Staged In Chelsea

I can't really comment on Made In Chelsea as I haven't seen it, but I'm not entirely sure I will ever see it, and if I don't watch it then I think it will be hard for me to review it with any authority (although by no means impossible given that, as a pop journalist, I managed to review several hundred films and albums without ever seeing them or listening to them. I also 'wrote' a lot of interviews without actually speaking to the celebrity in question, and put together countless horoscope and problem pages despite never having been an astrologer or an agony aunt. I don't even have any siblings and was unmarried, so any readers who checked up on my background could have established fairly quickly that the chances of me being an aunt were slim to none. I suppose I do have some experience of agony. But these are stories for another time).

ANYWAY. This is not a review of Made In Chelsea. It is more a series of concerns.

First of all: I do not understand this new genre of programming, which seems to have been spearheaded by, I believe, The Hills in the US, and is now sweeping our weak-willed nation in the form of The Only Way Is Essex and the aforementioned Made In Chelsea. I watched about ten minutes of TOWIE a few months ago, and just couldn't get a grip. Fiction, I get: ideally, some clever people sit around in a room and construct a narrative storyline with which to entertain or educate their audience. Then they turn the storyline into a tightly-woven script. Then actors learn the words and, with the help of a director, interpret them for our viewing pleasure. We are given an elaborately-constructed tale and we are free to enjoy it as we wish. Then there is reality TV. I get that too: at its best, some clever people come up with a format and then invite a selection of the general public to appear in front of the camera for us to watch. Programmes in this genre can entertain and inform (Big Brother, C4's The Family), challenge popular conceptions (Wife Swap), or just feed our obsession to see celebrities humiliate themselves while we use our button-pushing power to decide who has to eat maggots (I'm A Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here). Like it or not, reality TV has been an extraordinarily successful shift in the way we make and consume television, and it's here to stay.

But TOWIE and MIC aren't fiction. And they're not reality. They're exaggerated versions of real people, in staged situations. It's like a fictional series, but with untrained actors. And I just don't get it. In typical Six Degrees of Private Education fashion, several people in the choir with which I sing have firsthand connections with the poshoes in MIC. One of them has been asked by the production team to supply a list of handsome gay male model types, so that the show's Ollie (who somehow has a girlfriend but is clearly gay) can come out with one of them in a future show. From what I'm told, there is no way his 'girlfriend' seriously believes he's straight, nor that he loves her. It is all just an act. But there's the rub: these people can't act. Watching TOWIE was excruciating - not because of the people or the storylines, but because it was sub-Neighbours. The script was rubbish - because there wasn't one. The acting was rubbish - because they're not acting. But all the oh-my-god, I-can't-believe-he-really-said-that shocks that come from reality TV was missing too, because it's not really real. It seems like the worst of all worlds.

Still, people seem to love watching these over-wealthy twenty-somethings blowing their inheritance in south west London. My friend Lucy last night had tears of laughter in her eyes as she ramped up her posh accent and did an impression of Ollie talking to a group of his friends at a dinner party. "Guys, yah? As you all know, it's my BUTHday next week, yah? And I thought, why don't we all do something CRAZY, yah? Like, let's go skiing?" And I get that that is agonising. I get that these crazy rich young people are jaw-droppingly clueless, and that they live on another planet and that that's possibly funny. But the fake-real issue ruins it for me. Because if the setting is a set-up, then what they're saying's probably fake too, and thus we're laughing at people who are pretending to be bigger idiots than they actually are, because reality's not good enough, and no one would believe it if it was totally acted. Sounds lame to me. Might watch the next one though.

In other news, a glitsch (read: MASSIVE COCK-UP) by Blogger last week appears to have reset every single Show Me You Love Me box at the bottom of my blogs (except those I've posted post-glitsch) to a count of one. This disappoints me. And of course, I can tell you about it now, Faithful, and you might be able to let it slide, but what about all the millions of new visitors I will get in future, who perhaps won't read this particular paragraph, but go instead directly to entries I wrote pre-wipeout? They will think that only one person enjoyed what I wrote enough to depress their index finger on their left mouse button, thus clicking a checkbox and making me unbelievably happy. They will then, naturally, conclude that I am a CRAP WRITER. Which is so annoying. I HATE that a total stranger who I will probably never meet will think that about me. OUTRAGEOUS. HOW DARE S/HE. S/HE MUST LOVE ME.

The only solution I can find that will compensate for this lost data and subsequent negative fallout is for Blogger to give me one million pounds. Failing that, I think Blogger should put a disclaimer at the top of each of my affected posts, saying "At the bottom of this entry by Lost Looking For Fish, you will find a checkbox that allows readers to demonstrate that the words above had bought them some pleasure, or, at the very least, not caused them discomfort. Many hundreds of people had ticked the box. However, due to us being really really bad at our jobs in mid-May 2011, the data was lost, and, by the time you read this, it is likely that the count of people who have ticked the box appears to be a measley 'one'. We humbly inform you that this single box-tick is a technical error and is in no way an accurate reflection of the standard of Lost Looking For Fish. We are well aware that this incident will impact negatively on your reading experience: after all, no sane person wants to read an unpopular blog entry. For this, we apologise unreservedly. Please be assured that Lost Looking For Fish is one of the most entertaining and important blogs in the Blogger canon. We hope you enjoy the rest of your reading experience. Best wishes, the Blogger Support Team." That or a million pounds, Blogger - which is it to be?

