Comedown

It's easy to write about stuff you hate - just string a few sentences together full of vitriol, add in a dash of self-loathing and with a bit of luck you come across as an amusingly opinionated cynic, ripe for quirky dinner party banter and award-winning first dates. Try and write about something you love, however, and the goalposts run a mile. Every phrase seems saccharine and derivative, each observation feels hackneyed and embarrassing. Easier, then, to stick to the criticisms and, on the rare occasions that good things happen, just stick your head in the sand and hope the crap comes back soon so you'll have something to write about before too long.

Occasionally, though, the good stuff is too good to ignore. For the third year running, I went to Glastonbury, and it was extraordinary all over again. Each year's been different - the first, wide-eyed and capped off by the thrill of the Glastocrush, the second, heady and crazed. 2011 was muddy and lovely, a little more calm, a little less extraordinary. There were even times when the rain was falling on Friday that I wondered whether I'd make it to the end. But Glastocrush II kept me going, and the sun came out, and as we drove back to London on Monday, I realised that without really knowing it at the time, I'd once again had one of the best weekends of my life.

It's the most extraordinary place. The music's important, of course, and I saw some great bands (and Beardyman) - but what always takes me a bit by surprise is how little the music really matters, and how much the other stuff counts. Sure, watching live music together is the reason we're all there, it's the supreme sense of belonging, of shared passion, of uncompetitive we-are-one, but when the tunes stop, the collective buzz continues. You see the footage on the TV, all these tens of thousands of people, all the tents, the walking, the mud, the rubbish, and you can't imagine how it could possibly be fun, and then you're there, and we're all there for the same reason, we've all paid our money, we're all standing under the same rain and the same sun, using the same toilets, drinking the same half-flat lager, sharing food and bodily fluids, staying out far too late wandering round fields with skeletons in pickling jars, telling your friends you'll meet them by the hand sanitizers, getting back to the tent after sunrise with your wig askew and your neon facepaint cracked and smeared, and it doesn't matter if you've got £6 in the bank or ten million, you're still either freezing or sweating (never the right temperature) in a tent, with all your worldly possessions ripe for the picking, and yeah, it's not real or sustainable, it's an extraordinary holiday but it has to end, and your liver would probably give up altogether if you carried on my longer, so you come back to London and sure, we're all connected by the city, we're all on the tube for the same reason, we want to get from A to B, but the stuff we share is hidden so deeply beneath all the things that make us different and it's only on the last tube home at weekends that the guards come down and suddenly we're all together again. And I think that's why I want to leave on my Glastonbury wristband after the event, because it acts as a declaration to other attendees - I was there, you were there - a visible reminder that there is another way, even an impractical, overblown, overpriced, overflawed other way, but still - life doesn't have to be like this. But only teenagers keep their wristbands on. I finally cut mine off on Friday and it's now on my bathroom sink, sad and lonely as a wrinkled balloon.

It's well-known that one mustn't make any big decisions the week after Glastonbury - that looking at your life and trying to judge it after you've spent five days fooling around in Pilton - well, it's just not sensible. I came home and, as always, I felt trapped - I didn't want to do the MA, I didn't want to live in London, I wanted to move abroad and drift. But like a good girl, I ignored the voices and carried on with my life, knowing that I'd see sense eventually and that normality wouldn't seem so bad after a few nights' sleep and a few hours sober. And then on Thursday afternoon, I found out that my MA, instead of costing me £4 thousand for the two year course is actually £4k per year, £8k in total. And that's too much, I know it is, for two letters after my name that I already have. I already felt like £4k was a lot to pay for the amount of instruction I was receiving - so double that seems gross. There are other courses, other options. And so the MA's off, the deposit will be refunded, and the lodger's still coming in a couple of weeks, and now I've got this earmarked money to invest in my career and the doors are all open again and I'm drifting and confused. I had too much sleep last night, weird dreams didn't help with the clarity, but I did yoga and meditation this morning and I have a choir concert tonight, and surely some pieces will fall into place soon. I hop up on the handrail of the moving walkway, watch my life go by and see what happens. I'll keep you posted.

I Woz Robbed

I literally was. And it's not like me to shy away from a dramatic encounter, but I've been dreading this. Still, for some weird reason I want to put it in writing.

I posted my last blog entry at 15:29 on Wednesday. Thirty minutes later, I left work, walked to the tube station and boarded the southbound Northern Line to go see my therapist. Usually, I cycle to her house every Wednesday. I quite enjoy the twenty minute blast of air - it's a useful chance for me to get my thoughts in order before I spent one hour and £45 discussing them with a paid professional. Wednesday night, though, was to be book club, and I still had thirty-odd pages of the book left. I thought I'd use the tube journey to try and finish the last section.

I got to her stop, took the lift up to street level, and began the familiar 8-minute walk to her house through a mixture of quiet Victorian squares and across a couple of arterial main roads. Gripped by the final few pages of The Wisdom of Whores (well, gripped plus my usual I-can't-believe-this-writer-is-such-a-dick scoffing), I approached my therapist's house while looking down at my book, a biro and my iPhone (to tell me whether I was on time or not - I don't wear a watch) in my left hand, my handbag over my left shoulder. The streets weren't busy - I saw a father and son walking home from school, and an elderly woman coming back from the shops - but I was pretty free to walk along reading without worrying that I was going to bump into anyone.

At 16:29 I was about two doors away from my destination when a man seemed to jump in front of me and grab me round the neck. I was utterly terrified and simultaneously completely confused. My hands shot up to my neck to prevent him from hurting me, and I tried to back away but his hands came with me. I couldn't see what he looked like, his head was up close to my shoulder, and helpfully I think I closed my eyes in fear. Within a couple of seconds I was screaming and thought very clearly, "Jesus CHRIST that is a lot of noise you're making." It wasn't a dramatic, Hollywood heroine scream, but rather an uber-womanly, gutteral noise, like when Pippa The First found out she'd lost her baby in Home & Away. I wasn't enjoying the fact that this was the sound I made under duress, but I couldn't stop. I screamed and screamed, and threw in a couple of desperate "Get off me!" attempts at the guy, but he didn't give up. I'd known he wouldn't give up, but I wanted someone to hear me shout - I hoped they might come and help me. It was a quiet road but I didn't know what else to do other than make a racket.

Give it to me," he started saying after a few seconds of struggle. "Fucking GIVE it to me." I couldn't feel the blade of a knife but I knew he might have one. I was absolutely prepared to give him what he wanted but I couldn't work out what it was: his hands were near my neck, but my bag was still over my shoulder and my phone was still in my hand. Then it clicked - he wanted my necklace. At pretty much the precise moment I worked it out, the chain finally gave way, and he hared off up the street. It had been about ten seconds, fifteen at most. I was left alone, sitting on the pavement, my glasses three or four feet away, my book out in the street, my splintered biro across the road by the wheel of a parked car. My neck was stinging a lot and there was a cut from his fingernail in the flesh of my left hand. Without all the screaming it was eerily quiet.

I thought about standing up but then realised I didn't want to. I stayed there. A few seconds later, a woman approached from the left.
"Are you OK?" she said. I didn't really know what to say, so I didn't say anything. I just stared into the gutter. "You're not OK."
A man came out of another house, saw what was going on and went back to get his phone to call the police. I just sat there, shocked and upset that I was going to waste a good chunk of my urgently-needed therapy session on this stupid guy who took my necklace. The woman introduced herself. I managed to confirm that I was basically fine, that I'd lost some jewellery. My wool dress was ripped and she said I had bad scratches on my neck. The man passed the phone to me and confirmed that the police were on their way. I gave a few details and handed the phone back. Then I rung my therapist's doorbell. She'd heard the screams, but hadn't known it was me. In London, you hear screaming at night, it's drunken morons - during the day, it's stupid kids. You don't react to screams. I don't.

The police pulled up, only about three or four minutes after the guy had called them. Two male officers got out of the car.
"Get in," they said to me. "Let's go see if we can find him."
The tears started in earnest then. I knew I'd not got a good look at the guy and I really didn't want to go after him. My main concern could have been so easily explained if I'd managed to articulate it: what are we going to do if we find him? I'd be in the back seat. Say we find the guy - then what? He gets into the back seat with me and we sit side by side? You put him in the back seat and I get out and sit on the lap of the police officer in the front? You leave me at the side of the road while you drive back to the station with him? I didn't want to see my attacker again. I didn't want him to be able to identify me, not ever. I just wanted it to go away.

