again?"
"Yes."
"So a guy could have gone to a party, completely fancied me, given me the signals that he fancied me, and then not followed up on it, even though he'd definitely wanted to see me again?"
"Yes."
"Oh."

Overheard

On Facebook last week, one of my virtual friends wrote that she'd just been groped by a sex pest on the tube, and that it was a shitty end to a shitty day. Several of her friends had expressed their sympathy. I sat there fuming. No one ever gropes ME on the tube. Through my warped eyes, her status update said, 'A stranger found me attractive enough to risk a fine or prosecution.' Well just hang on a moment while I get out my violin and start playing something REALLY SAD to accompany your entirely unjustified self-pity.

Similar phrases:
I'm trying really hard to put on weight at the moment, but I just can't seem to do it!
I'm in love with two guys and I don't know which one to pick!
I've been invited to three parties this Saturday and I feel really bad turning two down :(

POOR YOU. I didn't feel sympathetic. I felt murderous.

Then last night, I was walking along a quiet suburban street in a fairly new pair of skinny jeans. I can wear these now because, since last November, I've lost quite a lot of weight, most of it from my lower half. I was also wearing a longish cardigan and a coat. On the street behind me, I heard a largish vehicle approaching. Then I heard it slowing down and, just as it reached me, an unmistakably black voice said, "Nice arse." My arse has long attracted the attention of black guys. Several times a year, I receive comments on it from them. Unfortunately, that is the extent of the comments I receive - nothing about my face being pretty, or any other element of my appearance of which I'm happy, and nothing from white guys. It's always black guys, it's always about my arse, and it's always about the fact that it's bigger than average. I had hoped that my recent weightloss would change this. But clearly not.

As the van drove off, I was pretty sure the driver had genuinely meant that he thought my arse looked nice. I think he had gained pleasure from its existence and had intended to pay me a compliment. But at that moment, I felt like lying down on the pavement and sobbing. His comment was proof that I had still not achieved my goal of having an arse that wasn't worth a remark. I desperately want a boring arse. And as I schlepped on towards my therapy session, I felt a brief surge of sympathy for the girl who was groped.

Still angry and hurt, I ate quesadilla and fish and chips and spinach for dinner, and drank a lot of white wine.

Later on last night, I was walking into Shepherd's Bush tube station. As I approached, I noticed a young guy dancing to the music in his head. He was good. About twenty yards away two school-age girls walked by him. "Excuse me," shouted the podgier one at the guy, "your dancing's bangin'."
"Thanks," he replied. I was now right by him.
"She's right," I said.
"Thank you, sir," he said, grinning.
"SIR?!" I wheeled round.
"I said SWEETHEART!" he said, immediately, as I broke into a smile. "I must've mumbled. Sorry."

Sir would have finished me off.

Breaking news: I am mental

Well, my therapist certainly earned her £45 yesterday, although I suppose it's possible that I was just being brilliantly insightful. Whatever the cause, I don't really care - it was an excellent session and I feel like a new woman, my mood not even dented by a fairly unsettling hangover.

We picked up where we'd left off, with me unable to love someone if their love is consistent. Why can't I respect someone who just straightforward loves me? Because it feels too easy, thickie - you're not even testing me! I'm used to jumping through hoops for love, having to be on top form at all times, having to excel, and then you come along and love me without challenging me, without pushing me to my limits? Well, pah to that. OBViously your standards are rock bottom, my friend, and you're just a teeny bit desperate. Because if you were worthy of my respect, if you really were a valuable human being, you wouldn't just love me so easily. You would have to test me, hard, to see if I was worth your time. High quality people don't give their love to just anyone, you know. The creme de la creme will challenge my loyalty, challenge my commitment. Can I bear it when their attention comes in fits and starts? Of course I can! Will I buy them amazing presents to persuade them that I'm worth their continued affection? Yes, yes I will. How about putting up with it when they don't keep their promises? Fine with me! It just means I have to work harder, which in turn means you'll really love me, and you'll see that I really love you too! Pant, pant!

I'm fully aware how excruciating this sounds. But jeez Louise, it explains so much. Not only does it justify some of my less equal platonic friend choices over the years, and the fact that I've consistently fallen crazy in love for guys who've only given me glimmers of inconsistent, patchy interest, but it also explains why, once I've won a guy over and we've become boyfriend and girlfriend, I have then become so critical of them - partly because I lose respect for them because they seem to be loving me UNcritically, but also because I'm showing them that I love them the only way I know how: by challenging them, testing the level of their love for me and giving them the opportunity to up their game and shine to the max. "You think you love me?" I'm saying. "I've jumped through hoops for you, so you know I'm amazing. But how do I make sure you're high quality goods too? Don't think you can sit on your laurels now, young man. You have to prove it, prove it, prove it. Look! I made you this unbeLIEVably romantic dinner! I bought you this absurdly thoughtful gift! I painted your portrait! I printed out all our emails and got them bound into a hardback book! Top that, motherfucker! Can't? Then I'll highlight your inadequacies until you want to rip out my tongue and feed it to squirrels." So they eventually dump me, and finally I get that yearned-for taste of them not wanting me, so I suddenly decide that they ARE good enough, after all. Cue me begging them to take me back, them refusing, and me spending the next several months thinking the one who got away was The One Who Got Away while my parents and friends sit around going, "But you found him really annoying!"

What a fucking nightmare. Still, at least I now have a comprehensive answer to anyone who shakes their head, looking mystified, and says, "I just don't understand why you're still single!" I don't respect anyone who goes out with me, but on the rare occasions that someone slips through the net, I put them through an insanely rigorous, constant and unending series of tests, 'generously' allowing them occasion after occasion so that they can prove their worth every single day we're together, and then, when they inevitably fail, I criticise them to the point of mutual madness, until they end it, when I suddenly grovel at them to take me back.

Then, as if that wasn't enough to send me barking for The Priory, I realised that my love for mySELF is hot and cold, too. Sometimes I think I'm great - usually when I've got visible evidence that some current target thinks I'm cool. Then, just when I'm getting comfortable, the target loses interest, I realise I'm actually a fraud and a failure, I go off myself and plunge into depression. My self-esteem is totally conditional on my passing all my own tests, one of which is to be loved by someone, but that someone has to love me in a conditional way, otherwise I won't respect them.

If that's not a complex little web of insanity, I don't know what is. But frankly, it feels great to have got it out in the open, to see what we're working with. On the downside, I can't see how I'm going to stop doing any of this. And right now, as my therapist identified last night, I'm going through a very angry stage. Anyone who is breezing through life being uncomplicated is making me very annoyed indeed, because I feel like it's very unfair that I should be the way I am. But hey, que sera sera; at least now I understand it, I have a chance of breaking the habits of a lifetime. And the sun's shining.

Plus, I am fairly certain that I'm better off than Ruby Wax, in pretty much every way other than financial. After my landmark therapy sesh, I then went for an hour long drink in Borough Market with Emily, a schoolfriend I've not seen for over fifteen years. Well, honestly, we weren't friends at school. We discussed it last night, and I said I'd been thinking about it, and I reckoned the reason we weren't friends was because we both felt unpopular, and both responded in similarly annoying ways: by trying REALLY REALLY HARD to be popular. Which, as we both know now, is not the best way to make friends. Anyway, it was supremely lovely to add some wine to the water under the bridge and, once again, I gave thanks for the internet and social media for bringing yet another wonderful, feisty, intelligent and entertaining person into my life.

Sorry, that doesn't explain the Ruby Wax comment. After seeing Emily, I then rushed over to the Mernier Chocolate Factory to meet lovely Laura and her amazing friend James for a quick drink and a bite to eat before a performance of Ruby's current show, Losing It. I was just tucking into my chicken breast (skin on) and potato croquette, when Laura paused mid-sentence. "It's Palomino Faith," she whispered, only later realising that Paloma was not named after a blond-maned pony. I whipped round, and saw the back of her ginger beehive. Thrilling celebrity spot, we thought. Moments later, James spluttered into his cheese and grapes. "Ohmygod, what's her name?!" he hissed. "She was like Jane MacDonald, but less famous, and she won Strictly Come Dancing or something and, and, SHE USED TO BE IN BROOKSIDE!" Eventually, someone other than me put the clues together and worked out that D-list, red-faced lass, Claire Sweeney, was eating a few tables away. We were awash with excitement. Two famous people in one evening! Never mind that most normal people would never have heard of either of them. We were feeling very glittery.

