Dipping my toes back in the water..............

Words Count

2010-07-26T15:09:00.001+01:00

Write 250 words every day and finish a novel in a year? I’d like to know where I am supposed to find time to write those every day – a dropped lump of spare hours in the gutter perhaps? Under the ornamental gourd smothering my runner beans? In the bottom of my handbag amongst the unspent coppers and sticky conference-facility mint?

It’s not just the time spent crafting the words, it’s the age it takes for my laptop to load. There’s the emails and Daily Horoscope to check, the headlines to scan, the updates and Friend Requests from someone you once sat next to in a year end exam to ignore, Spider Solitaire to play.

I do sometimes think of becoming one of those people that gets up at the crack of dawn, goes for a five-mile run, has a bowl of Special K whilst holding perfect yoga poses, then sits down and knocks off a chapter or two before work. You know the types. What do they call them? Anal-retentive freaks of nature. All that fibre must dry up any remaining joy and spontantiety and everyone knows running jiggers your knees.

Then there’s the evenings. If I’m not in the gym, ploughing up and down the pool, which I’m invariably not, there’s the pots to wash, the cat to feed, Sudoku to complete, phone calls to be made, repeats to be watched, nails to paint, books to read.

If I had the time I would write 250 words. I haven’t.

So he said...

2010-04-01T22:53:00.001+01:00

"...It's not you. It's me. I just can't commit".

I wasn't asking for commitment.

I was asking for a kiss.

My First...

2009-08-02T01:12:00.002+01:00

...gig as a news pundit...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p003v8p4/Lara_Kings_Morning_Show_30_07_2009/

How I Started To Smoke Again

2009-06-16T23:55:00.008+01:00

Cherrypie interviews John Gordillo - He's Single, Y'Know

He's Perrier Award-nominated. He was Eddie Izzard's director and has recently worked with Reginald D. Hunter. He's also standing before me, bare-chested, ironing his shirt.

"Fuckonomics - that's the title of my new show." Steam dampens the perfectly placed hairs on his chest. I'm rendered dumb. John expounds. "It's about the economics of sex. The whole thing can be analogised by applying certain economic principles. It's an utterly cynical review of a relationship that had disintegrated to little more than a crude bartering system. It's my way of understanding how it fell apart."

I sit down, rather too hastily, like my legs have just buckled beneath me. I remain silent hoping the loud shouts of ‘He’s Single’ stay in my head.

“No matter how much I tried to convince myself that it’s all about intellectual, spiritual, altruistic connections, ultimately it boils down to where I get to stick my dick. It’s me trying to figure out why I lack definition. It’s also about pornography, and my use of porn which is another thing entirely.”

He puts down the iron and aims his deep blue Spanish eyes straight at me. He’s Single. I swallow. Then remember how to speak. I ask him about his return to stand-up after a six year break.

“I started as a comedian in 1996, then left the circuit to host and co-create The Recommended Daily Allowance - RDA, a nightly comedy/talk show for BBC Choice. It infatuated and infuriated BBC bosses in equal measure, and ran until the channel rebranded as BBC Three. I was also directing countless live shows, including Reginald D. Hunter, Ealing Live! and I directed/produced and edited Eddie Izzard’s Unrepeatable and Live At The Ambassadors shows. I did some less interesting stuff for the Beeb, ITV and Channel 4 too.” Right now his hand running through his thick black hair has captured my interest.

John found his way back to the circuit in 2006 and performed his debut solo show, Free John Gordillo at the Edinburgh Free Fringe in 2007 with one five-star reviewer saying: “The most expensive comedy this year is Ricky Gervais at £37.50. I can honestly say John Gordillo is of the same calibre and he’s free.”

“It was well received and I enjoyed doing it but it wasn’t joined up.” The following year Divide and Conga became one of the most acclaimed shows of Edinburgh 2008, receiving four and five star reviews across the board. I witnessed its first ever performance in a dim club in Scarborough (I’d forgotten the stage lights and had to improvise with a couple of Tesco torches). I’d been struck by his easy intelligence, articulation, broad shoulders, chiselled jaw…

“I really wrestled with that show. There was a serious part in the middle of it that I was struggling with but I needed it to bring the two concepts of the show together. Once I managed to filter out my ego, it all came together.” Yes. Yes, John.

Gordillo is an inspiration, a consummate performer with an amazing talent, passion and intellect. If you are after cheap, silly laughs avoid, but if you want intelligent, moving comedy with a point, then you cannot afford to miss it – Chortle - *****

Superlative. Wonderfully intelligent and insightful – Time Out *****

Brilliant. Heartfelt and hilarious…he’s dynamite – The Times *****

Fit as Fuckonomics – Cherrypie 2009 xxxxx

Healthy Check

2009-05-13T20:44:00.004+01:00

There's no smoker who hasn't lit their last cigarette in a dark alley only to find it was the wrong way round. Menthol smokers do it regularly. Me included. (Mum - if you've strayed here by mistake, I'm using literary licence - there was just that one time when I was trying to impress Nick Denton...).

It's annoying, especially if it's your last cigarette and all the shops on Wandsworth Heath are shut. Should that ever happen to you and You happen to be on Wandsworth Heath, an old tramp that frequents the third bench from the second Horse Chestnut on the right will sell a Woodbine for 10p, least he did in 1987 when it last happened to me there ( Mum- LL). The other alternative is to take a sharp knife to the cauterised tip of the offending cigarette, thus shortening the end of what will inevitably shorten your life.

What isn't so easy to overcome is this.(Boys - go look at porn, War Games, Second Life, Sister Wendy Beckett, whatever floats your boat. There's nothing more for you here).

Girls - It's mid-flow. You've been griping like a teether all afternoon. You've snapped at everyone, not always justifiably. You've done all their job's, whether you needed to or not, better than they would ever have done and introduced a new record system. You've survived the ravages of the school run, dry-cleaners, supermarket bottle-neck and local Co-Op checkout to secure that Sauvignon which is on offer at £3.99.

You get home. Everyone else is out. The house is in darkness. You drop your shopping. Rush to the downstairs cloakroom that you had built on an extendable mortgage. Don't bother to turn on the light. Why would you? Then for the next five minutes, wonder why the tampon just won't go where you are pointing it.

You might think initially, 'It's been a long time. Nature's a great healer'.

No.

Nature doesn't work that way or else I've lost my virginity every other year twelve times.

Don't give up.

Especially if it's your last tampon 'til next month's budget.

Try it the other way around. Like Menthol cigarettes, they look the same each way up and don't always have easy to see arrows directing you where to open them correctly.

Now wash your hands.

The Corsa Enquiry

2009-02-11T21:56:00.006Z

The authorities will soon put two and two together and realise something is amiss.

Four consecutive vehicles all dying from the same illness. The common link? The same owner.

I predict a national enquiry followed by the hasty formation of a specialised Vehicle Protection Unit. Innocent Ministers and Heads of Services may lose their jobs. They have already displayed their incompetence and whatever brings them down can only be good for the world in general (and I am generalising, not blaming the entire Government for the current state of the nation. I do not read the Daily Mail. I apologise to any blameless politicians who fall foul of this. Perhaps they should have listened harder at school). It will be a typical knee-jerk reaction and serve no practical purpose whatsoever.

The real culprit should be brought to justice and made never to commit the same crime again.

I have no problem with that. I just need to be able to get to work, see my friends, shop, and avoid the embarrassment of any daily use of public transport.

I am taking this opportunity to set out my mitigation.

1. I never meant them any harm. I loved all my cars. I never saw my behaviour as inappropriate. I probably wouldn't do anything differently today.

2. I provided them with sufficient fuel and never, ever (apart from one time 8 or 9 years ago when I was very busy and distracted) let them run on empty or suffer malnutrition.

3. I gave them top grade oil even when they were spewing it out faster than I could pour it in. I never spooned it back.

4. There were no physical bumps or bruises.

5. I emptied all the accumulated crap when it reached knee height in each of the passenger wells. I even put air-fresheners in the boot of the last one (actually, the seller did. I just didn't remove them in the last 16 months).

6. I never touched them. Certainly not inappropriately. And definitely not in a loving way.

7. I meant them no harm and afforded them the basic needs: petrol, tyres, oil, air and water as required. Heck! I'm not getting a regular service so why can't they cope with the odd shrivelled gasket or dry spot too?

8. I bought the last one a new oil cap after driving her down to London and back without one.

9. I'd been too busy to realise I'd done 43,000 miles in 16 months without a service to book a service.

10. I'm sorry. And I've promised my Dad I won't do it again.

I Am A Walrus

2008-12-30T02:23:00.005Z

So many days, too many meals, nothing to do but lay around like beached sea creatures, moaning mourntively*.

In desperation, I took an early night. I was too eaten up, drunk out and done in.

I woke in slight distress shortly after 1am. A harrowing dream of gravy and potatoes. It had been almost half a day after all. It was survival instinct that forced me down the stairs, into the cold, desolate kitchen. I reached for the hob and turned. Something clicked. I tried again. Same click. No spark. The fuel injection button was stuck, stuck fast with congealed gravy, much like my intestines. I considered it for a moment. Then decided to worry about it another day, much like my intestines, arteries and anything else from the neck down. I switched to the seldom-used ring at the back.

Minutes later I had a plate of Nigella's bread sauce-scented gratinaceaous-period potato and a couple of fossilised sausages warmed with gloopy jus before me. I entered the living room, dark, dank. The TV would not respond. I pressed the remote, all three of them. The same message beamed back to me. AV. That's what happens when teenage boys come back from University carrying X-Box 360s.

Deterred, but not yet defeated or eated, I returned to the kitchen and sat on the floor with my memories. A cornflake - I've not had any of those since the time we walked the Three Peaks. A shrivelled pea - that must have been Jack's re-enactment of Captain Corelli. A quid. I pocketed it and flicked on the wall-mounted television. A midget was performing YMCA. I looked again. It was a repeat for the Deaf.

I watched soundlessly, apart from the regular clicking of my jaw that has never been the same since the Edinburgh Rock incident, ajaw, between chews. Hundreds of walruses left the sea. They slowly made their way up the beach, exhausted, triumphant.

I silently thanked my parents for choosing a good dentist all those years ago as I made my cumberous** way back up the steep stairs.

* not sure if this the correct spelling, or even a word. If not, it is a Cherryism.

** and another

Redundancy Renaissance

2008-12-22T21:23:00.002Z

At exactly the same moment my move into the Probate Department was announced, the temperature warmed up.

I need cold snaps, flu epidemics, aluminium pan purchasers (did they prove the link to Alzheimer's? I forget).

I expect an announcement that they've found a cure for Cancer any minute now.

If you see a hearse being chased, wave at me.

Favourite Quote of the Term

2008-12-22T21:13:00.003Z

" I'm struggling to budget, Mum. I can cope with potatoes and vegetables. But isn't Steak expensive"

I couldn't respond. I was too busy looking for bean recipes.

Clement Climbs

2008-12-14T00:58:00.003Z

He'd had a bad journey. Stuck in stationary traffic for four hours, hungry and grumpy, it was my job to ensure all Sir Clement Freud's needs were met. I ushered him into the Green Room where an assortment of posh sandwiches awaited, just as his manager had ordered.

" I don't eat bread. Wheat-intolerant." He disdainfully dismissed my offer to fetch an alternative from Tesco. He wanted a mirror and Listerine. I had neither as they hadn't appeared on his Rider.He rejected a Trebor mint. I had to think fast.

" We share a birthday." Gold. A brief discussion centring around Shirley MacLaine and Barbra Streisand and we were off. He looked at me for the first time, really seeing me.

