[Real Life] Spring!

I’ve just spent four days writing and as far as this blog is concerned I have absolutely nothing to show for it. It’s almost as if I really don’t care anymore. But that's not the case, honest. It’s just other stuff. And it’s just a phase, I swear.

People have sent me lots of stuff to review as well. Lollipops that combat autism, AIDS and cancer. A vibrator that synchs with your iPod (not sure what I’m supposed to do with that exactly – I could shove it up my bottom but… well, we'll see). Plus a book about kissing and a book about men having very little imagination.

If you sent me any of those things, fear not, I’ll almost certainly get round to writing something about them sooner or later, but for the moment, reviewing things is really just slightly nauseating. And reading books takes ages, especially when you’re working 40-hour weeks and trying to write something you care about in what little free time you have.

I’ve been trying to write a novel, since you ask. It’s about families and secrets and lies. I've been working on it for quite some time now, on and off, and I’m about 200 pages in. I think it might be crap.

Did you have a nice Easter though? I do hope so. I hope you did something excellent like build a large Christ out of cheese. I had a nice Easter but I spent it in absolute isolation, writing and drinking Bloody Marys and writing and eating pizza and writing and smoking cigarettes and writing and eating sardines. Lots of writing then, which is good, I’m sure, unless it all comes to nothing, but even then, it’s better than spending money on drugs. (I tried to spend some money on drugs on Sunday in a moment of weakness, but everyone was away. It’s been about six weeks now. I’m not sure I approve.)

I've really got back into smoking cigarettes again though, sometimes whilst simultaneously wearing a nicotine patch for extra Stupid Points. It's utterly shameful. And the last pack of tobacco I bought featured this delicious health warning:



Whoa! How many cigarettes do you have to smoke to get a scarf made of meat? And if that doesn't stop me, what will? Maybe the moustache.

Anyway, I’m joining a gym tomorrow – again! Will I never learn? No, it’s good. It’s spring! Fresh start! I’ve actually got into a bit of a routine over the past three weeks. I get up at 6, make sandwiches and cycle to work in the West End. I get there by 7.15, just in time for the office to open, then I get changed, put talc on my bum and mess around with my own stuff till I have to start work on other people’s stuff around 9.30. Then I cycle home and have a bath. It’s a 25-mile round trip approximately. I reckon once I throw in regular gym visits, I’ll be buff as a bastard by the time the paperback comes out.

Speaking of which, what do you reckon to the cover? Oh, and the new dumbed-down title?



Don’t tell me the cover’s pants, please. Resist.

By the way, while I have your ear, anyone have any idea where I might hold this gathering on June 4th? I want somewhere a) free (or at least with a not outrageous minimum spend) b) for anywhere between 10 and 100 people (I'm guessing) c) preferably in Soho or at least somewhere central. Any thoughts, you people who know London better than I?

Right, on I get. Speak your thoughts in the comments...

Feedback Wednesday :: A Curse On My Unblasted Dams

bulk :: 13st 11
alcohol intake :: average
tobacco :: ah, well, yes, therein lies a tale
exercise :: none
sex :: none
violence :: none
drama :: lots

Things are extremely odd at the moment. This is why I’m posting pointless little nothings about Fonzie and violent dreams, the kind of things about which my dear old friends send me snippy hurtful emails late at night. Oh, Thom. How could you?

Frustratingly, this is also one of those periods about which I cannot speak, for fear of upsetting some of the people involved. This is vastly annoying for me because I’m a gusher by nature and my dams are fit to burst. My damns too.

Ah well.

Here are some things I can talk about:

…I’ve met a few people lately, new people, interesting people. One of these is a chap I met through the blog who has an opportunity to write something for a telly programme and wondered if I’d like to try and help. I did try and help but I wasn’t very good. Or at least I certainly wasn’t anywhere near as good as I wanted to be. But we scrambled something together and he sent it off. So I have my fingers crossed, but my hopes unraised.

…I also met another person through other work, a very interesting fellow who, compared at least to most people who are on the whole fairly anodyne, is clearly quite mad. Morag told me when I saw her recently, that I am quite ‘full on’. I know she didn’t mean it as a compliment exactly so much as a statement of fact. However, I took it as a compliment. So, this other fellow is quite full on too. And I mean that as a compliment also. Thankfully, and unusually, if not outright eccentrically, he doesn’t really ‘do’ the internet, so I might tell you more about him when I have a moment. Incidentally, it was with this scamp that I smoked some tobacco the other day. He had some excellent green stuff, you see, to accompany the tobacco, and I simply had to smoke it with him. And I don’t regret it. It really was good.

…Selling out is proving more difficult than I hoped it might. I got a call from the people who are supposed to be sending me my toastie machine this morning and there is a problem. The manufacturer has run out and doesn’t know when they’ll have any more. At the moment, they’re looking at 6-8 weeks. Wastrels. Meanwhile, someone else has sent me a book they want me to review, a book about sex. It’s pretty fucking grotty if you want to know the truth, and there’s no money in it so it’s not exactly selling out, but I’m going to continue with it because I can’t wait to finish the book and tear it a new anus, which is actually, as you shall see, a highly pertinent metaphor. Ouch.

…Yesterday I didn’t have enough money in my bank account to pay the rent. This is bad. I am owed money, and when it comes I’ll be OK again for a while, but it’s a bit embarrassing. At my age. Oh, God... don’t get me started. But do feel free to help out if you're loaded and stupidly generous.

...I think it was five weeks ago I tried to inflate the tyres of my bike. It didn't go well. My bike is still in pieces. I am useless. I need to be punished. Or just pull my fucking finger out. Or both!

…I’ve got a date tonight. I know, I know. But if it doesn’t work out, believe me, that’s it. I’m done with dating and saving up to go to Prague.

