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.

Breaking news: I am mental

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grass: getting greener

I don't read many other blogs. Most of the blogs I stumble across seem to be written by attractive, articulate, funny single women in their thirties, and I don't need to be reminded quite how average and unremarkable I am. Occasionally I find blogs written by miserable, articulate, single men in their thirties: these are slightly better because they make me feel like, however bad things get, at least I'm not them. Miserable single men seem to have a really tough time of it as they can't seem to shake off their negative self-image. Not that it's a breeze for us lasses - we just seem to find it easier to admit we need help. If it were up to me, I'd round up every thirty year old in the UK and book them in to a compulsory twelve month stint of psychodynamic therapy.

My session last night wasn't the easiest, but it was certainly enlightening. As a paragraph-length recap of approximately twenty hours of counselling, this whole thing started because I was miserable. I was miserable because I'd felt left out of my parents' relationship, and by hanging out with unattainables and doggedly offering my worship to anyone who'd look in my direction only to find them boring and unworthy when they reciprocated, I just repeated and reconfirmed this hunch over and over again for 33 years. Somehow I needed to find some inner strength, a feeling that I am good enough, that I don't need to replicate my parents' happiness to be a success, that my life's goal is my own and my own alone.

Thus began my search for inner peace. I reasoned that, if I found inner peace, I'd feel happy with the status quo and stop constantly feeling like I am not good enough and that I need a partner in my life to validate my existence. And, after months of therapy and meditation, it seemed to be working: around the beginning of this year, I suddenly realised that, somewhere along the line, I'd stopped feeling like a failure. The Greek chorus who'd stood at my side my entire life and criticised my every move had shut up, at last. I stopped feeling so ugly, I stopped feeling so undesirable, I stopped feeling like I had to prove myself every minute of every day.

Initially I was elated, but in the past fortnight, I've noticed that my old ways have started to creep back - I have been spending a lot of time thinking about the future, planning holidays and trips, forgetting about my life, the present, which is just slipping by unnoticed. I've meticulously planned lots of events (a busy girl = a successful girl), and had a few conversations about Grania's new love that left me feeling like she preferred him to me, as though her love was finite, that he'd taken my share, that we were in a competition and I'd lost. Turned out I wasn't so happy with the status quo after all.

Yesterday I said I felt like I was at a Y junction. One fork was a path where I choose inner peace, and I relinquish all need for anything. I become totally zen. But I was worried that that option sucks: if you don't crave anything, you never get the rush of getting what you've always craved. So you're kind of placidly happy, which is fine, but I looked at Grania and her Cloud Nine Hundred And Ninety Nine and I think, if I go totally zen, I'll never have that. Which seemed sad. The other fork is where I don't have inner peace, but still have needs and desires that get met and/or thwarted, and along the way there's a lot of pain and occasional pleasure. That's where I was before and it hurt a lot. In short, both paths suck.

But, said my therapist, you're still talking like there are paths. Trodden paths. And I said, oh. You're right. OK, there are no paths. But I'm still walking purposefully in one direction. And she said Mmmm. And I said, shit, I should be meandering, shouldn't I? She said nothing. I shouldn't really be going anywhere much, I said.

About this inner peace, she said. That was what you were trying to aim for? Yes, I said. And that means acceptance, right? Right, I said - accepting and loving myself, warts and all. [NB I don't have warts]. Doesn't that mean, she said, that you have to be at peace with every part of you? Yes, I said. Even, she asked, the parts that need a relationship? And I said, oh. I thought it was going to be a transaction. I thought I'd get inner peace and then I'd be complete and I would no longer need a relationship. I don't know if it's that simple, she said. I suppose, I said, the crucial difference is that one is at peace with oneself, and perhaps a relationship comes along that makes one a bit happier, rather than that one is unhappy, and searches for a relationship to solve their problems. She nodded. OK, I said. I think I can get my head round that.

And so the Y junction became overgrown with long grass.

At the moment, I am in the weird position of knowing that I'd love to meet someone who would join me in the meadow, but if you said 'I've got the ideal man for you, just click your fingers and you'll be madly in love' I'd be too terrified to do it. What's that about? Why would I not want the thing that I really want? Well, because I've been hurt. Badly. And I don't much fancy that happening again. One day I'll dip a toe. But right now it's fun working on this inner peace malarkey and spending time in the meadow on my tod. The flowers are lovely. It's like the Alpujarras.

Plus I don't know when I'd have time for this fictional boyfriend, anyway. Last night was our first uke band practice. My new bandmates seem extremely friendly and a talented lot, and it's hard to imagine that we will all want to bite out each others' jugulars in a few short weeks, although I know that's inevitable. We whittled our first songlist down to ten possibles - now I have a fortnight to learn how to play them. Terrified but excited: terrified about memorising songs, excited about getting dressed up in retro outfits and performing on stage. I'd love to do a lot more lying around but it just doesn't seem to be possible.

Men and voters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Lukewarm turkey

I was going to write about my weekend, a harmless discussion of the great performance piece I saw at the National on Friday evening, Domini Public, where we all wore cordless headphones and had to stand in different places or make certain gestures depending on whether we were born in London, or had ever photographed ourselves naked, or earned over £20k, or had children, or had followed a stranger down the street, or believed that hierarchies were necessary to 'get things done'. It was interesting enough watching people move around the square, seeing who answered what to which question. And then there was the twist, which was unpleasant and fascinating, and ended up in me (amongst others) being mock-shot by my friend, Tracey, in front of a hundred strangers. It was a great hour, excellent value for £10, and I'd encourage you to go if the run hadn't already ended.

I was also going to tell you all that, if you are remotely interested in the National Theatre, you should definitely pay £7 at some point and go on one of their backstage tours. After years of good intentions, I took one on Friday before Domini Public and it was a rewarding way to spend an hour and a quarter, filled with gems about current and past productions, giving a good insight into the stage management side of things and the props department. Notes I took included the following:

• The National Theatre site is the size of Trafalgar Square, just over two acres
• There are 850 full time employees
• The biggest theatre, the Olivier, has 1160 seats, and more lights than seats
• The stage and seating in the Olivier is based around a traditional Greek amphitheatre, but whereas the latter normally has 180 degree seating around the stage, the Olivier has 118 degrees of seating, which is apparently the extent of male peripheral vision. Women have slightly more. Either way, it means that when you're standing on centre stage, you can see every seat in the house without turning your head. We tried it. It's quite amazing.

And then I also had stuff to say about the next leg of our Capital Ring walk that Kate and I took yesterday, from Wimbledon Park to Richmond, through some gorgeous parkland via deer and the A3. Our next segment takes us under the M4 and I'm weirdly very excited about that. Will be sad when it's all over.

But really what I think will be most of interest is not any of the wonderful, worthwhile activities I've been up to, but the topic that has really been on my mind over the past few days. Inevitably, it is men.