" Are you married?" No.

"Single?" Smile and nod, vigorously.

" I have a car and a driver outside. Would you like to come to London for the weekend?" Nervous giggle. Was he joking?

During the interval I obediantly sat beside him transcribing questions from the audience into legible script whilst he tucked into the fresh fruit salad that was the only thing available without gluten, wheat, nuts or other potential peer poisons.

" Watermelon is the strongest aphrodisiac known to man. Far more effective than Viagra. Do you think I should have another helping?"

I looked him in the eye, didn't flinch at the wink and calmly declared that he'd had enough.

Turnip Tinsel and Tears

2008-12-12T20:32:00.004Z

I went bowling. And won a turnip.

Not just any turnip. Possibly the biggest turnip in the world. Certainly as big as the bowling ball I consistently guttered. Thinking about it, I'd have had more success if I'd bowled the turnip.

It's going to feed me for Christmas.

I shall start with Roast Turnip and all the trimmings. Cold turnip salad, turnip stew, curried turnip, turnip and squeak, turnip sandwiches and turnip soup.

Turnip is the new turkey.

Turkey is redundant, which coincidentally, am I. Just as well I've got root vegetable experience.

Favourite Quote of the Week

2008-12-10T22:38:00.002Z

Me to Biker: I'm sorry. I'm not very experienced in the Trouser Department.

Will I Stay Or Will I Go?

2008-11-26T00:05:00.003Z

The Partners were meeting today to decide on the future structure of the firm. They will announce the redundancies on 5 December. They can't do it immediately as it's less than three months since they made the first round of cuts. I've spent six of the last seven months in uncertainty. It's been Hell.

I could spend the next eight working days striving for professional perfection, pulling rabbits out of hats and generally outperforming any previous outstanding performance. In Hull.

Or I could use up my last eight days' holiday entitlement selling wares at the largest Bike Show of the year. In Birmingham.

If I'm not back within a fortnight, I have ridden into the Midlands on the back of a batty biker.

Amazing Grace

2008-11-15T01:21:00.002Z

Help!

I've got to say Grace tonight to a roomful of fine folk including my local MP (who has kindly offered to give me a lift there and back) and a former Cabinet minister.

I meant to Google for something witty. I also intended to print off menus and write a welcome note for the tables. I got distracted between my lunch appointment with a legendary saxophonist and my dinner date with our premier performance poet.

My cupboard is bare.
Can anyone help me out there?

Oestrogen For You To Say

2008-11-11T17:20:00.002Z

I'm not keen on weekends at the best of times. All that enforced relaxation, time to do things in and around the home, sit for hours waiting for the phone to ring, hoping someone somewhere remembers I exist followed by sustained stroking of the scabby cat, the weekend's only companion. Perhaps a little rocking motion. Some faint and prolonged moaning. A tear. Sobs.

This weekend was worse. My mood wouldn't lift, weighed down with the heaviest and blackest of black thoughts. I had to force myself to go to places where people gathered, to protect myself from my own actions.

Imagine my relief then, when I woke up Sunday morning in pain, a sickening feeling at the pit of my stomach. Who knew Feminax could cure suicide?

PS. To the friend that helpfully suggested my extreme hormonal imbalances may be the onset of the menopause - try fucking saying that when not separated by a phone line.

A Bed Idea

2008-11-04T21:20:00.003Z

Don't despair when your only child departs into the wild world. See it as an opportunity.

There's an empty room there. Use it.

1. Put a weekend aside to sanitise. Remember to tell a friend where you are going and arrange to check in by a certain hour. If they have not heard from you within an alloted space of time, they know which part of the house to send the emergency services to cut you free from the Nuts magazine avalanche.
To sanitise: to remove germs and other abhorrent matter; to render clean; to make habitable for rational folk.

2. Be prepared. Wear rubber gloves and have breathing apparatus within reach. Double-bag anything suspect.

3. Make it comfy. There's probably no need to spend £300 on new bedding, but make sure the mattress and pillows are protected, preferably with deep-quilt, the bed has clean, crisp linen(300+ threadcount if you are going to do it properly), a scattering of cushions, a contrasting throw and a fluffy rug.

4. Make it homely. Travellers rarely pack bulky items such as bathrobes or slippers. Fold the fluffiest you can find and insert towelling slippers salvaged from hotel stays. Dig out those scented candles you got for a birthday. They won't light them but it makes you look cosmopolitan. Same goes for any interesting or intellectual books you've never read, leave them by the bedside.

5. Don't forget the bathroom. Go to work on the grouting with a toothbrush. Go to work on the toilet with a loobrush. Have an ample supply of every kind of new brush. Stock up on toilet roll. Polish the sink bowl.

6. Put out the cat. Hidden little messages undo all your hard work.

7. Put out taxi cards and timetables. You might like living in the 'sticks' but your guests may prefer civilisation.

8. Cleanse the fridge. You may have gotten used to the rotting fish smell of the chilli sauce stored in an old Kronenberg bottle stolen from the kebab shop on the High Street last February but your guests might not have the same affection.

9. Don't offer extras. If all you are charging is £15 a night, that £7.95 bottle of Rioja your guest just drank eats heavily into your profits.

10. Promote. Ordering free business cards from Vistaprint is a false economy. If you do it after one-too-many Sauvignons, you will end up with 5 years supply extolling 'Leaning's Lodgings' in fine italics with a strap-line ' Never Not Knowingly' and a picture of a sharp-breasted dominatrix with a haircut uncomfortably similar to your own. It could lead to an entirely different business venture.

Take it from one who knows.

John Hegley's Influence

2008-10-25T19:41:00.007+01:00

I want to be over
the sea, anywhere
not near.
I want to run, have
fun, eat carrots, with good
habits and some
credibility.
I want to be good, for
others, a standard for
lovers, a flagship
for mothers and
sons.
I want to be all
I appear, clear,
pure, sure and certain.
This curtain hides more
than wires,tricks
dark desires.
It's hiding my
face from the sun and
everyone.

I want to run
away
from
me.

Fortune Hunting

2008-10-22T23:29:00.003+01:00

Only sad, lost folk who find themselves at a crossroads in life, in need of direction, with no clear control and no method of self-propulsion consult clairvoyants.

So, as Maxine read my palm and cards, I wondered just where she'd send me.

I'm going to have an illness, breast-related that will entail an operation and brush with death. No fear, I'll have a long life after 't it.

A close friend called Mike will have health issues from cigarettes. I have a Mick, non-smoker marathon-runner, but no Mike so I'm not unduly worried.

I'm independent and in control, she reassured me.

My sharp-tongued son will focus. (He's regularly training next to Linford Christie, and winning on the Lunchbox Awards, so I am intrigued exactlywhere his gaze will fall).

I'm having twins. A boy and a girl. Or I could get sterilised.

Someone somewhere is missing me. He seems weaker than me but that is just because I am so strong. He's wounded and feels the not inconsiderable pain more than me. We're actually quite level and the only problem we have is communication. He loves and needs me. He'll be in touch within seven days.

Sorted.

He's Back

2008-10-18T13:42:00.002+01:00

At least I think it's him.

I popped home in between Board meetings last night. I was engulfed in a cloud of aftershave as I opened the back door. The toilet seat was up on the downstairs loo. I recognised the kitchen. Crap adorned every erstwhile-shiny surface. There was a stray sock in the middle of the floor and new rugby boots spilling out of the box on the breakfast bar. A pile of bedding sat expectantly in front of the washing machine.

The sofas now resembled a Tracy Emin installation. I nearly tripped over the hold-all at the bottom of the stairs. As I looked up, I could see a bath sheet draped over the banister. A tap dripped.

His bedroom, recently sanitised, straightened, stocked with fresh bedding, sumptuous throws and a fluffy robe ( for visiting comedians) had been ransacked.

I had to be straight out again after the briefest of ablutions so didn't have time to further investigate whether I had developed a particularly nasty Goldilocks infestation or my son truly had landed for the weekend.

Formal Board business over, I came back at lunchtime today. The tenner I'd baited the worktop with had gone along with a packet of noodles, half a loaf of bread and a banana. The sink was full.

As I loaded the washing machine, I sighed. Contented.

He's Gone

2008-10-07T23:28:00.005+01:00

The magical cupboards which made food disappear in an instant have ceased to work. The washing machine, consigned to a one-day week, quit. The Bosch replacement hasn't had a proper induction. I might take down all the curtains just to keep it occupied. The fridge barely recognises me. The cleaning products are sick of the sight of me. I'm sick of the sight of my bleary face in the smearless mirror every morning.

Coming home is harrowing. I know exactly what I shall find, and where. There are no discarded trainer trip-hazards, towering sinkfuls of pots, notes begging for money.

It's cold, empty and lonely.

He has emailed.

The first was just a weblink - which took me to a page for Pro-soccer boots - with the loving footnote ' Size 10 please'.

The second, entitled ' Bank Details', contained exactly what it said on the tin together with a list:

Sports kit £300

Gym membership £200

Textbooks £40 each - I'll need about 12

That one came with two kisses. XX

Tonight was a handy link to the page where Sports kit can be purchased.

That got a ' Love You XXX'.

He tried to ring last night. Twice. At 02.14am and again at 02.18. He was out celebrating victory with his new 1st XV mates. He probably wanted me to pick them up from the kebab shop in Uxbridge High Street. I'd like as not have done it had I remembered to charge my phone.

If this is the start of the next Chapter of my life, something interesting better happen soon.

Happy 60th Birthday Dad

2008-03-19T17:46:00.002Z

Dust in My Eye

2008-03-03T17:25:00.003Z

I was awoken by a mild trembling. It's not an unknown phenomenon in my bed, and has on occasion been much stronger and lasted significantly longer, though not for some time.

I immediately thought my ceilings were collapsing, or the hot water tank was about to come crashing on top of me, maybe the front of the house had fallen down.

It was some minutes before I realised I'd just experienced my first earthquake. It was some hours before I fell back to sleep.

( NB. The epicentre was approximately 15 miles away as the crow flies. I survived with a touch of post-traumatic stress disorder every time anyone comes up with an 'original' DidTheEarthMoveForYou gag).

Curiouser and curiouser

2008-02-22T12:04:00.002Z

The winner of FHM's World's Sexiest Woman is set to be announced on April 24.

That's my birthday.

What a lovely day that will be.

In the Last Three Weeks...

2008-02-20T17:56:00.003Z

I've spent a weekend in Birmingham on a housing conference.

I've seen Van Morrison and Morrissey in the same week, the former on a free Press ticket. I've written my first music review which will be published next month. The review written by the proper journalist I went with was rejected. I tried not to feel ever so slightly smug. Beginner's luck.

I've had a perm. It was very hard trying to find an afro comb. I had to go back to 1988 before they were in stock.

I've been to the pictures twice. I've had 2 Board Meetings and a smear test.

I'm on the back of the local free Arts mag this month. I'd have changed the names of the real friends I'd written about if I'd known they'd use it. There can't be too many Candice's with big tits in Lincolnshire.

I've got plaster on my walls. That temporarily was at the expense of electricity which managed to become disconnected during the plastering process. All utility services are now fully functioning.

I have partial flooring and beautiful laminate in my conservatory. There is a very good chance I may have furniture by Easter.

I have had a couple of dates and another on Friday. I have a writing tutorial tomorrow. That is quite possibly the most significant meeting of all.

I have had a DVD of 32 Morrissey videos lovingly made for me by a chap who really needs to get out of his flat more. It came in the post yesterday. I was thrilled.

I won my first ever eBay auction. I am now the proud owner of a Vintage Deluxe Scrabble set.