Sentence structure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Windrise

About six weeks ago, something potentially amazing happened to me. It was potentially so amazing that it didn't bear thinking about, since the chances of it moving from an amazing potential occurrence to an amazing actual occurrence were smaller than a fat man's desire for wheatgrass. And, indeed, it did not come to pass. So it was lucky that I didn't get excited when the Halifax accidentally paid over £5000 into my account twice (instead of the once they should have), because I'd be sorely disappointed now that my bank just phoned me up and told me they were giving the money back. Despite my lack of disappointment or outrage, I do feel objectively a bit perturbed. Forty two days, it took Halifax to realise they'd made a mistake. Forty two days. I'd say any person or organisation who takes forty two days to notice they've lost five thousand pounds clearly doesn't deserve it in the first place. But anyway. That's that solved. My control freakery is such that I'm actually slightly happier knowing that I don't have the money than I was when I wasn't sure whether I did or not. Now that is mental and no mistake.

What's also slightly perversely good about today is that the one guy with whom I was halfheartedly ebantering has announced that he is going on a date next week. I am humbly assuming that the date is not with me, since he didn't contact me to agree a night, so once I got over the vague smack of disappointment that he asked someone else for a date but not me, I realised that this means that literally every single one of my possible flirtatious routes has now been blocked off, and I am, after a week of procrastinating, finally actually Doing This Thing. The catchily-monikered Operation Take A Break From Thinking About Men Or Relationships So That You Get Some Perspective And Hopefully Realise That You Are Not A Failure For Not Yet Having Found The Right Guy For You But Are Actually A Roaring Success At This Game Called Life And Don't Let Anybody Tell You Any Different has begun.

Dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating. Gah. Talk about elephant in the room. I wonder what else I'll think about now. Hmmmm. I literally feel like there is tumbleweed in my head. I suppose the idea is not to think about anything. Just enjoy the Now.

Dating dating dating. Stop. Tumbleweed. Whistling wind. Tumbleweed. Dating. Tumbleweed. Whistling wind.

God. Maybe I will have to go to the gym. This really does suck.

Going viral

The arc of Wednesday was, well, less an arc and more of a diagonal plummet from a chipper morning, through an uneventful mid-section, down to an absolutely disastrous evening.

The day started off well as I crossed the road outside my flat and recognised my local LibDem candidate handing out leaflets in front of the tube station. She smiled at me as she passed me her flyer, campaigning about the proposed 82-week sporadic disruption to the Northern Line (a series of works that could be done in three weeks if it was tackled all at once), and I was able to smile back and say "I've already voted for you." She looked happy and I felt extra bouncy as I ran down the escalator, late comme toujours.

The remainder of Wednesday day trundled along OK - my world was pretty unremarkable, but outside was dark and gloomy for others, as Greece, then Portugal, then Spain's ratings were all lowered by S&P and the trading floor was briefly in a panic. Guys here are saying that this is, in many ways, far worse for the international economy than the Lehman's collapse in 2008, surely something Brown can point to in order to claim that Britain is not suffering uniquely at present. But then, Brown might not have a chance to address that in tonight's final TV debate because so many people are obsessing over him muttering, under his breath, in private, in a car, that one of his supporters was a bigot. I'm obviously not pushing for a Labour win, but if this really is a decisive issue in people's voting decisions then people need to Get A Grip. As Alan Johnson pointed out on the BBC this morning, there isn't a single one of us who wouldn't regret stuff we'd said if we were permanently miked up and broadcast on Sky. Freaking Murdoch. No WAY it would have aired if it had happened to Cameron.

So at 5pm the arc curved a little upwards as I journeyed home, a post-gym spring in my step once again, excited about having seen (and not heard) my first ever Toyota Prius Hybrid whisper past me in action, and keenly anticipating a relaxing evening at my lovely flat and a bit of a treat: I'd organised for a beauty therapist to come around and give me a facial. I'd paid £10 more than I have paid in the past for facials, but in exchange for those extra thousand pennies, I would be able to clamber off the treatment table, sit directly on my sofa and not move for the rest of the evening. It was an experiment about which I was most excited, in a zen way. And so she arrived. Tiphane (pronounced - go on, guess. You'll never guess. It's Tiffany) was pretty, curvy, bubbly, short, and struggling under the weight of all her potions and the folding table. But she set up within minutes and I was soon lying on my front, relaxing under the pressure of her satisfyingly penetrative massage and looking forward to her smoothing various masks and creams into my face, which would leave me glossy, healthy and unequivocally stunning.

Then, having asked me to turn over, she said, "I'll just be one second, I have to take some aspirin." Mid-rotation, I froze.
"Why?" I asked, forcing myself to sound sympathetic. "Are you OK?"
"Oh, I'm fine," she said. "I'm just getting ill." My eyes darted around awkwardly as, half-naked, I tried to position myself on my back and look relaxed while simultaneously freaking out.
"What kind of ill?" My voice surely betrayed my panic.
"Oh, you know, headache, sore throat... nothing serious," she said, breezily, as she plopped a soluble painkiller into her glass of water - MY glass from MY kitchen - and gulped it down as though it contained urgent life or death remedies that she needed without hesitation. And with that, she began the facial.

I went into a flat spin. Facials are not something that can be done at arm's length. They are an intimate process, involving continuous and precise application of emollients, unguents and balms, as well as macro-distance squeezing of blocked pores etc. Should one open one's eyes during a facial, one would see one's therapist inches away. Were one's therapist to be in THE MOST CONTAGIOUS STAGE of illness, one would want to run away very fast indeed. Immediately, I assessed my options. Holding my breath for an hour was sadly impossible. There were only three remaining courses of action: 1) ask her to don a surgical mask; 2) ask her to leave; 3) be brave.

