Acute accent

I was in Tesco's yesterday afternoon buying some stuff for dinner tonight, and the man at the checkout was very chatty.
"No plastic bags," I said, smiling. "I'm saving the planet."
"It is too late for that," he answered.
"What, so we should just stop trying?"
"Not stop trying, ma'am, but to fix the trouble we're in, we must start all over again."
"With a new planet?"
"With a new planet," he confirmed.
"Where will we get it?"
"I don't know. But we have grave problems here. It is too late. Too much digging and toenails."
"Toenails?"
"Yes, you know, underground - it is all going to collapse."
"Underground toenails?" I asked again.
"Noooooooo, not toenails," he said. "Toenails."
"TOENAILS? You are blaming the ecological death of this planet on buried toenails?"
"Tun-nels," he said, slowly, like I was the thickest person alive. I think I might be. We laughed. In the end I needed a plastic bag anyway, cos I'd forgotten my handy bag-in-your-handbag bag. D'oh.

Later on, I went to the National Theatre with my mum, where we had a nice dinner and then saw Men Should Weep, a play about working class Glasgow set in the 1930s. My dad's from Glasgow so it was interesting hearing them use vernacular I've been around all my life. There was a moment when the performance started that I thought how sad it was that he wasn't there with us, having decided that theatre is simply Not His Bag. It seemed like it would surely be of interest to him - but ten minutes in, it was clear that the kitchen sink drama would have made him flip his combover. And even if that hadn't have been enough to freak him out, the audience certainly would have done the trick. I have never heard so much coughing before in my life. It was like a whooping ward, with hacks going off every two or three seconds, obscuring the dialogue on many occasions. I managed to bite my tongue but admitted to mum later that, about halfway through Act Two, I'd been about two seconds from screaming "SHUUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUP!", only containing my irritation when I realised that the disruption would probably get into the Evening Standard. I don't know what can be done with coughers. You can't expect the theatre to refund their tickets, so I don't blame them for coming along, but it is pretty darn irritating. On top of which, anyone with a vague penchant for hypochondria e.g. me inevitably spends the entire production convinced they're catching a bit of everything. I don't know about you but that's not my idea of a fun evening out. Maybe compulsory shots of Benylin and/or squirts of First Defence for all audience members are the way forward.

I'm feeling chipper today as I had a really positive session with my therapist yesterday afternoon. I'm still a long way from my target destination, but I have unequivocally left my departure point behind forever, and that's an amazing feeling. I am en route and there's no going back. It's not an easy journey, but as I sat in the wingback chair sobbing yesterday, saying how hard I was finding it all, I managed to ask her a question.
"Do you spend pretty much all your working time watching people fighting this same battle?" She nodded. "I just can't believe they're all strong enough," I sniffed. "I mean, it's so hard, it physically hurts."
"Oh, not many people are strong enough," she said immediately, and I felt a bit better. It's not that I am pleased to be winning or anything. It's an acknowledgement that what I'm trying to attain is not easy. It makes me feel more able to cope with the continued struggle. For now, I will push on. And you, up ahead, clear the path to the River of Inner Peace. Incoming.

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.

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

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

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

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

Update

I read online today that being green is a truly unselfish act. I thought about that for a while this afternoon. I've long held the opinion that there's no such thing as a selfless act - but [it's difficult to type as I have my hands on my head at the moment. I don't know who that blonde girl is in The Apprentice, but she has to die] this gentleman was saying that, since none of us will see the results of our efforts to recycle or fly less, it would be hard to argue that there's a selfish element. But you know me, I'd argue that [ohmygod, I actually can't watch, this is agonising] night is day, black is white or that cellulite is a turn-on. And I'd say that Doing The Right Thing, even if there is no discernible benefit at the time, is always selfish, because it makes you feel good about yourself. And on that basis, I'm back to my first claim that there is no such thing as a selfless act. I'll let you know if that changes.