I told them I didn't want to go, that I didn't want to see him and that I was pretty sure I'd be unable to recognise him even up close. The policemen looked really frustrated and I realised then how pumped up they both were. The adrenaline was flowing and they wanted to go catch a thief. I just wanted to forget about it, sit in a wingback chair and discuss my existential crisis. I knew I was being unhelpful but I left the two helpful neighbours talking to the police and, with a few apologies, took refuge in my therapist's sitting room.

I cried a lot over the next thirty minutes or so. The session was a write-off and I came out of her house pretty rattled, terrified. I didn't want to go home so, as planned, I went to Emily's house for book club. On the tube I took a photo of some of my scratches. I'd not seen them in a mirror and I wanted to see what had happened. They made me feel sick. And then I wrote down what I could remember. How my first thought was about wasting my therapy session. How annoyed I was that the guy had been black, how time and time again the stereotypes are backed up, how hard it gets to blame the police for being racist. How I'd wondered if I could call my recent ex and ask him to meet me at the tube tonight, and how straight away my grown-up voice had come into my head, saying, "You manipulative BITCH." How I knew straight away I'd be using my vulnerability to get his pity and affection. How the police's hunger had scared me almost as much as had the attack. How I started worrying that the scratches would fade before book club and I wouldn't be able to show anyone my war wounds. How one minute I'd thought it would make a good blog entry, and the next I was shuddering at how terrified I felt. How I had always been able to say that I'd never been mugged, and how I'd always thought it was because I was tall and strong-looking, and how maybe this meant that I'd lost so much weight that I now looked vulnerable, and that in a way it was a bizarre compliment. And how fucked up that made me, that I was in a tiny glad to be mugged because it meant I looked THIN.

And so I got to book club, and I told Emily, and then I told Kate when she arrived, and then the others came I really didn't want to talk about it any more, and then I had a lot of white wine and felt a lot better, and at the end of the night, I walked back to the tube with Ness, and a guy came up to us, close up, and asked if we could spare any change, and I leapt into Ness like Scooby-Doo into Shaggy, so then I had to explain to her why I was so jumpy. And I got home OK, determined to walk into my flat alone even though Ness had offered to accompany me, and I got into bed and turned off the light, and all I could feel was my scratches stinging and all I could hear was his whispered, urgent voice going, "Give it to me, fucking GIVE it to me," and so I put on a podcast and slept fitfully.

Yesterday I got up and went into work, and the police came and took a statement, and then later in the afternoon, a forensics guy came around and photographed my scratches and the cut on my hand, and although I knew it was no big deal, after he'd gone I think the tiredness overwhelmed me and I did a fair bit of crying. Today I've had a row with my insurance company, and it just doesn't seem to stop. But I know it will.

The necklace was my favourite. It was a long gold chain with a gold pear at the end, the pendant given to me by my parents, the chain handed down to me by mum, although it had been given to her by dad when they were first married. I remember being in my mum's arms as a toddler and playing with the chain, and as a grown-up I've loved wearing it. The guy didn't get the whole chain - it snapped in two places and I was left with a small section of it. I never want to see it again. My ripped dress is in the bin, next to my laddered tights and the biro he must have crunched underfoot as he ran away.

I couldn't sleep last night either - it's one of those times when you tell yourself not to think of elephants. I was up late playing crappy computer games on my phone, trying not to replay the details, wonder why he'd not stolen my phone, or ask myself whether he'd seen me on the tube and got a good look at the necklace so decided to follow me along those streets, whether he'd still have grabbed me ten seconds later when I would've been two doors further down and in my therapist's front garden. I know it's just bad luck, that it could have been so much worse, that this is what you get in modern life, that he was desperate, that the memories will fade, that I'm healthy, that the scratches don't really sting now, that there won't be any scars, that it wasn't near my house, that it was only a theft, that it happened in daylight, that I will sleep well again. But right now, I'm still pretty wobbly, and I don't like it one tiny bit.

Anyway. It's done now. I've spoken to the police, the insurers, my parents, my boss, and my Faithful. It's over. Just hope my crappy Alzheimer's memory selects this as one of the 97% of all events it chooses to forget. Wishing you all a happy weekend. Be a bit vigilant. Love all the people.

Defensive much?

So Woody Allen, CBT psychologists, Human Givens therapists (my current score: 5/10) and many others agree that too much time alone is pretty much guaranteed to spin us out. Excessive rumination is not good, they say. I too concur. But I also think that too much denial - keep busy, keep busy, and for god's sake don't look the demon in the eye - isn't a long-term solution either; these volcanoes have a habit of erupting eventually.

Yeah, OK, probably if I wasn't in a job where I have several hours a day without much to distract me, I wouldn't be having these thoughts so often. But as we all know, there are tons of people out there in super-hectic jobs, who are still only one passive aggressive remark away from a nervous breakdown, and there are also a lot of employees with crushingly dull jobs who are more likely to actually melt than have a meltdown.

What's my point? Dunno really. I guess I'm trying to defend myself against some faceless individuals who believe that if I had a more fulfilling job, everything would be OK. I'm saying: a) I can't think of a more fulfilling job that I would both like to do and am qualified to do, and b) I need this salary because I own a flat on my own, have a huge mortgage on interest only, and not much of a safety net, and yes, I could get rid of the flat and then take some amazing low-paid job, but then I'd be without something that brings me a LOT of security and pleasure, and also please refer back to a).

You might think I'm having this existential crisis precisely because there's so little on my plate. Chicken and egg, I'd say - maybe you're right, but I'm pretty sure it would have happened eventually, and personally I maintain that it's lucky I'm having it now while I've got nothing else to do. It is, I reckon, perfect timing. I snog my crisis, squeeze its bum, and we walk off together into the sunset, leaving you and your happy balanced lifestyle playing alone on the beach, realising it's got quite cold suddenly and that you forgot your cardigan.

On the flipside, I thought I should update you on the mundane details, since we haven't done that for a while:

1. I still take Hair, Skin and Nails supplements from Boots and remain happy with the results.
2. Brown & Harris moisturiser (received in goody bag at Christmas) is fractionally more effective than smoothing water over your hands and arms, but not much. Admittedly it does smell more strongly than (most) water, which might be considered to be in its pro column, depending on whether or not you like the aroma of Muguet des Bois, or Lily of the Valley.
3. I watched Bright Star, about the poet Keats' relationship with his neighbour, Fanny. It made me cry a lot but I also thought it was quite silly.
4. I have decided that Rimmel 60 Seconds nail varnish is the best.
5. It is annoying because I have had my glasses frames for ages but I don't think I will ever find ones I like better than these, so I can't buy new ones. Good for my bank balance but bad for my potential to reinvent myself.
6. I received an email this morning, subject line 'Your Glastonbury tickets are being delivered today'. That made me happy.
7. Crunchies and Daim (The Chocolate Bar Formerly Known As Dime) are my current winners. I think I possibly ODed on Lindt with sea salt.
8. If I was only allowed to buy clothes from one shop for the rest of my life, I would choose Marks & Spencer. My back-up would be ASOS but I don't think their bras are good enough.
9. I have booked in a date to have my hideous ganglion removed. The surgeon offered me a general anaesthetic but after my hideous wisdom teeth experience I said I'd rather have a local, which he said was fine, but apparently in addition to the local, they will also put me to sleep in some way that isn't a general anaesthetic, because I might get stressed. This is annoying as I want to watch. It has been in my hand for years, it would be nice to put a face to the name. But then I think the reality of seeing inside my own hand might be freakier than I imagine. Apparently I can decide on the day. The day is the 2nd June. Pop it in your diaries now so you don't forget to send me MASSIVE BOUQUETS OF FLOWERS.
10. I am still on the lookout for the perfect mascara. Cheap or expensive, they all go clumpy. These cosmetics companies have money coming out of their ears and the world's top greedy scientists working for them. How hard can it be to get right? It is most distressing.
11. I really want a cat and/or a dog. It is annoying that I can't have one. But then life is full of compromises.