Thank you for listening. I leave you with this, taken by a friend in Spitalfields the other day.



No offence.

Fresh Start #173 :: Overmatter

bulk :: 13st 9
exercise :: none
cigarettes :: lots
steps taken to stop :: I'm going to see the NHS people next Friday. They have patches and all kinds of wisdom, and they're cheaper than a hypnotist.
alcohol :: most days
steps taken to cut down :: bought some weed and now can't be bothered to go to the shops for more booze
fresh starts :: 1
marks out of ten for week :: 7.3

I had a good day yesterday. It involved work, and old friends, and tears, and drugs, and a giant silver locust named Gerard.

OK, OK. I’m joking about the tears. Big boys don’t cry.

First picture.



This... is my drug dealer’s toilet.

I hope I’m not overstepping the mark publishing a photo of a man’s toilet whilst simultaneously identifying him as a felon. I suppose if there were any sleuths out there amongst you - and I know there are - you might blow the photo up Blade Runner-style, and pick out a possum hair on the toilet seat, which might lead you, via a little unpleasantness with an East End marsupial importer, to Ineloquent Quinn's high rise block in Fithering, just behind the Bluntsteps tube station. If you do figure it out, don’t call the rozzers. Be a good egg and call those wretched supercilious old haddocks who clean up for people on telly. Get them round.



First things first though. I worked in the morning. I went out to Kensington to see a Chinaman about data analysis. Then I met an old friend for a pub lunch of delicious sausages and mashed stuff which I can still taste. Then I had time before another appointment with another old friend, so instead of slogging home and back into town, I walked around London with a little fold-out map to keep me on my toes, listening to Adam and Joe podcasts in my headphones and laughing quite openly in public places. I think people like to see a stranger laughing to himself in a public place. I know I do. Cheers me right up. So I did big Brian Blessed belly laughs and winked at anyone who looked alarmed.



Not really. I just giggled quietly into my chin.

The second old friend I met was Morag. I hadn’t seen her since shortly after we split up. We had a couple of wines and caught up. It was good. Kind of sad too but it was great to see her.

Morag has this little tease she likes to inflict upon me from time to time. She pretends that she thinks that some time in the future, I’m going to find God or become gay. Or both. Run off with a wayward Christian chap and set up home in the Cotswalds. I’d have my writing. He’d have his potter’s wheel. Every night by candlelight we’d re-enact the sexy scene from Ghost to the soundtrack of some freaky Gregorian chant-drum and bass mash-up. She didn’t actually go into such detail but I know what she was thinking.



Hilariously enough, after I said goodbye to Morag, I walked to Fithering, where, being over an hour early for my next appointment, I took refuge in a public house and was immediately befriended by a couple of gay men.

It happened because I was unpleasantly and unfairly overlooked after waiting for forty years at an almost empty bar, and I got a bit visibly uppity about it, as is my hateful wont. It was rather infantile really, my little tantrum. It was all failed clarity and hufty exasperation. In my defence, however, I was a bit emotional. If you want to know the truth, I’d had a bit of a weep whilst en route to Fithering. In the street as I walked. Like a big girl’s blouse.



NO! Not like a big girl’s blouse at all, but like the thinking woman’s man that I am, soft like a bruised egg but delightfully receptive to the cringe and swell of my emotions. Or else in bondage to it. One of the two. Either option dwarfs a mere blouse* though, I’m convinced of that. So by the time I got to the pub, I was sensitive. And I was tense. And that’s what this guy said. He said, ‘Are you a bit tense there? You are, aren’t you?’ I admitted I was, very tense. He said, ‘I can tell. I’m very spiritual.’ I explained that I’d just seen my ex-girlfriend for the first time in six months or so, so I was a feeling a bit, you know…

I’m sure Morag won’t mind me telling you this. No, I really am. Almost totally sure. It’s mostly about me anyway.

I’d had a couple of things that had been simmering away in my head for the past six months or so, like tiny phantom tumours. Basically, because of a couple of things that had been said in the embers end of our relationship, I’d got it into my head that what we had meant very little to Morag. And that it was only me who actually gave a damn. But Morag easily convinced me that that was not the case. And immediately I felt better. And lighter.



Morag is happy. She’s with someone else and she’s clearly really happy with him. She didn’t even have to say as much. It was clear. And I was happy for her. Very happy. What I wasn’t so happy about, however, was my own life. Which is why, walking down the Gallstone Road to Fithering, I began to feel overwhelmingly sad. I had God Only Knows on repeat on my iPod and I was weeping.

Then I stopped weeping, and went to the pub, where one of the gay men shook my hand and said, ‘Did you say "ex-boyfriend"?’ I said no. Then he asked me if it'd been good seeing my ex and if I'd left her feeling positive. I said yes on both counts. I told him I’d entered into it, hoping to hear exactly what I'd heard and that I was very happy for her and happier in general for having seen her. That was all good. It was the malaise of my own life that was making me tense. He continued down the positive thinking line for a while and then I thanked him for his kindness and for his spirituality and I went outside to smoke cigarettes and listen to pop songs and wait for my drug dealer to get home. He arrived about 9pm.



I told Quinn that I’d been to see my ex-girlfriend, because it was on my mind and I wanted to talk about it, but he glossed over it and continued talking about the women that come to his flat. He speaks very quickly. The word ‘yanahmin’ peppers his prose like a powerful tick, like mouse droppings under the clapped out toaster of his brain. His stories are all either about women who won’t sleep with him or women who, as soon as he sleeps with them, want to move in with him. He’s all crappy gossip and crass stereotyping. He's all joyless, demeaning, meaningless chatter. I wanted to tell him I’d been crying and feeling sorry for myself, but that I was happy because I felt I’d reached an important turning point in my life. But he was describing some woman’s arse to me in the most painfully impoetic detail, and I could tell he wasn’t interested. And when I did manage to get a word in, on any subject, he didn’t really listen, and he was off again, riding his own melt. I wanted to tell him that I felt as if something had been weighing me down and it had been removed, and that I felt a little reborn. But he was too busy describing some woman’s cleavage.