As noted last week, my therapist and I were discussing my desire for a boyfriend. Of course, it is perfectly normal for people to desire a mate. No one would say that there is anything unusual about that. However, I am a little bit different, in that my desire is less for an actual boyfriend (although that would be dandy) and more for the status I perceive I will acquire (in whose eyes, I have no idea) when I gain the acceptance of a respectable male. Being the only child of two wonderful parents who are still crazy (in love) after all these years, where their relationship has been far more a defining factor in their lives than their nationality, their career, their family or their bank balance, it was inevitable that I would grow up thinking that finding a mate was, pretty much, the only thing one needed to do to be viewed as a success.

Then I went to an all-girls boarding school. This was not a sensible move if one was trying to move away from the supremacy of Acceptance By Relationship. In between the near-constant steamy lesbian shower sessions, our focus was entirely on boyfriends. Not on sex. Not on kissing. Just boyfriends. In my seven years there, I never once felt pressured by my peers to lose my virginity; in my recollection, sex was barely even discussed. All we cared about was getting someone to go out with you. You could kiss someone at a party one weekend and come back to school. "Did you get off with anyone?" the ganets would ask. Occasionally, you would excitedly nod yes, blocking out the fact that his train tracks cut your tongue and that it was really difficult to feel like this was a romantic zenith when you're kissing on a bouncy castle and you can hear someone being sick in the rosebushes. But, to the ganets, the snog was not the goal. This was just an amuse bouche before the main event: possible boyfriendom. And so the agonising wait began, each morning's post a crushing disappointment as the longed-for letter with the appalling handwriting and Slough postmark failed to arrive. Finally, a couple of weeks later, you'd hear that the boy in question had pulled Clarissa at the Mariners and it would become clear that the relationship about which you'd fantasized (in between calculating how to get Take That to perform an impromptu gig in the Middle IV common room) was clearly over before it had begun.

And so the snog would be rendered meaningless, because it had come to nothing. Kissing wasn't an end in itself. All that mattered was finding long-term commitment. Getting someone to fancy you enough to stick their tongue down their throat was no challenge; getting someone to stick their necks out and tell their friends that they liked you, now that was a compliment. Without that, without the superior gender (and it wasn't stated like that, but that's how it felt) waving their wand (and it wasn't stated like that either, but who are we kidding?) in our direction, giving us their blessing, saying 'You are pretty, you are attractive, I am male, I know these things,' then we were failures. But all along, I was also a pain in the ass. I didn't just want ANY boyfriend. I wanted one I respected, one who I found attractive and interesting. So 99% of the time, when a guy was interested in me, I shut it down. Because they were normally complete freaks and, somewhat like Groucho Marx, I didn't want to be a member of any club who'd have me with their member.

Fast forward sixteen years, and here I am, nine days away from my 33rd birthday, and my subconscious still spends far too much time shouting at the rest of me that, unless a man tells me I am his be all and end all, I will have failed - but I am still enough of a pain in the ass that I won't settle for anyone unless they rock my tiny world. So I have been searching, and rejecting, and being rejected, for too long and it's tiring. And thus, last Wednesday, I agreed with my therapist that I would take a break from looking. That even though I have been trying, whether consciously or not, to find a bearable boyfriend every day I've been single over the past decade and a half (which, actually, adding together five years with H, two with Simon, two with Luke and cobbling together the rest, probably adds up to about ten years off the market and five years on), I should now stop the search. Which is about as likely as me deciding to stop breathing.

But bless me, I'm trying. I removed my profile from the dating website I was on, and I must say, after my collated run of morons, that has felt less like a sacrifice than a sigh-heaving relief. And I am not going speed dating tonight, even though I bought the £10 ticket ages ago and I think I look quite good at the moment as I have a new dress that goes well with my unexpected suntan (shoulders and face only - the remainder of me still has the colour and texture of an uncooked Eccles cake) gathered on yesterday's walk. I am trying very hard indeed to forget about flirting, and have managed to cut back to only one extremely slow e-banter conversation that I don't think will come to anything really, since the guy in question is even more judgmental than I am, and not only wouldn't want to be a member of any club who would have him as a member, but would actively want to nail gun anyone who suggested such a thing and consider doing so as a public service, because surely any girl who wanted to meet him would be a danger to herself and society at large. There's a fair bit of self-loathing there. But underneath all that he's quite funny and I'd be interested to meet him. OTHER THAN THAT there is no one. I promise. I'm being good.

Still, it's like giving up heroin. I imagine. What is the methodone equivalent for people who are addicted to finding a relationship? Lots of meaningless sex wouldn't work because it's the social acceptance I crave from a third party, who has to be male, saying 'I am handsome and funny and intelligent. And I want to spend my time with you.' Ultimately, I have to believe that that is a load of crap and that the only person who decides whether I am good enough is me, and why would I entrust such a fundamental role to some stupid man who doesn't even know me very well? But that kind of cheesy, American self-acceptance is probably a long way off, not helped by the fact that everywhere I go, everyone admits that life is better when you're in a relationship, and that being single is a lonely pastime for people who are unlucky and/or not good enough. It's freaking annoying because I am clearly amazing, hilarious and, in almost every way, happy.

And that's what I keep finding weird: beyond the Seal of Approval thing that I so obviously want from a boyfriend, I'm not that bothered. As I've pointed out many times before (but not so much that this lady is thought to be protesting too much), my life is pretty much perfect. I don't sit looking woefully at the other end of my sofa thinking it's lacking a scrotum. I am not gagging to have babies just yet - walking past countless suffocating family picnics in the sun yesterday afternoon I heaved many a sigh of relief that my neck doesn't yet have that extortionate albatross swinging off it. I don't need a boyfriend to do my DIY - I feel pretty capable of most things and my dad is more than adequate for the rest. I don't feel I need a man to organise my bills, or earn money, or take me to the cinema. In fact, the fear that he might at any point vanish/die can make relationships so unpleasant that I'm not sure they're even worth it. Really, I just want one to say he's my boyfriend so everyone knows I've passed The Test, appear with me at the odd function, and kiss me regularly. Oh, and I'd like one to come to the opera with me. A night at Covent Garden is the most romantic experience I can imagine and going with girls feels wrong. I've got tickets for two productions this autumn and if I don't have a man at my side for at least one of them I'll strop. Since I'm not allowed to actively pursue anyone, if you're single, in possession of a Y chromasome and would like to be considered for this role, feel free to drop me a line via the comments section. It's Rigoletto and Cosi Fan Tutti. Don't all shout at once.

What's the alternative?

Hahahahahaha, goodness me, wasn't yesterday's blog HILARIOUS! Thanks to everyone who texted and emailed (and there were, genuinely, many) to say how FUNNY my FAILED LOVE LIFE IS. Sigh.

OK, I admit that I was slightly playing it for laughs. But it was a bit like going 'I'm fat' and then everyone else going 'Yeah, you are.' I guess what I find troubling is that it's not even remotely exaggerated. The facts are there. I have been rejected by a lot of men. Sure, I've knocked back a few too, along the way. But that doesn't really make it hurt any less when it happens to you.