Then in walked Joanna Lumley. James began to froth.
"This is too much!" he said. "I cannot cope with this level of excitement." Laura was rocking gently in the corner. I used to work for a pop magazine so cannot act excited around famous people without feeling like I will get fired. Then I spied my friend Damian. He walked over to our table, followed by his wife. "How did you get tickets for this?" he asked with a tone of slight surprise. "I know the right people," I said, coyly, neglecting to mention that we had just bought them, online, a few weeks ago, like any normal person would go about getting tickets for any normal event. Clearly, though, we had picked an interesting night. It was the Gala performance, for Comic Relief, and about five minutes before curtain up, the floodgates opened. You couldn't swing a copy of Hello! magazine without hitting someone whose face you recognised but whose name you couldn't quite remember. Between us, we identified Zoe Wannamaker, Nick from The Apprentice, Jo Brand, Harry Shearer, Harry Enfield and someone called Oliver Something.

Keeping cool, we moved through to the bar. I had to pinch James who was identifying people too loudly, and then I left the two of them and went to get drinks. As I reached the front of the queue, I turned to see Ronnie Wood behind me. This was someone genuinely quite cool, but also unquestionably a dick and a womaniser, so I maintained my glacial air of "Do I look bothered?" As I walked back to my friends with our beverages, however, Laura was holding something approaching what Rodney Yee calls Powerful Pose, knees bent, arms tensed, eyes slightly bulging. "RONNIE WOOD IS HERE," she bellowed. "I know," I said, passing her a glass of house white. "RONNIE WOOD!" she repeated, as he stood an inch away, wearing a bizarre Inca-themed jacket.

We took our seats, and Ruby began her show, which told the story of her descent into depression and her experience of living with the illness. The audience were agog, laughing uproariously when expected to do so, and sitting in horrified silence as Ruby described stuff that sounded perfectly normal to me, like not leaving the house for days on end. She is still heavily reliant on medication and says she hasn't had enough therapy. That's when I realised I wsa better off than her. So that was something. In the second half Q&A, an audience member thanked her for being brave enough to speak out, and I realised then what a generational gap there is - that while a large chunk of my peers are openly in therapy and on medication, where we all know several depressives and it's just, sadly, a common fact of in all our lives - for many of those in their fifties and sixties, it's still a taboo subject, still something that's not taken seriously. Basically, our parents should go, but for us, it was all a bit old hat. Afterwards, we muscled into the aftershow party, ate canapés, drank prosecco and dissected the validity of racist comedy. I tottered home, spoke to Grania for way longer than intended, and seconds later my alarm went off.

Which brings me to the end of today's episode of LLFF. I have had a lovely day, a fast run this morning, a delicious and highly enjoyable lunch with my wonderful dad in the heart of the City where he ruffled my feathers about Thatcher ("But how can you criticise her?") and the Middle East ("They're all morons") while simultaneously being completely hilarious and utterly charming. Winner. I'm off to uke band practice in an hour, then home for some TV and meditation. I'm still not sure why I feel quite so lifted having identified myself as Definitely So Mental As To Be Surely Beyond Hope, but I do. Long may it continue. Love love love to you all xx

Inside Jane's head: the weekly peek into my psyche

I think about Chris, the Chris in my office, all the time. We've been friends on and off for a year or two, and he literally fascinates me. I think he's about 27 or 28. He was a radio producer and then came to work in the City to make more money. Now he produces music in his spare time and socialises. He owns a fast car, some sort of Mazda I think. It's black and, I believe, capable of 180 mph. Or maybe it can go faster than that, but that's as fast as he's gone in it. I don't know. It makes him happy. And this is the thing. Chris knows exactly what makes him happy, and, vitally, those things are attainable for him. He likes: his friend group (already attained), getting drunk on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays (easily done), girls (never has any problems), going to Glastonbury (easy), and his car (attained). He has struggles, of course. His dad nearly died last year, which shook up Chris a lot, but now he starts every day being grateful that he can even stand up without assistance, and he spends the remaining hours counting down to the next time he can go out with his friends and get drunk. He never seems to get bored of the pattern, never seems to want more than he has, or certainly not more than is achievable for him. He wants his own life.

I want his life too. My head is nothing like Chris'. His head is so simple, with a few clear functions and no clutter, like an airport departure lounge. I am embroiled in an existential crisis and my head is a frenzy, no clear ideas about what is happening, where it's going, or faith that it can achieve what it should, like a squat. I need some sort of interior head designer to turn my squat into a departure lounge. I want to live in The Terminal, but with a better script.

I believe there is no overarching meaning to life, and that everything ends when we die: there is no afterlife, there is no reincarnation, there are no souls. All humans need a sense of purpose to function, so we set ourselves goal after goal, until we die. I believe that death is life's vital ingredient, the border that gives the garden definition (you'll like that, TB). I do not fear it, but I don't want it to happen just yet. I believe that life is a gift, and, like anyone else, ideally I'd enjoy what's left of it.

To be at peace, I think humans need a purpose. I want to enjoy myself, but that is impossible without peace. I believe that helping others or spending one's working hours doing something rewarding, providing a service that benefits others, is a good way to feel purposeful. My boss needs me, but I do not feel stretched. However, I struggle to think of a job that would suit my needs better - certainly any job that I could get would involve taking a fairly big pay cut, which is a scary prospect with a large mortgage in these times of economic uncertainty. And besides, I don't want my job to define me. I don't think jobs are that important. So I stay where I am and focus on the positives.

And yet I am lonely. My friends cannot give me the attention I crave. I want all-encompassing love and recognition from a higher place. I am such a perfect candidate for evangelical Christianity it is gobsmacking that I manage to remain such a devout atheist. But my persistence in searching for the next goal, the next person to convert, is tragic. I am not enough. I must always be proving myself. It is exhausting and fruitless, and yet, to stop would be terrifying. To say, "Here is good. Right now. This is what I want." The thought makes me want to cry. It feels like failing, which is ironic since believing that now is alright would be to have found peace at last.

And yet, not so long ago, I thought I had it. At the beginning of this year, I felt amazing. I had accepted that this was all there is, and I had (I believed) come to terms with it. I felt free and ecstatic. Yet now, five or so weeks later, I'm battling with it all again. So what changed? I'll tell you what happened: I was rejected and it wobbled me. The boyban is still intact (apart from one 20 min incident that we'll gloss over), but there was a frisson with someone, and then it turned out to be nothing more than that. And I crashed.

I talked about it a lot in therapy. Why do I keep going for guys who reject me? Why do I always criticise the boys who love me? And eventually, last week, I said it: I cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject me.

My therapist repeated it back to me, slowly. (This is what I pay her to do). You cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject you, she said. I thought about it, and nodded.

And, of course, this makes it impossible for me to love anyone who doesn't treat me like shit at least some of the time. Faithful, this was not a happy realisation. I felt left out as a child, and so now I don't feel comfortable unless I'm still being excluded, unless I still have to jump through hoops to get someone's attention. If you give me all your attention, you're obviously a loser and not worthy of my time or respect.

So I idolise people who go hot and cold on me, and I fancy boys who can't commit. It all makes sense. But it sure as hell doesn't paint my future in a rosy light. How the heck do I stop doing this? How do I start fancying the good guys, the ones who will love me outright? How do I hear them say, "I love you," and not automatically think, "Well, then you are clearly a moron. Please leave."? I suppose just being aware of this propensity is a good start. And, let's face it, I am so far from being able to break the boyban that it really isn't a problem right now. But the fact is: I am a bit of a mess. I have no clear purpose in life, love is all I want, yet loving someone who loves me seems like a dialectical impossibility. I feel like a really thick dog chasing its tail. HOORAY!