So I left.

Then, on the bus on the way home I decided that I’m going to become a pop star. No time like the present.

It’s a fresh start. A superfresh start.

So that’s what I’m doing this weekend. Working on my first album and drifting into the increasingly nebulous world of physical abuse and spiritual awakening we call rock and roll.

What about you? Anything nice?



* A silky garment worn by a flamboyant meerkat.

Feedback Friday :: Nothing To See Here

Right then. Here we are.

This will be sloppy. Not half-hearted, but probably at most third-brained. I’ve been working. Two full days immersed in a world of SMEs and CEOs, audits, buy-outs and chubby men smiling money smiles in shiny ties and proper trousers. It’s really quite tiring. All I want to do is go and watch the telly.

I shall resist, however.

So, news. Time over event multiplied by inherent appeal. I have none. Indeed, apart from work, which saps the soul but enriches the other bits that quite like getting out of the house once in a while and earning a few bob, I am a hollow bone. It’s all rather unenlightening really. I don’t even want to talk about it.

I think the worst thing about work is the time it takes. It’s like – if you take it seriously – it takes up most of your life! There’s almost no time at all to do anything else. This week, for example, I was going to write a scintillating, coruscating piece about that bad egg, Barbara Ellen, escaping under the radar of Jan Moir’s odium and managing to get away not only with writing wholly misjudged tosh about internet paedophiles being lazy, but also this: ‘People should not feel obliged to switch off their mobile phones in theatres.' What a silly fucker. I was also going to get over the feelings of futility that have sprung up about something I was trying to write, pick up where I left off and bring it to swift, satisfactory and profitable conclusion. I was going to get hold of a rug that would really tie the room together. I was going to track down Danny Wallace and persuade him to let me write his column in Shortlist. Because it’s crap. And then I was going to brush his hair flat for him and insist that he stop raising his right eyebrow like a particularly charmless nonce. I was going to learn to play the piano. I was going to write a song about a paedophile called Never Too Old For A Cuddle. I was going to be something. I was going to be a contender. Instead of a blithering toad, which is what I am.

What about that Nick Griffin, eh? They should get him on Have I Got News For You and crucify him.

Balls, I’ve got to go to sleep. Got to be up early. ‘Work while you have the light,’ said the philosopher. ‘You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you.’

Meh.

Have a nice weekend now. I will be drinking heavily and fixing my bike. And you? What will you be doing? Anything ring-looseningly cool?

Feedback Friday :: Up

bulk :: 13st 5
cigarettes :: meh, a few, but none on Sunday
booze :: lots; some every day
exercise :: nil
interviews :: 2
jobs :: 3

I’ve been very busy this week, fending off economic meltdown. I’m writing this from the boardroom of a giant Japanese financial institution in the heart of the belly of the groin of the beast. I’ve just finished having an initial meeting with a charming little Japanese fella who wants me to help him write reports and summaries and emails about base metal trading. I know, I know. Be still my panel-beating heart. When the meeting was over I asked him if I could hang around for half an hour and use the wifi. He said I could. So here I am.

I had something similar yesterday too. Different set-up, same nonsense.

Suddenly my life has changed, in oh so many ways. I’m not altogether sure I like it, but I’m not altogether sure I don’t. I think I might be a little ambivalent about it.

Speaking of ambivalence, yesterday I found myself wandering around the financial district and I felt myself simultaneously repulsed and elated. I made some notes as I thought I could write a heroic and visceral blog post about it. But I left them at home. All I remember now is two drunks fighting over a pink blanket, then fifteen minutes later four policemen, two of them donning purple rubber gloves and searching the drunks for knives and drugs, the blanket now nowhere in sight; I remember talking to an Evening Standard distributor who said that the new free status of the Standard had ruined him – they used to get 12p per copy, now they get 2p. He said he could have survived if they’d given 5p on the copy, but now he’d have to find different work. That was sad. And it made me glad that I was lucky enough not to have to hand out shoddy journalism to scowling suits; I remember being freshly amazed by the potpourri of London’s architecture and the thrill of sauntering through it all with time to spare and music in my ears. I love the way you can dip off one street dripping with gold, bronze and marble onto another street, seconds away, stinking of cabbages and dildos. I love that.

Actually, on reflection, I’ve decided I’m glad to be getting out of the house a little more.

Gosh. I’ve just eaten two plates of biscuits.

Oh, and another thing. I’ve got a date tonight. Wish me luck.

And have a smashing weekend yourself. What you up to? Anything overwhelmingly scintillating?

Feedback Friday :: Sometimes There’s No Poison Like A Dream

bicycle rides :: 4
punctures :: 1
bicycles ruined in effort to fix puncture :: 1
days remaining till return to London :: 37

Yesterday I went to London and spent an hour and a half in the belly of the behemoth. It’s still not sure whether they’ll let me do the job, but I do hope so. It’s a one-off thing, making some tiny films for a giant accountant. It seems easy to me, but just because something seems easy doesn’t mean you can do it. It’s about getting the tone right. Fingers crossed anyway.

On the train on the way back up North last night, I realised I was sitting painfully close to a girl wearing a face mask…



I don’t honestly know if she had Swine Flu or if she was trying to protect against Swine Flu or if she merely had SARS in her eyes. I do not know, and I didn’t wait to find out. Rather, I took the advice of the Daily Mail and fled to the other end of train, screaming, ‘Black Death! Black Death! The Day of Judgement is upon us!’