Back to today. I couldn't resist beaking in to the Bank area at lunchtime and I'm disappointed to report, I couldn't see anything much at all. Lots of happy, smiling people and happy, smiling coppers, with a lot of drummers drumming. It was a bit like the Notting Hill Carnival but without as much marijuana in the air or empty beer cans on the floor. What did strike me was that, for every protester, there were about 487 people taking photographs. I've never seen so many cameras, it was quite extraordinary. The media presence these days is absolutely gobsmacking. I went back to the office with a spring in my step, and was able to watch the drama unfold throughout the afternoon on Sky News, read about it on the Guardian's online site and a couple of news blogs, got second-by-second updates from Twitter feeds and saw photos uploaded just moments after they'd been taken. It was something else. Regardless, I stand by my earlier confusion that I think the protests were largely pointless and won't change anything. But I'd love to be proved wrong.

[Sir Alan's fired the wrong person twice now. Ah well. No one with an IQ above double figures switches on The Apprentice thinking their blood won't reach boiling point].

In other news, I went out for dinner with Justin last night and drank far too much wine. And then had half a pint in a pub. It was a very fun night and I have no regrets, but times aren't unmitigatingly happy at the moment, and gals like me would be advised to steer clear of that popular depressant, alcohol. So tonight when I met up with Tracey, I resolved to be good. I had a virgin strawberry daquiri in Gordon Ramsay's hotel bar in Camden, and then a single glass of house white in the pub where we ate dinner. I was feeling so pleased with my self-restraint that I came home and ate a mini Caramel, then a yoghurt, then a mini finger of Fudge and then a mini Curly-Wurly. Fear and self-loathing in SE London. Growl.

Hypocrisy alert

I believe that human lives are, while probably not objectively more important, certainly more of a priority to me than those of animals. It's not like I don't care about our furry friends, because I really truly do. But if there was a child and a puppy in front of me, and I had to shoot one, I'd kill the puppy. I'm sorry to be brutal, but that's the way things are. I might really love the puppy, and I know it would never have hurt anyone and that it is completely undeserving of death by bullet, but the child has the potential to change the world for all its inhabitants, whereas, with the possible exception of Lassie, as far as I am aware, dogs are unlikely to do much except eat, sleep, run around, hump people's legs and bark.

For this reason, I tend to avoid animal charities and slightly despair of people who give to them. Surely we should be sorting out our own species before worrying about giving sanctuary to donkeys? I know, it's disgusting how ill-treated these innocent creatures are, and I mean that with all sincerity - but a lot of humans are treated fairly horrifically as well. I'd rather get those many messes cleared up first and then move on to our four-legged pals. With that as my carefully-formed opinion, I try hard to stick to this, to care more about human tragedies than those involving animals. And, for the most part, I succeed.

But I'm not made of stone, goddamit! How can anyone resist a box of kittens?! Or a wobbly foal taking its first steps? Just the thought of those baby penguins snuggled under their dads' bellies to protect themselves from the freezing winter is enough to make tears prick my eyes. Imagine, therefore, the unpleasant yank at my heartstrings when I read in today's paper that guillemots have become so hungry due to lack of fish in the North Sea that they are now killing each others' chicks to lessen the demand for what little food is available. Apparently, guillemot couples only have one baby a year, and in the past, one parent would stay at home while the other would go out on the hunt for fish. Now, however, there's such a shortage of marine snackage that often both parents have to go scavenging, leaving their precious chick unguarded. In the absence of their protective parents, the chicks have been attacked by rivals, and even pushed off the cliffs onto the rocks below. The thought of a flightless baby guillemot plummeting towards certain death, having been pushed over the edge by a murderous cliff neighbour, makes me very sad indeed. I know worse things have happened at sea, and certainly on land, but sometimes perspective is hard to keep.

On the upside, as I was walking towards the tube this morning, a guy with a strong Jamaican accent drawled 'Hey girrrrrl - niiiiicccce glaaaassssessss'. And he didn't even comment on my arse. So that's good.