In happier news, I am looking thin and two people this year have thought I was IN MY MID-TWENTIES. That is brilliant. Totally superficial, but brilliant.

Unencumberbatched

I don't normally read reviews of plays before writing my own, but this time I just had to check, and frankly, there is something of the elephant in the room about them all. And elephant is really not the kindest word here. Let's just put it out there (he did).

I SAW BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH'S PENIS LAST NIGHT. NOT JUST BRIEFLY. IT WAS FLAPPING AROUND FOR ABOUT TEN TO FIFTEEN MINUTES.

Anyone who DOESN'T begin their review of the Danny Boyle-directed Frankenstein (National Theatre) exactly like that either:
a) saw the play on a night when Johnny Lee Miller was playing the creature rather than Benedict (the two actors alternate the main parts), and should therefore have started their write-up by saying 'I saw Johnny Lee Miller's penis last night.' (Block capitals optional.)

Or alternatively:
b) they are UTTER PONCES.

I've skim-read several reviews and NONE of them have mentioned Mr Beefy McManStick (thanks to this website for the excellent list of euphemi). Yes, I am 33 with a degree in English Literature, and yes, I have several other things to say about the two hour play, but if we've evolved to a stage where remarking upon a prime viewing of celebrity tackle has become taboo, then mister, pull the cord and stop this train, because I want to get off.

So. On with the trouser snake review: I know the rubbish they tell men to make them feel better - that willies are all sorts of sizes when flaccid, but tend to grow to a fairly standard length and girth when erect - but even if this were true, clearly it is still preferable to have a big One-Eyed Nightcrawler even when flaccid. Unfortunately, Benedict Cumberbatch's organ is not big. It isn't even medium. I'm afraid it is small and tapered, like a baby carrot. To make matters worse, his buttocks are surprisingly curved and fleshy, like a woman's.

But hey, Benedict, if you're reading, fear not - because I thought your acting was, like, TOTALLY AMAZING! Once I'd stopped judging the lunchbox, I could get on with enjoying his performance. The creature is born from a weird, taut, circular womb in a spellbinding opening scene. He flails, jerks and grunts, making an utterly convincing transition from homo foetus to homo erectus over ten or fifteen captivating minutes, Cumberbatch's extraordinary voice put to brilliant animalistic use, the vulnerabilities of his character illustrated perfectly, setting up the audience for an empathy that continues throughout the play, helping us root for him even once he's behaved in the inevitable montrous fashion.

Sadly, there's another reason we long for Benedict's creature to succeed and remain on stage: basically everyone else in the play is pretty much totally crap. I think it's probably down to a really lameass script which suffers from squeezing a plot that lasts several years into an interval-less two hour rush, but the singsong West Country accent of the fat maid is like something out of a GCSE Shakespeare production, the farmer's wife is sub-panto, Frankenstein's dad was wooden, his fiancée's naive optimism was reminiscent of Playschool-era Floella Benjamin, and the many hammy one-line roles set the scene well enough but ended up feeling really token. At the other extreme, some of the sets are so good that they feel embarrassing - early on, a blinding locomotive enters centre stage to banging Underworld beats, ridden by steampunk-goggled actors yelling and singing unintelligible songs among jets of sparks and waves of dry ice. The creature rolls past the engine and has a seconds-long encounter with one girl - but then, after only a couple of minutes on stage, the train retreats, never to be seen again. So much work, so much money, so little payoff.

But still, go if you can get tickets (I think it's sold out 'til April). Benedict is truly amazing, bringing pathos and even humour to a brutish, violent creature. There are some interesting ideas about loneliness, the need for parental love and acceptance, and the role of man on earth. And I even learned an important life maxim - having become convinced that Frankenstein would be a much better role than the monster, I'd wanted to see the play on a night when Ben was the scientist and Johnny was the creature. Thus, when the former flopped out of the womb, I thought (and may even have whispered) 'Bollocks.' But then it unfolded that a) had I had things my way, I would have seen Johnny's penis, not Ben's (I'd far rather have seen Ben's); b) the creature is a MUCH bigger part than Frankenstein even though I'm pretty sure that he does not have a bigger 'part' than Frankenstein (ahem) and c) Benedict, I'm convinced, will make a much better creature than Johnny. So I didn't get what I'd thought I wanted, but what I ended up getting was even better than I'd imagined what I'd wanted was going to be. Lesson: SHUT UP.

Envy, needles, walking, fat, Egypt, patience

So like I said, I don't read other blogs very often because I feel lame and unsuccessful in comparison, and yesterday I discovered this one and I know my parents wouldn't approve but I have been laughing like a drain at her brilliant writing and it's made me think 'Meh, why do I even bother?' because there is SO much fantastic stuff out there. But then, it's fun to write. Even if she gets a gazillion readers and I get nine. And actually, I'm being a bit hard on myself, I haven't had a day with only nine readers for a long time. Years. Usually I at least get into double figures.

The fact is, this blog could definitely be a lot funnier if I decided to write only about funny stuff. But I like the mix. Life is a mix. We can't all be hilarious all the time. Well, Becky can, but she's a rare case. Besides, she has pets and a brother and sister and a mother, all of whom make regularly funny appearances. I would be much funnier if I had a pet or siblings, or a funny mother. As it is, I have a regular mother who only occasionally provides me with material. We have to play the cards we're dealt.

So, where were we? Acupuncture. It was un-fucking-believable. Its effects have faded now, but I swear, for about 36 hours, my new shoulders were a smooth river rather than their usual gnarled bit of driftwood. They don't half give you the hard sell, though, trying to get me to sign up for a course of ten and telling me I absolutely had to start coming weekly to feel the full benefits. I resisted because I am spending my money on other vital things like BOOZE and MORE CLOTHES. It doesn't hurt when they put the needles in, although it doesn't feel great. There's a little fumble, a bit like when your mum's doing the breaking-an-egg-on-your-head thing and is trying to get her nails to flick against each other to simulate the shell cracking, and then the needle goes in. It hurts 1/10, where getting your finger pricked pre-blood-donation is 4/10 and stubbing your little toe on the corner of your bed, unexpectedly first thing on a Monday morning, is an 8. And then you lie there, face down on the bed, and it's freaking weird because you know you've got twenty long needles sticking out of your back and neck, but you can't rise up and twist round to have a look because you think that any wiggle might drive the ones in your neck so far in that you might die, or maybe they'll just fall out and you'll have to lie there getting reduced benefit, so you stay completely and utterly still for thirty minutes, with a heat lamp pointed at the uncovered area, and it's freaking pleasant just lying like a beached whale and having an excuse to do so. And then she comes back in and quickly pulls out the needles and then gives you an acupressure massage, which is amazing, and then you go home and even the whole of the next day, all the muscles feel as new. For £15 on a Groupon voucher I thought it was unparalleled. For the regular price of £50, I'd never justify it unless something was seriously wrong, like I was so cramped up that I looked like a sexy hunchback. Gurgle. God it was nice.

24 hours later it was Tuesday evening and I went on a walking tour with a handsome friend round St. James' and we had a really seriously lovely evening, nattering and drinking and eating and laughing, until he decided to be a bit mental, but what was great is that Old Jane might have blamed herself and been like, 'Eeek, he's being mental, but if he thought I was amazing, he'd never risk our friendship by being mental, so clearly he thinks I am FAT and doesn't care about my opinion and so isn't bothered about coming across as a nutcase.' But on Tuesday I thought 'He is mental. I am a goddess, the little-known Goddess of Cellulite and High Priestess of Egos That Oscillate Between Over-Confidence and Crippling Insecurity. Bow down at my altar and weep, ye minions!