Speaking of Swine Flu, when my bike broke the other morning roughly seven miles from home and I walked back through sporadically pissing rain and filthy temper, my ire was soothed – or at least temporarily cloaked – by listening again to Under Milk Wood in my ears. In one scene, Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard dreams that she is lying in bed with each of her dead husbands – Mr Ogmore, and Mr Pritchard – and she addresses them thus:

MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

Soon it will be time to get up.

Tell me your tasks, in order.

MR OGMORE

I must put my pyjamas in the drawer marked pyjamas.

MR PRITCHARD

I must take my cold bath which is good for me.

MR OGMORE

I must wear my flannel band to ward off sciatica.

MR PRITCHARD

I must dress behind the curtain and put on my apron.

MR OGMORE

I must blow my nose.

MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

In the garden, if you please.

MR OGMORE

In a piece of tissue-paper which I afterwards burn.

MR PRITCHARD

I must take my salts which are nature's friend.

MR OGMORE

I must boil the drinking water because of germs.

MR PRITCHARD

I must make my herb tea which is free from tannin.

MR OGMORE

And have a charcoal biscuit which is good for me.

MR PRITCHARD

I may smoke one pipe of asthma mixture.

MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

In the woodshed, if you please.

MR PRITCHARD

And dust the parlour and spray the canary.

MR OGMORE

I must put on rubber gloves and search the peke for fleas.

MR PRITCHARD

I must dust the blinds and then I must raise them.

MRS OGMORE-PRITCHARD

And before you let the sun in, mind it wipes its shoes.

Put me in mind of it, you see.

Dylan Thomas had just turned 39 when he died.

Christ, I feel miserable today.

It could be the panic of poverty building up. In 39 days I’ll be back in London, and living in London is not as easy as living with your grandmother, wallet-wise. And she’s going to miss me, and I feel bad about that. Or it could be because I’m going to the hospital this afternoon to get the pain in my stomach checked out again and what really worries me is that yet again they won’t fucking find anything and that in less than eighteen months I will die of gastric cancer. I know thinking about this stuff probably doesn’t help... but I can’t stop myself.

Whenever someone dies at an early age, people say, ‘Oh, it was tragic – he never achieved his potential’ – but what if I die in my early 30s and I did achieve my potential?! Eh? What about that?

Alright, alright, no more whining, no more thinking about death.

Erm….

Doing anything nice this weekend?

I’m not.

Feedback Friday :: Busy Doing Nothing

Life is odd about now. It has no form. Here then, is a list…

- I set up a Flickr account, where I put pictures of thistles and suchlike. Like this one...



I wish the rain would stop so I could go out and find more things to photograph, but according to the forecasts, the rain will remain for at least the next four days, relentless and heavy and dark. At the moment it's horizontal.

- I have been fantasising and even dreaming about being kissed and having my face stroked. I have also been dreaming about kittens. This is a sure sign that if I do not find some physical affection very soon, then rather like that python that ate that alligator, I will explode. Poor thing. He was just after a little intimacy.

- I have been thinking about trying to blog about something ‘interesting’ more regularly. Despite the fact that no one read the piece about ugly manwash the other day (perhaps not helped by the fact that I auto-spammed my feed traffic by putting the e-word in the title), I enjoyed writing it. So I’ve decided I should do more things like that. In fact, what I should do is write myself a weekly column – see if I can do that. See if I have the right to slag off Barbara Ellen and Giles Hattersley quite so priggishly. I'll try for Wednesdays.

- I’ve been doing a fair bit of plinth-watching. I had my doubts at first but then I came to realise, it’s magnificent. The whole idea is just tremendous and I’m very excited about what might come next. My favourite participant so far was this guy, Velorose.



About eighteen minutes in he goes into The Age of Aquarius. It’s wonderful. People are ceaselessly fascinating. Even the painfully dull ones. (This man was so dull, he seems to have put his own stream to sleep.)

- Seeking cheap thrills, I bought some racy novels from second-hand book shops. Not racy, no. Thrillers. I’m trying to learn how to do that. I’d like to do that. I’m going to read some Jeffrey Archer too. You see if I don’t. At the moment I'm reading Christopher Brookmyre for the first time. He is very good.

- I’ve become obsessed by my stomach and the effect of cycling and 100 jack-knife sit-ups every day. (Wii Fit calls them jack-knifes. I don’t know if they’re right to do so.) Anyway, it’s working. My stomach is disappearing.

- My stomach pain, however, is not disappearing, but I have an appointment at the hospital next Friday. Unfortunately I’m not sure whether my appointment is for purposes of haematology, biochemistry or colorectal surgery. I have pieces of paper with all of these words written on them. I guess I’ll found out when I get there.

- I have just sold 109 CDs for £74.18, equalling an average of 68p per disc. That’s not very much, especially compared to what I paid for them. The good thing though, is that now they are gone, their goodness transferred to my increasingly irreplaceable and still not backed-up computer. Does anyone know anything about remote back-up? Who is good? Anyone?

- I’ve watched a bunch of films recently, and updated my film depository.

- I have no money.

- This week I went to London and spotted three whole celebs in one single day. I spotted Zandra Rhodes, Andy Hamilton and Denis Lawson. Just wandering about the place, they were, like ordinary people. Oh, and I also did a live interview for Canada AM, with a bag on my head. It all looked a bit Abu Ghraib at times...



The bag in question is a Primark bag, steamed apart over a hot kettle at three in the morning, stuck together backwards to avoid the branding, and with stoned eye-holes cut badly and into the wrong place. Has this whole thing got ridiculous enough yet? Or is there still a little wiggle room?