And, since I am only forthright in type and am a wuss when it comes to confronting hairdressers and their ilk with the truth, I chose option three. For the next hour, as Tiphane smoothed and applied, I was continually caressed by her virus-riddled breath, the waves of infection landing every few seconds on my cheeks and forehead, and, during one particularly painful moment, being blown directly up my nose. All the while, I could hear her swallowing painfully. I tried to time my inhalations to fit with the rare moments while she wasn't blowing directly at me, but such coordination was often not possible. It was an unmitigated nightmare. I couldn't have made myself more likely to catch her cold if I'd spent the hour french kissing her. Far from calming, it was perhaps the most stressful experience of 2010 as I lay, prostrate and painfully aware that I'd just paid somewhere in the region of a small fortune to get ill. I was livid. LIVID I tell you.

Today I have been monitoring my health levels closely and seem to have escaped thus far, but when, as is surely inevitable, I catch her disease, there will be trouble, I tell you. Even as I've been writing this, I've become aware of a slight tiredness and back aching situation building up, but it could just be a mid-afternoon slump. Assuming the illness does set in, I don't yet know quite how I will get my revenge, but it will be something involving the SARS virus and a letterbomb. Maybe.

In other news, if you're even considering voting LibDem, please read this. Thank you.

A list and some links

Ooh, the last 36 hours have been splendid in the most wonderfully mundane way. See here:

1. I had the day off work.
2. I got up just before noon.
3. My bedroom was warm, thanks to my new retro heater.
4. Davina went into the Big Brother house on Wednesday night and all the housemates were dressed up in animal costumes and god it was funny in quite a strange sinister way.
5. Also funny was this.
6. Then there was this which is also amazing.
7. Then I was opening my post and found a letter from the bank which said that the mean bankrupt skiing people had refunded almost all our money! Hooray!
8. Then the Tesco man came and brought me lots of lovely food.
9. He also brought me two bunches of daffodils (I'd ordered them, they weren't an impromptu gift although that would have been great) and now they are sitting in my flat in jam jars, about to pop and it's the best thing ever.
10. I had sardines in tomato on toast for lunch and it was freaking delicious.
11. I listened to lots of new (to me) music. If you are bored of waiting for the new Fleet Foxes album, just buy Person Pitch by Panda Bear. If you don't like Death Cab For Cutie's album on first listen, give it another go. It improves. Although not a huge amount.
12. I tidied my whole gorgeous flat from left to right and put things away and did laundry and bleached my shower curtain and wiped down the fronts of all my kitchen cabinets and hoovered and now it looks like a show home but in a kooky, unique and extremely comfortable way. Not like this (thanks Sara).
13. I watched some of the new series of American Idol and am now comforted that there is reality life after Big Brother finishes.
14. I marinated the lamb that I'm going to cook tomorrow night, and slow roasted some tomatoes and made some raita. Yum.
15. I realised that the amount of money that Grania and I were going to be spending on a skiing holiday was equivalent to the amount of money someone might spend travelling somewhere absolutely extraordinary and having a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, rather than getting drunk in Switzerland and pointing at over-confident Etonians. So maybe we will go somewhere extraordinary instead. We are discussing it over the weekend. More to follow.
16. For dinner I had an absolutely amazing Thai prawn curry and some very nice white wine. And a Nobbly Bobbly. Yes. You heard me. A Nobbly Bobbly. It is an ice lolly.

And now I have been to the gym and done rowing and other cardio, and am off to enjoy my weekend, kicking off with a trip to the BFI for another Ozu masterpiece. But before I do... I am aware that two of my most loyal Faithful have had very sad news this week and my thoughts are with both of you. The death of a parent is something that I am so lucky not to have had to deal with - yet. But the funeral I attended recently showed me that, no matter what wonderful terms you are on with the deceased, no matter how expected it was, no matter much pain they were in nor how much of a blessing in disguise it may be that a long illness is over, the loss of someone dear to you is agonising. The thought of never hearing my dad crack another joke, or not receiving another email from my mum telling me she loves me a propos of nothing, oh, it makes me feel physically sick. I am grateful for every moment and my attempts at levity above are not to suggest that there is nothing more important going on in the world, but merely to highlight my belief that taking this crazy little thing called life too seriously is a terminal disease in itself. Kisses to you all, my pretties. Tell your loved ones you love them. And then look at some daffodils.

Haiti, Leona and self-absorption. Just another day on LLFF.

A couple of weeks ago, when Islamists were protesting in the town of Wootton Bassett, Newsarse, the brilliant satirical UK news website, posted a headline saying that all over the country, left-wing Guardian readers' heads were exploding because they couldn't find the correct stance on the matter - the conflict between a true commitment to freedom of speech, a desire not to write off all Muslims as violent wannabe bombers and a simultaneous and firm dislike of terrorism put us into a state of mental overdrive, whereupon we blew up. I'm going through a similar situation with cruise liners in Haiti. What's happened over there is utterly devastating, the piles of corpses stacking up outside the morgues is heartbreaking and the thought of such a turbulent country being kicked so conclusively in the nuts when it's already so weak is just mind-shattering. And now we read that hundreds of tourists are being shipped in to a port sixty miles away, where they are free to sunbathe, jetski and relax. The Guardian article points out that the boats and their passengers bring valuable money to the port in this time of urgent need, and one of the commentators rightly says that if there was a huge disaster in London, we wouldn't want tourists to stop going to Brighton. But there is something undeniably gross about holidaying so close to human agony. I know, I know, it's a pointless question of geography - would we give someone a hard time about going ahead with a planned holiday in Marbella while the earthquake is being cleaned up in Haiti? Probably not. So what does it matter if they happen to have booked near the site of a recent natural disaster? But, like sitting down next to a homeless person and tucking in to a Big Mac, it seems more than a little insensitive. The cruise ships justify it by giving 100% of their profits to the rescue efforts. How about giving the profits anyway but diverting the cruise somewhere else? I dunno. I'm only a born again liberal. I don't have the answers. I just feel a bit sick. I gave £100 to the relief effort this morning and my company, in a rare it's-good-to-work-for-a-City-bank moment, will double all its employees' donations. I'm not sure if any of it will get to where it's needed, but I can do nothing else. Please visit Unicef and donate, if you haven't already. I wouldn't normally mention the amount but I thought it might add gravitas. Yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck we're so lucky.