I have a rugby pitch to shiver beside this evening.

I have taken over the running of the comedy clubs. Jon's moving to Manila. He tried extreme internet dating and liked it. I'll be in Hull, Louth, Doncaster, Thirsk, Scarborough and possibly Durham.

I have to find a way to eat, sleep, shop and iron whilst driving.

Any suggestions?

No Coincidence?

2008-02-18T17:27:00.002Z

Surely the headline can be no coincidence on the day I decide to mothball the blog, having just had one of the most exciting months of my life with absolutely no inclination to post about it.

Cherrypie soars up World's Sexiest Poll.

Of course I haven't been posting. I've got votes to earn.

Incessant Insomnia

2008-01-29T15:54:00.000Z

I had a wonderful night's sleep. I was out within seconds of my head hitting the pillow shortly after midnight and I didn't wake up once until Jack kissed me goodbye at 7.30am this morning.

I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I answered the door to a delivery man 15 minutes later, oversaw the deposit of a ton of wood, insulation and plasterboard on my front garden and at my desk an hour after that.

20 minutes later Jack passed his driving test.

I will not be sleeping for the foreseeable future.

Wails and Woahs

2008-01-19T18:27:00.000Z

My favourite married man got a conscience for Christmas. Consequently, I got dropped.

I've taken up dolphin training. It's incredibly distracting and quite addictive.

Did you know dolphins are closely related to rabbits? Only waterproof.

For Pete's Sake

2008-01-17T17:16:00.000Z

The builders started on the day the Environment Agency issued 87 Severe Flood warnings.

It seemed fitting.

Pete, Pete, Paul, Pete and Little Pete are easy to tell apart. Pete has 5 sugars in his tea, Pete 4, Paul 3...

If it wasn't for my new hobby ( Girls - DO IT - you can't help but smile), I think I might go ever so slightly crazy.

Sitting Alone?

2008-01-08T14:12:00.000Z

I don't make Resolutions. They, like Rules, are there to be broken. The only challenge is to see just how quickly, completely and debauchedly it can be done.

I do try and learn something different every year though. Last year it was creative writing, before that Greek and previously salsa dancing, astronomy and geology.

My new class starts next week.

Burlesque Chair Dancing.

I am very keen so promise to be an able student.

The Start of Things

2008-01-01T16:34:00.000Z

I'm standing outside my back door smoking the last fag of 2007. The neighbour's Union Jack is fluttering in the breeze. He isn't a BNP thug, just very patriotic. He got rid of the Warrior and bought a Focus. His girlfriend's very nice.

There's something at the top of the pole. It looks like a small camera. It's pointing straight into my bedroom window. I really ought to rehang the curtains.

Is the cheeky sod streaming my bedroom habits to the world at large? Or is it just for personal consumption? How long has it been there? How clear is the picture? Could any of the married men be identified? Am I incensed or aroused?

2008. Day breaks. I pick up my binoculars. It's just a loop from the flag rope.

My imagination really needs an outlet. My libido has escaped.

A Clandestine Christmas

2007-12-21T16:30:00.000Z

A Country House Hotel.

A stolen night, the whole night.

An attentive lover.

Freshly painted toe nails.

Two glasses of chilled white wine.

Intimate gifts exchanged.

Romantic, erotic.

Heady and strong.

Bugger! My period.

I always time it wrong!

Unbelievable

2007-12-13T14:06:00.000Z

I am having a lovely time at the moment. I am really enjoying being me.

Yesterday I arrived at work to find a huge vase of flowers from an appreciative client. The job had been easy, the client delightful. I wish they were all like that.

In the evening I was told I could be 'Rhodesian'. I believe he was making reference to my pioneering spirit. He certainly meant it as a compliment, being Rhodesian ( not! Zimbabwean) himself.

This morning I've received a case of wine and been told I'm lovely... gorgeous,even, from a person of certain discernment.

I did flick a V at my hairdresser on my way to work. He'd been pipping to get my attention, not because I'd crossed in front of him whilst sending a text rather than looking where I was going. Fortunately, he found it funny. But then he would, 'cos I'm lovely.

My Fabulous Sister

2007-12-06T13:57:00.000Z

We're a gifted family. I got all the brains and Katy Krunch got all the looks, creativity, talent and style.

She's just launched her own company and has already been featured by Times Online.

Go see what she does. You might spot the odd offspring of Cherrypie as you mosey around the site. ( Tip-click on the purple word and it will take you straight there).

That's us on the right. I still look just like that middle picture to this day.

Orgasmic Moment #32

2007-11-23T17:39:00.000Z

'I'm really sorry to bother you, Cherrypie. I hope you don't mind me asking but would it be alright if I took some of your post and answered it for you. I'm almost uptodate with my own work and I really think I could help you out a lot more with the routine stuff.'

Thankyou, God. Thankyou, Universe, Thankyou. Thankyou. Thankyou

Music Video:
Thank U by (Alanis Morissette)

Music Video Code by Video Code Zone

Clever C*nt

2007-11-20T10:44:00.000Z

It's always good to start the day knowing you don't have gonorrhoea. Or chlamydia, hepatitis B, HIV or syphilis.

Not that I thought for one moment I had any of these things. No symptoms, but then 70% of women never do. Perhaps all this extra weight I've been carrying wasn't fat, just a very inflamed pelvis.

What I did have was sex with a married man. A married man who felt very guilty. A married man who developed symptoms, who convinced me I'd given him an infection, who dashed off to a clinic and swallowed large quantities of antibiotics. I followed. I too took antibiotics despite being told it was unlikely I needed them. I insisted on the tests. The full works. I passed with flying colours.

Meanwhile, the married man has a very nasty dose of psychosomatic soap sensitivity.

Hollywood Bound

2007-11-16T18:11:00.000Z

Story Outline

Cherrypie, a brilliant but unsung beauty-beneath-a-burkha, Erin Brokovitch with a Lincolnshire accent, refuses to accept her beloved comedy club is closing down for good. She recognises the rare talent and creative capabilities of Jon, the down-on-his-luck promoter and admires his strong morals and staunch ethics. She resolves to do her utmost to keep live comedy coming to Scunthorpe.

This isn’t Calendar Girls, this isn’t The Full Monty, this isn’t Brassed Off. This is a true story of one woman’s fight.This is serious. Laughter is at stake.

Cherrypie despairs of her fellow townsfolk. She tries time and again to inject some interest, some hope, some ambition into their tired, apathetic lives. It is a thankless and apparently futile task. There are many points along the way at which she almost resigns herself to defeat.

Jack, her hard-on-the-outside but secretly sensitive son, worries that the strain is becoming too much for his tireless mother. He falls asleep to the sound of tears through the plaster-deprived walls* night after night. He steps over the signs of his mother’s latenight work every morning, empty wine bottles, overflowing ashtrays, half-finished sudoku puzzles, brilliant pieces of prose that never read quite the same in the cold light of day.

Diane, Jon’s beautiful and vivacious mother, supports Cherrypie’s campaign. Together, shoulder-to-upper-forearm ( Cherrypie being a dwarf) they spread the word, evangelising to the woolly ears of the local townsfolk. They won’t shut up until someone takes them seriously. They have already got to 70 and 36 respectively without anyone ever taking them seriously. Yet they are optimists, glass-half-full, thick-skinned, refuse to give up hope, romantic types of girl.

Eventually, the townsfolk start to notice a faint noise. It grows louder. The press get interested. Peter Levy pays a call. The townsfolk start to hum the same tune. It becomes a deafening roar. Cherrypie misses a call from Jonathan Ross because her rubbish old Nokia ZX81 runs out of charge but he sends a driver and has her whisked to his studios giving her time only to have a blow-dry, boob job, make-over and pull on a knee-to-torso flesh-coloured lycra foundation garment.

After the show, Cherrypie receives an invitation from Gordon Brown to be co-opted onto his Cabinet with special portfolio for raising the aspirations of the nation.

Jon, meanwhile, is oblivious. His curtains have remained drawn for weeks. Papers have piled up at the door of his recently-renovated flat. When he opens the curtains, eating cold baked beans from a Tesco value tin, the world’s media is camped out in the communal gardens opposite. It is a Julia Roberts in Notting Hill moment.

And they all laughed happily ever after.

*Subplot - Cherrypie is suffering a personal tragedy as her house falls to pieces around her ears, a victim of flood damage caused by global warming and mass consumerism. Her evil insurance man persistently humiliates and belittles her but she gives no thought to her woes, so concerned is she for the future of comedy.

Suggested Casting

Cherrypie– Miriam Margoyles

Jon – Heath Ledger

Jack – Jonny Wilkinson

Diane – Honor Blackman

Evil Insurance Man – The Hooded Claw

Peter Levy - himself

Fellow Townsfolk – the flock of the Government Scrapie Research Laboraties

Hop on? Hop off

2007-11-13T17:23:00.000Z

Men.

They're just like buses.

They belch clouds of noxious gases behind them.

Treat the road like they own it.

Resistant to Change.

You wait around forever for one.

And then 5 come along at once.

Resilience

2007-11-05T13:17:00.000Z

I don't really know how to tell you this.

It's me, not you.

I got a bit carried away.

I hope you understand.

First Impressions

2007-10-29T17:41:00.000Z

Can you get a better first date than a black tie Ball?

Can you know instantly this could be it?

Can you really fall in love at first sight?

Can you set yourself up for a fall time and time again?

1,2,3...,10

2007-10-26T17:24:00.000+01:00

PTSD. It has to be. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. If it isn't, then I must be completely immune and should be studied by medical scientists for a cure for all manner of mental health disorders.

Car trouble can lead some people to the edge. Staff shortages and lack of support at work during the busiest period of the year could do it for some. Complete devastation and deconstruction of the house might tip the brink for others. All 3 together, continuously for the last 4 months, would be pretty strong mitigation for any major crime.

Add in 3 weddings on consecutive weekends ( one of which I didn't actually make although I'd have enjoyed the most), a car journey from Northest Lincolnshire to deepest London via Taunton, Tiverton, Bideford and Bude with only a short break for dinner and dancing and back again in little over 24 hours, and one could be forgiven for behaving like a Jack Nicholson character.

Top it off with a morning spent walking around Earls Court at The Baby F*cking Show* and then tell me I should spend more time visiting blogs.

Would you really want this woman near your friends and family? Would you? Huh? Huh?

*(that's a show of all things kiddie related, nothing whatsoever to do with paedophilia)

Devon and Hell

2007-10-19T12:44:00.001+01:00

I'm driving the 330 miles to my brother's wedding in Devon after work this evening.

This evening.

Black Friday.

The Routeplanner tells me it will take 7hrs and 6 mins. This does not allow for collecting my sister ( the real one, not the step one) from Tiverton train station.

My mother and every news reader in the media tells me I will be lucky to get there before dawn. On Tuesday.

I am happy to do this. He is my only brother, albeit a step one. We are the same age. We were in the same class at school for a year. He is tall, handsome, blonde, surfs, snowboards, plays water polo and is likely to have similar friends.

If he doesn't have a telly, there is likely to be a serious family dispute at 8pm tomorrow night.

SETI

2007-10-15T17:22:00.000+01:00

I wished you'd spoken

all those years ago.

Perhaps you tried

I didn't hear you.

I'm listening now -

like a scientist

searching the sky -

with lightyears' less hope.

Corny Acorns

2007-10-12T18:05:00.000+01:00

Unnamed Female: Do you think maybe, on a safe night when things are going really well, or maybe not then but on a poor night when things couldn't get any worse, it might be ok if, and say if you think it's a terrible idea, but maybe that, perhaps I could do the occasional link? Just to get used to being up there.