Now I’m going to brave the rain and go see Bruno. Is it awful?

Have a super weekend, you, whoever you are, whatever you're doing, and please, please do lots of things I wouldn’t do.

Enchanté.

Feedback Friday :: Countdown

bulk :: 15st 1
days without alcohol :: 0
Wii Fit sessions :: 4
substantial bike rides (90mins+) :: 4
nagging stomach pain alert level :: elevated

I’ve probably got about eight weeks left up here. In Grimstone. And although I’m having a thoroughly pleasant time and am Getting Stuff Done, I am very much looking forward to getting back to London. I miss people. I’m realising that without leaving the house on a regular basis to spend time in the company of other human beings, I regress. I tend to go a bit vile. Last week I found a full beard on my face, and in the last few days I’ve sprouted a cluster of small red blotches on the crown of my Johnson. It’s grisly stuff, I know, but apart from being hunched over my two monitors like a low-rent Terry Pratchett, I’ve little else to report.

The problem of course, is hygiene. Or, more precisely, a lack thereof. Thankfully, cycling has come to the rescue, for when I return from an hour or so of grafting and gliding, I am invariably radiant with perspiration and sporting a magnificently oily calf.

I miss London, however, because I want to be forced to shower by the prospect of social congress, rather than the appearance of cheese-blisters.

You know, sometimes I look at my bike and I want to kiss it.

Speaking of dubious tenderness, the answer to last Mittwoch’s Bookscan competition was…



You’re kicking yourself now, I know. Stop it. It’s not allowed.

Now, as for this week’s Bookscan, I have a doozy. I also have approximately 200 CDs to give away. I’ve uploaded them all onto my machine and I’m about to sell them to the ghouls at Music Magpie, but if you can guess the answer to this here competition, you can maybe have some instead if you like. There's bound to be something you’d like there. My Fair Lady maybe? It’s very good. Some of it.

So without wishing to 'drown the miller' with preamble, name the book, claim the prize…







This weekend I am going to go cycling and I am going to tidy and read. I'm also going to attempt to adjust to life without joints. I have run out of ‘the herb’. In reality, the tough part will be no more tobacco, for which it's fair to say I’ve most probably redeveloped something of an addiction. And with the bastard tobacco back I go to square one.

Hello, pleased to meet you. I want to get fit, stop smoking, move to London and meet a doe-eyed, shark-toothed, pen-hearted woman who loves me for who I am.

Who's with me?

Ah. I see I'm alone. So be it.

Have a pleasant weekend.

Feedback Friday :: Blarney Rubble

bulk :: 15st 6 (hush now)
cigarettes :: 0
bonsai doobies :: 12 or so
Wii Fit sessions :: 3
gyms visited :: 3
gyms joined :: 0
bikes bought :: 0
interviews given :: 3
interviews enjoyed :: 2
interviews aired :: 1
interviews in the pipeline :: 3
books started :: 3
books finished :: 0
films watched :: 0
jellies eaten :: 4
opportunities for change :: 1
dates :: 1

So. It’s been quite a week. I’ve just done my third telephone interview with the achingly lovely Nadine from Phantom 105.2. From the very beginning Nadine was extremely personable and it was a pleasure to talk to her. The interview will be going out tomorrow morning between 10 a.m. and noon, on her show called The Kiosk.

Radio Ulster next week. The Irish love me.

Now I have to rush. I have to do some Wii Fit, and I have to go walking somewhere. Walking is the answer! Look at Stephen Fry! And then I have to prepare myself, for tonight I am meeting a lady I found on the internet. I’m not going to talk about it though, because I will turn everything into rubble.

Speaking of rubble, I am reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It is remarkable, hypnotic and powerfully sad. I feel sad just thinking about it now in fact. Let’s move on.

This afternoon I’m going to Newcastle to try and find some decent bookplates, or indeed any bookplates. These are those customised stickers that can be signed and stuck in the front of books. I’m trying to persuade Publisher Lady to make some for me at Murdoch House but, you know, times are hard. Look at this one the publishers of Freakonomics made though...



That's kinda cool, and cheap as chips to make. What excellent publishers they must be. How kind. How clever.

Oh, I heard yesterday of an opportunity to move back to London in September. I’m thinking about it.

Oh, and if you do nothing else today, please follow this link and vote yes. Go on, it’s important. And hilarious.

For now, must dash.

Have a tour-de-force of a weekend, won’t you? Do something I wouldn’t do, then tell me about it.

Mwah.

Feedback Friday :: Hecticity

bulk :: I reckon I've put on a stone since I arrived in Italy
cigarettes :: some, and I'm really pissed off about it - it really stinks up the breath
postcards bought :: 10
postcards sent :: 0
Italian women I have fallen in love with :: all of them

So I had planned to spend the 12 hours or so it was going to take to get to Palermo on the train writing up all that has happened in Rome, but because I left everything till the last minute, I have only just discovered that the train to Palermo is, for various reasons, no good. So I just booked a flight, leaving at noon tomorrow, which will mean leaving here around 8 to be absolutely sure of getting to the airport on time. It's all very hectic.

I'm going to a wedding by the way. An old friend is marrying a Sicilian lady. I haven't seen him for years and was very surprised to get an invite. Probably not as surprised as he was that I accepted. The invite came about a week before Morag moved out, so I thought, fuck it. Let's go somewhere I've never been.

There's an awful lot that can go wrong tomorrow though, and I'm slightly nervous. Especially as I've been told that no one in Sicily speaks English. In fact, I've been told that they barely speak Italian.

Rome is spectacular though, and I will get round to writing about it soon. I hope. But the next few days are going to be incredibly hectic.

In the meantime, here are some more pictures from Publication Day. I am very silly.