In other news, it appears that Leona Lewis forgot to remind her skivvies to iron her dress before the Golden Globes. Oops. Sure, there's the crushed silk look, I know about that, but what she's wearing isn't it. She looks like she did my usual trick of pulling the garment out of the washing machine, brushing it down firmly while it was still damp and hoping for the best. Instead, the thigh-height creases just draw attention to... the wrong places. Obviously if the girl had even a spectre of a personality I might be more forgiving, but as it is, I feel like I'm poking fun at a waxwork, which is not only fine but to be encouraged.

And finally, I am thrilled to confirm that the anti-biotic stint is working its way to a close. I'm off out tonight with Simon and I'm so excited about my first glass of cold white wine that I could weep. Given that we're seeing The Road first, I'll probably already be inconsolable, either with disappointment that it's not a patch on the book, or with genuine grief, the tears might be less hilarious hyperbole and more actually embarrassing. You'll read it here first.

Tuesday melange

After a busy weekend, I woke up startlingly early on Monday morning. I tentatively opened one eye and was thrilled that my digital clock read 06:50 - another hour of snoozing before I needed to sit upright. A short doze later, I reawoke feeling strangely refreshed and knew something was amiss. I opened my eyes, and saw that my clock now read 08:29. My alarm had decided that it was going to sleep in, and didn't go off. And I don't know how I did it, but I made it into the office by 09:03, 34 minutes from bed to desk, unshowered and with bed remaining unmade, but teeth brushed, clothes donned, make-up applied, hair tidied and choir folder remembered. I briefly felt like a B-grade superhero.

Friday night I went to see L'Elisir d'amore at Covent Garden with Arabee. I'd never seen a comic opera before, and I really enjoyed it from our £8 standing tickets. I don't know if it was due to the opera being less well-known or the credit crunch, but there were large swathes of empty red velvet in the stalls and lower circles, and the boxes were almost all empty. All the cheap seats were rammed, however, so I think it says more about the financial climate than the popularity of Donizetti. We had a good ol' natter in the interval and over wine in a pub beforehand, and all in all it was a delicious evening. Saturday was down to Tooting with Em for bargain threading (Feroza is ditched) and then dinner with Kate at the delicious and very funky Village East in Bermondsey - will definitely be returning - and finally on to Shunt. It pains me to admit it, and apologies to anyone to whom I've lied and said I've been there loads, but this is the first time I've gone to this self-consciously cool underground lair beneath London Bridge train station. I've intended to visit for years, but this was the first time that good intentions and willing third parties combined simultaneously, and Kate and I set off for the gloom of the arches with excitement. It was every bit as random and cool as I'd hoped, although the clientele was definitely in their mid-twenties, on average, and it was a little unexpected to find that the guys we'd been chatting to were still at university and aged 23. I don't know if they were unusually mature, or if the loud music meant I couldn't hear how idiotic they really were. Still, it was a brilliant night, involving white wine, fancy dress, throwing plastic balls at the head of ska band guitarists and pretending to be usherettes in a screenless cinema.

Since then I've spent time with two members of my extended US relations, had a day at work, gone to the gym, bought some scales in Boots, gone to choir, been reluctantly gobsmacked by Tim's impromptu magic display at the pub afterwards, woken up on time this morning, weighed myself, and enjoyed another half day at work. The scales and the weighing are on account of my decision, post last Friday, to try Weight Watchers for a few weeks. And the past 36 hours since I began, under Laura's beady eye, to count calories and calculate point allowances, have been shocking. My quantities weren't too bad, I knew that - but it appears that my main dietary treats, including smoked mackerel, halloumi and Pret's yoghurt with berries and granola, healthy though they sometimes are, are also so high in points that it is a miracle I haven't been recruited by Sumo UK for their summer extravaganza. One medium mackerel fillet, a staple part of my lunchtime diet, counts as 10 points, the same as a Big Mac. I am allowed 21 points in an entire day. A 40g block of halloumi, the size of a small matchbox, is 3.5 points, which sounds OK, until you realise that the average halloumi salad probably contains around 150-200g of grilled cheese. Oh. That may explain why I haven't lost quite so much weight as I expected in the past six weeks since I went on my pre-holiday diet.

Don't get me wrong. I am not crying into my Ryvita, feeling like a social outcast. I am generally a happy lass, and I do believe that I'm attractive and healthy as I am. But there's no denying that I'd like to shift a wee bit of weight before I have to prance about in my bikini in just under three weeks - so this seems like a fun thing to do between now and then. Call me odd, but so far, I'm enjoying it.