Jon: Yes, sure. But why don't you write yourself 10 minutes of material and do a proper slot?

Unnamed Female: No. I could never do that. I'd be terrible.

Jon: No you wouldn't. Give it a try.

Unnamed Female: No. Definitely not.

The telephone goes dead. Unnamed Female picks up a pen and chews the end. She starts scribbling furiously into a notebook.

The End

Nothing Comperes

2007-10-04T17:32:00.000+01:00

I felt sick. My heart pounded. An invisible band pulled tight around my head. My palms threatened to drip sweat as my fists continually clenched and unclenched. My vision began to swim and for one moment I thought I might be about to have a heart attack. Or a baby. Or both.

I swallowed nothing as the lump in my throat threatened to block my windpipe. My tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth whilst my stomach turned somersaults and did the moonwalk.

There were 80 of them. I'd greeted each one individually, some by name. They hadn't looked this ugly, or menacing then. They hadn't stared at me then.

My world had shrunk to a bubble no wider than a metre in diameter. The sound had been sucked out of it.

I panicked. My mind emptied instantly to be filled with a backwash of more nothingness.

I made my debut, and quite probably my finale, as a compere at the comedy club.

It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I want to wind it back and try it again.

Je Ne Regrette Rien

2007-10-03T17:00:00.000+01:00

The follies which a man regrets most, in his life, are those which he didn't commit when he had the opportunity.
Helen Rowland, A Guide to Men, 1922(1876 - 1950)

I hope this works just as well for women or else I'm gonna feel proper daft in the morning.

Think of me at 8.15pm tonight.

I'm going in without a safety net.

I shall fly or I shall die.

Either way, I won't be wondering ' What if...' in years to come.

Maybe Hockey wasn't so bad after all

2007-10-01T17:51:00.001+01:00

We have a balanced approach to luck in our family.

Jack has all the good kind.

I have the bad.

Jack got a promotion and a pay rise on his second night at the Wild Coyote bar. He also got 2 assistants. Last night, he got up and danced. Today his grandma bought him a car.

I got to work to find yet another secretary off sick. I'm down to 1, the rottweiler. I still haven't got a car but I do have a crashing headache.

I don't need much. Just a break. If I'd enjoyed being hit by a big stick, I would never have given up hockey.

Vanwished

2007-09-25T17:08:00.000+01:00

Yesterday they told me I could have a caravan.

Today they changed their minds.

Yesterday I disliked caravans

Today I want one almost more than life itself.

Far From Jolly Roger

2007-09-20T13:44:00.000+01:00

Have you ever wondered what happens to Blue Peter badge winners when they grow up?

They move to South Korea and design cars.

An empty Flora margarine tub, 4 cotton bobbins and they call it a Chevrolet Matiz.

All Dressed Up For Nowhere

2007-09-17T17:22:00.000+01:00

I was on my way to the opening night of a new comedy club in Hull last night. I sat for over 2 hours waiting for my regular taxi company, or Willingham's Recovery as most people know them.

This morning there was a distinct autumnal chill in the air as I stood at the bus stop. The seasons may change but my car trouble remains reassuringly constant.

I shall have to start thinking about replacing my winter coat and digging out a scarf. I've been trying to avoid thinking about the car in any way as it only leads to bad thoughts and ugly moods.

If Carling Black Label did Part-Time Jobs...

2007-09-12T18:14:00.000+01:00

Jack's got a job. I am delighted.

It's glass-collecting at weekends in a new bar in town. Perfect.

Jack's very keen to get started. I am impressed by his enthusiasm.

I learn the venue is to be a table-dancing joint.

Now I wonder how I'm going to make a few extra bob in future.

Ascendancy Tendency

2007-09-10T17:34:00.000+01:00

I could tell you tales of what I got up to at the weekend but no-one would ever believe I fitted 4 men into 2 short days and 3 long nights. It was controversial enough to get a mention on local radio but not so much as to attract paparazzi, which is fortunate as I didn't close my hotel curtains.

There was alcohol involved but that had nothing to do with spending all Sunday afternoon in Keighley A&E waiting for the Head Glue Nurse.

It seems Saturn has returned with a bit of a bang. I think I'm going to have to pace myself over the next 30 months.

1...2...3...4..., ...10

2007-09-05T17:48:00.000+01:00

Being the naturally warm, generous-hearted type that I am, and being only too aware of employee discrimination legislation, I smiled sweetly and congratulated My Right Arm when she announced she was expecting her first child.

4 months later, just a fortnight before MRA's due date, I found a replacement, my Prosthetic Limb.

PL was a deluxe version, almost bionic when compared to my original Right Arm. She could spin plates almost as well as me, she could answer phones and placate clients nearly as quickly and she was never twiddling her prosthetic thumb. She even had neater fingernails. Perfect.

I didn't worry when MRA dropped the baby 2 weeks early. PL would be here before I knew it.

I didn't worry when PL took a fortnight's holiday, just a month after starting. I'd known about it at interview and had agreed to honour it, after all, it was only 2 weeks.

I did feel a pang of irritation when PL failed to return immediately after her holiday claiming a chest infection. The pang started to turn to panic when this stretched into its second week.

5 weeks on and PL isn't coming back. Nor is my sanity.

I'm back to waving on my own. Or am I?

PS. Apologies to anyone of a musical disposition. Utilisation of Celine Dion is an unforgiveable crime that even my own indulgence finds offensive but nevertheless necessary at this precise moment.

In Praise of St Anthony

2007-08-29T17:41:00.000+01:00

' Think. Where did you last have it?'

Jack closed his eyes and sat down on my bed, trying to picture himself walking through Customs, collecting his bag from the carousel and climbing into his grandparents' car. I almost saw the light bulb flash on above his head.

' I put it in Grandma's glovebox. I think it must still be there'.

Great. At least we knew where his passport was, but how to get it might prove more of a challenge, given that Grandma was currently 1230 miles away expecting her favourite grandson to be arriving by plane in less than 12 hours and her car was sitting in an unknown airport carpark somewhere in the East Midlands.

A few well-placed phone calls and we'd found the car, persuaded a very helpful chap to spend his tea break rifling through it and kissed goodbye to any faint vestige of promised sleep. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea, the British default mode in a crisis and carelessly moved one of the many piles of papers that Jack and I had both repeatedly searched through at least 8 times each for the previous 3 hours. One of the many piles that was definitely not harbouring a passport. And there it was, cheekily poking out from between a council tax reminder and a voucher for pet food.

Oh how I laughed to myself about that, as I drove back up the sun-drenched M18 on my own a few hours later. Were it not for the sudden and unexpected phenomenum of blue smoke filling the car and a battery light appearing on the dashboard, I'd probably be chortling away to myself even now.

It proved to be nothing more serious than an alternator belt, although I did not know it at the time, so still made the call to a mechanically-minded friend to check I wasn't about to die. This was almost as good news as discovering that only a back section was needed and not an entire exhaust system the previous day. That really was the highlight of the entire weekend which otherwise saw me stood up by a bestfriend, visited by another (for all of 10 minutes spent predominantly looking around with a pitying expression at the shambles that currently represents my home before driving back to her perfect home, in her perfect car, with her perfect husband and perfect son), and inevitably cancelling my pre-arranged-but-never-gonna-happen afternoon tryst with my married rugby player in favour of the mechanic who never showed up.

Yesterday, I was told my entire groundfloor has to come up. They are coming to remove it on Friday. I am going to Wiltshire on Saturday. If magic doesn't help, nothing will.

Pondlife

2007-08-24T10:58:00.000+01:00

Adults only it said. Book early to avoid disappointment. Bring your own wine. Barbecue 'til late.

This had to be the most promising prospect yet. Consenting adults, clear, cool waters discreetly tooked away from prying eyes and peeping toms. The promise of hot, charred finger-sticky meat. I was drawn like a floosie to a fleshpot.

Let the dip begin!

I'd have preferred my waterboatmen sporting thick fisherman's rib sweaters. The diver we found might have been Great but he was hardly clad in figure-hugging neoprene. Viewed under the microscope I'm sure I caught sight of an ex-boyfriend's relatives ( single-cell simple organisms). The highlight was a 2" long baby perch which looked a bit Tiger Barblike to me. It delivered sufficient points to see us streaking ahead of the competition. Sadly that was the only streaking done last night.

Throw Away Lines

2007-08-22T12:58:00.000+01:00

Chances are you've bought throw-away paper plates at one time or another. They are indispensable at summer barbecues. Indeed, the barbecues themselves are likely to be of the single-use, instant variety.

Disposable nappies are easy, cheap and much less bother than their greener, towelling cousins.

Daily contact lenses, so flimsy they resemble small, regular pieces of clingfilm are worn by thousands every day, me included ( only not every day).

Lighters are more often than not, cheap, plastic and wind up on some desolate island in Oceania where they threaten to suffocate hungry albatross chicks.

We have disposable cameras, batteries, incomes and knickers. We make throw away comments in our throw away society. No wonder the number of dustbins and collection receptacles has quadrupled.

I want to do my bit for the environment. I recycle. I smile warmly, if not exactly hug trees. I haven't bought a disposable nappy in, oh, at least 15 years. I'd gladly share my bath, preferably with the England Rugby team.

There's just one habit that I can't seem to kick.

I have another disposable car.

Rampant Rabbit Rival Revealed

2007-08-17T17:15:00.000+01:00

Finally, the secret every frustrated single girl and would-be lothario needs to know. Forget Rampant Rabbits and other Ann Summers' animals.

Just buy a ticket for this show. Every 6 months should satisfy even the most libidinous.

Boys, invest in linen trousers and a panama hat. The results

Dog Days

2007-08-16T18:05:00.000+01:00

It seemed such a perfect plan when I suggested it to Mum. 'Cancel your kennel booking and I'll look after your dogs while you are away for 3 weeks'. I should add there was a mercenary element to this, and not just a sudden bout of charitable, anthropophilic largesse on my part. I knew she'd offer to pay me. I'd be a lot cheaper than the kennels and the dogs would have the pleasure of their beloved Auntie Cherrypie for almost a month.

I didn't give a thought to the logistics of 2 big, smelly mutts sharing a house with me, a convalescing cat ( did I mention he lost his tail? it was most traumatic) and some dehumidifiers. I've got a 5* purpose-built dog kennel. It's short of nothing except flushing toilets. It's also temporarily full of bookcases and paraphenalia salvaged from the flooded conservatory. We're finding it a bit of a squeeze.

Dog accessories have come some way since I last walked them. I didn't realise I needed NVQ Level 3 in Extendable Doglead Handling before I'd be safe to let loose on the streets and fields. I've been dragged through hedges backwards, tied to trees and pulled down wet, grassy banks. And that was just on one 45 minute walk last night. Fly danced ' In and Out The Dusty Bluebells' along a line of rowans while Rosa played Ring-O'-Roses around me. Fortunately the scooped poop didn't burst out of its little sandwich bag as I fell forward onto it, hobbled at the knees.

Things didn't improve this morning when I almost had to call the Fire Brigade to rescue Fly from my utility room. A pair of kitchen steps had fallen down behind the door and had wedged it shut. I couldn't climb through the window as it only opens 45 degrees. I could just about get my wrist through the gap in the door but nothing I tried to hook round the steps worked. I enlisted the assistance of a gas man digging up the road outside the house. He was useless but very cute. If I'd been Renée Zellweger, he'd have fallen in love with me.As it was he just scratched his head and wandered off muttering about looking in his van.