Fragment: consider revising

Lots to say today, especially given that I’ve recently returned from a delightful and festive birthday lunch for Laura. I am now back at my desk, very chatty and slightly redder of cheek – and hopefully working slash blogging capably and without (noticeable) error.

In general, I’m not a fan of The Times newspaper, but this dislike is largely to do with vague, indiscriminate political issues rather than any precise gripe. However, through my morning haze on the tube this morning, I noticed a front page headline that sparked a specific degree of irritation. The headline read as follows: ‘Children who can’t write their own name’. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but this isn’t news. Strictly speaking, it isn’t even a sentence. When typed into Microsoft Word, it is underlined in green and the right mouse-click reveals the beloved grammar hint, ‘Fragment: consider revising’. Children who can’t write their own name what? Should be culled? Are well thick innit? Exist in their thousands south of the equator? I know I’m being pedantic but if you can’t get news from a front page headline on one of the UK’s most popular papers, then what hope is there for the rest of us?

The story to which The Times ‘journalist’ was referring was that young children today are, apparently, woefully ill-educated – while The Guardian and this morning’s Today programme were covering the news that primary age children are stressed to the point of severe anxiety by the sheer quantity of exams they have to sit in addition to the daily threats of terrorism and local crime. Which is it to be, lads? Are they overworked or under-taught? Or both? In a shocking revelation, some pupils, reported a Guardian journalist, “said the tests were ‘scary’ and made them nervous”. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not into terrorising six year olds, but surely an element of school must be about attaining goals. If parents want their kids to spend their formative years wafting around making collages out of leaves or creating wonky music using bongo drums and those miniature cymbals that everyone always coveted at junior school, then that’s fine as long as they’re then prepared to accept ‘children who can’t write their own name’ – and, presumably, sub-editors who can’t formulate a grammatical headline. Or maybe there's some middle ground. Meh, I knew I should have watched BBC Breakfast - they would have been seated firmly on the fence.

In actual news, Al Gore has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his film, An Inconvenient Truth, less than a day after a British high court judge ruled that it could only be taught in schools as long as there were written guidance notes to accompany it that represented the other viewpoints. What was really adorable was this note that was written at the bottom of The Grauniad’s online coverage: “Friday October 12 2007. A panel in the article above listing the significant errors found by a high court judge in Al Gore's documentary on global warming was labelled The nine points, but contained only eight. The point we omitted was that the film said a sea-level rise of up to 20ft would be caused by melting of either west Antarctica or Greenland in the near future; the judge ruled that this was "distinctly alarmist". The missing point has been added.” Of course, it’s pure hypocrisy for me to find errors in The Guardian adorable and lynch The Times for theirs, but c’est la vie.

Finally, I note that there has been some unexpectedly good news for the hospital chief responsible for Maidstone and Tunbridge Wells hospitals, the trust that was recently accused of causing the deaths of more than 90 patients over a two year period: she was given a quarter of a million pounds to quit. I’m going to kill 90 bankers and see if they offer me £250k to resign. Whaddya reckon? Fingers crossed that some mentalist doesn’t actually go on a shooting spree in the next week as this entry might make me a suspect. I didn’t do it, honest guv’nor. Happy weekend.

Rain:sun ratio unacceptable

Today I’m happy because I received some really good news via email. I can’t tell you what it is. I know that’s annoying but you’ll just have to trust me: it’s good news and I’m happy.

On top of being happy, I am also a selection of the following adjectives: starving, overweight, overpaid, underworked, right (always), liberal, sweet-smelling, pessimistic, big-boned, short-sighted and astigmatic, punctual, reliable, immovable and kissable.

Most of the UK seems to be underwater. And with the reservoirs flooded, the tap water in many areas has been contaminated. Hundreds, maybe thousands of families are being left with no supply, having to rely on bottled water to bathe and hydrate themselves. It’s not good. Add this miserable picture to the fact that it’s 23 July and we still haven’t had even a suggestion of summer since our freakish Antiguan burst in April and suddenly, global warming is looking a lot closer and more annoying than we’d anticipated.