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.

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.

Weekend feeble

Ok, ok, OK mofos. This is where we're at. Last week I wrote two semi-eternal blog posts about my mental state and the way I think about boys and the way boys think about me, and how that makes me feel. And I briefly felt all liberated and amazing, and then I got really ennuiey and crap, and hardly left the flat, and then my mum came to meet me for lunch on Tuesday and I perked up a bit, and then on Wednesday something odd happened, which was that I started feeling quite a lot better.

The feeling down was a real spiral. First I started feeling down. Then I asked myself why I was feeling down, and when I couldn't find an answer, I started feeling down about the fact I was feeling down for no real reason. It really annoyed me and seemed very unfair. I hadn't been rejected by a handsome man about town. I wasn't feeling guilty following a spell of frenetic seal clubbing. I hadn't done anything of note, to be honest: just gone to work, eaten food and moped, like millions of other normal people the world over. What was the difference between them and me? Why do they just sigh, rotate their legs ninety degrees and regularly get out of bed in the morning, while I lie there in a pit of panic, pleading to some invisible benefactor like a desperate coward, "Please don't make me get up, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease...", hoping beyond hope that something magical will happen and I'll receive a text message or a phonecall that will somehow mean I don't have to face the day, a day which REALLY WON'T BE THAT BAD.

Given that everyone has a good long list of things they'd rather were different, how do they manage to keep on trucking, while I am overwhelmed by my own petty gripes? Why am I so livid that my life is the way it is? Is it SO much worse than I was sold? Is it so horrific, so unbearable? Of course not. But it's not perfect, and that seems to destroy me. In my rational moments, I know that no one's existence is ever perfect, that life is flawed and this is all there is. I'm also annoyed because I thought I'd realised all this weeks ago. I guess the Old Jane keeps fighting back with her evil habits, and I'll probably need to have this conversation with myself a few more times before she shuts up altogether.

So I was feeling not-good-enough and unhappy for five or six days, and then, without warning, it stopped. My first reaction was to analyse. What had changed? Whywhywhy? If only I could bottle what was happening on Wednesday and use it against whatever had been happening on Tuesday. But then, suddenly, I got scared of breaking the spell. "I know," I thought. "I'll just not ask. I'll just take this good mood, and not look at it, in case I spoil it." And I didn't ask, and it's stayed.

And then yesterday, I read this article that my friend Jules wrote about the paradox of happiness, which basically said exactly what I'd been thinking. If you're asking yourself if you're happy, then you're not. If you strive to be happy, you'll fail. I haven't been striving for happiness all this time, but peace. And strangely, I have felt pretty peaceful of late - just peaceful and sad, rather than peaceful and happy. Meh. Is this really all there is? A random and ridiculous series of ups and downs followed by death? I guess so. And if you're aware of that all the time, and work hard to improve your lot, you'll probably make things worse? Hmmm. That sounds like a pretty tricky trap. How best to cope? As always, Mother Nature has the answer, and it involves hot sand:

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.

Apple grumble

Grumble grumble grumble iPhone stolen on Saturday night grumble it's still on, ringing and ringing, then goes through to voicemail grumble but my service provider says that even though I locked the handset with a four digit PIN, £9-worth of international calls were made on it yesterday, which could absolutely have been WAY worse but it is still annoying that it has definitely fallen into the hands of thieves - I am insured but I have a £100 excess to pay, so I had to fork out for that this morning grumble. ALSO, it turns out that the damp smell in my 'utility area' (American accent there please) wasn't a figment of my imagination, but was in fact due to the fact that my washing machine has been leaking for several weeks during the rinse cycle, and I finally had to confront the problem after water appeared in front of the machine on Friday night, and I got down on my hands and knees and looked at the area under the machine that I'd been avoiding for approx. six weeks as I was scared that the rotting smell was a dead mouse or similar and I couldn't bear to be on my hands and knees, peering into a dark area and be faced with a dead mouse, so I didn't. But then on Friday I realised it was definitely water and not a mouse, so I moved all the stuff out from the nook under the machine and all the carpet has rotted away and I had a really complex operation involving hoovers and towels and rotten washing powder boxes and coat hangers but my efforts were unsuccessful grumble and I have to get lovely Rob the plumber over which will be more money grumble grumble grumble. And ALSO I have really bad period pains and am sitting here at work with a hot water bottle clutched to my stomach grumble and my back hurts too and I feel revoltingly bloated like I've been injected all over with plutonium botox grumble and I'm really not even making up the feeling fat part, I really have gained weight, even though I was watching my eating last week I'm two pounds heavier grumble, which They Say is definitely to do with monthly water retention etc. etc. but it's still a bummer because it's not easy being careful with eating and if you do it for seven days and then gain weight at the end of it, that doesn't feel parTICularly hilarious, especially if you're already grumpy about your phone and your washing machine. AND when I was out on Saturday night, I was with a group of people, a reunion, and one of them was taking a photo of a few of us and she asked me to take off my glasses. Is this acceptable?! I was in shock. Can I say, "I don't like your jumper, it's clashing with the rest of the set-up, can you put your coat back on?" Or how about, "I really think we need to cover up that double chin, how about letting your hair down and wrapping it round your wattle as a scarf, you flabby-faced monster?" I paid extra for non-relective lenses, before you ask, so it wasn't that. And the woman who asked me is in her seventies and wears her hair in a bob, and the arms of her glasses go through the sides of the bob about an inch back from the front of her hair but I WOULDN'T ASK HER TO TAKE THEM OFF FOR MY PHOTO. What is the world coming to? Grumble.

But on the upside I had a really fun weekend. On Saturday afternoon I saw the extraordinary Black Swan, which was unquestionably weird and unexpected and laughable at times, but afterwards I realised that if you took out all the weird bits and made it more conventional, it would lose almost everything that made it so captivating. Natalie Portman, who I've been in love with since Leon and obsessed with since the double whammy of Everyone Says I Love You and Mars Attacks!, is exceptional. As I'm sure everyone else has said, it's the performance of her career and she deserves every accolade in the Bumper Book of Accolades - there's not a scene she's not in, she's utterly spell-binding throughout, managing to make a obsessive, ruthless, miserable and ambitious character seem sympathetic and pitiable, and if she doesn't have an Oscar-shaped doorstop in a few months it'll be an outrage. The movie-going experience was additionally memorable as it was the first time I have ever been shushed during a film. Kate and I were next to two French ladies, and at one point I struggled to understand something Vincent Cassel's character had said. "What was that?" I whispered to Kate, who was sitting on my right. "SHHHH!" responded the woman on my left. I was agog. If I'd been talking throughout, that would be one thing, but I'd been sitting like a Henry Moore, and had even shushed Kate when she'd been crackling her packet of Love Hearts during the opening scenes. I almost lost track of the plot, such was my confusion. Maybe Intolerant French Woman had thought I was to blame for the sweets and the whispered question. It is the only possible explanation. Being shushed for a primary offence is too vexing.

Now I am back at work feeling confused as I was up til 4am on Saturday night and then asleep on my sofa by 7.30pm yesterday, so today I feel like I'm on GMT -5 and GMT +8 at the same time. All terribly confusing. Maybe I have slipped into The Matrix without realising it. I am certainly a bit wobbly of foot today as moments ago I accidentally fell onto a Giant Quality Street Caramel Swirl and ate it before I could realise what was happening. I am putting Inadvertent Ingestion down on my Food Log. Tonight I have a 90 minute Introduction to Climbing session in Swiss Cottage and feel like going about as much as I feel like taking off all my clothes and walking onto the trading floor to sing Ooh! Ah! Just A Little Bit. The thought of even putting on sports kit makes me feel a bit wrong, let alone hanging from a rubberised nook while a group of strangers get to enjoy that uniquely sexy view of me - My Bum From Below. There's a gag about menstrual cramp(on)s somewhere but I'm too weak to spot it. Wish me luck.

Enough's enough

Right, stick a fork in me, I'm beautifully medium rare; a moment more under the grill and I'll turn to overcooked, chewy and inedible.

It's been a funny week. And when I say funny, I mean miserable and weird. But now it's Friday afternoon, my feet have finally warmed up, the sun is streaming through the window, I'm full of homemade vegetable soup, there's a wash humming away in the background, and if I don't want to, I don't have to leave the house again until Monday morning. Could. Be. Worse.