I went on this website last week to try and firm up my allegiances in advance of the European elections in June. On many issues I was confident that I had a fair bit of information in my filing cabinets, and I felt confident that I was clicking the right buttons. But on a few topics, namely EU integration and immigration, I felt pathetically ill-informed. I know what my gut tells me about these topics, but if there's anything my three weeks of politics course have taught me, it's that your instinct is all well and good, but if you aren't able to see or explain how these proposals can be practically implemented, then you're just a fantasist, which is nice for you and fun escapism, but really doesn't help the situation much. I'm now waiting for this book to arrive from Amazon; I saw the author speak a year or two ago and he was impressive and really quite fanciable. For some insane reason, due in part to the fact that I was feeling a bit needy having had a sweetly romantic but unsaucy dream about some total stranger on Sunday night, I ended up stalking him online yesterday and sent him an email asking him out for a drink. This morning, I received his reply saying that he was in New Zealand, which, as far as excuses go, is pretty solid. I almost imploded with cringe, deleted the email and have resolved to think no more on't.

He Is Risen

Allegedly.

Fact or fiction, I still celebrated Jesus' death and resurrection with gusto and managed not to spend too much time moping about lack of minibreak to Prague / walking in Lake District / similar boast-worthy activity. I went to see Charlie on Thursday evening, where we were joined by Tracey and celebrated the latter's birthday with a lot of wine. I giggled until I was nearly sick, especially when the Conversation Starter coasters that Charlie had supplied asked us which celeb we would most want to date, and I couldn't think of anyone, so then we expanded it to 'Celeb, living or dead', and I said Paul Newman circa Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, and Trace said Jim Morrisson, and Charlie said Tom Selleck in Three Men And A Little Lady.

Then I had a very rude dream about Alistair Campbell which was mighty confusing, especially because I was playing hard to get and it appeared to be working. God he loved me. It was very fun. Friday was lovely - we went and had lunch by the sea and pretended it was warmer than it was. Then I had a delicious dinner with Nick on Friday eve, another delicious (if I do say so myself) dinner with Kate on Saturday, a delicious lunch with my parents on Sunday and a good ol' self-obsessed natter with Ses yesterday as we walked along Regent's Canal and had a nice crisp bottle of white in a pub in Primrose Hill. Can't complain, really. Although obviously I can. But I won't.

My joy for today is that I finally plucked up the courage to speak to the Halifax about my impending mortgage renegotiation, and it turns out that a) the amount won't leap nearly as much as I was fearing and b) I don't have to renegotiate again for another 4-5 years after this, so things should settle down. Feel a lot less stressed now. Meanwhile I have bored my Faithful to tears. Let me think of something I can tell you to cheer you up. Ummm. After ten days of dieting, I can already pull my work trousers down over my hips without undoing the button. Now THAT is satisfying. But possibly not interesting. Hmmm ......quite a lot of time passes..... Seriously, I've been sitting here with this window open for 20 mins trying to think of something to type and I can't. I'm afraid I am spent. More when it happens (to me). You'll read it here first.

Lost looking for meaning

I think it's probably completely normal to be a bit up and down. In fact, I know it is. But things do feel rather out of control at the moment. Which is zero fun. What was particularly perturbing was seeing several photos of me, taken at close range by a girl sitting directly on my left at a party last Friday night, where I appear to have no discernable jawline. My face is straight from my cheek to my neck, giving me the appearance of a few standard facial features (eyes, nose, mouth etc.) stuck on one massive jowl. A pasty Ms Potatohead, if you will. Then again, things could be worse: at least I don't have to worry about the economy. I was reading a gripping article this morning about the massive figures that are being bandied around, and found out that while a million seconds is the equivalent of 11.5 days, a trillion seconds would take us back 31,709 years to the time of the hunter-gatherers. I had no idea. I mean, why would I? But still. Puts things in perspective a bit.

Talking of ridiculous figures, I was struck by this application form for the East India Club on St. James' Square, which instructs the candidate to agree that, should the Club close while he is a member, he will "contribute to the assets of the Company... a sum not exceeding 12 and a half pence." Quite extraordinary. Rest assured that, even if the club would accept women as members, I am not currently considering applying. Should this change I will alert you.

What else can I tell you? My lip is still numb but sometimes it tingles. I am taking this as a good sign. My chin is still dead to me. Weep. I love my new hairbrush. St Tropez everyday bronzing moisturiser might be quite good. If the woman who sits near my office door cackles like that again I will throw my stapler at her head. The previous sentence constitutes an official written warning and any violent acts I carry out on her from this point on should be considered legally justified. I turned my heating off prematurely last week: it's back on now. The book club book is brilliant and exceptionally humbling. I would have lain down and died on day one. I'm now on the second section, which concerns logotherapy, and have been underlining frantically on the tube. I have discovered that I live firmly within an existentialist vacuum. Which is not good. Not sure how to clamber out. Does one climb out of a vacuum? Or merely pass through? God I'm tired. Hopefully I'll turn a couple more pages and nice Dr. Frankl will reveal my personalised way to meaning, although I don't think that's quite how it works. Sigh. I'm off to the gym shortly. I ran on Monday to the new Prodigy album and I think that the feisty BPM must have made me up my pace as I cut about four minutes off my normal time. Songs aren't much cop in the most part, sadly. I tell you who is good, though, and that's Pete(r) Doherty - his new solo album is great. And I heard the most heartbreaking song from Paul Weller's new album when I was in a shop in Spitalfields yesterday. Must remember to try and find that on iTunes.

Right, that's enough rambling for one Wednesday. I'm off to see babies this evening so must conserve my energy. Laters.