So why does this keep happening to me? I genuinely don't think I'm even doing anything wrong. I'm not too picky. I'm not waiting for a man without flaws. I am not unattractive. I'm not thick. Of COURSE I don't let on that I'm actually just as much of a mentalist as any other girl. I don't show them my cellulite. I don't tell them about the time I blogged about wanting to wear an engagement ring. I don't coo over nearby children. I keep quiet about the fact that I like the towels in my bathroom to be folded in a particular way so that they fit properly on the towel rail. I tend not to mention that I'm on anti-depressants, or that I am likely to turn to fat. Instead, I ask them lots of questions, and we talk about music and theatre and film and yoga and travel and all that other stuff, and I laugh at their jokes, and I keep the conversation light and fluffy, and we goon around and it's all good. And they enjoy themselves, dammit. But then they go home, and they think about it, and they think, 'Yeah... actually, no.' And then they evaporate.

I know, it's only got to be right once. And actually, my therapist and I decided that I wouldn't be pro-active about boys for the next ten weeks. So I'm taking down my online profile and all men can get stuffed. And then I read this in the Graun this morning and I thought, 'Hmmmm, maybe...' And then I thought about never having heterosexual sex again and I thought, 'Yeah, that's not going to work.' The quest will continue... but not 'til October.

Two years in the life

Yeah, OK, OK, anyone who knows me can probably guess the reason for my sluggishness to write. Stupid, stupid XY chromosomes and stupid, stupid me for being stupid enough to be optimistic.

Let's recap. My last serious relationship, i.e. where both parties were happy to call the other their 'boyfriend' or 'girlfriend', ended in August 2008. My first date after that weighed approx. 28 stone. The next one kissed me on date one and then vanished. The next one kissed me on dates one and two, said he really liked me and then said he wasn't looking for a relationship. The next one dumped me before he'd even met me, by vanishing on the day of our proposed date. I wasn't so much stood up as sat up, in that I didn't even need to leave my sofa to find out that he wouldn't be there. Then I started regularly seeing a guy whose commitment-phobe tendencies were so glaring as to make it stupid of me to even kiss him in the first place, so unlikely was I to convince him to commit. After three months or so, we called it quits. Then I didn't date because I was sad. Then I met the Glastocrush, but let's be fair, that was never going to last. And it didn't. Then I went on the ridiculous date with the guy from Clapham, just to appease my mother that at least I was trying to be open minded. Then there was the date with the Lying Dutchman, the guy whose fictitious ex-girlfriend kept updating his profile, and others so boring that they didn't deserve an anecdote. Early this year, I met another commitment-phobe, which kept me mental until late March. Then there was the weird German, the guy who designed weapons and the penis guy, all in one week, the guy who kissed me in May and sent me a text afterwards saying "Next time, let's...", inferring (I think you'll agree) that there would be another date, and who then vanished. And the magician, who also did a Houdini. And the posh guy who I went to a pub quiz with, who never texted again. And the education journalist who said he'd love to see me again and then disappeared. And the beautiful teetotaller when neither of us felt any chemistry. And the lovely OCD picnic maker. And now this guy, who asked me out for a third date by text message on Sunday night and hasn't been heard from since.

And, you know, it's fine, and I'm fun and gorgeous, but god it's hard to keep perky. I don't think I know anyone who's been knocked back as many times as I have. I feel like the world's shittest boxer. ANYWAY. What was amazing was the incredible massage I had on Monday, given by this adorable and amazingly powerful Japanese guy, and the giggles I got when I turned over and my boob popped out from under the towel and both of us tried to cover it up. When I say 'popped', it was probably more 'flopped' but this isn't the time for negative body images. Got to run.

A cornucopia of issues

So I'll update you on my existence and then we can cover this heartbreaking academies project and other hellish current affairs developments.

Friday night I went to see the Chemical Brothers (or as my 26 year old companion Chris insists on calling them, 'The Chems') at The Roundhouse. Last time I saw them perform live, I was eighteen and had told my parents I was staying the night at my friend Daisy's house but in fact we went to a Prodigy gig at Brixton Academy and took speed that our druggy friend Nick had put in a bottle of Ribena for us because we didn't want to snort it. The Chems were the support act but we'd drunk our Ribena too early and I was completely mental during that forty minute gig and then basically started aching and being tired during the main set. The next day I felt like my bones were eroding and Daisy and I compared notes about how horrific our comedowns were, but in retrospect I'd taken about half a gram of speed dissolved in a sugary drink, a combo which was about as likely to get me high as a Tracker bar. I think I was just unfit and six hours of dancing had given my body a shock. ANYWAY. Fourteen years on and the Chemical Brothers have a lot less hair and, personally, I think their music is a bit less exciting than it was when I first listened to Exit Planet Dust or whatever it was called. But it was a brilliant gig all the same, even without the alleged benefit of speed or Ribena - lots of dancing, lots of holding arms aloft to interfere with the amazing laser shows, lots of spilled pints and excitement about Bono's back injury that was possibly (at that point) going to exclude U2 from headlining at Glasto. Come on Bowie.

Saturday morning I was my own middle-class nightmare as I was awoken at 7.30am by the delivery man from Ocado, and proceeded to make my own garlic bread for the countryside gathering that lots of us went to and cor was it lovely. Old friends, hay bales to sit on, delicious food, Pimms and champagne in the sun, laughing, chinese lanterns after dark... a magical time and a blast from the past. Hungover and giggling uncontrollably on Sunday, work and choir on Monday, work and work-sponsored wine tasting last night - we tried bottles from Greece, Georgia, Italy and France and it was interesting. Apparently wine is thought to have originated somewhere around Georgia in 6000 or 7000 BC. Amazing. More interesting was the conversation I was having with my colleague before we sat down. I'd pointed out a guy from our floor who was also at the tasting, and indicated that he was thought to be a bit of a player. My colleague, let's call him Mike, said that didn't surprise him at all. Mike is in his early fifties and has been married nearly thirty years, and he told me that having a black-and-white attitude to infidelity is fairly naive. My jaw dropped.
"Do you mean that cheating is the norm?" I asked.
"I have no idea," he answered. "But it can't be a deal-breaker. Men are ruled by their pants. If it's going to be the end of your marriage if he fools around with another woman on a drunken night out, then you're going to find it hard going."
"Hang on," I said. "You're telling me that I have to be prepared to put up with infidelity if I get married?"
"I've never cheated, but I think it's not practical to say you will end a 25 year marriage on the basis of a one night mistake."
"Obviously I know he'll want to shag another woman at some point, possibly hourly," I said, just to show that I'm not too much of a purist. "And I'll meet other guys I find attractive too. But I've always hoped that, if he finds himself wanting to sleep with someone else, he'll come to me and tell me, and either we deal with it or we decide to break up."
"It's a nice idea, but I think your standards are impossibly high," Mike said. "These things are - normally - not premeditated. The guy gets drunk, goes home with the wrong person, wakes up remorseful - and just because of that, you're going to end a 25 year marriage, with three kids involved? It's not justified. No one is perfect."
"But that's just such a bad attitude. If he does it once and gets away with it, what's to stop him doing it again, over and over? I see what you mean, that ruining 25 years for one shag seems over the top, but if you can't trust him, then surely the things that make a marriage fun are mostly destroyed? And that's the worst bit - once you've been lied to once, once you've been made a fool of, your next relationship is affected too. You become paranoid and insecure, and having once been a laid-back cool girl, you move to be a divorcee with three kids who can't trust anyone else. Just because your stupid husband fancied a shag with someone else. The cheating moment itself may only last ten minutes but the effects are long-lasting..." Mike looked at me sadly - he clearly understood my point of view but still thought I was being hopelessly unrealistic. I felt totally powerless. And a bit sad. Really quite sad, actually. My first long term relationship ended because I was sorely tempted to cheat on my boyfriend. I didn't though - I spoke to him about it and we agreed that neither of us were happy, and we broke up. If my husband of 25 years wanted to cheat, I'd hope he would come and talk about it with me. But I guess if it just pops up out of nowhere, he's unlikely to phone me from the cab he's taking back to her house, with her kissing his neck as he explains his predicament. Meh, I dunno. I just hate the whole thought of infidelity. It really makes me feel sick. Desire to sleep with someone else I'm fine with - but actually going through with it, and lying to the person who's been there for you for the past quarter of a century... I just can't see how I should be laid back about that prospect. And that whole argument about men being rule by their pants, it's pathetic. It may be true, but it's pathetic. Women have just as strong a need to be loved and flattered and fancied. Maybe the chemicals are different and men genuinely can't control their urges. But I don't believe that's true of all of them. Some of them are honourable enough to keep it in their pants. I won't get married until I find one like that. And I refuse to be grateful if he is. Fidelity should be a given, not an unexpected bonus. Conversing with Mike was unexpectedly depressing. Glad (in many ways) that I'm not married to him.