Someone described this blog the other day as 'about mental health issues' and I went into a slightly flat spin. I mean, obviously this blog is sometimes about my struggles to find peace in modern London, but I also think it's about a lot of other stuff - for one, if it was only about my head, the only tag on the right would be 'Health' - so I was a bit shocked to think that even one reader felt like that was all it does. But then this week, I got into one of those self-fulfilling funks where I felt like if I didn't write about what was going on in my head, I'd be being massively dishonest, but I didn't want to write about it because I didn't want LLFF to be just about my mental health.

But it is ALL I've been thinking about. So hear this: if my mental health fills you with a) dread, b) boredom, c) hatred, d) A. N. Other negative thing, then off you trot and don't spare the horses.

Where was I? OK. Yes. What was weird this week in therapy was that I came out of the session thinking that it was very inconclusive. We'd talked about lots of interesting stuff but nothing had really been fixed or redressed and I wasn't sure how to move on. I said to her that I felt like I'd spent my life sprinting along a motorway, missing out on all the pretty villages en route, my goal always changing so that wherever I reached never turned out to be where I needed to be. And now I feel like I've finally stopped sprinting, and am lying, exhausted, on the hard shoulder, still panting in shock, and completely unsure whether or not I need to get back on the motorway, or find a quieter road to walk along, or whether I should just hop over this fence into this lovely field and gambol about in there, going nowhere for a while.

However, I've been percolating since Wednesday's session and it turns out that it was actually more revelatory than I'd initially thought. I went in there very grumpy indeed. I had stopped meditating altogether, because every single time I do it, instead of focusing on what I'm meant to be focusing on, I end up beating myself up somehow, whether it's suddenly remembering that I've failed to water my geraniums yet again, or panicking that my parents might be dead and no-one's told me, or stressing about being fat, or wondering what to wear to work tomorrow. And although some of those concerns are mighty insignificant, having a barrage of negativity thrown at yourself by your own brain for several minutes is not my idea of fun. So I stopped meditating.

I told my therapist about this, who said that she has this exercise she gives people who get bogged down in stuff like this - she calls it 'intentional offloading' and the idea is that you put a name to the common cause of the negativity, and for a minute you say it out loud. I explained that the difficulty was that my negative stuff was all so different - geraniums, parents' death etc. - and that the only common focus was that I, as I am right now, am not good enough. I was pretty sure that my issues were about success versus failure. But, in an uncharacteristically insistent way (given that therapists often don't push their ideas on you), she said she thought it was something else. She said that the thing I should hate, out loud for a minute a day, is 'feeling excluded'.

"I dunno..." I said, unhelpfully. "I feel like it's more about not being good enough." But she pushed her point. Why don't I feel good enough? she prompted. Because of my childhood, I responded dutifully, knowing at heart that she is right. And here's the thing (if you're still with me):

On the surface of it, I had an amazingly happy childhood. I was, and am, the beloved only child of two wonderful, healthy parents. My mum and dad are full of joie de vivre. They spend everything they earn, they eat and drink and laugh and sing along to music, and play golf and go on holiday and work to live rather than live to work. When I was born, they owned their own business where they worked together, and most of the time they got on brilliantly. They were pretty successful yuppies under Thatcher and had been able to buy massively wasteful luxuries like a boat and an aquarium and private school fees for lucky me. I had my own life-jacket, a My Little Pony grooming parlour, a box full of Lego, another box full of Playmobile, and books and my own stereo and their near-constant attention, blonde hair and blue eyes: my future and I were pretty bright. What could possibly go wrong? Why am I now spending hundreds of pounds on therapy, with green eyes, platinum highlights and no time to do Lego?

I sincerely hope the answer doesn't hurt my parents. It's not meant to. But I think that being an only child is destined to leave a person a bit mental. Now, it's my firm believe that pretty much everyone is a bit mental - I don't know anyone who wouldn't benefit from a few weeks in therapy - but I'm pretty sure that my own particular brand of mentalness is caused by growing up as the sole child of happy, loved-up parents. Any child wants to fit in to the dominant social order when it's born. I wanted to be my parents' equal - an absurd goal given that they had a 33 year head start on me, but there it is. I wanted to be part of their gang - but due to the fact that I was a TODDLER I couldn't be there with them. I didn't understand this. So I felt left out. A typical childhood memory involves me sitting on the landing outside my bedroom, listening to them having dinner with friends below, occasionally writing tragic notes that I would post through the bannisters to land noiselessly on the stairs one flight down and then get madly upset that they didn't notice the missives' arrival and come talk to me.

I'm sure many firstborn children have these recollections - our parents seem desperately cool, popular and wise, and we want to be a part of every bit of it - but then a sibling comes along, and normalises everything, and you learn your place in the family. Finally you're not the sore thumb - you're one of a pair, and then sometimes a trio, and you fight for supremacy with your peers, not with people decades older than you. And of course, siblings cause major traumas of their own. I'm not in any sense claiming that my problems are worse than anyone else's. If anything, they're a hell of a lot better. Poor me, I'm the healthy child of loving, well-off parents. But anyway, I'm coming to terms with why I'm still crazy after all these years. You can click the window shut if you want.

[Jesus. There's a huge fight going on outside my window. About four bikes have been abandoned in the middle of the A-road and people are driving round them. A hundred yards away, eight or nine guys in hoodies are yelling at each other in such furious blasts that initially I thought it was dogs barking. Now there's a woman crying. It's 15:39. Madness.]

Back to me. I wanted - however foolishly - to feel like me and my parents were equal, like I belonged. But even though they loved me, inevitably I could never feel like their true equal - because I wasn't. I was a child. Not better or worse. Just different. But, as many children do, I didn't feel good different. I felt wrong, and I blamed myself. When they feel left out, kids rarely think, "Oh that person's at fault," or, "We're just different. It's not my problem." Instead, they conclude: "I am bad."

I felt wrong. But crucially, I didn't feel irredeemably wrong. I believed, for some reason, that if I just tweaked this or that element of my personality, with enough careful observation and hard work, I'd eventually get the balance right, and everything would fall into place. And I went to school and was ignored, most likely because I was an attention-seeking brat who deserved to be shunned by anyone with a pulse. I realised pretty quickly that I was deeply annoying, but I didn't know how, or why, so I thought 'If I just tweak this, it'll be OK - if I just get this pencil case, or this haircut, or don't wear these stupid glasses, it'll be OK.' But it never was. I never felt good enough.

And time went on, and I got older, and over and over again, in some tragically Freudian repetition compulsion way, I would identify someone who nearly respected me but was just beyond my reach, a girl two years above, a guy who was in love with the girl two years above, and try desperately to make them like me, do everything I could to make them think I was amazing. Sometimes they did and I got what I wanted and then - of course - I went off them. I had to find a way to destroy it because no one worth respecting could possibly respect me. I always wanted one of those posses of Friends-esque friends, people who hung out in the same place, where everyone was always welcome, where the door was always open, but any time I've come close to those kinds of relationships, I've felt claustrophobic and limited, and I've pushed it away. And pretty much anyone who's ever gone out with me will tell you that I nearly destroyed them with my attempts to sabotage the relationship. Although that might have been because they were all FREAKING ANNOYING.

[Wow. They're right outside my window now. There are about thirty black schoolkids all in uniform, varying ages, and one older guy in a hoodie with a beard waving a D-lock in a very menacing way. A lot of shouting and male testosterone flying around. I reckon if I stood down there for more than a couple of minutes I'd probably get a hairy chest. Everyone white is just walking by trying to pretend they don't see what's going on. A black mum's just dragged her eight year old son through the melee trying to run for a bus.]

But anyway. It seems that what I want, more than anything, is not to feel excluded - but simultaneously, I've had to admit that it's not currently possible for me to be happy when I'm included either. And that's where I'm at.