That last one's my favourite. They barely understood a word of what I was saying but they entered into the task with alacrity and aplomb. Bless them.

Now I should sleep, as at best I'll have six hours, but you know what I'm going to do instead? I'm going to watch the last episode of season four of The Wire. Get myself in a gangster frame of mind in preparation for Sicily.

Feedback Friday :: Northern Exposure

bulk :: I’ve no idea – I gave my scales to Oxfam in London! I’m free! Free, I tell ya!
exercise :: I bought a Wii Fit! Couldn’t get one in London. Got one here immediately. Have done a couple of sessions on that and am aching admirably. Intend to buy a bike in a week or two and ride down to the beach a couple of times a week.
booze :: Alma likes a drink and is keen for me to keep her company. So I do.
romance :: none. And something must be done about this soon. I'm beginning to wither.
feeling about the North :: very positive

So I’ve now been in the North East of England for one whole week, and apart from the fact that it’s turned awfully grim, weather-wise, I have to say it’s going rather well. It’s not as bad as I was expecting at all.

This weekend I’m going to venture out into town of an evening and just wander about amongst the natives. See how that goes. See how friendly they are then. Only if it stops raining though.

And this afternoon, as soon as I’ve posted this, I’m going to watch Benjamin Button with Alma. I’ve been meaning to watch it for a while, and I reckon it’s a film an old lady might appreciate. We’ll see.

So I leave you with a new Bookscan challenge. Quite an easy one this, I think. One of you must have a copy of this book. So, the first person to tell me the correct title wins a porcelain dog. And if you don’t know, you’re duty-bound to guess.





And if you can't be bothered to have a guess, at least tell me what you're up to this weekend. Come on, I miss you. Anything nice? I do hope so.

Feedback Friday :: Bouncing Back

bulk :: 14st 12
gym sessions :: 3
therapy sessions :: 1
lows :: 1
highs :: 1
steaks :: 1 pending

On Wednesday afternoon I spent 70 minutes flogging myself tender in the gym. All cardio. The sweat was jumping off of me like cartoon fleas and by the time I got home, I was back to my old chipper self. I was feeling positive and light-hearted. I was talking to myself in silly voices. The violent misanthropy of the first half of the week was gone. So - therefore - I am forced to conclude that physical exercise is very good for mental health. I know, I know, I’m a visionary. I’m setting the world on fire with these outlandish new ways of thinking.

So. I’m going away towards the end of May for a couple of weeks. I got an invitation to go see someone I don’t know in a country I’ve not been to, so I thought I’d throw caution to the wind and do it. I've booked a ticket. Two-week round trip. I plan to do a little travelling around while I’m there and I want to get as fit as I possibly can before going. Hence the recent frenetic gym activity, and self-starving.

Connected to that, I saw Rocknrolla the other night. Although it’s a distinctly average and occasionally rather laughable film, it does feature a captivating performance by Toby Kebbel. If I’m perfectly honest, I think I’ve got a bit of a man-crush on Toby Kebbel. Not only do I find him extremely charismatic, but also, just look at what he was able to do with his body…



I should say, my man-crush doesn’t extend to me wanting to lick his body, merely wanting to replicate it. In some interview I can’t find at the moment, he spoke of his regime, which consisted of a seven-day fast followed by nine weeks of one meal a day. This presumably in tandem with a beastly punishing gym programme. I wouldn’t necessarily want to be that thin, but to have a musculature that well-defined, to feel that fine-tuned must be amazing. And I’ll regret it profoundly if I get to the end of my life and I never found the time or the discipline to properly honour the gift of having an able body. I owe it to myself. So I’m working hard. And eating well. And feeling better already.

So this morning I had my first session on the couch. And it was good. I like the guy, which I guess is important. And we agree that it’s his role to lead, and to provoke. I need to be provoked. I look forward to it.

In other news, cancer continues to ravage and ruin all things bright and beautiful, making life, on occasion, feel overwhelmingly hopeless and depressing and cruel. It’s like, what can you do? Well, first and foremost, if you’re lucky enough to be healthy, you can live to the best of your abilities. Amen. Secondly, if you’re within running distance of Glasgow, you can go to the Britannia Panopticon Music Hall tomorrow night. There will be music and comedy and cakes and prizes and popcorn and a woman playing a ukulele. All proceeds go to Breast Cancer Care. (Someone asked me to mention this, I think imagining my influence to be rather greater than it actually is. Happy to help. Or not, as the case may be.)

Now, I’m going to cook a six ounce steak and a kilo of spinach. This weekend I shall be mostly punishing myself physically and writing some things.

And you? What are you up to?

Feedback Friday :: Zest

bulk :: 15st 0
walnuts :: 0.5kg
chocolate bars :: 0.5kg

On Wednesday afternoon I went to the gym. It was a beautiful day. On the way home from the gym – on a whim – I popped into a health food store and purchased one jar of Malt Extract, one jar of 240 Cod Liver Oil Capsules, a large tub of 90% Soya Protein Powder, a packet of Dried Apricots, a packet of Chopped Dates and a sack of Walnut Halves.

Then, moments later, on an entirely separate, slightly chubbier whim, I popped into a non-health food store. In Lidl I purchased one large jar of Rollmop Herrings, one packet of Tuscan Style Norwegian Salmon With Tarragon and Horseradish Sauce, one packet of Smoked and Peppered Mackerel Fillets, one Iceberg Lettuce, one bunch of Asparagus, one packet of Cherry Tomatoes, one packet of Gorgonzola (Piccante), one large wedge of Parmesan, six Medium Eggs (Free Range Organic) and a packet of Wholemeal Rye Crispbread. Oh, and a jar of Mayonnaise (Light).