In other news... It's my country's economy that's going down the pan, but I did laugh when I read this extract on The Graun's website, detailing some very-much-predicted issues with the Conservatives' budget in yesterday's Queen's Speech:
'Osborne was forced to abolish child trust funds altogether after the Tories overestimated savings that could be made on the basis of advice from the Whitehall efficiency experts, Sir Peter Gershon and Dr Martin Read. Gershon had said that £1bn of the £6bn cuts would come from savings in government IT projects, while up to £1bn would come from a recruitment freeze across the civil service. The Treasury said yesterday that IT had produced savings of £95m, less than 10% of the amount initially identified, while the recruitment freeze would produce savings of £120m, slightly more than 10% of the amount estimated by Gershon in that area.
Labour had lampooned a two-page document produced by Gershon during the election campaign outlining his efficiency savings. Liam Byrne, the shadow chief secretary to the Treasury, said tonight: "We warned the Tories that their plans were wrong. Now they're having to break both parties' manifesto promises and wipe out child trust funds because they wouldn't listen."'
I've no problem with child trust funds falling by the wayside, but it does show that complex descriptions of proposed financial savings made by a party while in opposition should pretty much always be taken with a shedful of salt.

Meh, no energy to carry on typing - suffice to say, this new academies drive by the Tories (and, yes, the LibDems) is exactly what I feared most - schools being run outside the jurisdiction of the local councils, ostensibly to free up teachers from national red tape: a good aim but a terrible solution. Academies are privately funded by businesses or individuals - how can this fail to create a massive disparity between different schools in different areas? It also opens things up for a plethora of faith schools. Agh. It's a disgrace, seriously. I can't even really believe it's happening. The whole thing makes me massively disappointed and LIVID with the LibDems for sanctioning such a lot of bollocks. I'm still glad I voted for them, because the vaguely-hinted-at referendum on AV in 2011 will mean the next election is slightly fairer than it would have been, had the coalition not been formed. But the Labour leadership candidates look pretty uninspiring at the moment so right now I really have no idea who I'll be voting for in 2015. With the education system going down the pan thanks to a 'solution' that will make the existing postcode lottery situation look like a pleasant dream, this country might be so freaking scary that I might not even be here next time around. Grumpy grumpy.

Ash decisions

Ohgodohgodohgod, I love blogging, you know I do, but every now and then it feels like homework and I wish I could just employ some hilarious and articulate minion to write it for me so that I could get on with vital things like packing and watching American Idol, and now is definitely one of those times.

So the last you heard, I was rambling on about politics and then this FREAKING volcano started erupting, but obviously I thought it was just quite funny and cool and different, and then I realised that it might actually affect ME and suddenly it became completely unfunny and highly irritating, because I was meant to be flying to the south of France this very day to stay in the Pyrenees for two nights and then on to somewhere else to stay for two nights for Emily's wedding, and it was all going to be brilliant and a magical adventure and then the cocksucking ash started spewing and our flights were cancelled and then we had to start thinking about ferry trips and hire cars and overlong minibus journeys with strangers including other people's mothers and possibly attractive band members, and then the flights were uncancelled and the airports reopened but it was impossible to know whether the volcano was going to carry on slowing down or suddenly speed up again and we STILL DON'T KNOW and the uncertainty is GRADUALLY KILLING ME. However, I am determined to be optimistic and if I don't get on my Sleazyjet flight tomorrow morning I will laugh and be calm and everyone in the airport will be drawn to my relaxed good humour and incredible laissez-faire joie-de-vivre.

Anyway, other than that, since last Friday I have been doing billions of unparalleledly brilliant and uniquely quirky things, including taking incredible photos of London in the sun (admittedly I was poss. not the only person doing this on Saturday) and going on the fourth link of the Capital Ring walk with Kate on Sunday, where we managed to cover twelve miles from Falconwood, via Eltham Palace and... some other AMAZING places that I've completely forgotten, ending up at Crystal Palace, taking in a delicious pub lunch on the way and, critically, getting sunburned shoulders that have basically ruined my look for the wedding this weekend, as I am wearing a halterneck dress but my body clearly states I should wear something that covers my white strap marks. Once again, I live on the edge of the fashion grain and it is perilous up here, I can tell you.

I went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera, Prima Donna, at Sadler's Wells with Grania last Friday - a great evening out but not, perhaps, the best opera I've ever seen. A fantastic effort for a first go, however, and shedloads better than I could ever manage in my wildest dreams, so I am really not criticising. I'm glad I went but I'm also glad I didn't spend more than £10 on my ticket. After the show, we went to Dollar Grills in Exmouth Market, which was a cool venue and recommended, and at the table next to us was a very attractive girl in her mid-twenties, curvy, dark and sensual. I didn't have a clear view of the guy she was with and asked Grania if he was worthy of her. She nodded her assent. They were clearly a glamorous pairing. Then, about thirty minutes later, with her burger unbitten and his frankly terrifying rack of ribs undented, he grabbed his duffle coat and his rucksack and stropped out. We looked at Curvy McBuxom with sympathy. "Nightmare," I said to her, and smiled in what I hoped was a kind, unpatronising fashion. She nodded, and said, "I'm getting a bit bored of it now, though." Apparently this particular argument had been caused because he'd bought her tickets to Prima Donna and she hadn't liked it - the opera, not the gift. He, however, had taken her rejection of the opera as a personal affront. It was the kind of exhausting, pointless row I've had hundreds of times in my life, indicative of absolutely nothing on the surface and, underneath, firm evidence that the relationship is simply not meant to be. After the boy returned, tight-jawed, he sat in virtual silence, wiggling the rack of ribs disconsolately for a few minutes until the girl eventually caved and they got their food to go and stood up. We wished them luck as they left the restaurant and they laughed ruefully, and then I drunkenly told Grania how ecstatic I was to be there in Dollar Grills with her rather than stuck in the wrong relationship, and she agreed and it was lovely.