So after Tuesday night's mysterious shenanigans, I woke up yesterday feeling exhausted and ropey, and once I'd agreed with Emily that Erfan would take her to the restaurant instead of me last night, I then decided to use my day's fat allocation on a hangover lunch at Pret. I bought the following: a smoked salmon sandwich and a Pret Choc Bar, which, for the uninitiated, is a rectangular slice of what looks like chocolate biscuit cake, about the size of a Crunchie. I went back to my desk knowing that these heavenly items would be enjoyed and over all too soon. I swallowed them. Interested in the damage I'd just caused my weightloss intentions, I looked up the value of these items on the Weight Watchers website. The sandwich was worth nine points, the same as half a bottle of wine, and just under a third of my daily allocation of 29 points. That was a little galling. I'd definitely rather have had half a bottle of hair of the dog than a stupid sandwich. Then I checked the Choc Bar. Bear in mind that a Mars bar is eight points. The Choc Bar contained sixteen points. SIXTEEN. The total point count for my lunch was 25. I could have had a bottle of wine and a Twix for that. I'd have probably got fired for drinking that much during working hours, but at least I would have consumed some fat that made things fun, rather than fat that makes you feel guilty.

Meanwhile, Egypt is FASCINATING. Well actually, the whole Middle East is getting pretty feisty. I am following developments on Twitter and staring in awe at Jon Snow's feed, not merely because it is very interesting, but because I will never fail to find it amazing that some people are prepared to risk everything and go to these places and report on things, and yes, Jon Snow has fame and fortune and respect, but for every Jon Snow, there are hundreds of others who are taking the same risks but in a much lower-profile capacity, all doing their bit for global democracy, while I sit here eating fresh baby figs imported from South Africa and wondering whether to wear the aqua or grass-green eyeliner to the party tonight.

Yesterday afternoon, I had a gripping therapy session where I updated her on Tuesday night's weirdnesses, a couple of other ongoing sagas and my weekend in t'country. I told her how impressed I'd been with Lucy's mothering patience.
"I just could not have done it," I said, and explained how I'd have been more inclined to say 'Pull yourself together' than be endlessly supportive. My therapist was quiet for a bit and then suggested that I saw the Three Year Old Jane in Lucy's daughter, and that I had been told to pull myself together when I was being needy or unfun as a toddler. I thought that was possible. Later on, I checked with my mum, who said that it was more than possible, and was in fact extremely likely. And I think it's what I'd do in the same situation. Oh, I'd be a shit parent. Later on, the daughter had said to Lucy,
"Are we going to get out of the car when we get to the train station?"
"Yes, darling," replied Lucy.
"Will you look after me?" she asked.
"Darling, it's my job to look after you. I will always look after you, for ever and ever and ever."
The daughter sat in contented silence, swinging her be-tighted legs and silver glitter Mary-Janes from the safety of her carseat. I told this to my mum later, adding that I thought what Lucy had said had been just right, that every three year old wants to hear their parent say they'll always be there for them.
"What would you have said in her position?" asked Mum.
"I dunno. Probably something like, 'Look, I'll do my best to look after you, nutcase, but if you jump onto the tracks, you're on your own.'"
She laughed. I laughed. It's what my parents would have said to me. And look how I turned out. Shit. I should be sterilized.

More moans

As the Faithful will know, after someone described LLFF as 'about mental health' I became a bit unsure. I'm happy to be honest about the rubbish that goes on in my noodle, but I didn't really want this blog to be labeled as single-topic when I've tried quite hard to make it fairly broad.

If I'm to be truly open, though, there's another reason I quash the compulsion to share my deepest thoughts. I know deep down that this is utterly absurd but that's hardly a rarity among my observations... and... well, OK, out with it: I worried that some handsome (or bearable) young man could be reading, and that my admitting to being a divider short of a lever arch file might deter him from, one day, tentatively emailing me to ask me on a date. Yes, I know: absurd. I cringe even to admit it. I mean, a) Fictional Bearable Man has four years of LLFF to read back on, so only writing about HILARIOUS antics from now on will hardly cancel out 650 entries of questionably certifiable content. b) In four years, I've only ever had one person get in touch with me flirtatiously as a result of what they've read here, and let's just say that didn't end well. c) I AM MEANT TO BE ON A FREAKING BOYBAN so any worrying about Fictional Bearable Men is absolutely against orders, and should be ceased IMMEDIATELY.

So with all that in mind, here's a description of my mental state over the past few days. You can read about it as long as you allow me to apply the caveat that I really don't think I'm THAT much more mental than anyone else, just fractionally more open about it. Allow me that indulgence, I prithee.

Last Monday I thought I felt the symptoms of PMT. I'm not sure what our problem is, but it seems like, despite menstruating more or less monthly for around two decades, the women I know tend to greet each new period with irritated surprise. You'd have thought we'd know exactly when it was going to happen, but no - the last one finishes and we just bury our heads in the sand and forget about it until the next one creeps up like an unwelcome drunk houseguest and ruins an otherwise perfectly good week. For the record, my PMT symptoms tend to include: body temperature always being wrong; near-constant exhaustion; physical sense of having ingested around ten pints of thick soup or porridge that has oozed through my intestine and is now filling up legs and arms et cetera; a perpetual feeling of foreboding. It is not unbearable, but equally it is not rib-ticklingly good fun. After about five days of this, I become convinced that the PMT is about to end and that good ol' MT should surely be about to begin. But no - I had a fairly over-sensitive weekend feeling anti-social and quiet, and then yesterday, day eight, I metaphorically hit the fan.

It started when Chris came into my office at around 11am for a chat. We nattered harmlessly for a few minutes and then he made some very light-hearted but unarguably derogatory comment about the Welsh, and then the Scots. I told him not to be racist, he (quite sensibly) told me to lighten up, I refused, and he (entirely reasonably) swore at me and stropped off. I sat there wondering what to do. I knew I was being insufferable and deserved to be firmly mocked. Equally, I do think that people should stick to their principles, and that 'harmless' prejudiced jokes between friends, even friends who know the other isn't really racist, aren't ideal. I get miffed when people use 'gay' as a derogatory term too. It's boringly puritanical, but I'd feel really awful if I went the other way. There's loads of ways to slag people off without relying on their nationality or their sexuality. (As an aside, I'm not even sure he was theoretically being racist. I don't think Welsh is a race, is it?) Either way, I didn't like him being prejudiced, but I should have let it go.

So I was a bit upset about that, annoyed at myself for being a dick, but I went off to Boots at lunch and got a few things sorted out, and the nice lady at the Benefit counter gave me 'dramatic eyes' (think Twiggy in the Sixties rather than this) and I went back to the office feeling slightly better. And then I got a phonecall from a very chipper friend, who told me I should be being more positive about something that I was being negative about, and for some reason I was so determined to persuade her that I was right to feel negative about it that I started crying. Fortunately my colleagues weren't in their offices so no one could see me as the decidedly-non-waterproof Benefit products coursed down my cheeks but I still worried that someone might come in and ask me something, so I thought it best to hide. I ducked under my desk and sat there, cross legged and sobbing, for about an hour. Then I got up, not really very sure at all why I had been crying for quite so long, wiped off as much of the sediment as I could, sat back on my posture stool and stared into space for another hour, unable to decide what to do. I didn't want to go to my non-negotiable evening engagement that I'd been excited about for AGES because I felt antisocial and ugly and boring and I knew I'd be expected to be loud and opinionated and hilarious. But I didn't want to go home to an empty flat. And I didn't want to see anyone else because I felt rubbish.

Then I realised that I had presents for two of the people at the non-negotiable evening engagement and I accepted that I had to go, but I couldn't shake off this weird under-confident paralysis. In the end I had to ask Chris to come and get me out of my office, which he did (after he'd emailed me to tell me he wasn't a racist). And he gave me a hug and I cried again and FUCKING HELL his dad is recovering from a stroke but will be paralysed for the rest of his life, and I know Chris must look at me like 'SHUT UP with your insignificant issues' but these freaking hormones are just so powerful - half the time you don't know why you're crying, you just feel so utterly negative and fed up. I wish boys could experience it just once because there is nothing more frustrating about knowing something isn't real but still not being able to ignore it. I imagine it's a bit like having a bad trip. And there's part of me that thinks we should all keep schtum about how it feels, that it's blog entries like these that spread the idea that women are mental and difficult and that boys are straightforward and superior. Perhaps it'd be better for women if people didn't come out and say 'Yes, I'm irrational. Yes, I cry when very little seems wrong. Yes, it sucks to be me sometimes' and instead, for the sake of equality, acted like all the other ladettes and said 'We're just like you but with bigger boobs!' Anyway. It's too late now. I write, therefore I press 'Publish Post'.