I have one of the healthiest larders in London. Mayonnaise and cheese permitting. I’ve also been going to the gym fairly regularly. What I need to start doing now is a bit of swimming. And so I shall. The Spring is invigorating. I hear foxes squeaking as I type. I feel zesty.

As for everything else, I have nothing to report. I have been working, which is a fairly dull topic of conversation at the best of times. I’ve been doing rewrites, and they’re pretty much done.

So that’s good.

Oh, and the other day I bought a scanner, which for some reason I keep referring to as a fax. One day soon I will connect it up and scan something.

In the meantime, have a smashing weekend. I’m doing bugger all. What are you up to?

Feedback Wednesday :: March

bulk :: 15st 2
booze :: not much at all, considering
painkillers :: just a handful
joints :: zero
healthy meals :: zero
films :: 5
visits to the dentist :: 1
days till deadline :: -5
panic level :: 2
whinge level :: 1
spring fever fervour :: 6

Before this month began, I vowed to myself that I would do a minimum of 15 minutes ball work every single day. Pilates Ball work, that is. ‘March,’ I declared, with all the wide-eyed earnestness of a man with a fresh start between his teeth, ‘is Abs Month!’

The first day was a doddle, because I didn’t really do it very well. The second day however, I did it very well indeed. An invigorating combination of punishing ball-work, some rather pelvis-heavy disco-dancing, and press-ups, all offered to Mr Motivator, the patron saint of Home-Exercise, to the accompaniment of the new Lemon Jelly DVD I got for two or three pounds in Fopp in Cambridge Circus. I love Fopp. I’m giving Fopp free advertising.

On the third day I woke up wearing a girdle of pain which simultaneously reassured me I had stumbled upon the right exercises, and also convinced me to take a day off. I’m back on it today however, and looking forward to throwing myself a beating a little later on.

Another little thing that popped into my addled hive this monthabouts was the idea of starting a daily photo website and calling it, let’s say, In the Details or some such. I’m just playing with the idea at the moment, not really sure where I’m going. I like details though, that’s what it comes down to. But is that enough on which to base a new blog? Why, of course it is. And the devil really is in the details, I’m convinced of that. So I decided whilst I ponder and thrash, that I’d post a picture here, every day in March.

I started yesterday, disguising it as a passing fancy, and your responses both heartened and amused. If there were a prize, it would go to daisyfae because, even though both of her answers – ‘…an egg in a porcelain egg rest. Or the granite nipple of David….’ - were wrong, both brought a low, lexicogenous hum to my lymph.

Oh, and nil points to Lennie Nash, who snatches the Russell Brand award for unnecessarily inappropriate remarks direct from Carol Thatcher’s grasping, toxicankerous mitts.

It was actually my gorgeous new mouse for my gorgeous new computer where I now spend every waking hour.

Today’s pic is down below.

How exciting.

So what with the stomach, and the photos, and all the other quotidian guff stuff, I shall be posting a lot over the coming few weeks.

In fact, I think it’s safe to say :: March is Quotidian Guff Month, where the byword is quantity, not quality.

In other news, I handed in the manuscript on Friday. Now, as I await verdicts and edits and last-minute panics, I am free. Free, I tell you, for the first time – to this extent - in my entire life!

Although the first instalment of the advance has already been swapped for a proper computer and used to eradicate the first third of an agonizing tax bill, I have paid the rent for the next month and I should be able to last till the second instalment.

So I have a bit of time. I’ve got a couple of weeks worth of things to watch and read, so I’m going to do that. And some pottering about online, offline and in my lady’s chamber.

(I have no lady, but if I did, rest assured, I would be pottering in her chamber right now.)

Now, where the hell is my jazz oregano?

Here is today’s image. First one to get is, gets it…



Any thoughts?

Random Memorandum :: Unintelligible Sailing

I’m not complaining. Life is good and there is more now than there ever has been for which to feel thankful. And I am thankful. But people are complex, often inexplicable creatures. And it isn’t easy being one.

That’s all I’m saying.

Right. Feedback.

bulk :: 15st 7
booze :: some
films :: 2
jazz cigarettes :: some
days till next fresh start :: 7
days till book deadline :: 34
panic threat level :: low
unpleasant change threat level :: moderate

In other news…

…the kitten is on hold but there is a new basil plant in the kitchen. Sadly, he is already on the wane. Is it actually possible to keep a basil plant alive? Is it? Because I don’t know how.

…I was pestered on Twitter by a chap who’s just started a blog about his failed attempts at becoming a chef. ‘I shook the TV chef’s hand and began blurting out a load of nonsense. He took a step back, staring into the eyes of a madman. “I’ve always been into cooking, and well…I love cooking fish…in fact, it’s my favourite…and I just wanted to pick your brains about being…well, about being a chef.”….’ This is from the first post when he blags a week at Rick Stein’s kitchen as a lowly galley slave. It's called Chef Sandwich and it looks like it might be fun.

…Burns Night celebrations went slightly awry as changes of plans meant I ended up spending it alone at the cinema. But at least I got to feel increasingly depressed watching a film about terrorism.

And that’s probably enough feedback for now I think. Please excuse the slackness of this blog of late. I swear I’m not neglecting it. In fact, I’ve got something very exciting planned for Valentine’s Day. I hope you’ll be proud of me.

Hope all is good with all of you. Is it? Tell me everything.