Monday I had my haircut in my usual imperceptible way, and then last night was Tuesday and Lucy came down to the smoke from t'country, and we went to Camden for a delicious dinner in a Turkish restaurant near Koko, and then to watch the Fuck Buttons (they're a band of sorts, mother. No actual fucking involved.) who were good enough for an hour or so, but we were a bit drunk from dinner, I was spinning out about something unrelated and distracted by trying to coordinate ferry bookings with very kind, very posh man who was being lovely and offering Kate and I a lift to the wedding, and it was all a bit confusing what with the fact that they were playing ridiculously loud dance music but no one was dancing, so we left after an hour and returned back to my flat to safety, cereal, mini Magnums and a last, absurdly unnecessary glass of wine. Today I thought I was leaving for France and then I wasn't, so I spent a long time in bed, threw a few unrelated items into my suitcase and passed a very pleasant two hours bathing in the wonderfully me-sized rectangle of sun that falls bang in the middle of my living room floor for about three hours every bright afternoon. I heave up the venetian blind, open the gigantic window and lie on my carpet, spreadeagled, often starkers as no one can see me but the birds and any particularly fortunate plane passengers looking down with binoculars. Tomorrow I have every hope that I'll be up there myself. A bientot et honh-he-honh.

In my solitude...

Last night I went to The School of Life for a class called How Necessary Is A Relationship? As an only child whose parents are still madly in love nearly half a century after meeting, my view on relationships has been slightly, well, blinkered. In that, until recently, I've tended to think that a life alone is a failed life. I've never wanted to be single and the looming end of relationships has filled me with fear. But for the vast majority of the time since early August 2008, I've been on my own and I've been happier than I've ever been before. So I've had to admit that, perhaps, being alone isn't so bad. Perhaps, being alone is fantastic.

What was especially fascinating for me yesterday was the prework they set us - we had to write the pros and cons of relationships, and the pros and cons of being single, on two different pieces of paper. When we arrived at the class, we had to sit in groups and discuss our lists, and whether or not we'd have written the same thing three years ago. To be honest, I doubt I would have written the same thing six months ago - and in fact, if you'd asked me yesterday to predict what I would write, I'd have guessed that it would be all pro-relationships and anti-singledom. But instead, I had a lot of positive things to say about being on my own, and a lot of unexpected fear of relationships. I guess it makes sense - after all, the very fact that I'm single now means that my past relationships haven't been successful, for one reason or another, so it's natural that I'm wary of getting hurt again. But I always assumed that I wanted a boyfriend more than I feared the pain of getting hurt. Now, suddenly, it seems that I am enjoying things so much as they are that I have a lot more to lose than I ever did before. If it weren't for our old friend, Ye Biologicalle Clocke, I'd be fine to stay as I am indefinitely.

The class itself was interesting (although obviously nothing was nearly as fascinating as what was going on in my head) but my favourite bit was when we were given three minutes to draw our own Map Of Love. I went for a mountainous landscape (below), featuring several options: Happy Families living on Stability Street where the sun shines and people stifle their yawns, separated from the pain that has been intrinsic to love in my experience (the Land of Loss and Heartbreak) by a place called The Happy Medium Or: Fantasyland? Then there is the Risky River, which borders on Adventure and Excitement in Foreign Places. I'm standing on the shore, looking out to sea and the hills beyond, and wondering what the hell to do. Over-simplistic? Yes. Quite fun though.

Don't get me wrong. I do want love. And I want a family. But I love the freedom I've had, the solitude I've grown to need, and, well, it's all making sense in retrospect, innit.

They like it long

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

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

Biological Crock

On the train down to Nicole's on Friday, I listened to The First Days of Spring, the new album by one of the vanguard of the nu-folk revival, Noah and the Whale. A break-up record in the old tradition, it charts lead singer Charlie Fink's faltering steps into singledom after his break-up with folk's sweetheart, Laura Marling. His voice is a bit rubbish but the music is pleasant enough; the lyrics, however, are painful - not (only) because they are (in places) quite bad, but because of the rawness of the emotions they express - the eponymous opening track illustrates Fink's optimism following the change in seasons, but then the music quietens right down and he admits that he's "still here, hoping that one day you may come back." It's uncomfortable in its honesty and, as a young lady who's been pretty honest in her time, I can't help wincing pre-emptively at the thought of how 23-year-old Fink will feel in a few years' time. Listening to the songs, I didn't think, "Oh, poor you," but rather, "C'mon lad. I know, it hurts, but don't tell everyone. You'll feel better soon and trust me, you'll want to forget all about this, not sing it night after night on stage."

It's one of life's harsh truths that it's alright to be happy and gushing about love when you're in it - but when you're not, for god's sake you mustn't appear to want it. In fact, scratch that - you can't want it at all, not even secretly, because They Can Smell The Desperation. And the older you get, the less you must want it. Instead, you must be happy on your own, content with your independence, peacefully enjoying your life, safe in the knowledge that "it'll happen when you least expect it" and "if it's meant to be, it'll be."

I can't argue with any of the above. It's undoubtedly true that on the occasions where some maniac has really, really wanted a relationship with me, I've found them needy and desperate, and I am way more likely to steer clear. Conversely, commitment-phobes are irritatingly attractive and I become moth-like in my persistence, outraged that they don't seem to be swayed by my numerous charms. Of course, should said commitment-phobes change their minds and decide they now think I am the best thing since loaf met knife, I will almost certainly lose all respect for them within a matter of seconds. It's not my fault, it's human nature, and it happens to almost all of us.