I went to the evening engagement for half an hour and handed over the presents. And it was weird - I'd felt so withdrawn, so utterly shy and gross, but then I got there and we were carol singing outside the Southbank Centre, and this crowd had gathered to listen to us, even though it was really flipping cold, and people were filming us on their phones and it was all sounding lovely, and I realised we didn't have a hat down to collect any money, and I put my furry hat down and everyone laughed, and then Christina said we weren't allowed to collect money and she picked up my hat. But what I thought was odd was how, even when I'm feeling utterly awful, I still can't quash my instinct to show off or get attention or put a stamp on things, to walk into the middle of the semi-circle and ask strangers to give us money, when thirty minutes earlier I couldn't even get the strength to re-don my Moon Boots. And I hate that. I wish I'd just be consistent and stay quiet rather than act up like some seal with a compulsion to bark. As soon as the singing had finished and a few people came up to say hello to me, I panicked again and went straight home. I watched the final of The Apprentice, which was long enough to take my mind off things, and then I went to bed.

No tears today but haven't managed to leave the house yet. I dunno. I'm off to the doctor in a minute. It's not remotely life threatening but I'd rather not hang round waiting for this to happen all over again in 28 days. And if the NHS don't have any answers I'm going to have to get me some waterproof mascara. To all the women out there: I love you. To all the men: love your women. We need you.

Pretty complicated

Well, this complimenting-pretty-people thing is certainly interesting, in that most people think I am indeed insane, and that pretty people do still get told they're pretty, and that being told you're pretty is not some perverse code for 'You aren't that pretty.' I guess what it comes down to is that some of my friends get approached by guys in bars left, right and centre and I never do. I just assumed that it was because they were much prettier than me. Maybe it's more complex than that and that instead of worrying about my appearance, I should worry about the fact that my face says, 'I will eat you for breakfast. STAY AWAY.' Anyway. Food for thought. Unless you want to be thin, in which case don't eat it.

I went out with Grania last night to watch some comedy including the v. clever Abandoman, an Irish hip hop improviser, very impressive. There were four other acts too, some excruciating, a couple fairly funny, but no one made us laugh even an eighth as much as we did after they'd all finished and were clearing away the chairs, when we suddenly started reminiscing about Lapland and went through the runaway reindeer incident in graphic detail. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop laughing at the sight of the shockingly empty sled behind us, no sign of the Germans, the blankets, the expensive camera bags, just a bare slab of Scandinavian plywood. Categorically the funniest moment of 2010, possibly ever.

Tonight it's Lady Gaga at the O2 - can't wait. Have donned my festive meat bikini in her honour, trimmed with tinsel. I'll send you a photo.

Miss me?

Heave an hours-long sigh of relief, my Faithful, for I am not dead, nor am I unable to type for your amusement and continued edification. I have been abroad, often without phone reception or access to the internet, and my enforced separation from these facilities has been strange and wonderful. And at times slightly unpleasant.

Even before my travels began, however, I was aware that my desire to blog has been sluggish at best, and over the past weeks I have spent some not insignificant time musing over my writing. Not to get too spiritual at this early stage of what promises to be a scroll-heavy edition of LLFF, but my psychological goal has long been to become as self-sufficient as possible. Like most people, I need and thrive on human contact, and have a deeply-held belief that love is all we need. I am not aiming for some sort of hermetic existence atop a girthy Tibetan telegraph pole. However, true love is truly selfless, and doesn’t work too well if one half of the partnership is constantly craving attention, affection or none-too-subtley pointing out that the other person owes them a present because she bought them that T-shirt last week and you haven’t even worn it yet, and for fuck’s sake how many times have I asked you to please phone me if you’re going to be late?

And release.

So. Yeah. I know that love should be unconditional, and, like millions of others, I know that in the past I’ve sometimes struggled with that. After much thought over the years, I've reasoned that the best way to be able to give unconditional love, whether to friends, family or lovers, is to need them as little as possible. I am about six tons of cherished possessions away from being a Buddhist, but ideally, I’d like to be fairly zen about this whole life malarkey, and work towards needing less, not more, the idea being that the less you need, the more you are free to give.

Which is where the blog comes in. Is it right to write? If it is informative – yes. If it brings pleasure – yes. Clearly I don’t blog for money, but I still receive two rewards: the immense satisfaction and flow I gain from the act of writing, the decision to structure a sentence like this (and not like that), the clarity and stability I feel having recounted an incident in black and white. And secondly, the flush of gratification I receive when I discover that my efforts have brought others pleasure or support.

BUT.

If I'm going to be serious about self-sufficiency, shouldn't I fight this urge for third party approval, and take the decision not to write at all? Shouldn't I conclude that the very nature of blogging cultivates a needy side of me from which I should be moving away? I thought that I should.

But then I thought of all the wonderful stuff we'd never have witnessed if a desire for appreciation was unacceptable. All the plays and paintings, poems, programmes, companies, children, families, restaurants, songs and pizzas that might not have come into existence if financial remuneration was the only possible reward for effort, if humanity's enjoyment of recognition vanished altogether.

The experience of choral singing is meditative, transformative, but the surge that follows when the audience appreciates your sound is another rush altogether - not more pleasurable than the performance itself, but nonetheless a huge part of singing, one which makes the night of a concert so strikingly different to a rehearsal. Would I still go to choir practice if I could never sing in front of an audience again? Probably not, but not many people would think that's weird. You join a choir to sing - and to be heard singing. Only a few people would, on learning that you are in a choir, conclude that you're an attention-seeking spotlight-whore. But choose to write and publish your work on the internet, and the implication is that you think you've created something worth others' valuable time. There is a question that's asked when any creative output is put in the public domain: 'Do you think this is good?' And if that question is left unanswered, it hurts. Some performers say they don't care what others think. I think they're talking out of their asses. Anyone who puts work out there, hangs it in a gallery, plays it onstage, creates and shapes a young mind, offers themselves to the lives of strangers - if you do that, you care. You need.

Before I went to Morocco, I went on a one-day travel writing course, which was immaculately structured and very helpful, in that it made me decide that I do not under any circumstances want to be a travel writer. The hardest thing about it was that we had to do four short written exercises throughout the day. After the group of around 25 people had finished the first written exercise, I sat, heart in mouth, as the course leader selected who would read – and I wasn’t picked. No one heard my astonishingly original and hilarious efforts. I was livid. Mystifyingly – or rather, demonstrating vast social intelligence – others seemed to feel remorse when they were picked and, like true Englishmen and women, they carefully indicated that they were embarrassed or uncomfortable to be in the spotlight. I did my level best to seem relieved not to have had to share, but as my second and third efforts also went unwitnessed, I became more and more desperate to be heard. I was finally selected to share my attempt for the fourth and final exercise, the last person out of the entire group to read aloud, only a couple of minutes before the workshop’s end. After hours of anticipation, the hoped-for laughs I received for my work were gratifying and immediately internal order was restored, the butterflies went back to their locker and my heart rate returned to its un-attention-seeking-nightmare levels.

That night I went to stay with my mother, and read her the three exercises I’d written that hadn’t been heard. She said I was brilliant. I was fully aware that a) she is not objective and b) I have my moments, and it was all OK.

I will be frank: I want to write and I want to be read. Does that make me needy? Yes, but no more than anyone else who puts their time and effort into a project, a baby, that doesn't give them financial reward. And in my defense: I could be needier. I could be trying to be famous, writing bad chick-lit and living on a permanent diet. That's not what I want. I want to carry on trying to put words together in an order that makes me proud, and I want to receive recognition for any pleasure my hard work brings to others.

To conclude this absurdly overlong and introspective introduction: Lost Looking For Fish will go on. I've missed it while I've been away – not just the praise, but the process. And if one or two of you are still this side of comatose and are kind enough to tell me I rock every now and then, I’ll be happy as a lamb in a field full of tussocks on a sunny day.