The Live Earth concerts on 7 July raised awareness of the little things we can all do to make a difference – washing clothes at ten degrees less, turning all appliances off rather than leaving them on standby etc. – but I find it hard to keep up the good work when all around me, Joe Public seems to be more wasteful than ever. There are few sights more disheartening than my office, where computers and lights are left on for weeks at a time, 90% of paper waste is not recycled and flights are taken frequently and without guilt. Or the skin-crawling moment each morning when I pass hoards of commuters picking up their free copy of Metro and boarding a train filled with countless discarded copies of the same paper – while a dejected Underground employee wearing a day-glo vest walks through the carriages, picking up hundreds of still-pristine Metro leftovers with his litter-picker and shoving them into his clear plastic bag along with the other rubbish. Why risk germ-perpetuation reading a stranger’s second-hand copy when the distribution bins are full of spotless new editions? The blatant waste is painful.

I’m not sure how things are going to change but I live near the Thames and assuming the rain continues, my home is at risk. Come on people – forget everyone else, this is about me now. Don’t make me shower under room temp Evian – even temporarily. Make sure my home isn’t flooded by dramatically altering your way of life immediately. If you must read Metro (and really, I advise against it – it’s a terrible right-wing rag enjoyed almost exclusively by illiterates), make sure you pick up a second hand copy. Wash your clothes in your bathwater. Read by candlelight instead of watching TV. Walk to work. Grow all your own food and make your own wine. And don’t fly anywhere ever again. If all of you do this, I’ll feel a lot less guilty about my holiday to Lanzarote in September. Let me know how you get on.

In Cold House

Having complained non-stop for the past week about how freakishly mild the weather has been for mid-January, a gripe propelled by an An-Inconvenient-Truth-inspired panic about global warming and drowning polar bears, it is with some hypocrisy that I must now moan about how insufferably cold it has suddenly become in the past 48 hours. The temperature has dropped to a point where I am unable to prevent audible and embarrassing brrrr noises escaping from my mouth when I walk outside - and although there is no external evidence to prove I have frostbite on my fingers after this afternoon's scooter ride to South Ken, I would argue vehemently with any medical professional who denied that I was exhibiting symptoms.

Although the heating at home is more than adequate, I was unable to warm up this evening, and resolved to have a piping hot bath the moment Celebrity Big Brother was over. Thus, at 10pm, I walked upstairs, turned on the taps, and continued up to my room to check my emails. Too many minutes later, I resurfaced from the internet vortex and realised with a shock that my bath could well be overflowing. I scampered gracelessly downstairs, dreading the sheet of water pouring over the edge - but what I found was, I eventually realised, far worse.

The bath had not run over and felt quite acceptable to the touch. I ripped off my clothes, stepped in and lay down. It was then that I realised my frostbitten fingers and icy, circulation-free feet had not given an accurate indication of the bath's temperature. Lukewarm would be a compliment. At best, it was tepid. The anticipation of warmth I had experienced moments before now evaporated entirely. I was cold, wet and covered in goosebumps. I became extremely nostalgic for the time when I'd been merely cold. The state of 'dryness' took on a previously unappreciated value. And although I'd been spared the clichéd hell of an overflow, I was now deep in the humiliating wastefulness that is a bath full of unwanted water - not only was I not hot, I was needlessly using up the earth's resources. I was cold and evil.

It had all been too much. Eventually the faithful boiler replenished its supplies but it was too little too late - I'd been defeated, unable to linger any longer. Now I'm back upstairs, flannel pyjamas and fleecy slippers positioned appropriately on my person, novelty Zippy-from-Rainbow hot water bottle clutched to my abdomen. I'm still cold, but at least I've learned an important life lesson: never sit down to read the Oscar Nominations online when I've got taps running. I blame Helen Mirren.