But still, it's tricky. As you will know if you've been paying attention, I have no Significant Other at present. And, as I've said before (but hopefully not to the point where I cross the line from easy, confident opining to the lady protesting too much), I know that this situation is the right thing for me right now. I'm as sure as anyone can be that my future is bright. And I can honestly, hand on heart, say that I am happy without kids right now. If I could click my fingers and be crazy in love and pregnant, I wouldn't. I have a fair bit of travelling I want to do before I have nippers, for a start. But, just like every other single woman of my age, I am painfully, daily aware that, medically speaking, I should be having my kids now, even though psychologically, I would be perfectly happy to wait another seven or eight years before producing offspring. I've always wanted to hang out with the father of my children for a while before he becomes the father to my children, rather than calculating whether I'm ovulating as I sprint down the aisle. But as I stood drunkenly over tiny Isla's cot at about 2.30am on Sunday morning, stroking her back and marvelling at the grip of her little hand around my index finger, I very nearly cried. Of course, the booze was talking, but I had a rare moment of stampy foot childishness, because fundamentally, it's Not Fair. I'm 32. I have a fantastically fortunate life. I can do pretty much whatever I want: I'm a pro-active person who Gets Things Done. But ultimately, the thing I want most in my future is unequivocally beyond my control. There is absolutely jack shit women can do about wanting kids, except make sure that they never think or talk about wanting kids, because if they visibly want them, they're desperate and thus less likely to have them. God boys have it easy. Sure, a lot of 32 year old men want kids too, and can't find the right woman to mother them. But the time pressure simply doesn't exist in the same way, and it blows.

What is true is that devoting any time or space to this is absolutely, undoubtedly, 100% pointless. When I am in a position to start trying to have kids in the future, there's no guarantee that I or my chosen partner will both be fertile. And, of course, even if I have a gorgeous baby this time in four years, I may get hit by a bus in five. There is no way of knowing or planning for the future, so the task in hand is to enjoy the present and live for the moment. The only thing I can do is be as happy and funny and pleasant and lovely as possible. And mostly I do that pretty well. Just not so much when a gorgeous 13-month-old is staring up at me through sleepy eyes and gripping my finger when I've had a skinful of wine and been emotionally charged by an hilarious dinner and a viewing of The X Factor. From now on, babies and I will only come into contact during times of total sobriety, when I will be able to see them as the selfish, demanding, uncompromising, irrational, dependent, helpless, dribbling, mucous-producing, money-draining, sleep-depriving, life-as-we-know-it-ending creatures they really are. You live and learn.

The power of positive thinking?

A dear family friend was out jogging earlier this week, fell and cut his leg. It was more of a graze than a wound, and he thought nothing of it. But a day or so later, he was admitted to hospital with Toxic Shock Syndrome, a very serious form of bacterial poisoning which has meant he has been in an induced coma for the past few days while doctors have removed most of the infected muscle in his leg and given him multiple blood transfusions. It has been touch and go as to whether he will survive, although things are apparently looking more positive today. He will, however, not be able to run again - which with three children under three, is a serious readjustment. This just makes me, once again, remember that we must enjoy every second we have, and try to focus on the positive in all the cards we are dealt by our friendly Life croupier.

Possibly as a result of that news, or possibly as a result of my wonderful friends and the forests of self-help books I've been devouring, I am feeling much better. I've booked a hair appointment, ordered new glasses, and the fruits of my workout labours are finally showing themselves as my trousers are becoming a fraction baggier. High five!

What's weird is that today, Michael Jackson is 50. In 1991, when I turned 14, I genuinely thought I might marry him. Imagine. I don't think it would have worked out. The man who I used to dream about, whose dulcet (now freakish) whispered promises at the beginning of I Just Can't Stop Loving You set my standards for romance, whose dancing and singing seemed to be impossibly perfect - well, it turned out he's probably not such an amazing catch after all, what with the child molestation rumours, the collapsing face, the self-hate and the bankruptcy 'n' all...

Hmmm. Who else did I want to marry...? Dylan from Beverly Hills 90210, aka Luke Perry, now 41, divorced with two young daughters and a film back-catalogue that features an unfortunate combination of raspberries and tumbleweed; Howard Donald from Take That, now 40, father of two daughters by two different women, a history of suicidal depression and a penchant for onstage nudity; Keanu Reeves, who will be 44 on 2 September, notorious loner, motorbike obsessive with a limited vocabulary; and Christian Slater, now 39 with an unfortunate hairline and eyes that twinkle with a fragment of their former sparkle, possibly due to a long history of alcohol and drug abuse, with police records for assault with a deadly weapon and battery. Quite a selection, you'll have to agree... I certainly know how to pick 'em.

Sometimes I'm not sure I should be trusted to pick my husband. Maybe I'll allow my mum to do the choosing next time. Watch out for my next boyfriend: wealthy golfer, Torygraph reader, strange sense of humour, enjoys birdwatching, wears chinos and V-neck sweaters with sensible shoes, knows how to hold his cutlery properly and pack a suitcase well, irons his own shirts, eats and drinks to a high standard, penchant for The Muppets. It just might work...

Lo siento

Shortly after 7.30am on Monday, I received a panicked call from my father, to alert me to the fact that my recent blog entries had disappeared. Since then, a few other people have commented on the mysteriously vanishing account of the past few days.

Readers, allow me to explain.

The past fortnight has been pretty tricky for me, and although the way I described it on this page was both accurate and valid, I now understand that it was also possibly slightly too open. It's one thing to talk about my skirt getting stuck to the back of my legs when I'm too sweaty after the gym; it's quite another to discuss personal matters that affect a third party. I may be suffering mentally and want to offload for international sympathy and concern, but this time, it wasn't just my own pain that I was sharing with the global Faithful.

Plus, as a concerned friend commented earlier in the week, it was painfully obvious that I was using my blog entries to communicate my feelings to Paul. I was stunned to learn that my cunning plan had been rumbled so easily, but it was hard to disagree that if this is my primary method of communication with someone, there's trouble afoot.

Thus it was that, at 5am last Monday, during a fit of REM pique, I stumbled through to the sitting room, grabbed my laptop and deleted the latest posts, a first for me and an act of dishonesty of which I am not proud. After all, flippant or not, this blog is meant to be an accurate record of my thoughts; I've always banned myself from sub-editing more than one or two hours after the post goes live - deleting it altogether, several days after the event, is an act of Orwellian proportions, deliberately reshaping history for future readers.

But hey, that's what I did. So suck it up.

Thus, if you're only here for a Paul update, I'm afraid I must disappoint you - not to protect his feelings, but because I have, quite simply, no clue what's going on. If I learn any more, you'll be the first to hear. Probably.

In other news, I ran 9.07 kilometers yesterday. It took me 1 hour and 7 minutes, which means that running 10 km in under one hour at the end of September is looking pretty impossible. So I think my new goal is to do it in under 1 hour 10 mins. That will still involve a pretty sizeable increase in my pace. But hey, at least on race day I won't be jogging past the London Aquarium, where some sort of Truman Show director figure seemed to have plucked the city's most irritating, misguided, wafty tourists and commanded them to meander in the most haphazard fashion in my vicinity, all with gargantuan pushchairs and tearaway offspring who cannoned back and forth between their family members at unpredictable speeds designed solely to make it impossible to navigate any sort of smooth path between them all. I took to clapping loudly in front of me as I ran along, barking 'Watch where you're going!' to anyone who struck me as particularly idiotic.

This morning I had to disembark the Northern Line at Elephant & Castle because I was overcome by nausea. I sat on a seat at the edge of the platform for several minutes, wondering if I should press the button for Assistance and ask for some water, but then the wave passed and I was able to continue my journey. So that was a bit weird.