On to where the hell I’ve been. Morocco has been a fantastic break. I flew out two Fridays ago, and went to an unexpectedly swanky hotel about 45 minutes south of Marrakech, where I felt like I should wear floaty dresses, light candles and be filmed by Zeffirelli singing songs about love in a plaintive but effortlessly beautiful folk voice while playing some sort of north African lute. Instead I wore floaty dresses, did yoga, read books, ate my own bodyweight in couscous and discovered an hitherto unknown penchant for Moroccan rosé.

My true Faithful may remember that I went on a yoga holiday last June to Dahab in Egypt, where I discovered upon my arrival that no one else had had the foresight to sign up for the same holiday, and that I was thus going to have around four hours’ private yoga tuition each day, just me and the lovely instructor. In between classes, I was left to my own devices, and spent my time lounging, reading, snorkelling, scubaing, horse-riding, shopping, battling with local internet cafés and climbing Mount Sinai by night.

This year was somewhat different, and for ‘somewhat’, read ‘a bit meh’ and for ‘different’, read ‘by comparison’. I meeeeeaaaannnn, the people were nice, the yoga was stretchy, the pool was glorious, the hotel was far better than I deserve, my books were fantastic but… it turns out that I am not one for set meals with 24 people split up into three groups of eight, seated round one of three rectangular tables for breakfast, lunch and dinner every single day, plus four hours of yoga together, plus nowhere to go outside the hotel, no sea to swim in, no horses to ride along the beach, no internet cafés, no internet, no cafés. I slept a lot, I relaxed, I even think some people may have enjoyed my company, and I feel rested and grateful, but I won’t be rushing back. The routine made me rebellious and by the end I had lost interest in mealtimes and yoga, desperate to assert my independence by doing the only thing I could think of: not joining in.

Oh but it wasn’t bad, it really wasn’t. The sun shone, I went brown, there were some absolute gems of people there – 22 women and 2 men with an age-range spanning five decades from twenties to seventies, a male/female ratio which inevitably descended into discussions about the topics women so often discuss when left to their own devices: periods, the menopause, tanning, biological clocks, raising children and the mirena coil. I spent some time imagining how the holiday would shift if five or six single, heterosexual men arrived, and envisaged games of waterpolo ruining Margaret’s laps in the pools, cheers from makeshift boules games upsetting the meditation sessions on the sun terrace, late night drinking games distracting many of the group’s less committed members from their 7am yoga practice the next morning. As it was, one of my principal bonding conversations involved a chat with a mother and daughter about how the woman with the world’s longest fingernails wipes her bottom.

Most people were very well behaved, and it was often left to one fantastic character called Kay to provide the hilarity. In her late forties, vocally somewhere between Frances De La Tour and Roseanne Barr, she was sorted and straightforward during the day, but a few glasses of wine down and she transformed into one of the most fantastically belligerent women I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.
“I don’t mean to make a scene,” she slurred gently on our second night, having made a mid-dinner trip to another table, “but everyone else is very dry. I know it's awful, but we definitely have the best table,” she emphasised, her voice rising an octave or so. “And I think we would do very well if we could just do a little wee, go on, everyone in their chairs now. Mark your spot and then no one else can sit here tomorrow. Go on. Just a few drops – you’ll thank me later, I promise you.” I never want to party without her again.

Then after a week, a short taxi ride into Marrakech, the pink city, a place I’ve wanted to visit for a very long time, a place I’m glad I’ve now seen, a place I won’t be hurrying to visit again. Wow I’m sounding like a grump. I had a great time. It was fascinating, very different to expectations and I could have stayed longer. But did I like it? Not exactly. The divide between touristville and normalville was so harsh – the souks were 3% functioning market and 97% get-your-hands-on-the-Western-dollar desperation – Times Square without New Yorkers, Leicester Square without the cinemas. I felt guilty for perpetuating it, but not so guilty that I wasn’t able to select so many of their wares that I had to buy another suitcase to get them all home. We had a great trip through the new town, Gueliz, where the real Marrakechis live, the ones who have a life other than that portrayed in SATC2. But the expensive restaurants are all full of white faces, sweating men from Bournemouth stuff dirhams into the bra tops of bellydancers in swanky bars that serve pink Champagne at £50 a bottle, while a few minutes down the road, veiled women sit outside tourist attractions using their cute kids as bait. I guess there’s the same mix of wealth and abject poverty in any other city, but the tourist market is one huge whopping part of their economy and it felt a bit gross, like holidaying in a theme park, escaping to my luxury air conditioned riad every night while the ride's staff just carry on living in the Pink Kingdom, never able to take off their uniforms.

That said, who am I to say their life isn’t fun? Maybe they’re having a whale of a time. I guess I often felt pretty uncomfortable – the women wouldn’t look us in the eye, while the men muttered obscenities under their breath while we walked by, desperate to woo us into their shops, angry when we ignored them, unbearably obsequious when we didn’t. I can't blame the girls for being pissed off - I'd be livid if London was 95% full of gorgeous women that all the men leer over while ignoring me. Oh.

Anyway. I can’t deny I found the attention fun for the first hour, my daily experience in Marrakech being the exact opposite of my life in London: I was getting so much male attention it was almost embarrassing, but when their hands started brushing against my ass, I quickly began to feel a bit sick about the whole thing. I’d been warned about this by other visitors, and wore my (blonde) hair back and up so as to stand out a bit less, but no matter what I did with my hair, my ass was, as always, shall we say, a ‘feature’, and on my final night as Trace and I wandered round the main square I was almost in tears, as every few seconds, a complete stranger would violate my dance space and lightly touch my buttocks as he walked by and disappeared into the crowd. Arguably, I should have chucked on a birka and been done with it, but there was a part of me that felt that would have been a capitulation that'd assist those people who say rape victims who wore short skirts were asking for it. Long sentence. Sorry. It's late and I'm out of practice.

Anyway. It was interesting. Other points of note:

• Within a few hours of arriving in the city, Trace and I were in a local spa having a reflexology foot treatment, and I was amused to notice that the pan pipes were playing ‘Speed Bonny Boat’. You can take the girl out of Scotland…
• Moroccan horses stop at “Woah” too. I noticed no other Arabic/English convergences.
• Another day, another spa experience – Tracey and I went to a hammam for a steam and scrub, and were sitting semi awkwardly in our bikinis in the treatment room, waiting for further instructions, when a brusque woman with limited English came in, pointed at my boobs and said, “Off.” Clearly it was to be a topless treatment. We complied, lay down on an L-shaped bench, Trace along one wall, my head perpendicular to her feet. Another woman came in and started to rub black soap oil into Tracey’s front. “Tournez,” she barked. Trace slithered over onto her belly. I tipped my head back over my right shoulder to see what was going on, precisely at the moment that the lady gripped the lower hems of Tracey’s bikini bottoms and firmly jerked them up, giving a professional but unexpected wedgie that sent my friend giggling for some time to come.
• Moroccans aren’t without a sense of humour although their favourite joke is fairly simple: you ask a fairly innocent question, e.g. “Can I have a bottle of water?”, “Please can we have some lunch here?”, “Can we check out?” and they look you square in the eyes and say, “No.” And you say, “Really?” and they say, “No! Not really! It is fine! Of course you can have water/lunch/check out.” And they laugh as if it is a brilliant ruse. It is a bit funny the first time it happens. After that not so much.
• I did laugh one night though, when we were at the uber-swanky Western restaurant Foundouk, seated on the first floor mezzanine, overlooking a huge chandelier which hung deep down over the ground floor diners. The chandelier held twenty or thirty creamy wax orbs containing tea light candles, which any fool knows have a burning time of around four hours. How, I wondered, were these new candles replaced and lit every evening, when the chandelier was a good distance from any table or platform. I asked the waiter. “Nous avons un singe,” he said. “A monkey?” I said. “Oui,” he said, straightfaced. Then he laughed and showed us how the wrought iron panels in the balcony of the mezzanine slide to one side so someone can reach out and change the lights. I’m not a massive fan of animal cruelty but I’m afraid on that occasion the reality was a little disappointing.