[OK, a big police van has just turned up. Three white policemen get out, and about half the kids scarper. For some reason the people at the centre of the fight don't run away. Within about twenty seconds, a policeman identifies someone as significant and slams him up against the metal doorway of the tube. Three white grown-ups are talking earnestly to the police, trying to explain who did what. I mutter that they shouldn't stick their beaks into stuff that's not their business, but one of the guys appears to be trying to act as a mediator between the kids and the police, and the kids don't seem to be hating him for it. The policeman bundles the tall significant boy into the van, and another one is taken towards another van that's just pulled up. I can't believe how quickly they worked out who to separate. Either the perpetrators are known to them, or they're just picking people at random. Both options are sad.]

It's been a pretty unpleasant journey, especially over the past few weeks. I stopped dating months ago, I've pushed away a lot of friends, I've canceled a lot of engagements, I've wasted a lot of tickets. I've been snappish, grumpy, selfish, ill, self-pitying, unfriendly, ungrateful, unpredictable, over-emotional and teary. I've also done pretty well covering this up to a lot of people. And now I'm here - at the centre of the onion, or as close as I'll ever be. I'm metaphorically weeping, sitting surrounded by discarded layers of allium and wondering what the hell to do next.

But even though I'm metaphorically crying surrounded by onion, I actually feel amazing. Properly joyous. Because Yazz and the Plastic Population were right. And it's the weekend.

With love for you all, even if you clicked the window shut several paragraphs ago. Yours always, LLFF.

Crap!

So this morning I retweeted Paul Chambers' original Tweet to both my followers on Twitter. Since I repeated his crime, I am expecting to be arrested, interrogated and then fined nearly £3k, but I expect the police are very busy at the moment arresting and interrogating the other several thousand people who have also posted the comment. I don't have anything new to say on the matter - I believe in freedom of speech, I believe he was misguided but not criminal, I believe there are more important things to worry about - but I'm just mentioning it in case any of you notice my absence and get worried.

Nothing else to say that's not infused with a cloying aroma of mystifying negativity so will sign off. Wishing you all wonderful weekends. Do feel free to come visit me in the clink.

Floating, not gloating

Given the fact that I am trundling over rather rocky terrain at present, it seemed remarkably serendipitous that last night was the night that Emily, Grania and I had chosen, weeks ago, to use our £10-for-the-price-of-a-£40-session vouchers at Floatworks, Europe's biggest floatation centre. I wasn't sure what to expect but I was pretty certain that I'd come out of the experience feeling less stressed than when I went in.

Error.

I had my shower and peered into the pod, lime green on the outside, white on the inside, noticing as I stepped in that one of the previous users had left a couple of long, dark hairs behind. My over-sensitive reflex nearly kicked in but I reminded myself that I swim merrily in the sea, which I am told has a little more unpleasant matter in it than two long hairs. I sat down. The heavily salted water was warmish and a little over a foot deep. Body temperature, I think heated through a panel in the pod's floor. The liquid felt thick with the salt, almost syrupy. I extended my legs, put in the earplugs (supplied) and pressed the button to bring the pod's lid down. There was a red light at the foot end of the pod which emitted a comforting glow. I lay back, allowing my head to be completely supported by the water, and waited for the plinky plonky music I'd been told to expect: ten minutes to start with, followed by fifty minutes of silence, followed by more music to alert you that it's time to get out and shower.

I waited.

No plinky.

No plonky.

Just silence.

I waited some more. Without the music, I wouldn't know when to get out. I would lie there, not knowing when to get out, for an hour. Or I could get out then and there, wrap the clearly insubstantial towel around my naked form, slide my feet into the rubbery sandals and schlep back to reception to check. Given that I am always pro-active, always up for an adventure and always full of beans, I continued to lie still and hope a solution presented itself.

For the first few minutes I was intensely bored. Then I realised that you can curl yourself up, stretching one side and then the other, and hear your spine clicking. That was quite fun. Then I spent some time running my fingers through my hair, which was all ballooned out and made me feel like a mermaid. Also fun. Then I lay still, and realised that the water around your body gets really warm if you don't wiggle very much. That, too, was pleasing. Then I smoothed the water over the bits of my body that weren't submerged, and realised that it felt a bit like semen. Then I remembered being in Madrid about ten years ago and interviewing one of Scooch who said that his favourite place to masturbate was on sunbeds. And then I suddenly worried that I was lying in a pod full of strange men's semen. Then I started wondering how long it was 'til my hour was up. And basically I wondered that for ages until I got bored of wondering it and actually got out, and checked the time on my phone. I'd only had about 45 minutes but I was out now and I knew I wouldn't relax if I got back in. So I got back into the shower and then went to the hairdrying area to dry my hair. There was a lot of other people's hair on the floor.

When I got back to reception, I told the lady about my lack of music. "Did you have the green pod?" she asked, unflapped. I nodded. "Ah, well that one's temperamental." She wrote out a laminated voucher for another free session and handed it over. I felt placated but not yet relaxed.

When Grania and Emily came out, they too were unconvinced, although the woman behind reception said that everyone says their second float is miles better than their first because they know the ropes. That sounds to me like marketing gold. Then the three of us went over the road to the restaurant, where I took one sip of my delicious glass of cold white wine and then knocked the rest of it all over myself, much of it pouring into my left boot. The boots are ten days old and are lined with a massively-absorbent and warm fleecy fabric. So that's good. The left one will smell of wine FOREVER.

Then I had too much to eat and we set the world to rights and then I had to wait 14 minutes for a tube, so I went back up to street level which was DEFINITELY an error, and eventually got a bus home and felt exhausted and slept quite well, and today I am knackered but I keep thinking about floating and feeling, for some unexpected reason, like I really want to do it again as a matter of some urgency.

So, in conclusion:
Floating at the time: thumbs horizontal
Cold white wine in my mouth: thumbs up
Cold white wine all over my dress and tights, and in my winter boots: thumbs down
Memory of evening: thumbs up
Floating in retrospect: thumbs at 2 and 10 o'clock

Also: Blood and Gifts is a very good play at the National. It's about the diplomatic handling of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in the early eighties and I recommend it. It's very funny and informative. A bit like me but with broader appeal.

Finally: I just found out that, due to a glitsch in the system last week, our office vending machine went through a spate of giving away Kitkats for 1p. This is what happens when I start liking Twix Fino. It is a conspiracy, I tell you. Livid.

Let the self-pity begin

Be gentle with me, Faithful, for I am feeling well fragile today innit. If my eyes were plugholes, the tears would burbling up through the U-bend and heading for daylight.

The almost-four-month boyban has been amazing in illustrating that I was pretty much obsessively judging my success as a woman on whether or not a man was telling me I was attractive and good company. With dating forbidden and no flirtatious emails to distract me, I can clearly see the error of my way: I was doggedly pursuing a goal, thinking it would bring me a sense of self/satisfaction/fulfillment, when in fact we all know that getting a boyfriend is not really the answer to any of the above - and if it is, it shouldn't be. So it's been good, I've got a new sense of perspective and I am sincerely glad of that.

However, it probably won't surprise many of you clever readers that, if you take away someone's raison d'etre (however unhealthy it was) without lining up anything else to replace it, an existential crisis is fairly inevitable. And so, ta da, here I am, no career to speak of, no babies, in a society where having one or the other is pretty much essential if you're going to have any sense of self-worth. Oh, and I'm an atheist, so the world's best psychological crutch isn't an option for me either. You're left with a verbose hedonist with no sense of purpose, just night after night of pleasant, middle-class pasttimes. I am one big fat hobby.

In the meantime, Grania has spent the last several months dedicating almost all her time to preparing for some of the toughest exams I've ever known, learning a zillion planning laws and documenting her every waking action, turning down countless fun events to pursue her goal. And Sarah's been promoted, and Sara's started a new role helping people, and Kate is bursting with job satisfaction, and Olivia's been promoted and got pregnant again, and Mills has had her second child, and Lucy's dealing with her existing two, and Em and Erf are on honeymoon, and Marina, Justin and Lucy G are changing the media world, and Lilly's going freelance, and Charlie's had Gabriel, and Nick's doing his writing course and an internship while being Deputy Editor, and Georgie's directing, and Hatta and Astrid are engaged, and two other friends are trying for babies but it's all hush hush, and Don's making a feature film, and Ed's having intimate dinners at The Wolsey with A listers.

And I know, I know, everyone can take this kind of highlights-only snapshot of their friends, filtering out the quotidian, ignoring the fact that everyone has down days and everyone panics, but it's human nature to compare ourselves to our peers.