What else can I tell you? I bought a new hairbrush. I'm currently loving green tea. I can't get Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade out of my head. I had a free make-up consultation at the Clarins counter in Boots this evening which was really fun although ultimately expensive. I am loving my subscription to Prospect magazine, although am possibly taking geekdom to new levels by underlining and highlighting vital passages and sticking in Post-It tabs on relevant pages. I'm just about to start reading The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters. The same fly has been buzzing around my flat for what seems like an eternity; I think it nipped in through the front door at the weekend and it's becoming progressively more drowsy as its inevitable doomsday approaches, but is managing to stir me to new heights of irritation nonetheless. I've run out of Eve Lom cleanser and am dreading forking out for another pot, but I've had that one since December last year so really it's not a bad deal. I had dinner with EmRob in Spitalfields which was great but fattening. My eyes are slightly stinging. I want Darnell to win Big Brother. I wish I could get two Burmese kittens. I miss having a Vespa. It's time for bed.

The Reluctant Eavesdropper

I am blessed in many ways, but one area in which I am particularly fortunate is the Accidentally Overhearing Other People Having Sex department. This is something about which I feel unbelievably strongly: even the mere idea of this occurring sends my skin crawling and my hands to my ears wanting somehow to rip out my aural equipment. And I must say, I have been exceptionally lucky - the only time I have had to witness something like this in real life was circa 1999, when my then boyfriend lived in a flat that he shared with his sister on Askew Road, and one appalling night as we lay in his bed under his wonky shelves, we heard said sister engage in a noisy act of carnal love for what seemed like seven long eternities. I put my fingers in my ears, a pillow over my head and still was unable to prevent myself from bursting into tears. I have no idea why it upsets me quite so much, but I am eternally grateful that I have only had to endure said agony once in my life.

Until now.

It is a sad and well-documented irony that when one has been rejected, the world around you seems to fall in love. Unattractive, socially gauche friends with halitosis and no fashion sense, who have been rightfully single since birth, suddenly find The One. Everyone on the tube is giggling, flirting, kissing and making future plans to go to Paris. Flowers are delivered to every other female at the office. Your solitude is underlined with indelible marker every second moment and so, having navigated your way through each day's stinging reminders, arriving home should be like entering a sanctuary, an escape from these unintended recriminations and taunts.

Thus it was slightly painful when I was lying in bed on Wednesday night and became aware of a rhythmic creaking above my head. At first, I was confused and unable to place a mental label on the noise - after all, this has never happened in my current abode and I am victim to a particularly sweet brand of childish naivety that caused me, when my car was defaced in a Kensington car park in 1998, to believe that the vandals had keyed the word CLINT into my red door paint. Eventually, however, with a flush of embarrassment, I had to accept that my previously silent upstairs neighbours were now in the throes of passion and that I was their unwilling audience. Thankfully, he wasn't much cop.

Last night, I lay in bed, terrified that every small noise marked the beginning of a new round of mattress action. Each rumble of an articulated lorry on the A road outside was interpreted as a romantic overture, every drunk teenager shouting in the street sounded like the lady counterpart warming up to a crescendo. To my eternal relief, I was spared and eventually dropped off to sleep; then I dreamed of Paul and have awoken confused all over again. It's slightly frustrating: I do my level best to move on and the world and my freaking brain seem determined to make me mope. Mornings are never a high point for me, though - I'm off to distract myself with some yoga and an afternoon jaunt to allow my best friend, Retail Therapy, to work his/her magic. But be warned: if you're in love and in Borough Market at around 3pm, keep it under wraps. I will not be held responsible for any acts of jealous sabotage.

Breaking (heart) News

As if falling crazy in love is not exciting and all-consuming enough, when a couple decide that they really really like each other and are ready to tell the world, one or both of them might choose to label the other as their girlfriend or boyfriend on Facebook. You get a note on your profile page saying you're in a relationship, and everyone you know receives a News Item on their News Feed telling them this lovely piece of happy news, accompanied by a picture of a little red heart. They feel warm and fuzzy that two more people have found someone lovely. Unless they're single, in which case they curse you, drink too much white wine and cry for a bit.

Conversely, when said relationship hits the rocks a few months later, a struggling couple may choose to remove each other from their Facebook lives, to make the 'moving on' process a little more bearable. After all, going 'on a break' is unpleasant enough without receiving a status update every five seconds from your ex-beloved, informing you and the world that he's in the Cayman Islands or has just been chatting to Kate Moss at a stag party. So you change your relationship status back to single, or delete it altogether.

And at this point, what do the nice people at Facebook do? Send you a condolence message? A free box of chocolates? Credit your account with some money with which to shop away the blues? No. They send a news update to everyone you know, informing them that 'Jane is no longer in a relationship' and accompany this announcement with a graphic of a little red broken heart. Now, you can choose to 'Hide Story', so that people don't receive this news on their homepages - but I learned the hard way that 'Hide Story' doesn't work as well as intended. Or, in fact, at all. However quickly you click the 'Hide Story' button (and I'm pretty sure I reached it within about 0.4 seconds, blinded by hot tears though I was), the freaking thing still pops up all over the internet, blasting your misery to all four corners of the globe at a time when you want to be swallowed up by a black duvet.

Either way, story hidden or not, what I want to know is: which absolute sadist came up with this feature?! Who on earth decided that this was a sensible or valuable function of Facebook? No matter how open and honest you are - and I'm a pretty warts 'n' all kinda gal* - I just cannot imagine the type of person who wants the fact that they are no longer in a relationship shouted across cyberspace. Sure, every now and then, there may be someone who is so stony-hearted that their exit from a bad coupling is about as perturbing, pride-denting and shameful as admitting that they have a bit of a sore throat. Or perhaps there may be a rare person who's been in a hideous partnership and is excited to be out. And I accept that if you fancy the pants off someone, it's always a little bit fun to receive the alert that they're now on the market - and get in quickly with an offer of a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. But for the vast majority, a break-up, however temporary, justified or unavoidable, is simply not the kind of news we want everyone to know immediately. It's painful and confusing and, in the unlikely event that we manage to forget about it for a few moments, the last thing we want is having to explain repeatedly to the quasi-strangers that have somehow snuck onto our Friends list that, yes, we are alone again.

Which I appear to be.

Tuesday and Wednesday were quite bad. Thursday morning was too. Last night I went for a 7km run by the Thames, starting out feeling like a loser and returning home with the Rocky theme playing in my head, having realised that it really was his loss. Well, assuming he wants a girlfriend at all. If he wants to be single for the rest of his life, then it was admittedly his gain. Anyway, today I feel angry and happy and excited and hopeful and devastated and a bit lonely. Low-maintenance as ever.

In other news: apparently my cervix looks better. So that's good.

*Just FYI: I have no warts.