I finally released Fly an hour and a half later with the aid of a half-moon lawn edger. I'm not sure which of us was more relieved.

I've got 3 more weeks of this mayhem. Call the RSPCA quick - that's the Royal Society for the Protection of Cherrypie's Arse!

To A Flame

2007-08-07T17:31:00.000+01:00

The advert had to be a code.

A secluded wooded garden in Goxhill, a place well-known for weird goings-on where everybody has an eerie likeness to one another, and often the same name. A bright light. 30-odd fully consenting adults standing in a circle around it late into the balmy night. Excitement, expectation and a degree of fevered anticipation hung on the honeysuckle-scented breeze. Some of the more experienced men licked their lips as their eyes danced at the scene before them.

A hush as the older man, clearly the one in charge, raised his arms towards the light and then turned to the newcomer, the smallest and youngest. She reached her virginal hands towards him, blinking in the glare, her hands shaking slightly but instinctively knowing she should take it, bending forward to hear his whispered wisdom. Again and again he thrust towards her, his voice becoming hoarse, his brow occasionally knitted. She took on the urgent rhythm, and gradually assumed the confidence to slow it down, control it to her preferred speed.

She was a little disappointed to discover it wasn't a code at all. People really do hang around outside at night, trapping and identifying moths. She's hooked. She's doing it again in Dalby Forest on Saturday. Surely one of these nights she'll stumble upon some random sects.

Squandered

2007-08-06T13:15:00.000+01:00

I had a Perfect Hair Day yesterday. Every glossy, silky strand just fell into perfect place. It swooshed and swished fragrantly, glinting in the sunlight, tantalisingly falling over one eye, giving an alluring illusion of seduction and wantoness.

I had nowhere to go and no-one to see.

It was a complete waste.

Cooking in Kathryn's Kitchen

2007-08-03T13:17:00.000+01:00

Take half a dozen guitars, acoustic preferably. Mix around an assortment of knees. Spread the floor and worktops generously with friends, good ones for the most pleasing results. Lighten the mixture with some flickering candles, scented if desired. Liberally douse with alcohol ( or Coke for the designated driver). Let the smokers out every half hour, adding further quantities of liquor to maintain consistency and promote conviviality. Sway, tap your foot, sing along while it all comes together over 3 or 4 hours into a heady, harmonious had-to-be-there-but-can't-believe-you-were-there magical evening.

Ben Taylor, David Saw, Gavin Hammond and Andy, Josh and the lovely bearded guy who's playing drums for Prince at the O2 stadium on Saturday night really baked last night.

Bent Aylor

2007-08-02T13:07:00.000+01:00

He's playing in my sister's living room. Tonight. It's a secret. Don't tell anyone.

Got to dash if I'm to have any chance of an armchair

It will look and sound a bit like this.

Once a Non-Bridesmaid...

2007-08-01T17:44:00.000+01:00

What exactly are a non-bridesmaid's duties? You'd think it would comprise mainly of not getting off with the best man ( in this case the 11-year-old Godson, which would be so wrong on a number of levels) and maybe not being toasted in the speeches. The reverse of that is pretty much all a proper, official bridesmaid has to do, after all. That and not allow herself to be chosen 3 times, if she ever has hopes of being a bride herself. ( I was bridesmaid for my cousin and both parents, at seperate weddings).

You wouldn't necessarily expect, as a non-bridesmaid, to be helping the groom and the best man get dressed, straighten their ties, unpick the stitching in their pockets, defluff them of any stray cat hairs ( from their own cats, not a stray's), take custody of the cards to be read out, attach their button holes, then shoot over to the hotel to soothe the blushered bride, dish out the button holes to the official wedding party, zip the bride tightly into her dress, commandeer golf buggies for wobbly grandparents, be within a hand's reach for tissues/ lipgloss/ eyeliner at every moment, and most importantly, bear the weight of the dress while the bride sits on her throne. I was so relieved when she declared that she was capable of pulling her own pants down.

It's a wonder only this Cinderella's heel snapped.

Rachel - if you are reading this, I loved every minute of it and am proud you trusted me to be such a big part of your special day xxx

Wobbly plates

2007-07-26T12:20:00.001+01:00

The workmen arrived with a skip at 9 o'clock this morning. They left it right at the end of the drive. It's a long drive which can easily accommodate 5 cars. I'll have to park mine on the grass verge. There are 2 of them demolishing the Shed and the gym. They are very good at drinking tea. I left them to make it themselves as I was in too much of a rush to get to the vets.

Darius had been missing for a couple of days. He came back last night. Only his tail didn't.

The stump is being amputated right now. I keep crying. He's going to be alright.

I've got to hide my inch long roots before my best friend's wedding tomorrow. I've got a card, a tie and a pair of stockings to buy. A piece of coving fell down last night, narrowly missing Jack's skull. And my computer has blown up.

I'm at work. I've got a diary full of appointments and a couple of hysterical clients.

I'm not coping at all well.

I'll be fine though. It's just a minor crisis.

Beep! Beep!

2007-07-25T17:15:00.000+01:00

" I'm a natural." His little face beamed at me, eyes shining brightly, crooked grin reaching from ear to cauliflower ear.

" I changed gear perfectly and he only had to correct my steering once..." he skirted past the fact that this point happened right on Roxby Bends, the most notorious stretch of road in the county, the very road I have tried to drum into him is a killer and must be avoided at all costs, even if it means a 10 mile detour. Now I learn his instructor is actively encouraging, nay praising his early sallies along it.

I smiled as I heard all about his first driving lesson. I remembered the thrill and excitement of my own. I'd had a very similar experience, taking to driving almost as naturally as I learnt to read, instinctively knowing what to do and when to be doing it, only a little bit faster and for longer than anyone else. It was only a matter of weeks before my instructor, a sour Catholic woman called Maura who disapproved of me being on the Pill and probably just wanted to get such a vile creature out of her car as quickly as possible, put me in for my test.

Despite this innate flair, I still managed to crash into a lamppost on my driving test. It has taken 19 years to be able to relate that story without crying. Don't expect any further details.

There are some friends, who having secretly laughed about it for years, are finally under the impression that's it's ok to discuss it with me. It is, just don't ever ask me for a lift.

I am sure Jack won't suffer the same fate. It was all the sun's fault and it doesn't look like we'll be seeing any of that for some time to come.

Lake Flaccid

2007-07-23T18:11:00.000+01:00

What do you do on a Sunday morning when you've come home earlier than expected from a weekend in the Lakes but no-one knows you are back?

a) Catch up on the ironing?

b) Clean out the Shed and Gym in readiness for the restoration blokes?

c) Call up a single friend and drag her along while you nosey about 26 or so of your fellow villagers' Open Gardens?

Consequently, I have nothing to wear and must remove 3 and half tons of cobwebs, spilt cat biscuits, 4 sofas, 3 bookcases, a multi-gym, an exercise bike, a cross-trainer and an assortment of weight benches ( in almost new condition) this evening. On my own. I shall have nowhere to sneak a crafty fag!

The restoration company are called 'Munters'. Jack's hoping to scrounge a company tee-shirt.

Mia O'Wower

2007-07-18T11:11:00.001+01:00

What do you get your best friend for a wedding present? A best friend who has lived with her husband to be for almost 14 years, a best friend who has an immaculate house and everything she wants, and nothing at all that she doesn't want? The parents of your 11-year old Godson and the people you are most likely to run to when you've been dumped, or disappointed, again, by another Mr Wasn'tright?

You get a set of baking trays or a Flan Dish from the Debenhams guest list if you have any common sense about you.

If you're me?

You write the Best Man's Speech and make sure your Godson gets all the credit for it.

And you bring them a new baby.

Or TOPMARX Mia Farrow to give her her posh name.

Long Summer Holidays - Update

2007-07-17T12:25:00.000+01:00

He's signed on with a recruitment agency. He can start nappy-packing next week. The night shift.

He also has an interview with O2.

He has still not done any washing up. He is practicing sleeping all day. He is very successful at it.

Long Summer Holidays

2007-07-13T13:24:00.000+01:00

Jack's gone to Spain for the weekend. He flew yesterday morning and he's coming back on Monday.

2 weeks later he's going to Newquay for 7 days of surfing mayhem with his mates and then straight to London, house and cat-sitting for his auntie before flying out to Spain again for the last half of August.

I have 2.5 days holiday left between now and Christmas.

I'm not bitter or jealous. I just have these simple words of advice for my child.

GET A JOB!!!

Music Video:THE LAST OF THE FAMOUS INTERNATIONAL PLAYBOYS (by Morrissey)

Music Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

It's Gonna be HUGE!

2007-07-08T19:42:00.000+01:00

I've always had a bit of an overactive imagination, prone to giddy flights of fancy, blowing the tiniest of ideas out of all proportion. Why do things by halves if you can do them ten times bigger or better or more complicated than everyone else.

We got to discussing Dad's 60th birthday over a Carvery lunch. Kathryn suggested hiring the village hall and asking her favourite band to play for Dad and his 100 or so closest relatives. I took a sip of my Diet Coke, contemplated my half-eaten stuffing ball and unleashed a monster.

Half an hour and a number of roast taties later, VicFest had been conceived. The venue has become a friendly farmer's field and adjacent barn. The line-up ranging from his mates' Irish folk band, Tony Blair and the MP4s, to Travis ( with Scouting For Girls headlining, of course) with the chill-out zone presided over by the Royal Philharmonic ( it's quite remarkable when you consider the talent 2 30-something sisters have let slip through their fingers in the guise of past boyfriends). There will be tents, stilt walkers, face-painting, a hog roast, fortune-teller, fancy dress competition, float parade, It's-A-Knockout competition and cream teas. Maybe even a prize for the biggest onions.

It will be an exclusive ticket-only event for the entire village and anyone with any vague connection to Dad or the Leaning clan ever, no matter how remote.

We'll have banners, posters, T-shirts and a website.

My first job is to find a sponsor. I'm thinking perhaps a reading-glasses manufacturer, seeing as Dad has to have a pair in every room in the house and still manages to lose them every 5 minutes.

He thinks we're joking. We've got some serious work to do between now and next May ( it's too cold in March so the celebrations will be postponed) if he's not to be disappointed with another pair of socks.

MISSING

2007-07-06T17:15:00.000+01:00

LARGE ROUND YELLOW THING USUALLY FLOATS AROUND IN THE SKY!

LAST SEEN HEADING WEST ABOUT A MONTH AGO

ANSWERS TO THE NAME ''SUN''

IF U SEE HIM TELL HIM IT'S F**** JULY!

Baby You Can Drive My Car

2007-07-05T12:15:00.000+01:00

I woke up this morning and this is what I saw staring back at me in the mirror.

When did I get so old as to have a 17 year old son?

Happy Birthday, Jack xxx ( back row, first left)

Crass Consciousness

2007-07-04T17:50:00.000+01:00

I had a personal invitation to a sneak preview event last night at a new Bar & Grill soon to be opening just outside Hull and promising to 'revolutionise the concept of dining' in the area. I thought this sounded a bit pretentious but they were offering free cocktails and samples from their menu and as I'll turn up to the opening of an envelope if someone asks me, I decided to pop along.

I picked Sophie up and we drove over shortly after 8 o'clock. It was a beautiful evening and the sun was streaming down. We soon found The Weir and recognised the venue from the huge numbers of people congregating outside, apparently soaking up the precious rays but more likely forced out of doors following the introduction of the smoking ban a few days ago.

I panicked. A brief glimpse at the clientele suggested them to be predominantly of the West Hull breed, loud, trendy, smothered in fake tan and so over-dressed they'd make any WaG look shabby. There was no way I was putting myself and my work attire beside them. I know that probably says more about me than them.