City boys gasp

There I was, just wondering how to entertain myself for the next few minutes before lunch, when there was one of those occasional 'WOAH!' noises from the trading floor outside my office. Turns out the Bank of England has just cut interest rates by a whopping 1.5%, down from 4.5% to 3%. Everyone was trying to work out whether they were going to go for 0.5% or 1%, and they simply did not see the 1.5% option coming. I know it affects me brilliantly, in that my monthly mortgage repayments will come down again - but other than that, I doubt it'll have much impact on my life. The boys outside, however, are being about as high fivey as English men get (ie. the occasional wry chuckle). Certainly got the adrenaline going.

In other news: not much. I'm still digesting the Obama election. I tutored last night after work for a bit of extra cash, which is much-needed as my Amex bill seems to be multiplying like a deadly virus. Tonight's activities are staying under the radar for now.... will report back at an unspecified future time. Watch this space. Well - check back in 24 hours. Realistically there's unlikely to be any update before then.

Hasta La Vista

Those who know me in Real Life may be aware of my boss. He is Swiss German and I absolutely adore him in a way that is completely and utterly platonic. We both have varying levels of OCD and I find working for him about as pleasant as I could expect working for any human to be. Far and away my favourite thing about him is his accent, which is identical to Arnold Schwarzenegger's in both tone and vocabulary. Like Arnie, my boss seems to prefer to use as few words as possible when communicating with others. To this end, we have developed a series of acronyms to help us label the people who come to visit him - he was calling everyone a 'pain in the ass'; eventually this became shortened to PITA and, inevitably, super PITAs became SPITAs. A personal highlight was when he walked into my office after a meeting, handed me a pile of papers and said only, 'Shred.' It was like The Terminator meets David Brent.

But today was an absolute gem. I went into his office to ask him something, and he was emailing. There was an open jar of macadamia nuts on his desk.
'Can I have one of these, please?' I asked. He didn't respond. 'I'll take that as a yes then,' I said, taking a nut and popping it in my mouth. A few seconds later, he pressed send on his email and his attention refocused.
'What was that you asked me?' he said.
'Whether I could have a nut,' I said. And in classic Arnie voice, he drawled,
'You have already taken one. Obsolete question. Inefficient use of resources.'
Honestly, it's moments like those that make me want to work for him forever.

I had to do an internal online training course about money laundering today. Like you, I wouldn't have expected that to be filled with interesting anecdotes, but I read that money laundering is so prevalent that, if it were an economy, it would be the tenth biggest in the world. Makes you think, innit.

Sad news from me is that I know someone who is genuinely lost looking for fish: my cat, Dennis. Well, he's my parents' cat really - and he ran away this afternoon when my Dad was picking him up from the cattery. We don't know where he is, he's in a strange area and it's all very scary. Fingers crossed, his greedy stomach will drive him to make contact with some humans very soon.

Once in a lifetime

If all these financial pundits are right, today will be talked about in banking circles long after we've all hit the permanent hay. Of course, it's not my area of expertise, but Lehmans going bust was apparently not on the agenda - after the US Federal Reserve bailed out Bear Stearns earlier this year, no one thought they'd let something as big as Lehmans go under. But under it's gone - and the predicted fallout was so big that my boss got in to work at 4am today and couldn't work out how to turn on the lights on our floor. We're illuminated now, though, so I'm guessing he solved the problem.

So it's all go at work for the big guns, with a Wall Street panic bigger than anything anyone's seen in a fair while. For me, it's business as usual; not much I can do about it, other than offer everyone lots of cups of tea and try to make myself useful. Of course, if I was allowed some input, I'd tell everyone to go home and have a nice long sleep. Then when we came back, I'd give a series of lectures about why money is the root of all evil, and cap the maximum earnings of everyone at £200,000 - which I think is about the most anyone could possibly need. I'd give the rest to the government to invest in hospitals and teachers' salaries. Who's with me?

Jane likes...

This morning, my boss and his right hand man were laughing about a colleague of theirs who is apparently notoriously 'tight'. Here we go, I thought - a man who buys his Armani suits off the peg, perhaps? Or only flies his family business class rather than first on holiday? I love a good deal almost too much and do not take kindly to other bargain-hunters being criticised. No, they said - he really does pinch the pennies, especially given his high management consultant salary. Apparently, they laughed, he's getting married in a couple of months and he's making his girlfriend buy a second hand dress because 'You only wear it once.' I struggled to join in as I can kind of understand the thinking there... But his choice of wedding ring provider was something else. H. Samuel? Argos? Nope...

Lufthanza.

Yes, he's getting them on board a flight. Using air miles. Accrued on his work trips. Now that is tight.

On another note, following the list of 100 Things I Love, I did that thing where you type the words 'Jane likes' into Google and see what comes up. It's funny. Look:

Jane likes to sleep with an open bedroom window, even if Sadey likes to play with her black and white squeaky ball. (False re. window. I can't comment for Sadey)
Jane likes to shop at yard sales and flea markets. (True)
Jane enjoys taking rides in the community and occasionally going to the senior center. (Currently false but not out of the question)
Jane likes to be able to teach her language and her culture. Now Jane can go anywhere and she feels comfortable. (Partially true)
Jane likes to cover things from all possible angles to get to the root of why you are experiencing a particular problem or set of symptoms. (Definitely true)
For fun Jane likes to take in Star Trek: TNG reruns, travel to exotic places - like Iceland (or at least daydream about it!), and if a Monster truck show is in town - Jane is there! (I'm fine with Star Trek up to a point, travel is a must. And my love of Monster truck shows is, of course, legendary)
Jane likes to say “life began at the grocery store!” (Daily)
Jane likes to get wrecked every now and then, as long as it doesn't interfere with her studies. (False. Who cares about studies?)
Jane likes to sew and loves to paint fantasy art. (Fantasy art! Brilliant)
Jane likes to help people. She is in a job where she anticipates her boss’s every wish, and she has 27 bridesmaid dresses in her closet. (If the dresses part were true, I'd kill myself)
Jane likes to be admired and she has a tendency to force admiration by fishing for compliments. (Fact)
Jane likes to play peekaboo with her older brother. (Aw. I'd love this to have been true)
Jane likes to know what she’s looking at, and it was her personal frustration with the inadequacies of guide books and tour guides that led her to start a company to produce audio art guides for travelers. (Plausible, but false)
Jane likes to put her hands in her pockets because it keeps them warm. (Yup)
Jane likes to hire family and friends. (Not sure what this means but I'd consider it)
Jane likes to walk in her neighborhood and enjoys going to the convenience store to buy pop. (Rarely. Mr Tesco brings me my Diet Cokes)
Jane likes to say, “Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.” (It's true! I have literally said this several times!)
Jane likes to play ragtime piano duets and entertain with jokes in home and church activities. (Hee hee! If I was religious, this would almost certainly be me)
Jane likes to work with stones in their natural state, and therefore will often base her designs around the unique shape, texture and colour of the stones. (Hmmm. Not so much)
Jane likes to remind you that she has lived through three wars and that if her white folks had not been good to her she would not be living today. (Awesome)

Crunch time

Far be it from me to be smug, but I must admit that the credit crunch has, thus far, been nothing but a delight for me. To start with, I managed to buy my flat at a time when, sure, prices were high - but I was able to get 5.5 times my salary as a mortgage loan. Had I left it a couple of months, I'd have been lucky to get 3.5 times my salary with a 10% downpayment and I would have been looking at studio flats with a splendid view of the A1. So, as far as timing is concerned, given that I couldn't have bought ten years ago when my flat was probably worth the same as a bottle of Panda Cola, I think I was pretty fortunate.

And now, today, I discover that those clever bank people have cut interest rates for the second time this year, meaning the monthly repayments on my not-remotely-fixed-rate mortgage (another stroke of serendipity) have been reduced by over 10% since I took it out. Not too shabby.

Of course, while the credit crisis has definitely made my life easier in one respect, I can't claim to be remotely relaxed about the situation - I think it's safe to say that now is not the ideal time to be employed in the City and there's a large part of me (approximately the size of my lower half) that worries that I will be made redundant in a matter of days, forced to sell my flatlet and forcibly removed into a hostel for other crunch victims. We'll huddle round the gas fire wearing fingerless gloves and deerstalker hats, tell stories about our shameful descent down the property ladder, reminisce about the good old days when we shopped in Ikea and B&Q, and try not to feel too humiliated by the 'Victim of Negative Equity' tattoos that have appeared overnight on our faces and financial records.

Still, who knows what's going to happen? For now, the flat's great, I'm loving almost all of it and I'll just cross my fingers that I get to stay for a little while longer. The plusses, FYI, are my carpet, my bathroom lights, my TV on demand, my commute and my Venetian blinds. The minuses are the unpleasantly scented drains that need fixing, the extent of the woodwork that I am yet to repaint, the cost of my Tesco's habit and my lack of chest of drawers, given that I have already filled both the fitted cupboards in my room and half filled the one in the spare room with my possessions. As discussed yesterday, a flatmate seems likely but it appears that I'll need to find one with no clothes. An ad for a nudist might attract the wrong kind of person though... I'll need to think this one through.

The calm after the storm

And just like that, I'm back.

I can't explain the reason behind this recent protracted absence. All I know is that one day, I was happily writing away at work, going to the gym and living a fairly standard existence. Then suddenly, I moved house, fell crazy in love, stopped exercising, started to overflow my waistbands, started falling asleep at my desk, started spending my lunchbreaks shopping for broom handles, electrical screws and light bulbs and simultaneously lost the ability to do anything in the evenings except potter about in my new abode sporting loungewear and slippers, rearranging small objects around on my shelves and smearing my kitchen counters with Danish wood oil.

The last few weeks have been a bit of a blur, but this morning I went for a run in the beautiful, crisp sunshine, past St Paul's Cathedral, over the Millennium Bridge and back through the City and I felt springy as a gambolling lamb on crack. The pterodactyl wings need work and the combination of housewarming dinners and evenings out with a new boyf haven't been fantastic for my thigh girth, but I am filled with a sense that the dust is settling after a vigorous shake up and that, gradually, routine and normalcy might slink back in through the side door. Which, as a committed organiser / control freak, is something of a blessed relief.

The only slight blight on my otherwise calm horizon is my Amex bill, which looms ominously overhead like a meteor the size of the former USSR. It would all have been OK if I hadn't been absolutely, unarguably extravagant on Monday when I bought a heinously expensive bookshelf. Still, I think it may be the coolest thing I've ever seen and as soon as it arrives and I've erected it, I'll post a picture for your collective verdict. I'm not quite sure how I will pay off the debt but hey, it's not due for another six weeks and who knows what happy accident of financial joy may have occurred in the meantime? Admittedly, winning the lottery is unlikely given my distinct lack of lottery tickets but I am hoping for a council tax rebate and will be selling a few things on eBay in desperation so those combined incidents may between them raise several pence. From there I'll only need to generate another several hundred pounds or so... I feel an advertisement for a flatmate coming on...