Freudian car crash

If, like me, you are in the early stages of a new relationship, try not to have a conversation like the following:

[Scene: Soho pub, PAUL seated at bar, JANE standing next to him. CROWDS around them]

JANE: [Looking down at a business card] So what's the difference between a Copyright symbol and a Registered Trademark symbol?
PAUL: Well, a trademark is registering just the mark itself, the logo - whereas if something has a copyright symbol you are protecting something more complex, a design.
JANE: So my tattoo [points to her tiny tattoo, a copyright symbol] is correct – I shouldn’t be a registered trademark?
PAUL: No, your tattoo is correct. But hey, what are you going to do when you have children?
JANE: What about it?
PAUL: Well, if you’re copyright, then when you have kids they’ll be in breach of copyright. They’ll be an unauthorised derivative of you.
JANE: But they won’t really be a copy of me.
PAUL: Why not?
JANE: Well, because they’ll be half me and half you.

[Room goes silent, lights go out, cue ball suddenly stops on snooker table, thunder rumbles outside followed by a crack of lightning]

Yes dear readers, the horror is genuine, the cringe is justified. After less than three months with Paul, I casually began our Saturday night with the relaxing suggestion that ‘when’ I have children, they’ll be his.

Immediately, my whole body stiffened and, despite the absence of mirrors, I am fairly confident that my face looked like someone had recently left me in the Greek sun for eight hours, returning only to baste me occasionally with Lurpak and paprika. My left index finger inexplicably tensed and hooked over my rigid lower teeth as I turned and walked away, giggling uncontrollably and unable to look Paul in the eye. I mean, seriously. If there’s one thing we’re taught in How To Be A Girl classes, it’s ‘For the sake of all women, never, EVER mention babies. Just don’t do it.’ And yet, there I was, 7.30pm, not even drunk and merrily planning our offspring.

Luckily, Paul seemed to take things quite well and laughingly dragged me back towards him. I did notice, however, that he drained the rest of his pint in a matter of seconds after The Incident and I don’t know that I’ll be so lucky next time.

Since I last wrote...

Friday - leave work at 4pm, race home, finish packing, await Paul's arrival with hire car, drive across London to Hackney to pick up his sister, drive from Hackney to Liverpool, arrive just before midnight, meet the parents, eat cheese, drink wine, chat until shortly before 2am, go to bed.

Saturday - wake up, have breakfast with in-laws, go into very windy and wet Liverpool via romantic viewpoint where Paul apparently took young impressionable Wirral lasses back in the day, sightsee around Liverpool including unnavigable Museum of Slavery, listen to graphic diary accounts by slave-owners about horrific treatment of runaway slaves, drive to meet Paul's old piano teacher, have tea with her and her husband and listen to assembled trio bitch/reminisce about local classical music scene. Eat more mini chocolate eggs than is perhaps polite. Drive back to in-laws' via Catholic Cathedral, get ready for evening out, go to dinner at delicious restaurant with fifteen intimate family and friends including grandmother and godmother, reapply make-up too late, return to family home, have more wine and stay up talking until 4am.

Sunday - wake up, have incredible home-cooked breakfast with local sausages and yet more family, drive with sister to Manchester to meet (wait for it) godmother's friend's nieces who are also part of extended posse, have tea with them, go to pub with them, drive back to Hackney, drop off sister, drive back home, collapse.

Monday - wake up before 7am on scheduled day off with early phonecall from moronic Tesco's delivery people who claim that once again I have entered my card details incorrectly when I DIDN'T. Give them correct details (again) and am assured that groceries are en route. Despite reassurance, I am surprised by arrival of groceries while Paul is returning hire car - approximately nine metric tons of produce spread across eighty five plastic crates containing enough frozen goods to fill a deep freeze and a box of washing powder that looked really big in the picture but will, in fact, probably only last me a week. Tesco delivery man refuses my offer of help carrying them upstairs and, over the course of several trips, becomes increasingly breathless to the point where I begin to worry that I may have to add 'paramedics' to list of people who are visiting this morning. Man from Virgin arrives to fit my TV and broadband supply although he leaves without giving me a cable for the TV or a password for the broadband and customer services are later so unhelpful that Paul starts swearing like an extra in a Tarantino movie. While Virgin man is doing his stuff and I am frantically unpacking groceries, Paul decides that his breakfast is now an urgent priority and begins to make porridge which involves asking me for various sized bowls and ingredients, oven gloves and measuring jugs while I, still unbreakfasted and weak, struggle to get past him as he continually stirs and adjusts his oats in the microwave. Just as Virgin man is leaving, washing machine arrives from Tesco Direct. Paul, replete after porridge, and I, still flimsy with hunger, manage to get it through the door of my 'utility room' (as opposed to the one I inherited with the flat which resoloutely refused to take its place inside the area I had designed for it at some expense). Despite fitting into its designated place, washing machine, however, cannot be connected as idiot builder has crucially not positioned the pipes in a way that means they can be used. Growl. Laundromat beckons. Perhaps I didn't need big box of washing powder after all. After a hurried lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwich, created as bread must be eaten since it won't fit in freezer, Paul and I take train to Barnes, put on load of washing, play with cats, collect my mother's car, drive it back to my flat (round trip: approx 1 hour), fill the car with rejected Ikea items which may or may not be eligible for a refund, drive to Croydon in disgusting traffic, manage to obtain a £361 refund (high five!) and then spend £250 on non-essentials in the store including sun loungers, hanging plant pots and a Lazy Susan that won't fit in my kitchen cupboard. Pah. Drive back to the flat, unload new purchases, drive to Barnes, drop off car, pick up wet washing, get train and bus back to flat, arrive at 8pm, cook dinner of chicken kiev, spaghetti hoops and frozen peas, watch bad TV, drink Oyster Bay, feel like death, sleep.

Tuesday - I am now officially the world's most exhausted person but since individually each element of my marathon three days was either very fun or very useful, I am not - for the record - actually complaining. I do slightly think I deserve a medal though. And for joining me yesterday and being unflinchingly perky throughout, Paul deserves a gen-u-ine Certificate of Insanity and a big virtual kiss.

Mentally blank

Last night, the team from my office building who are running the London Marathon hosted a quiz evening to raise money for their chosen charities. Throughout the afternoon, the group of people with whom I was entering a quiz team emailed back and forth to decide on a name for ourselves. When we came up with 'Universally Challenged', I'm pretty sure it was with an element of irony. I don't think any of us knew quite how aposite it would turn out to be.

We were, for quite a while, last: tenth out of ten teams. And while we didn't finish last, we did end the evening periliously close to the bottom of the table. This would have been humiliating enough - but the fact is, we cheated. Vigorously and committedly throughout. My friend Laura was reading the questions and, I am afraid to say, regularly told us the answers. So quite how we managed to do so badly is a mystery just this side of the Loch Ness Monster in terms of sheer incalculability.

Now I am off to meet my new in-laws in Liverpool which is scary and exciting although after several weeks of non-stop action, there is a part of me that wants to lie in a swimming pool full of warm cookie dough and eat myself into a coma.