There were only 3 other diners in the Akash 20 minutes later. Sophie & I had a lovely evening.

Market Divorces

2007-07-01T20:08:00.000+01:00

Barton-upon-Humber is a small market town on the banks of the eponymous river. Growing up in the nearest village, I've been familiar with it all my life. There's nothing very remarkable about it, save for the unique Saxon church tower and baptistry at the English Heritage-owned St Peter's. It's hardly a crowd-puller. It took me until today to visit it for a start.

There's a great Art Centre where they also serve large slabs of cake and my local Nature Reserve of which I am the newest ( and by far, the youngest) volunteer.

The Desperate Dan cartoonist lives there and Robert Kleason, the man they based the Texas Chainsaw Massacre upon, made it home for him and his frighteningly large collection of guns from 1990 to his death.

I'm not doing a very good job of selling it well. The same could not be said of Mr George Wray, who in 1847 was the last man in England to successfully sell his wife by public auction. He led her, haltered around the waist into Barton marketplace. She was purchased by William Harwood. He paid 1s 3 1/2 d.

Property is still relatively cheap.

And Relax...

2007-06-29T23:15:00.000+01:00

Supple. That's what they used to call me. They called me a few other things too but the toilet walls have long since been painted over and those who do remember are probably now married and would never dare risk their wives finding out.

Flexibility was something I took for granted. I thought everyone could do the splits and walk like a crab. Bendyness just never entered my consciousness because I was never conscious of it.

I only notice it now it's not there in anything like its former quantities and I mourn its passing and curse my neglectfulness.

I can still get into the crab position. I just can't get out of it. Not elegantly or without a lot of swearing and some assistance. I can't get my toes to touch my eyebrows from the back of my head anymore and I can only chew the big toenail on one foot ( my right).

I discovered this after my first yoga class. It's been 3 weeks and I already have a rather lovely dog of which I am quite fond, a Natarajasana that is never going to win me any prizes on Come Dancing, a Tree, well-rooted just above my knee but quite some way off my groin and half a gibous moon. In fact, I'm getting so confident, I may even start eating baked beans again in a few months time.

Overwhelmed

2007-06-25T18:13:00.000+01:00

I intended to rush home this afternoon to do justice to my wonderful host, Cream, a man of limitless charm, the twinkliest eyes, the cheekiest smile and most generous of spirits. I wanted to savour the flavours of his menus, the ambience of his restaurants, the combinations of his cocktails until you could smell the boureks and taste the tagine, hear the laughter and feel the warmth of our meeting.

We talked about lots of things yet barely scratched the surface of this amazing man's knowledge and experience, or my ability to waffle on at length getting nowhere in particular, other than ever so slightly sozzled.

Finally I would reciprocate the offer of hospitality, albeit on a completely amateur and significantly humbler scale.

Unfortunately there has been a temporary change of plan.

I am going out to find more sandbags just as soon as I can locate the canoe.

I refuse to use the 'F' word for fear of plagiarism. What I will say, though, is FUCK!

PS Elsewhere in the news today, this was released and promises to be big. I liked it so much, I bought it.

Missing The Action

2007-06-24T19:47:00.000+01:00

Rome. Eternal. Majestic. Hot. 'Specially when a young Aussie took a shot.

Florence and Tuscany. Breathtakingly beautiful. Weather. Extreme. Mudslides. Biblical.

The Venue. Palazzo Vecchio. The Red Room. Most Grand.

Occasion. A marriage. Tim & Lorraine hand in hand.

My Reading. Emotional. Choked and quite proud.

Nevertheless the delivery. Characteristically loud.

Gucci. A welcome haven from torrents. Belt. An early 17th birthday present.

Lucca. Puccini. Verdi. Seduced me.

Then finally Italy, Arrivederci.

Nobody's bothered about other peoples' holidays. Particularly ones that took place weeks ago now.

My meeting with a delicious and illustrious blogger last night would be far more interesting. But right now I shall continue to savour the broad smile I caught from him. I won't pass it on. It would be too cruel to the immune if they couldn't catch it too.

Missing In Action 2

2007-06-19T17:58:00.000+01:00

So I did get home. Eventually. Thanks to the taxi-driving boyfriend of one of my secretaries, who rescued me from almost certain collapse and let me owe him the fare until I got back.

I had all of 5 minutes to pack my case, halve the pile of clothes Jack planned on taking, pack his case, have a shower, wash my hair, get changed, wash the pots, tidy up generally and feed the cat. I was less than 50% successful. Fortunately, the food remains in the washing-up bowl kept the cat going until my Mum called round to feed him a few days later. She washed up and tidied round too. I wish I'd given her a key years ago.

We arrived at the airport shortly after midnight. Our flight didn't leave for another 9 hours but I was just grateful to have had a lift there at all. Jack laid on my best Missoni beach towels and managed a few snores beneath the Travelex desk. I tossed and turned a bit on the cold stone floor before giving up and going to find some nail polish in the all-night Boots. I gave myself a great pedicure at 3am sitting in the crowded, but hushed departure hall. It was about then I started to relax.

Missing In Action 1

2007-06-14T17:30:00.000+01:00

I can explain everything. It's not my fault, you see. I'm not like other people. I do things the hard way.

For example, most people faced with an imminent holiday would start to organise, make plans, heck, maybe even save up for it some time, perhaps months in advance. Not me. Oh no! Why plan ahead and miss out on all those wonderful appetite-suppressing stress hormones?

Far better to leave everything, including the cost, until the last minute, coinciding perfectly with serious car trouble lasting all of 5 weeks and the related logistical nightmares that entails. Watch the pounds drop off.

I'm not entirely stupid. I do know where to make economies, both time and financial. So I cancelled the bikini wax appointment when I found a forgotten tube of Immac at the bottom of a drawer whilst rooting around for old suntan lotion. I then rang Rachel for a quick 5 minute chat while the depilation took effect. 35 minutes later, after lolling on the sofa completely engrossed in her wedding preparations, I suddenly remembered the carefully applied cream. It had spread a bit in the heat. The effect was less Hollywood, more 1980s asymmetrical popstar. Think Phil Oakey and the Human League.

I didn't fail to cock up the travel plans either. Saving £20 on flights from the airport furthest away seemed like a good idea when I'd booked them months earlier. Getting to Stansted from Hull after work but before 6.30am the next morning without a car wasn't as easy as you might think. It took a near-asthma attack ( I am not and never have been in the slightest bit wheezy) during a telephone conversation with my mum before receiving the offer of a lift from my stepfather, which was particularly kind of him given that we've barely spoken for 5 years.

Now all I had to do was clear the work on my desk, catch the last bus home, there's a stop almost outside my frontdoor and pack my case. I switched the dictaphone off at 20.45, typed a quick Out of Office note in my Microsoft Outlook, checked the windows were shut, closed the door on the office, went back upstairs twice to make sure I really had closed the computer down, fastened the windows, picked up the flight itineraries, currency etc, turned out the lights, went back updatirs once more just to be sure then sauntered down Whitefriargate to the bus stop on the other side of town. There was no-one else waiting but I figured I was early.

I hadn't anticipated that the last bus left Hull at 6.25pm. 2 hours earlier.
The next was at 8.30. A.M.

Second asthma attack of the day was threatening. I checked the timetable in case I'd misread it. 4 times. I kept staring at it expecting it to magically change before my eyes. How could I be stuck in a city, 17 miles from home, before it was even dark? I had a purse full of Euros but less than a fiver in anything a taxidriver would accept. Neither my Mum, Dad, Stepfather ( I know I was already pushing the limits of my favour-seeking there) or any of Jack's mates with cars were answering their phones.

I was stranded in Hull. A perfect start to a dream holiday.

Far from Perfect Timing

2007-05-19T17:58:00.000+01:00

I've tried really hard to be brave and strong and grown-up and practical and thrifty. It hasn't been easy. I've come close to losing it a few times, pulling back from the brink of tears as I swallow the rising screams and stop short of throwing myself on the floor and howling like the baby I feel.

I looked out of the window. There was nothing to see, just a big empty oil-spattered space where my car should have been. I'd abandoned it on my mechanic's forecourt at 8.30pm the previous night with the assistance of a Polish recovery truck driver. I took the bus. It took forever. The next day I hired a car.

Gordon, my mechanic, sucked his teeth a lot and gave me his usual advice. ' Throw it away and start again'. Only I couldn't really afford to do that, not twice in one year. Disposable cars aren't good for the environment or the soul.

I ventured inside a car showroom one night on my way home from work. I think I know how some people feel when visiting the dentist. I waited for the shiny-suited salesman to hand a set of keys to a teenager with daft hair and an assortment of dafter mates in tow. They drove out in a sexy little Golf. That uplifted me slightly. If he could afford that on his pocket-money, maybe I might be able to get something reasonable after all. It didn't take long for the spotty salesman to bring me back to my melancholy default setting as he showed me a car in my price range - a Kia Picanto - a lacquered shoe box with a steering wheel stuck on it.

I waited until I'd reached the sanctuary of my hired Micra ( surprisingly nice to drive with the added bonus that you can't see how shit it looks when you are sitting in the driver's seat) before allowing a sob or several to escape.

I've since bought a cylinder head from a breaker's yard hidden amongst a labyrinth of streets somewhere in the depths of 1950s Hull. Gordon doesn't seem to be in any rush to transplant the donor engine and continues to predict a 50:50 chance of survival.

I popped along to see Archbishop Desmond Tutu, hoping some of his serenity would infect me, provide me with some perspective against real issues, third world debt, slavery, international conflict. It didn't. I'm still a completely miserable, inadequate, snivelling no-hoper with no car, money nor currently any way of getting to the airport next week. It did give me the chance to offer directions to a visiting American history professor looking for the Wilberforce Institute of Slavery and Emancipation. His name badge announced him to be ' Randy J. Sparks'. Now that cheered me up.

Toest

2007-04-27T15:20:00.000+01:00

My mood improved considerably by late Tuesday night. Even the boring flip-flops took on an altogether different appeal when they turned out to be celebrities in disguise.

I doubt there's much risk of being mistaken for the ex-Mrs Pitt, save from the big toe down. I shall try them in Leeds tomorrow. My feet are likely to need something comfortable after all the dancing I intend to be doing once we've deposited our bags at Malmaison, sipped our champagne cocktails in Boutique and flirted with the waiters in Bibi's this evening.

I'm taking the train. It's not that I'm ashamed of the clapped-out old Rover. I'm just not sure that I could stand the humiliation of leaving it unlocked in central Leeds all weekend and still not having it nicked.

Bovvered?

2007-04-24T15:35:00.000+01:00

25 years ago today Stevie Wonder and Macca were at No. 1 with 'Ebony & Ivory'. Lee Holland bought me it but I preferred the Nolans' single which Simon Nicholson brought. It snowed. I had my first snog in our front porch during a game of Postman's Knock.

36 years ago today T Rex were at No 1 with 'Hot Love'. I think that's pretty cool.

Today I am fairly miserable even by my standards. Jack got the wrong date. Dad put the wrong month on the cheque. Kathryn sent me utilitarian plastic flip-flops when I had imagined pretty sequinned ones, my secretaries forgot altogether ( which was actually probably the best thing that happened all day) and I spent most of the day wanting to cry. I shall probably go swimming this evening and see if anyone fancies a game of Postman's Knock in the sauna. Or maybe I shall just boil my head.

You might want to go and check out what was at the top of the charts when you were 11 here. It goes to be much more fun that listening to me moan.