I can only see three ways to cope with this kind of barrage of achievement:
1. Persuade myself that I'm still valid, but in some different way. I am finding this difficult.
2. Find new meaning elsewhere under some previously unturned rock.
3. Accept, as my mother suggested, that my time will come, and right now just "bob along" (her words).

I love my mother so much it hurts, but 3. makes me feel like self-harming. It is excellent, measured advice and I desperately wish I could take it; being carried along like a brightly-coloured rubber duckie in a burbling countryside stream, letting the current take me where it will, well, it'd no doubt be good for me, relinquishing control, enjoying the view, but... well, I can't help but feel that time is running out. Not to have kids, necessarily. But to do something. I'm 33. I'm never going to be any younger than I am now, or have any fewer responsibilities. I was already feeling like I was a bit of a wasted opportunity. Then I watched Jamie's American Food Revolution.

That guy, annoying though his perpetual "bruvva"s unquestionably are, is an extraordinary and inspiring force for good. He's married with three kids, and he clearly loves his family dearly, but he has realised that he has a position in society that can change a lot of people's lives for the better. He has a clear mission - to encourage people to eat more healthily; to make cooking from scratch appear easy enough that people turn to it instead of ordering a pizza; and, ultimately, to save lives. It's an amazing goal, and he's already pretty damn rich, owning assets worth tens of millions - but he's still pursuing his mission, heading out to spend three months in Los Angeles early next year to film a second series of his Emmy Award-winning show. He is attacked and ridiculed wherever he goes, but he doggedly continues, spending precious time away from his loved ones, because he believes in what he's doing, and because he is sure that he can make a difference.

I am jealous of his mission. I want one.

And then, as a nailgun in the face to any specks of optimism I'd salvaged, last night, Luke and I saw The Social Network. Bloody hell, where do these people get their drive from? Their certainty that their ideas are valid? Their optimism and confidence, that sense of entitlement, that if they think it's a good idea, it obviously is? The determination to stop gassing about it and actually sit down and fucking do it? I just whitter on, it'd be nice to do this, that'd be brilliant, but I never commit, I'm terrified of failure, and moreover I fear the claustrophobia of being trapped. What if my idea was good? Then I'd have to do it and I'd miss out on doing other stuff. Plus I'm already really tired.

So I do bob along, but resentfully, doing nothing except inhaling as much of this beautiful city as I can take in, and waiting for my Facebook, my Food Revolution, to hit me square between the eyes so that I can start work. Problem is, I know that that's not how reality works. Meaning is often only visible in retrospect. Life missions aren't always obvious at the time. They creep up. They need leaps of faith. They need hard work over long periods of time. They need blind commitment. And they don't always end in positive results. I'm categorically rubbish at dealing with every single one of those things. Need someone with a short attention span who'll tackle a high-profile project, complete it to her own absurdly high standards in two weeks and then, with a rush of 'problem solved' satisfaction, move on in a flurry, never to give it another instant's thought? I'm your gal. Need consistent, shire horse effort over years to lovingly create something that lasts, often for little reward, someone who doesn't let failure get her down, who doesn't crave recognition? Move right along. Nothing to see here.

That book you think I should write? Two years on one project that will be criticised by strangers? Not my idea of fun. The presenting work I could maybe do? I look too fat on camera and I stop being funny because I get too nervous. Politics? MPs have to work too hard and they get criticised. Lobbyist could be good but I can never find an issue that sustains my interest more than any other. I'm not academic or enough of a brown-noser to get into a thinktank or any massive corporation. I hate sucking up to people. I hate toeing the party line. But then I got extremely depressed when I was freelance: irregular hours, irregular funds, irregular job satisfaction, having to be pathetically grateful for every commission and never knowing if the next paycheque would be the last. And with a mortgage to pay, I can't afford to be skint. I want regular hours, recognition for hard work, a sense that I'm contributing to a greater good, a salary that will cover my pension (thanks for the terror lesson, mum), and my evenings and weekends free for wine. It's the blight of an only child: I'm not sufficiently gifted to excel, but I'm too full of myself to bear being average. And I am appalling at compromise.

Don't worry, my weekly therapy session is in under an hour. I'm sure absolutely everything will be solved then.

Some things I know

I know that it’ll happen when it happens.
I know that when it’s right, I’ll know.
I know that you can’t look for it.
I know that it will be when I least expect it.
I know that I’m a catch and that he’ll be lucky to have me.
I know that it’s not about the length of my hair, or the size of my thighs, or how long I wait before I text him back.
I know that there’s a guy out there - a good, handsome guy - who’ll think I’m a knockout.
I know that there are plenty more fish in the sea.
I know that in a few years time, I’ll look back on all this and laugh.
I know that everything happens for a reason.
I know that I’m not a failure.
I know that I’m not the only one who feels this way.
I know that 32 really isn't that old.
I know that wanting to find love is the surest way to guarantee you won't.
I know that dwelling on this stuff isn't helpful.
I know that I have a wonderful life.
I know that I don't need a man to experience true happiness.
I know that none of my real friends think any less of me because I’m single.
I know that they don’t judge me as harshly as I judge myself.
I know that I just haven’t met the right guy yet.
I know that I have to kiss a lot of frogs before I meet my prince.
I know that relationships aren’t the be all and end all.
I know that, in the end, we’re all alone.

But I also know that, sometimes, I sit on the tube home with strangers all around me, and I look down at my right hand, at the diamond band I wear, the one my mother gave me all those years ago, and I think about taking it off and putting it on the ring finger of my left hand, and I think about how, just for a moment, even though I don't really even agree with engagement rings, it would be such a flooding, overwhelming relief to be able to show all those people around me, all these people I’ve never seen before and will never see again, that someone once asked me if they could spend the rest of their life with me, and that I said yes.

Haughtyculture

You get off the bus where Lower Sloane Street meets Royal Hospital Road. Immediately, your eardrums reverberate with the unselfconscious braying of people who are fully comfortable in their surroundings. They are laughing and wearing sensible footwear. You walk into the grounds of Chelsea Hospital and hand over your ticket. Stretching far in front of you is a wide tree-lined avenue, with rows of temporary shops set up on each side. On the tarmac between the shops is a thrusting river of rich people. They stream forward, collecting items in their wake like driftwood: paintings of flowers, paintings of fruit, secateurs, hanging baskets, ergonomic foam kneelers, candles, bunches of lavender, Hunter wellingtons, socks for Hunter wellingtons, seeds, watering systems, commemorative mugs, commermorative trays, commemorative aprons, state-of-the-art garden furniture and Pimm's.

To the west of this heaving flow of consumption is the main event: a vast marquee surrounded by outdoor exhibits. The show gardens are each about the size of a tennis court and apparently cost around £250,000 to put together. The winning one is sponsored by The Daily Telegraph. It is rubbish. Well, what you can see of it is rubbish. It is impossible to get too close as the posh rich flower-lovers who look at displays are slightly more burly and aggressive than the posh rich flower-lovers who like to shop. They get to the front, where there is a rope, and they stand and take photos and chat to the design team about concepts. But they do not move on. It is not like being in a crowded gallery, where people are aware that others are trying to see and so adopt a conveyor-belty shuffle. At Chelsea, once you are in your patch, you stand there, by the rope. Perhaps they are waiting for Blur to do a quick set, although this is unlikely in The Telegraph garden as there is no room to swing a labrador. It is full of weird rusty metal sculptures, water features, cacti, bad furniture and wildflowers. It looks like a child has gone into Homebase, picked up one of everything, and then told her autistic next door neighbour to organise them all. It is incoherent and thus unrelaxing. This sense of pressure is augmented by the volume of be-wheelchaired elderly women. There are hundreds of them, their heads lolling, their knees under blankets, brought out for the day, pushed by upbeat Australian carers. You wonder whether this is what this is what your life will be like in sixty years.