Asparagus tips

Now, you know me - I'm not cruel. Well, not really. OK, I am. Sometimes. But never intentionally. However, just this once, I am going to say something that I am aware may be hurtful - yet I strongly believe that this information could be valuable for the greater good and thus its sharing is justified. It's nothing truly awful, just two small tips for any men out there who are trying to impress their ladyfriends. I am sure these pearls will be obvious to most readers but on the offchance that they strike you as novel, here they are:

First - brush your teeth. If there is a nationwide shortage of toothbrushes (and this is the only acceptable excuse), then chew some gum. Do not, I repeat, do not turn up with lunch breath. Just thinking about it makes me want to hurl.

Second - use your cutlery. I'm absolutely not implying that we need the same levels of etiquette expected at Buckingham Palace but eating an asparagus spear by stabbing it in the middle with your fork, lifting it vertically to your mouth and using your lips to bend it into two halves is unacceptable. Especially if the two halves still turn out to be far too long and you have to put down your fork and manually force the dangling section into the dark recesses of your putrid oral cavity.

That's it for now. On their own probably not deal-breakers, but in tandem a hard act to want to revisit.

None of this has anything at all to do with last night, of course. These pieces of advice are totally random, a propos of absolutely nothing, rien, nada and it's entirely coincidental that I went out to dinner at Latium, where they served the pork belly with asparagus. Honest guv'nor.

I have just seen online that the Archbishop of Canterbury says that the introduction of sharia law for British Muslims is inevitable. It's not often that my jaw actually drops, but it just did. Fortunately, along with my jaw, interest rates have also dropped so my mortgage payments will be about 30p cheaper each month. Increased religious segregation in Britain is apparently unavoidable but I can still afford to live here. High five!

I'm not complaining, but...

I know I'm lucky. Less than a year after I started my job, I'm a home-owner. But this limbo period is driving me slightly nuts. I've owned the flat since 27 December; six weeks later, I'm yet to spend a single night there. The builder is starting on Friday and will take three further weeks - but even then it's not over as I'll still have more painting, carpet laying and physical moving to do. In the meantime, I'm absolutely shattered as my sleep quality has plummeted to the point where all I seem to do is doze lightly for six hours while having bizarre and disturbing dreams, which hardly seems worth the effort. The last holiday I went on was in May and we had something like four sunny days out of fourteen. I had a trip to Lanzarote booked in September but that didn't materialise. And now, thanks to the 'luxury' of home-ownership, I will now never be able to afford a holiday again. OK, I am complaining. Just pigeonhole me next to those people who preface every single remark they make with 'I'm not being funny, but...' and then continue to say something that is so mundane that all living organisms for miles around pass out through passive boredom.

Don't get me wrong, there is much to celebrate in my existence. Ooh blimey, the trading floor is getting shouty, what's going on? [Cranes neck] None the wiser. Will check the Guardian online. Nope, still nothing on the news sites. [Minutes later, Twix in hand] OK, I just asked Joe who kindly explained that some monthly Industry/Manufacturing number has just been released in the States and it's massively massively lower than predicted. All the graphs on his screens looked like cliff edges. Clearly the US is in an even bigger financial mess than expected. Will this impact on Super Tuesday? Or my mortgage repayments? Apparently this number came out an hour earlier than expected because it was going to be leaked - so you're getting this hot off the press. Maybe I'll be made redundant and then I can sneak in a quick holiday before I have to face up to penury.

It’s all about the money… for now

It was inevitable that some infectious commuter would spread some disgusting virus to me before long, with my immune system weakened by years of working from home and only rare interactions with the populace at large. The fact that my contraction of a sore throat and impending cold has been combined with the first Monday of my first full week in full-time employment seems a little harsh, however. It is mid-afternoon and I am flagging with the committed skills of a semaphore addict.

Office work is just as I remembered it, only now with less celebrities and more need for accuracy. I am still finding it hard to believe that this is my new life – not merely a brief jaunt into a strange netherworld – and that I will be here, doing this or something pretty similar, for the next few months, perhaps even for years. I’ve long longed for increased financial stability but now it’s been handed to me, the restrictive sensation of a predictable future is looming large. However, payday is in a week and a half and it is possible that my ability to cope with any monotony could increase slightly as a consequence.

Salary Inequalities Spark Anti-Capitalist Moan

In much the way I was bursting to be serious and political after my night at the ICA cinema last week, I am similarly driven to write about grown-up topics today. A friend emailed me yesterday having read my salary complaints in my last blog entry, and reminded me that a salary of £24K for four days' work a week is not to be sniffed at. She is a botanist, went to university for five years, applied for a job which required a Master's or PhD to do it, has been in the job for nearly three years and is still, staggeringly, making less than £20K a year.

She is very philosophical about it, saying that she knew from an early age that if she wanted to be a botanist, she would never be wealthy, would always have to chase jobs and be willing to move countries as opportunities are unbelievably scarce. It is absolutely her choice and I don't feel personally guilty, but it does make me slightly sick that I am considering jobs that have salaries nearly double hers. All the roles I'm looking at require is a few brain cells, a nail file and an Oyster card, whereas what she does between nine and five requires a great deal of specialised knowledge and ultimately contributes to our greater understanding of the planet. As an end result that's slightly more beneficial than the consequences of the PA jobs I'm going for, which ultimately contribute little to humanity other than our understanding of PowerPoint shortcut keys and the BA online check-in facility.

Fundamentally, botany is still uncool - and unless my friend wants to turn into a celebrity botanist or team up with Carol Vorderman to write a trendy book about herbs, she's always going to be stuck in dusty academia, largely unrecognised, expected to feel grateful for the fact she's employed at all and certainly only scraping a living. Unless a job or industry is either fashionable or of obvious and immediate value for the majority, it won't be rewarded financially. And to that, I say: Pah.