Luck Spreading

2007-04-23T17:06:00.000+01:00

Darbster ran the Flora London Marathon again yesterday. He'd have done much better had he tried it today. The course wouldn't have been so crowded with other runners for a start. Or at the start. He might then not have tripped over someone else's ankle, just 2 miles into the race, causing him to fall and get trampled on.

He bravely picked himself up and continued on his way, slightly dazed, bleeding profusely from wounds on his leg, sporting a number of bold trainer footprints on the back of his tee-shirt. He got to 19 miles before a combination of the heat and blood loss caused him to collapse. He was swiftly picked up by St. John's Ambulance who stretchered him, back 500 yards, wiped him down, patched him up, and sent him on his way.

He reached the finish line, having completed 26 miles 885 yards in 5hrs 3mins, about an hour overdue. His previous time might have been significantly quicker but his achievement this year was greater given the circumstances.

Later last night, as he strolled around Trafalgar Square arm in arm with Tracy, it seemed the perfect time to ask her that question he'd been planning for some time. He fumbled in his pocket. He drew out his hand, nervously. He dropped the exquisite ring he'd carefully secreted all the way down in the train. He bent to pick it up, relieved it had not fallen in the fountain or down a drain. He banged his head on the stone rim as he straightened up. It seemed everything was conspiring against him.

Except where it mattered.

She said 'Yes'.

Fields of Cold ( Meats and other Antipasti)

2007-04-17T17:36:00.000+01:00

I popped into a local corner shop for a pint of milk and loaf of bread after dropping Jack off at his mate's house the other week. It doubles as the Village Post Office. It triples as the deli counter for the Best Restaurant in the North of England.

I waited in line behind a goat farmer who had just won Gold from some Big Cheeses for his Braffords Blue. I felt like Jamie Oliver meeting the producers. Very Penelope Keith.

I came away with milk, albeit from Jersey Cows, bread still warm out of the award-winning oven scented with rosemary and sprinkled with crunchy sea salt, a few Queen olives, marinated artichokes, rib-eye steak, an assortment of cheese and very little change from 40 quid.

It was all delicious, apart from the Norwegian Gjetost which tasted of caramel-flavoured candle wax. I doubt it's available in the States. It wouldn't get past the FDA unless it had a wick in it and 30 hours guaranteed burning time.

The olives, the largest and meatiest I have ever seen or eaten, are 50p each so I won't be treating every houseguest to them.

I've called into the deli a number of times as it is on my route home from work, if I take a particularly circuitous route, double back on myself once or twice and negotiate a few hairpin bends. I am now completely broke and shall have to resort to porridge for the rest of the month. You can be sure I'll be sucking on the olive stones though.

2007-04-16T13:03:00.000+01:00

I usually use RAC Routeplanner if I'm travelling to a new destination. Google now offer a similar service which compares favourably.

Don't take my word for it. Try this.

1. go to www.google.com

2. click on "maps"

3. click on "get directions"

4. type "New York" in the first box (the "from" box)

5. type "London" in the second box (the "to" box)

6. click on "get directions"

7. scroll down to step #23

Stiff Upper Lip

2007-04-10T13:51:00.000+01:00

I had a facial booked on Friday. I was looking forward to the chance to lie in a darkened room having my cheeks stroked with scented unguents. In the event, I offered it to Jack to take his mind off his recent rejection. He readily accepted. He's in touch with his feminine side. I'm not certain it made him feel any better but his skin glowed.

A few days later I found myself lying on a crowded beach. A bulldog was approaching, his face at my level as I rested on my elbows letting the sun soak into my back. He came closer. I didn't attempt to move out of the way. I like animals and they seem to like me. This one was no exception.

As he drew level with me, he gave me the wettest, slurpiest lick with his sand-covered tongue from the tip of my nose, across my sunglasses to my right ear. It wasn't exactly the sort of exfoliation I'd originally planned but a kiss is a kiss. I've got to get them where I can.

Eclectic Easter

2007-04-09T15:54:00.000+01:00

I like to do lots of different things, see live performances of all kinds. I often extend this opportunity to friends and family as easy gift options from which I too can take some enjoyment. I've had a hat-trick of treats this week.

It started with a trip up the A1 in full sunshine to watch The Bratz 'Passion 4 Fashion' World Tour, a belated birthday present for my little sister. She's 11. I took 2 of her friends and we had seats at the very front, right next to the catwalk. It was sickly, plasticy pop. They loved it.

A couple of nights later and it was Dad's turn for a birthday treat - The Goodies' Still Rule OK Tour. I took him and one of his little friends. More than 2 of them and they are uncontrollable.

The following night Jack and I enjoyed a Faithless concert. That is, I enjoyed it, Jack endured it having been dumped by his girlfriend at the start of the evening. The next morning I took him up to the East Coast for a few days' recuperation.

Yesterday we were in Scarborough, as was Michael Ball. That was one experience I chose not to inflict upon myself or others.

Where No Roads Lead

2007-03-24T18:43:00.000Z

I admire the Romans. They were marvellous polymaths; engineers, strategists, art-lovers, law-makers and all-round winners. That a small city state could conquer and command the majority of the known world almost 2000 years ago is rather remarkable, an achievement greater than the British or any other Empire, with the exception perhaps of McDonalds.

They were particularly gifted at road-building. At its peak, the Roman road system spanned 53,000 miles (85,300 km). Many of the routes are still in use today, including Ermine Street, the origin of the A1, the Great North Road in Britain. Luton airport lies very close to this road, as does my house.

The Romans tried to make inroads to the east of the country. They got as far as Norwich, took one look at the flat fog-shrouded fens, and turned around.

To this day there are Norfolk* Inroads worth mentioning!

* Pronunciation guide: nawr-fuh k

Where All Roads Lead

2007-03-17T20:59:00.000Z

It is very difficult to maintain the impression of a miserable, bored, lonely old hag who never does anything or goes anywhere with anyone when one is flying off to Rome in a few hours with a handsome, dashing 36-year old clergyman.

Parts of that sentence are fictitious. Can you guess which?

Ciao for now x

Magnificent Edifice

2007-03-13T22:11:00.000Z

I have an appetite for Hungary. It is delicious. The food is hearty, well-cooked and honest. The architecture is grand whilst humbly crumbling. The people are warm, friendly and, in many cases, freakly odd-looking. I'd be quite a catch in Budapest, if only by dint of the fact that I have all my own limbs, teeth, hair and a full compliment of senses.

I tried going native. That is, I visited the Széchenyi Baths, the Magyar equivalent of Parisian cafes. The entire Hungarian population decants here to chat, play chess, have a massage, often surreptitiously from what I have read but fortunately, the combined effect of the steam and lack of contact lenses prevented me from confirming this first hand, as it were. The whole scene is almost balletic. Saint-Saens' Carnival of the Animals kept running through my head.

Powerful jets whoosh the heavily-mineralised, naturally hot waters about, leaving me glaze-eyed and my swimming costume stretched out of shape. The follow-up massage was more matter-of-fact than made to relax. It was so good, I went back for another the following day.

I may return next year.

Jack, meanwhile, admired the architecture of Amsterdam. He described the tall, gabled buildings, complete with winch hooks perfectly, the design choices in their hotel, the large windows. He was less forthcoming on how his friend, Rob, whose 18th birthday had prompted the trip, came to have ' The End' written upon his chest in black marker. It appears that one doesn't need limbs in Holland to hold a pen.

Jack will definitely be back.

Dam Nation

2007-03-07T18:13:00.000Z

It is one of those milestones that every mother dreads, believes will never happen to them but is powerless to prevent. It has happened many times before to millions of others with varying outcomes. One cannot divert or postpone this ancient rite of passage. All one can do is pray, trust in his judgement. And hope doesn't fall into a canal in the process.

I shall be away in Budapest for the next few days. Jack, meanwhile, will be spending a quiet few days with half a dozen friends on a cultural tour of Amsterdam. Somehow I don't think the Van Gogh Museum and Anne Frank's House will be on their itinerary.

De Do Do Do De Da Da Da - Blog's Too Big Without You

2007-03-06T17:55:00.000Z

I haven't gone yet and I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. I am continuing to experience Bloggers Block. I can't keep apologising. Although I should. It's shameful behaviour.

I had every intention of sitting down and making a thorough and comprehensive visit to each and everyone of you lovely people last week. I got as far as Joyce and was so engrossed in her raw, real words, time ran away with me. I shall make amends, appropriate to the individual. Eventually.

Cream, I shall be in Toon early April. I may pop in for pizza. Mike, I'll be passing the end of your road late tomorrow night on my way to Cambridge. Give us a wave. Seany, I was there, at the Elizabeth Hotel on Littlecoates Road last Thursday night. Where were you? Pete, I calculate I will have swum approximately 50000 kilometres by the middle of April. It will have to be a very large steak indeed. Dave, I bet you've had your gladstone bag packed and waiting by the door since Saturday afternoon. I'll bring some Werther's Originals for the journey.

I'm also in talks with Homo Escapeons and Within Without. We hope to reveal further details of the Inaugural International Interlinking Informal In Person In Iceland event very soon.

Finally, today I have awarded Tiger Nation as the Official Best Bloke of The Year and Perhaps Ever. Thanks for the Police tickets, mate. Every little thing you do is magic x

Goggle-eyed

2007-02-25T16:19:00.000Z

Can you get prescription swimming goggles? I wondered about this as I shared the pool with the Gillingham football team, who were staying at the hotel on Friday night. I would like to take credit for slowing them down sufficiently to be beaten 3-1 by The Mighty Iron*. I'd like to, but I can't.

They'd limped back to Kent by the time I dove back into the pool on Saturday night. There was just me and one other regular. He's there most nights and often just the 2 of us are left ploughing back and forth when most others have long since resumed their Lives. It seems we were the only 2 without better things to do that night.

I love talking to him. I'd flirt were it not for the puce face ( too long in the sauna), hair plastered to my head and the harsh realities of a bathing suit - there's nowhere to hide in one.
I spent a particularly long time chatting on this particular occasion and discovered to my delight that he's unattached. I think my pupils may have dilated slightly as I gracefully launched myself into another lap, savouring this joy and using the possibility of drowning to hide my excitement.

I was still smiling to myself as I headed home, where I dashed upstairs to change into my pyjamas. It was there that the smile froze on my face. As I pulled my new cashmere sweater over my head, I saw with horror what appeared to be the blackest, hairiest armpits one has seen this side of Germany since Nina performed '99 Red Balloons' on Top Of The Pops. The cashmere had shed fibres. I wept.

* Scunthorpe United Football Club, currently riding 7 points clear at the top of the league table and pushing for promotion to the Championship. Apologies for the sudden and gratuitous sporting reference. I shall try not to do it again.

Apology Time

2007-02-20T18:00:00.000Z

I am a bad blogger. I have committed the ultimate blogger crime. I have neglected, and continue to neglect my blogroll. I am ashamed.

I have no excuses. It's not as if I have been having a life. There was one night when that rugby player who I've mentioned on previous occasions actually turned up on my doorstep. That was fun. I can't say anymore than that. This is not a 'Girl With a One Track Mind' type of site. And I know you wouldn't be interested.

That was just one night in the last 50 or so. I've joined a Creative Writing Class. It's only a short 10 week course which is fortunate as my ability to string words together on the page appears to be disappearing rapidly with every lesson. I started out quite enthusiastic, quietly but rather misplacedly confident. I am currentlysomewhere around the completely despondent phase. I have to hand around a piece of original writing tonight for the others to take away and read ready for next week. I'm not sure I'll be able to bear their pitying looks. I wish I'd just copied down some Marillion lyrics and passed them off as my own as Ian Gribbon did at school.