The best garden is made by a man called Tom Stuart-Smith. In his photo he is wearing a brown corduroy blazer, a white shirt, and a navy blue jumper. He did not go to school at a comprehensive in Blackpool. He has won a gold medal every time he's exhibited at Chelsea. He is clearly a Very Good Gardener. There are a lot of wild flowers, things that look like cow parsley, mixed in with more angular urban shapes. It's a nice mixture - but there's not so much variety that it becomes hectic. The colours are mainly green, purple, yellow and white. There are some bulbous hedges on the right hand side that are a bit out of place, and some more rusty metal, which is clearly very in at the moment. It's good. There are some invited guests wafting around among the show gardens, quaffing champagne out of real glasses and acting as if this is their actual land. It is annoying on several levels.

The crappest garden is the most expensive one, worth £19 million. It is called The Ace of Diamonds. It is not loads of really expensive plants, as you might expect. It is loads of really mediocre plants, surrounded by white gravel. Strewn in the white gravel are huge gems the size of bisected tennis balls - sparkling blue sapphires and fat emeralds. It looks like someone nicked the Queen's jewellery box and tripped over while escaping through SW3. It is impossible to overstate what a waste of £19 million it is. There are nineteen million better ways to spend that money. You move on, huffing lightly.

The marquee in the middle is full of people who spend their ENTIRE LIVES thinking about plants and flowers. It is a strange experience, like suddenly stumbling across a collection of people who think that collecting different types of staple is a perfectly normal activity. There are amazingly straight lupins - lupins are gross, naff, phallic flowers, but getting them to be straight is apparently a task worthy of someone's time - and carrots that start out normal at the top but have really, really, really long thin ends, as if they're made out of plasticene and someone's got a bit carried away stretching them. There are some gorgeous bonsai trees but the organisers haven't positioned them very sensitively as it is impossible to set up that hilarious photo where you stand behind one and it makes you look like a giant. There are some roses but they don't smell much these days as the new breeds are apparently less diseased but less scented as a consequence.

Around the edge there are more displays - courtyard gardens where the Green & Black's sponsored one is jungle themed. They had a special jungle inhabitant shipped over specially to advise on the correct architecture of a hut made of banana leaves. It is gross. Not the hut. The 'let's bring over a native' yuckness.

And then there are the marquees filled with people drinking more champagne and more Pimm's. It is now nearly 8pm and you are staring enviously at their booze but cannot justify spending £9.50 on your own glass. Eventually you find yourself flagging and leave the grounds. It is good to have seen what all the fuss is about but you don't think you belong in that crowd. And for that you are grateful. As you read your book about South Africa the next morning, you are sickened by the account of a teenage girl's rape. Some people grow poker straight lupins and others rape children. Others sit at a desk and do nothing of note. You put your head in your hands.

Sex, cars, clothes and self-hatred

Just before the long weekend, I was having an interesting email discussion with a guy in my office about fast cars. He casually mentioned that driving his was better than sex. I said he's obviously not doing it right. He said he is doing it right, but that the thrill of driving the car beats sex every time. I asked him to choose: either a) your choice of incredible car for the rest of your life, but only bad sex or b) fantastic sex with your dream woman and a lifetime behind the wheel of a Ford Focus or similar. He said he would choose a) without hesitation. I found this extraordinary and shallow, and slightly went off him (platonically speaking).

Later that evening, I was talking about clothes with my friend Alex, and we both agreed that we have a slight problem with how much we love buying new items. And quietly, in the rear left corner of my brain, an alarm bell rang. I relayed my conversation re. bad sex vs. fast cars to Alex, and we replaced the car with clothes, i.e. a) fantastic clothes and bad sex for the rest of your life, or b) fantastic sex but terrible clothes. This time the choice was unapologetic and instantaneous. There is no way in heaven and earth that I could only wear rank clothes for the rest of my life - at least, not living in society as I know it. Bad, three minute sex would be a delight if it meant I was guaranteed to have a permanently great wardrobe. I grudgingly have to accept that the guy at work isn't as wrong as I'd thought.

I've had a lovely four day break - repainted my bedroom, reorganised things in an impressive fashion, single-handedly rehung my mammoth bookshelf, ate three times my own bodyweight over Saturday eve and Sunday when I was staying with my parents', and watched the Coen brothers' A Simple Man at The Roxy last night. It was goodish. Today was back to business as usual. After a couple of stops on the tube, I was standing in the middle corridor of the carriage with a row of seated people facing me on either side. Directly to my right was a small, wizened old lady with a prominent nose, wearing a headscarf and dull, practical clothes without ornament. Her chestnut skin was weatherbeaten to a matt eggshell finish and when the train was stationary I could actually hear her epidermis crying out for Oil of Olay. She looked like a National Geographic portrait of an Afghan war widow, utterly out of place on the tube. I was trying to figure out if I could take her photograph without causing a ruckus, but then I noticed her flicking something rhythmically in her hand. I looked closer. She appeared to be holding a small metal counting device, which, I believe, is called a 'clicker'. Every two or three seconds, she clicked it. I didn't know if she was conducting an experiment or whether she was suffering from unusually regular palsy. Then I thought it: perhaps it's a bomb detonator. I swore violently at myself. I hated myself fully. My cheeks flooded with angry blush. A little old lady looks out of place on the tube, and you think she might be a wannabe mass murderer? God I hate the media for infecting me with such far-fetched bollocks, and my own tendency towards narrow-mindedness for not fighting the infection hard enough. If I can't even stamp it out in my own mind, what hope do we have? Yuck, yuck and yuck.

Rave review

My routine when I go and see any culture, be it TV, film, art, theatre or opera is as follows: 1) Try to go in with an open mind. 2) Form my own opinion. 3) Force myself to see the other side - if I've loved it, try to guess how people will criticise it; if I've hated it, try to imagine why someone would love it, or (most often), if I've felt ambivalent, try to imagine why someone might give a shit. 4) Go home and read what the critics have said. 5) Digest. 6) Come up with a final verdict, taking everything into account. Fun to be me, isn't it? So footloose and fancy free? Nah, I do this readily, easily - it's not a chore, honest - I enjoy it.

So, last night I was lucky enough to be taken to see Jerusalem, currently the hottest play in the big smoke. It's had a brace of four and five star reviews from all the big papers, and won barrowloads of awards. I'd heard good things from friends and I was really looking forward to seeing it. I did not, however, know if I would like it. Good reviews from journos and friends do not automatically mean I'll enjoy something - and, in fact, in an unconscious effort to be deliberately obtuse, I think they often push me the other way. On this occasion, however, I will happily admit that they were right - I was captivated.

It was an amazing script, first and foremost. That was the best thing about it by a west country mile. Well-observed to the last syllable, the gags were topical, the references were spot on and the pacing was fantastic. The playwright, Jez Butterworth, found the perfect blend between classical allusion and timeless concepts of ownership and fairness, meaning that Jerusalem is accessible and challenging whether you're a theatre snob or a newbie who failed GCSE English. There's a fair bit of St George, William Blake, myth, legend, ley lines, spirituality, Shakespeare and Arden, and if you want to be poncey and compare the protagonist to Falstaff, Lear and Caliban, you can knock yourself out - but there are also mobile phones, Girls Aloud, drugs, all-night benders, The Prodigy, paedophilia, Trivial Pursuit, Morris dancing, giants, drums, BBC News West, a lot about the challenge, claustrophobia and limitations of growing up in a small Wiltshire village as well as a celebration of country life, the experiences borne out of boredom and the honesty that comes with the inability to be anonymous. I was agog.

And then there was Mark Rylance, labelled in our press as our best living actor. I'd never seen him before. He is really good. Rooster, the character he played, was phenomenal: grotesque, selfish, weak, aggressive, coarse, rude, greasy, physically damaged, emotionally horrifying, failed and angry, but generous, kind, struggling, vulnerable, incredibly charming and - yes - immensely attractive. A superb creation played to perfection.

Does it sum up modern Britain? Certainly it's a big chunk of what a lot of people feel. It's a comment on the English countryside so watching it in London felt a bit odd and removed, and there are definitely many general concerns in modern urban life that weren't touched upon, but that's not a criticism - better to do a few things to perfection than try to cover everything and fail. I wondered if the seven years I spent at a Wiltshire boarding school and the three years I spent at uni in Bristol gave me more of a connection (however tenuous) with what was going on than my life in the capital since. Place names such as Devizes, Wootton Bassett, Chippenham and Marlborough were all bandied around last night and it was immensely pleasurable when they fell on my ears; I'm not sure if that will resonate to quite the same extent with everyone.