So it was fun. It was relaxing and enlightening. I’ve learned stuff. I know now that my ideal summer getaway needs to involve the beach and, ideally, snorkelling with fish. I know that DBC Pierre’s new novel is a masterpiece, as is The Way Young Lovers Do by Van Morrisson. I laughed often and I whimpered with pain a fair bit, and I nattered away a lot and made new friends. And it was great, and I’m very glad I went and I’m happy to be home, and I don’t need much, but a bit of love every now and then doesn’t go amiss.

Now leave me alone as I have a ton of X Factor to catch up on.

Dick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men and voters

It's been a rare day at home, alone, and I've been efficient, defrosting the freezer for the first time ever, doing laundry and reoiling my kitchen worktops. I've also been uncharacteristically quiet - I sang along to the uke for a while, but I've spoken to no-one and not said a word aloud, other than a reprimanding sigh of 'Janey!' when my absent-minded whistling Waterloo Sunset started to drive even me to distraction. It's been a productive and pleasant enough day and I'm trying to save money and avoid restaurants, but solitary loafing, always craved in theory, is rarely as glorious in practice, and as the hours have whiled away, I've found myself mulling over two things: men, and the coalition government.

Politics first. The ConDems have just celebrated their first 100 days in government, and the verdict from this one-girl jury is not positive. I stand by my reasons for voting LibDem: my principal issues were education and Parliamentary reform, and the Liberals seemed my best hope for both. Equally, I can still see why I supported the coalition with the Tories - the Libs badly needed to get away from the accusation that they've had no experience of government, and I believed that the agreement for a referendum on AV was a fair compromise.

But everything's fucked up. By scheduling the referendum for the same day as local elections, Labour support for the vote evaporated (although it's questionable whether we ever would have had it in the first place), which mean that getting even AV, a watered-down demi-solution if ever there was one, is now pretty much impossible. And in the meantime, the Tories' godawful academies policy and terrifying NHS shake-up (that will lead inexorably to privatisation), their pathetic JSA plans, the austerity measures which hurt women, children and the poor most of all, and their disgusting but unsurprising inability to tax the richest has made me sick to my stomach - although the fumes from the Danish wood oil in the kitchen are doing their bit. The left-wing papers today are crowing about the new A* grade at A Level, using the predicted results as further proof that the education gap is widening. No shit, Sherlock. Meanwhile, state schools' only hope is that local parents are rich enough to be able to spare the time to take over. Hell in a handcart. I'm deeply disappointed that Nick Clegg has turned out to be so spineless, and feebly hope that Simon Hughes can exert some influence - the LibDem conference in late September should be interesting.

And men. There's a boyban and I was well behaved last night, successfully repelling a possible suitor by being on my spikiest form. Nah, in fairness, it was more complicated than that - it really wasn't clear whether he was interested or not, but I only found out after he'd left that he had been waiting ages to say goodbye to me, and I'd only bothered to dismissively wave at him because he was leaving at the same time as a (single) girlfriend of mine, and I'd assumed they were leaving together, as in, together, and I was vaguely stropping. Turned out they weren't, and my utter lack of interest in his departure has almost certainly ensured that that was the last I'll ever see of him. No great loss though - if he didn't have the cojones to step up and ask for my number then he's probably not got the cojones to cope with my electric intellect and cheese-wire wit.

Concurrently, without actually going on any dates, I have still managed to find a way to self-flagellate, chastising myself for being rejected by a boy who has never met me. I asked him out on a date over email weeks ago, before the boyban, and we engaged in protracted emails, him largely rebutting me but always making clear that his reasons were nothing to do with my appeal - it wasn't me, it was him, timing was off yadda yadda. Meanwhile, I know, he is single and looking. Annoying. Much as I'd love to believe that it's not me, it's him, I am a loyal disciple of the cult of He's Just Not That Into You - I don't know a single guy who's ever, EVER ended something (or not begun it) with a girl because of timing, or shyness, or work, or anything else. The only reason a guy doesn't date a girl is because he doesn't think he'll like her. He hasn't seen my photo so I can at least comfort myself that he is not rejecting me based on my appearance, but he does read LLFF, so I'll assume that the self-pitying and over-earnest whining that goes on in these paragraphs is clearly not the irresistible aphrodisiac I'd imagined. In fairness, I can understand the contents of this blog being deeply offputting to a potential date, but these words have won me male fans in the past. OK, one fan, and it didn't end well. Regardless, this guy is not interested and I'm annoyed. He's a writer and I'd hoped he'd be able to separate the online persona from the truth. Sure, I'm 100% honest on here, but it's not the whole picture. ANYWAY. I don't know why it bothers me - just as he doesn't know the real me from Eve, I don't know the real him from Adam, so how can I feel any sense of outrage or rejection? I dunno. I just can.

After far too much beer and wine at the ukulele hootenanny last night, Vikas asked me a question along the lines of whether or not I was happy. Happy? I asked. Yes! Sure, I knock back 20mg of anti-depressants every day, but that's medicine, like insulin for a diabetic, and as long as I take it, I think I'm one of the happiest people I know, actually. Sure, I have my bad days, just like anyone, and I vent about things on here as though I'm a candidate for anger management, but the truth is that deep down, on the whole, I'm a smiling, grateful 33 year old. I lucked out big time with my flat, my job is totally bearable and secure, I have great friends, my parents are fantastic and I love them to pieces, I have mornings when I walk naked past the full length mirror and don't spontaneously vomit at the body opposite, I'm headily excited about going up to Edinburgh, and then to Morroco, and to the States next year, I have my health, all four limbs, I can breathe in and out without a machine... it's all gravy. "So why," asked Vikas, "do you want to find a man so much?" I was a bit startled, and not sober enough to reply properly. Even now my answer isn't particularly helpful or representative - there's something there about the mating instinct and biological clocks, as well as an inate urge to replicate the joy that my parents' relationship so clearly brings to them. I don't think my desire for a partner is particularly rational. Relationships clearly bring as much heartache as happiness, which, when added to the vulnerability of putting all your eggs in one man's basket, and the restrictiveness and boringness of having kids - well, it's obviously not sensible. I'm happy now. Why do I want to rock the boat? I dunno. I just do.

But not now. The boyban continues - without it I'll get even crapper at meditating. Now I must go and watch Danish wood oil dry.

In which I write a lot

So it turns out that even when I'm not trying to meditate in the middle of someone else's intestinal warzone, I find it freaking hard. I actually think I'm getting worse at it. Last night's attempt was so bad that I have lost motivation and now can't be bothered to try at all. Which is sad and actually I will rectify that asap. This week, I have to do a short body scan, when you briefly focus on different parts of your body from toe to head, and then focus on the supposed heaviness of my arms, my legs, and my neck and shoulders. Then I have to repeat that I am at peace three times. Then I have to 'cancel', by opening my eyes and taking a deep breath, and then do the whole thing again.

Problem is, I can't focus on anything at all. I think watching Sherlock just beforehand is probably not helpful, and Sunday evenings are never good for me anyway, in a mental sense, but last night things got so bad that I briefly wondered if I am not, in fact, human, but some rare and supremely gifted yet undervalued uberspecies whose mind can process infinite thoughts per second, trapped in the restrictive body of a thirty two year old woman. Thirty three year old woman. Shit. Anyway, my brain was moving so fast that I decided it might be interesting to try and record its absurd trajectories and discuss them with my therapist on Wednesday. So I switched on iDictaphone, and instead of saying the words in my head, I said them out loud. When I got too distracted I jumped back a stage. I transcribed the recording a moment ago and I sound like a lobotomised amnesiac. This is roughly what came out - the bits in brackets are the thoughts I had accidentally in between the thoughts I was meant to be having:

Feet
(Recording)
Feet
Ankles
(Sports day at school)
Feet
Feet
Ankles
Calves
Shins
Knees
(Brigitte)
Legs
(Period)
Stomach
Chest
Shoulders
(My face is itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Truck outside)
Feet
Ankles
(My stomach's rumbling, I’ve eaten a lot today, my head’s itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Yogatoes)
(My face is itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Eczema [other people’s. I do not have eczema])
(Simon)
(My head’s itching)
Feet
Ankles
(Come on)
Shins
Calves
Knees
Thighs
Stomach
Down my arms
(Skiing)
Elbows
Forearms
Hands
(Massage)
(Fish pedicure [more on this later])
(Grania)
(Robert)
Small of the back
Up the spine
Over the top of my head
(Lorry driver)
Eyes
Nose
Mouth
(Haven’t brushed my teeth)