So what have I been doing all this time? I have not been idle. I have been perfecting my Tantric Aquatics. It looks very much like swimming only I do it far slower than everyone else.

Thank you for not giving up on me. I will be over to see you soon. I know I should have treated you better. I really am very sorry.

Hot Stuff

2007-02-17T22:13:00.000Z

Fashionable is not a term Jack would ever be likely to use if he were asked to describe me. In fact, to prove this, I have just asked him exactly that.

He had to think about it for a minute, and made me fetch him a doughnut and glass of milk because he was comfy beneath the duvet on the sofa and didn't want to have to get up before he answered.

' Pretty cool, easy-going, down to earth...you can be a bit of a knobhead'

That's a fair summary.

Currently, I think I look reasonably trendy and 'with it'. It is purely accidental. My batwing sleeves, long jumper-dresses and wide-striped sweaters are vintage 80's which I've never thrown out. In fact, never really stopped wearing, although I did lay off on the legwarmers a few years ago. Even my blue eye-shadow and hot-brushed hair flicks are back In.

I wouldn't normally be concerned with the latest fashion trends. I haven't set foot in a TopShop or Dorothy Perkins since I was a size 8 ( a considerable time ago). The same cannot be said for Jack's new girlfriend, Cat. My friend gave her a lift last week. I'm told she is a devotee of Sienna Miller's. She has a penchant for partying in her pants.

I'm thinking of trying the look myself. I wonder whether Jack would approve.

Tyred! Braked! Exhausted!

2007-02-08T18:46:00.000Z

No. They didn't send in the cavalry. That's the 4 horsemen of the Apocalypse and their cronies ceremonially heralding the arrival of biblical proportions of snow at exactly the moment I drove into Lutonff.

It's 35.5 hours since I left home and 37 since I last slept. I have tried to remain perkier than Bridget Jones in a Thai prison but the disappointment at not being smugly and comfortably tooked up in a 5 * hotel, enjoying Turkish Baths and Hungarian ghoulash together with an unexpected garage bill, which cost more than the flipping car in the first place, just to get home has left me somewhat BudaDeprest!

All that adventure lark is thoroughly overrated.

Hungry for Adventure

2007-02-07T12:37:00.000Z

I am taking the advice of Jane Austen. As adventures do not appear to be befalling me in my own village, I am seeking them abroad, at least for the next 2 days. That's if I can make if as far as Luton before the forecast snow brings the country to a standstill.

I shall be squandering 40000 Forints on pummelling, pounding, bathing, general wobbling about in towels and lashings of gulyasleves and tokaj.

Egészségédre!

The Great Escape

2007-02-05T13:31:00.000Z

The first place he took me was a Jewellers'. He asked me to help him pick out a cameo brooch for his mother's birthday. I don't wear much jewellery, mainly because no-one's ever bought me any but also because I'm not really very interested in shiny baubles. I ventured the opinion that jewellery was very much a matter of personal taste and as I had never met ( nor likely to meet) his mother I did not think I could be of much help. I hovered outside the shop instead, depriving him of his opportunity to wow me with his generosity and cunningly establishing my preference for diamonds ( I don't have one - it is a subject of which I have absolutely no experience).

Next he steered me into M&S. I was about to start a new job a week later and he offered to buy me a suit to mark the occasion. I politely rejected the offer and also refused to choose a tie for him whilst he picked up some work shirts, disclose my favourite perfume, list my 3 favourite contemporary artistes or try on shoes. By now I was beginning to wonder what sort of a woman he was used to; if they were favourably effected by his over-the-top generosity, they could only have been hookers or incredibly desperate women, perhaps even just ones he had met in porn movies.

20 minutes had passed at this point.

It seemed an age.

I bit my lip and resolved to make the best of it for as long as I could before blurting out that I really had to get back to relieve the babysitter.

" But we've only been here 22 minutes, look - it says so on my Rolex ( clearly fake, it was ticking) watch". I did feel a little shamed when I saw his shoulders droop but it didn't have the effect of curing his bouncy walk which was a far greater crime.

He let me drive home and I relaxed for the first time that morning, knowing normality was drawing ever closer. He turned his entire body towards me in the passenger seat, the merest hint of a bounce still evident. I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on the road, thankful that I'd chosen to wear my long permed hair down on the left that day. It provided a perfect screen to hide behind as I responded to his incessant babbling.

" I get the impression you are not normally this quiet". No, no, I assured him, I'm really quite a shy girl.

" The thing I miss most about being in a relationship is the physical contact, waking up beside somebody, the touching, the holding, the sex in the kitchen, the conservatory, the bath." Give me Scrabble instead any day, I told him, not entirely without truth.

I managed to keep a straight face until he'd driven, somewhat jerkily and stalling once, away from the station. It was only then that I realised that he could not possible have been the chap I'd given directions to all those months ago. He'd been over 6' tall and had a Scottish accent!

Fuel Injection

2007-02-02T16:56:00.000Z

I knew it was his car parked on the opposite side of the station carpark, a monstrous Mitsubishi sports-performance testerone-replacement Tossermobile. I wasn't about to walk over to it. I checked my lipgloss in the rear view mirror, all the time scanning for movement behind me. I was soon rewarded by the sight of an abnormally large floral bouquet bouncing in my direction. I climbed out of the car just as it was about to collide with my bumper.

" For You, Darling, because we could not be together yesterday*" The bouquet, which appeared to be wearing white trainers, the sort that have thick wedgy soles and should never be worn after puberty, thrust itself towards me.

I was horrified. The flowers were the ultimate ostentatious, tryingtoohard statement. I mumbled something that could have been mistaken for thanks as I threw them on my backseat, destined to be an impromptu gift to my mother, who to this day thinks I had been overcome with a sudden desire to thank her for just being her. Behind the bouquet, bobbing above the trainers, was a bomber jacket, distressed tan leather, a rather dated blouson style, inside which lurked a nondescript man of indeterminate age ( he'd said 30, I think that might have been creative).

We'd provisionally agreed to go to York for the day but I already knew I couldn't travel that distance and back with him so quickly suggested Lincoln as an alternative. There was a slightly increased chance that I might bump into someone I knew but the shame of that was far outweighted by the knowledge that I was only ever half an hour away from home.

He handed me his car keys, explaining that as he drove all week, he'd prefer to be a passenger while I took control. I wasn't blind to what he was doing, trying to impress me with his shiny penile propulsion, but I was itching to get behind the wheel. I ignored his not completely unpatronising tone as he assured me that it mattered not if I crunched the gears or kangaroo hopped out of the car park whilst I got used to an unfamiliar and much more powerful vehicle. I smiled gratefully at him, adjusted the seat and the mirror ( the lipgloss was really quite a flattering shade), turned the key and felt the gear shift satisfyingly into place as I simultaneously let out the clutch, tore out of the car park and gave the drive of my life.

I'm not sure if it was shock and awe, or the physical effect of the G force which kept him quiet for the first 10 miles, but it was a good 5 minutes before he spoke, "You, er, you're quite a good driver. Have you been rallying for long?"

Thus the journey to Lincoln passed surprisingly quickly and pleasantly. If only the next hour had.

This post and, quite possibly, the overall story has gone on long enough for one weekend. Can you guess what happened when we did eventually arrive in Lincoln or are you, like me by that time, already starting to lose the will to live?

* 14 February

Impulse

2007-01-28T10:46:00.000Z

You would think I'd have learnt my lesson about blind dates after my first ever experience. It happened almost 10 years ago.

I need to go back a couple of years to the start of the story. I was rushing to work one summer's morning when I was stopped in the car park by a gentleman looking for the train station. I remember thinking how attractive he was as I pointed him in the right direction. I wouldn't have given him a second thought but as I returned to my car later in the day, I found a note stuck beneath my wipers.

" Hi. My name's Mark. Thank you for the directions. If you fancy a drink, please call me on..."

I was delighted, not least because I was able to wave it beneath the nose of my then unsatisfactorily inattentive boyfriend, who probably couldn't have given a toss as long as he didn't have to take me out. I never responded to the approach and forget about it over time.

A couple of years later, by now single, I came across the note discarded at the back of a drawer. I imagine most 'normal' people would have smiled to themselves as they threw it into the rubbish if, in fact, such 'normal' people had bothered to keep it in the first place. I, of course, inately opportunistic and possibly borderline wacko, immediately rang the number.

I was surprised when it turned out to be a furniture shop. I assumed Mark must be an employee. I asked to speak to him but was told that he did not work there, although the lady did know him and would be seeing him that evening. She would pass my number on to him. Never once did she question why I should be ringing her business to speak to him, nor did I think it odd that she immediately identified him from his first name and a brief explanation as to how I came to have her number.

The following morning a call came through. It was Mark. He didn't beat about the bush. He wanted to meet me. It was to be daylight so I could see what an upfront guy he was and it had to be that weekend, Saturday 15 February. I couldn't think of a good enough reason to protest, so I didn't.

As the weekend drew nearer my doubts increased in direct correllation with the intensity of his telephone calls. I knew the location, layout, age and historical value of his house; a summary of his complete relationship experience to date; his dogs' names and medical complaints; his employment status and career prospects with full financial analysis; his favourite colour/ music/ side of the bed. I was also starting to suspect he was a bit of a w*nker.

I'm a firm believer that one must finish what one has started so I determined to see it through to the bitter end. I now realise that it's sometimes better to quit before things get any worse which is a perfect point at which to close this post for today.

Date, Rattle and Roll

2007-01-26T17:13:00.000Z

I have a friend who doesn't yet have her own home internet connection. This leaves her at a serious disadvantage when it comes to online dating. I have tried to convince her of the error of her ways on more than one occasion but have thus far had to admit defeat and with a shrug of my shoulders, try to conceal the relief that there is one less fishette in the competitive cyber sea.

I am not completely without hope for her. She ticks with the natural instincts of a single, childless woman approaching her mid 30s and is starting to come up with the sort of ingenious methods for meeting men which I have employed for a number of years. She appears to be having similar success to me judging by her most recent experience.

Imagine a musty church hall on a midweek evening full of excitable older men and ladies of a certain age in their dancing finery. Add an incredibly overweight middle aged man with interesting facial hair and a head microphone on a stage demonstrating the steps and you’re starting to get the picture that I stumbled upon last night.

We had to line up with a male partner and hold hands, ladies on one side, men on the other. My first partner was shorter than me( She is about 4' 11 in her stockinged feet- Ed.) with an elaborate comb-over, after a few steps and twirls he was replaced by another tiny man with a very thick head of white hair. And so the night went on, we got to hold hands and bump thighs and stroke the shoulders (don’t ask!) of all the men in the room (about 40 men, it’s very popular!) After 20 minutes I asked my then-partner how long the class went on for. Until 10.30! Nearly 3 hours, and then it was over to The Tiger for ‘free’ sandwiches (we paid £6 for the experience)

After the first hour we got to freestyle for half an hour and drink at the bar. Miraculously I was asked to dance by a succession of men all of whom appeared to be very keen to show off their advanced moves. I was whirled and twirled and pulled around the dance floor.

At the end of this they all rowed up again for the next stage of the night, which to our horror involved the man picking up the lady and throwing her a few feet (coronaries and broken ankles all round?) Fortunately the friend who'd dragged me along asked me if I’d had enough and I was only too happy to confirm that I had. We both agreed that I was unlikely to find my future husband at the Wednesday night jive class. Back to the drawing board.

Personally, I don't think it sounds all that bad.