Most affectingly, I felt - and perhaps it is the mark of a truly great piece of culture that everyone in the audience feels this in their own way - but I felt like it was written with someone like me in mind. I feel like I am lost in the no-man's land between the bored teens who just want acceptance and diversion, and the conservative townspeople who want order restored. My parents, and, in fact, the people I saw the play with last night, would have wanted Rooster out of his caravan faster than you can say 'Scarper'. I can see their point and I understand their reasoning - logically, I feel it too. But in my heart, I wanted him to carry on living right there in the forest, dealing drugs and behaving disgracefully. I don't know why - is it an immature desire to be a rebel, a childish refusal to conform? Perhaps. I'm certainly not holding myself up as a paragon of grown-up ideals, and maybe if I have kids one day I'll hate people like him, but last night I passionately wanted to protect and preserve the variety. The thought of sanitized order, manicured lawns, Singaporean cleanliness and Aryan purity scares the bejeezus out of me. The world needs Roosters. And I write this at home, while my downstairs neighbours are playing hard house so loudly that I can't hear my Sam Cooke. Maybe I should be annoyed, but I can't muster the energy. I love that they're enjoying themselves. Plus Sam Cooke is actually extremely out of tune. Seriously, listen to Lovable - it's painful.

My host complained that, at just over three hours including two intervals, the play was too long and self-indulgent, but I wouldn't have cut a moment: every exchange added something and I could have stayed longer. The set was breathtaking, and the direction was bold - I loved the fact that one of Rooster's most heartfelt outbursts was delivered into a video camera that was facing us, so that Rylance's back was to the audience throughout - an immense confidence in an actor's abilities.

So. I've seen it, I've read the reviews, I've listened to my friends and my own opinion and I've formed my Jerusalem verdict: possibly the best play I've ever seen, entertaining, funny, challenging and charming. I walked back to the tube, alone, and felt incredibly fortunate and full of joy. So why, then, did the snake return this morning? It's a mystery.

Talking shop

God I love clothes. I know, I know, appearances can be deceiving, beauty is only skin deep, it's not what's on the outside that matters yadda yadda. But let's face it, all those yawnsome platitudes were just made up so that mothers would have something to say to their fat teenage daughters. The truth is, we are judged on our appearance, and we judge others on theirs - and we make those judgements because, nine times out of ten, they're accurate. If we were consistently wrong, we'd soon learn, and adjust our prejudices accordingly.

Looks matter. Maybe they shouldn't, but they do. Last night I went to Westfield and watched a selection of the most boringly, uniformly dressed teenage girls traipse around Topshop and H&M, buying armfuls of clothes that looked identical to the ones that they were already wearing. There is a scene in the film Clueless where Cher is walking along the corridor talking to Dionne on her mobile phone, and after about ten seconds, Dionne joins her, walking in the same direction, and they hang up without drawing breath, and I remember watching that, slack-jawed, in the nineties, thinking how fun it looked to be that connected, that technologically savvy. Yesterday in Westfield, the teenagers didn't even appear to hang up when they were together. It's as though mobile phones are a cooler way of communicating than actual face-to-face, so they just never hang up. The benefit for the outsider is that they talk much more loudly into their phones than they would to each other, so the full inanity of their babble is revealed. And I suddenly realised that the horror of having children isn't the sleepless nights or the terrible twos, or the toddler tantrums or panicking about primary schools. It's the fact that, without fail, every single teenager in the world is an Absolute, Unmitigating Dick. I definitely was. How do parents humour these morons, who can't speak without splattering their sentences with 'like' and 'y'know', and who couldn't formulate an interesting or unusual phrase if you offered them VIP passes to Glastonbury, unsupervised? I can't imagine not killing them. Matricide beckons. And that's when pregnancy's still a far-off semi-thought. God I hope I never need to adopt - the agency would have a field day. For their reference: that was a joke. I promise I will never murder my children, adopted or otherwise. Although that whole euthanasia thing is interesting, with that BBC presenter killing his lover back in the day. I'm with The Graun on that one - it's all well and good supporting Right To Die etc., but not helpful doing it without proper legal strictures in place.

Aaaaaaaaaanyway. So then I stood, jaw still slack, outside Abercrombie, where there was a cordoned-off queue and a doorman, operating a one-in-one-out policy. I assumed there must be some sort of special event on. But no. These people were queuing to get into the shop. That's it. Queuing to shop. Even for a born consumer such as myself, this was shocking, and I felt a sudden urge to get all revolutionary on their asses, knock down the barricade and drag them all into M&S shouting 'There are ALTERNATIVES! And in other shops, the sizing isn't so OUTRAGEOUS that a NORMAL PERSON has to wear an XXXL!' But I didn't.

Then I went to dinner at Grania's for seriously delicious chicken stew and buttery cabbage and then pancakes, and the clothes discussion continued. I think I slightly freaked out this guy called Jim with the extent of my self-imposed rules for shopping, in that, when considering a new purchase, I will break down the item's price by estimated number of times it will be worn, and thus calculate if it's worth it. For example, I find a new belt that costs £15. I decide I will wear it approximately ten times in the next year. Thus I will be paying £1.50 a time to wear it. For £1.50, I would hope the belt would add a fair bit of value to my outfit - it wouldn't have to be the feature piece, but it certainly couldn't go unnoticed. If I decide that £1.50 is a fair price for each of the belt's outings, I will buy it. Jim's rules were different, as he doesn't buy clothes unless he has run out of something, which is a concept of purchasing that is laughably distant for me. Running out of anything... Nope. Not going to happen. Possibly tights, but that's it. I explained that my tenuous defence for my clothes addiction comes from the fact that, in my early twenties, I was really quite overweight, and the novelty of being able to fit into something, let alone actually look good, is still so fresh that whenever I try something and like it, a panic overwhelms me and I worry that, if I don't buy this garment, right here, right now, I'll regret it forever. Admittedly, I have been fitting in to high street stores for several years now, and I'll be the first to agree that argument doesn't quite stand up any longer, but it's my story and I'm sticking to it.

God I'm hungover. Can you tell? I can't seem to shut up, and nothing I write is of any real interest. Ukulele tonight. Hair of the dog may be necessary.

Needy much?

So there I was, enjoying a second consecutive pretty good Thursday night, when a girl sat down at our table. She had been at an adjacent one up to this point, being a bit raucous with some guys that she clearly hadn't known until that evening. We chatted to her for a minute or two, she was Australian and quite funny although possibly mental. Then later, when I was left on my own for a few minutes, she came back and started talking really fast.
"I know this seems weird, but I'm 35, right? And my two friends here are so lovely, but they're in their early twenties, and you might wonder why I'm not here with people my own age [not so much, no] but they're all MARRIED WITH BABIES, and I know it sounds desperate, but here's my card, and that's my mobile number, and if you ever want to, you know, hang out or whatever, I'm not a lesbian, I swear, I'm not gay, I'm not a psycho, I just want to be friends, you know?" I was a bit tipsy by this point, and I said,
"I hear you, and believe me, I've been there with the friends getting married and reproducing thing. But trust me, handing out your card to complete strangers in bars is not the way to forge lasting friendships. Can't you take up a hobby? Meet new people that way? Sing? Play the ukulele?"
"HA HA!" she said. "The ukulele!"
I glowered.
"Well, whatever floats your boat. Just... this [gesturing at the business card] isn't going to work."
She slunk off eventually and we didn't hear anything more from her 'til she started saying her earmuffs were the coolest thing ever to anyone who'd listen, and my competitive streak came out and I had to put mine on too, and she insisted that hers were cooler because they were stripy, which, if stripy earmuffs with matching mittens are your thing, then maybe she was on to something - but if you want an earmuff which will keep them toasty but not dominate an outfit too much, and you want to avoid looking like A PLAYSCHOOL PRESENTER, then I think a beige faux fur is the way to go. We both preferred our own. Nice when the world works out like that, isn't it.

I hope the young lady, Angelique I think she was called, is now sitting at work booking onto beginners' classes in two or three different disciplines, but I think she's probably feeling very hungover, refreshing her email every six seconds, and staring out at the miserable London greyness, wondering what people are getting up to 12,000 miles away.