Listening to the sounds outside
Back into the room
(Badminton with Sara on Tuesday)

My left arm is heavy
(Chest tightening)
My left arm is heavy
Both arms and both legs are heavy
Both arms…
(My friend Kate)
and both legs are heavy
(My boss)
(Going to work tomorrow)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(That bar in Kennington where I went with Kate)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(Someone giving me a neck massage)
(Japanese hairdressers)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
I am at peace
(My blog entry about not being at peace)
I am at peace
I am at peace
(Heard a noise like a frog, thought about the rockery in Luke’s parents’ garden)
Cancel
(Exhale)

My left arm is heavy
(Thinking of Eva, Kit, photography, the guy at the photography course)
My left arm is heavy
Both arms… (Claire, Henry, Gordon)
Both arms and both legs are heavy
Both arms and both legs are heavy
(That film, Sliding Doors, the end of it, John Hannah on the bridge)
Both arms and both legs are heavy
(Walking through Battersea Park with Kate and Sarah and Simon the morning after that New Year’s Eve)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
I am at peace
(People outside)
I am at peace
(Yoga at the Ayurvedic spa in India with Simon, tea planting, photos, being smeared with red paint)
I am at peace
(Grania)
Cancel

My left arm is heavy
(Denouement of Sherlock Holmes in the pool)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
(Quite smug that I never thought it was John, I knew straight away that he had the stuff on, it was good though, bad beginning, my eye is itchy, my ear is itchy, you’ve gone right off course, go back)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
(Rucksacks)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
(Going to the States)
(Grania, Andrew)
Both my arms and both my legs are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(The School of Life)
(That came out of nowhere)
My neck and shoulders are heavy
My neck and shoulders are heavy
(What if the dictaphone’s not working?)
I am at peace
(Peace be with you in church)
I am at peace
(The sheet music on Brigitte’s piano)
I am at peace
Cancel

In have no idea if this is normal, if this is along the lines of everyone's head contents, or if it's a total miracle/outrage that I haven't yet been locked up. Either way, you can hopefully understand that my thrice-daily meditation sessions are more exhausting than I'd anticipated, and sandwiching them into my normal life is not easy.

Friday I had a gathering at Charlotte Street Blues, where I drank a mojito and then several litres of white wine, and danced and laughed and received quite literally astonishingly cool presents, not one dud, and I'd for some reason got some business cards printed last week, and started handing them out to all and sundry, feeling like it wasn't quite breaking the boyban if all I was doing was handing out tiny glossy rectangles to virtual strangers. And then we went to The Roxy, where a minging guy basically tried to have sex with me on the dancefloor without a) removing any clothing at all or b) asking, and I was faux disgusted by another guy who was really flirty while wearing a wedding ring, but then he turned out to be an amazing dancer and that was really fun. And then we left and Trace and I walked to Soho Square and my stupid key for the Londikes didn't work AGAIN and I wondered briefly whether there was some hidden breathalyser mechanism because I clearly shouldn't have been allowed on a bike under any circumstances, but then I couldn't remember where my nightbus left from and I ended up walking to Victoria, and pretty much the entire way there I was talking to the woman from Barclays Cycle Hire, chattering away about how annoying it was that my key didn't work and all the while she was probably playing Solitaire and saying, 'Mmmm. Mmmm. Yup.' about every six seconds until I bored myself and hung up. And then I got on the bus and met the guy from Cameroon and then came home.

So Saturday was a bit groggy, but I got dressed up and went over to West London to the Mary Poppins land that is Holland Park to see some friends and then down to Aqua Sheko just off Ken High Street for London's only fish pedicure. Ohmygodohmygod. I found out about this approx. one week ago and immediately knew that even if it was £100 and/or absolutely crap, I still had to try it. Fortunately it was neither. Grania has a photo of me where my leg looks weirdly amazing [now posted], so I will wait until she sends that to me to post it, but basically, you submerge your feet in these tanks and all these little catfish-like brown fish, about an inch long, come and EAT ALL THE DEAD SKIN. They like it. It is like putting a platter of doughnuts in front of me. They can't help themselves. Apparently they gorge and gorge and gorge, and then every now and then they go and sit on the bottom of the tank and have a rest for 5 mins and then they're ready to go again. They are insatiable. For dead skin.

Anyway, so you put your feet in and these fish swarm around and between your toes, and it's tickly and initially very freaky and Grania said she was going to be sick and I was so worried that she was going to vomit into the tank that I was completely distracted from the fact that I, too, thought I might vomit into the tank. But after about two minutes, it's fine, and then after five minutes it just becomes really nice and relaxing. And you sit there for thirty minutes and then your feet feel amazingly soft and then you get an incredible foot massage for fifteen minutes. I won't lie. It's not the most incredible pedicure on earth. I could have had the fish chowing down for another hour or so. But it was an experience. Possibly don't go when you have a whopping hangover. Other than that, I'd recommend it.

Then we went to a charity shop and I bought a red jacket and then we went to Waterstones and I decided to buy The Slap on Amazon, and then we went to Bethnal Green, to Bistrotheque which was great, and to the Working Men's Club, where a guy was dancing and then chatting to us, and I realised that I don't like going out dancing with one other girl because if I meet someone nice, I feel really guilty about abandoning them for even one second, and sad for them that they aren't being chatted up by someone. Even if she has a boyfriend, I still feel sad for her that no one is chatting her up, and I realise that is probably ridiculous, but on reflection yesterday I realised that I still have clear memories of being the fun girl at teenage parties who was always making sure there was an amazing song on the stereo and who knew all the words to everything and who was funny and confident, while all the pretty ones were outside in the foliage snogging Anna's brother's friends. And I may have looked like I didn't mind but fucking hell I did. And I guess that's why I now would feel so uncomfortable ever putting anyone else through that. Which means that really the only time I feel comfortable meeting someone is on a date, because everyone present is involved and no one feels left out. Because there's nothing worse than going out with someone, a platonic friend of either sex, and realising that while you thought you were meeting up to have a chat, they were meeting up with you as a platform to meeting someone else - someone they've never met before, someone they can kiss - and they want you to stand there and talk to them until they meet that person, and then once they've met them, you can go away please, and hopefully find your own person, but if you don't, then that's just your tough shit slightly.

ANYWAY. So I wasn't particularly friendly to the really quite attractive guy who came up to me at the Working Men's Club, in fact when he accidentally spat while he was talking to me I said, 'I asked for the news not the weather,' which I haven't said for about thirteen years, but Grania said she laughed so much internally that she slightly did a wee. But then I felt bad, so I was a bit nicer to him and danced with him for a bit and then these beautiful girls came on stage and started doing an amazing routine, and we were all agog, and I said to him, 'You need to go for that one on the right, she's amazing,' and he said, 'I'm not sure my girlfriend would be too happy about that,' and I was thinking inside, 'Girlfriend?! Things that make you go hmmmm.' I mean, of course, he did nothing wrong, he just danced with me, but why are two guys going out and doing sixties dancing with strangers except if to pull? And later I spotted him bumping and grinding with someone else, and I tell you what, on paper he was behaving himself, but I'm pretty sure his girlfriend wouldn't have been too happy with pretty much anything he was up to that night.

Eventually it all caught up with us and Grania and I called it a day and started the trek home via nightbus, and met an adorable blond South African guy who seemed so sweet and gentle, who told us that he worked in a salsa bar and then told us that he'd got the deep cut on his knuckle because he pushed his ex-housemate's head through a window during a fight, which all seemed rather extraordinary, and eventually I got home and slept and then woke up and cooked and mum and dad came over for DIY and eating, and my flat is at a new level of amazingness, and then I watched Orchestra United and Sherlock, and then I couldn't meditate and couldn't sleep and then it was time to get up.

It's all excellent.

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.