Feedback Friday :: Oops! Where Did the Weekend Go?

bulk :: 15st 8 (oh God. Reserves of discipline being dredged as we speak, I swear. Or actually, I’m currently thinking of starting up again on January 31st. That’s my favourite date. Classic date for fresh starts. I won’t be going to Fitness First though. No, Sir. I popped into one round my way for a looksee, and it reminded me of stories I’ve heard about some offices in China, just rows and rows and rows of people all doing exactly the same thing, cramped and unsmiling. They had some excellent facilities, I’ll give them that, but there was just something creepy about it. I didn’t like the amount of information I had to give either. I am not a Number! I am a Free Man!)
booze units :: quite a few to be honest. I’ve discovered whisky. It’s nice.
leaves left on the poinsettia :: 67
word count :: 137,627 (next step is to get rid of half of those words, rearrange those remaining and then find some more new ones to add to the mix)
silly accents in my head as I read :: 7
films watched :: 3

Good morning to you. How are you feeling this morning? I know, I know, there’s another cold snap coming, you can feel it in your wrists. But what can you do? Into every Summer a little Winter must fall.

So, I do hope you’re well, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Did you have a good weekend? Merely OK? Come, come, what did you get up to?

I usually see you on a Friday, of course, but I’ve been busy as a bee, writing away like a bonnie wee rascal, writing away like a wordy fuck. And after a shaky start I’ve really got into it. I’ve located the balls of the thing and I’m giving them a good old squeeze. Time though, eh? There really aren’t enough hours in the day.

So, let me tell you a thing or two of what I’ve been up to since last we chatted.

I went to the optician for a free eye test. Cost me a bloody fortune. And while I was in there - SpecSavers it was - an old lady came to the counter after me and said to the young woman behind it, she said: ‘Will you clean my glasses, please?’ Then she took her glasses off and handed them to the young woman.

The young woman was twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, blonde and pleasant and ordinary. The old lady was in her sixties, and seemed quite mad. She had no care, no sense of convention, she did not conform.

The young woman examined the glasses, and said, ‘These are not SpecSavers glasses.’

The old lady, moving slowly from side to side and blinking, said. ‘Yeh, will you clean them, please?’ She spoke quickly and with nasal clarity.

The young woman was in a corner. She didn’t want to be rude, but there were other people waiting, with requests she was paid to consider more important. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Will you take a seat, please.’

The old lady shuffled to a nearby seat and sat waiting patiently.

The young woman dealt with a couple more customers and when the rush died down, she cleaned the old lady’s glasses and returned them to her.

The old lady took them from her, stood up and shuffled quickly and silently out of the shop.

Not so much as a by your leave. Milady.

The young woman shook her head in disbelief. If they have Candid Camera in her country, she was probably very briefly entertaining the idea that she was being set up for the hilarity of the feeble-minded and housebound.

I asked her if that had ever happened before. She said it had not. We agreed it was strange.

When I got home I loaded up the car with dirty dishes and high-tailed it to IKEA.

And ehhh… So what else?

Well, I went into London on the tube this week and I was using prepay. I made a bit of an arse of things and lost some money doing a stupid thing with my card. A tube station employee saw me standing there like a disappointed moron and asked if everything was OK. Then, when I explained, he proceeded to help me get a refund from the guy at the window with such an extraordinarily friendly manner that I was quite taken aback. He did his job perfectly. It really stood out in this city where good service is becoming a forgotten art. I know I’m sounding like a frightful reactionary, but dash it all, you know it’s true. But this guy was great. I would have tipped this guy if he’d worked in an industry that was deemed tippable. As it was, I merely thanked him repeatedly and made it quite clear that he’d made my day.

We’re meeting for dinner on Wednesday.

And ehhh… So, Morag bought me many wonderful things for Christmas. We had a great time by the way, both here and in Scotland. One day I think I’d like to talk about it all. There was fun and there were feelings. It was really quite something. Anyway, one of the things she got me was a voucher for a man-pampering centre. This is because I’ve always said, one day, when I can afford it, I’d love to have sit-down with a chiropodist. So just as soon as I can grab an afternoon, I’m going to get my feet scraped. And maybe a nice facial.

And ehhh... Ooh, also this week I’ve got another round of medical things coming up, including eyes, ears and balls check. Wish me luck, you old devil, you.

Oh.

leaves left on the poinsettia :: 65

So tell me, how’s your Monday shaping up? Tell me everything.

I'm off to bed.

Feedback Friday :: Working From Home

bulk :: 15st 8 (damn you, Christmas chocolate!)
exercise :: 0 (joining new gym next week though, I swear)
glasses of wine :: 6
cases of wine :: 0
cohabitation disputes :: 3
kittens :: 0
senses working overtime :: one, two, three, four…. Four.
Twitter updates :: 111

So here we are, one week down, hopefully at least a couple of thousand to go. And I’m happy to report that it’s gone tremendously well, especially once I’d moved down from the icebox of the study-cum-second bedroom to the relative hospitality of the kitchen. As well as being at least 10 degrees warmer than the spare room, the kitchen has the concomitant allure of a fridge full of fish, a kettle full of water and the inexorable poignancy of a poor poinsettia, for whom it seems, it is forever Autumn. It does feel a little odd masturbating at the kitchen table of course, but that’s something I’ll get used to, I’m sure.

I mention masturbation not merely to shock you, gentle reader, but rather to neatly segue, like a fractured infinitive, into the subject of Distraction. In my previous incarnation as a website editorialist and junk-puking killer of trees, deadlines tended to impend. I’d generally have just a few days or a week or two at most to get something done. This meant I was usually up against it and if I wanted to get paid, I couldn’t afford to piddle around on Facebook or Twitter or – eek! – YouPorn. With this book thing however, I’ve got till some time in March to complete, and although there are countless mini-deadlines along the way, I don’t think I’m going to get dropped if I miss them, so you know… ooh, look, a penguin!

It has to be said however, my main distraction this week hasn’t been pornography, and it hasn’t been abused penguins. My main distraction this week has been Twitter.

I must admit, until the beginning of this week, rather like the ghastly Bryony Gordon, I didn’t really get Twitter. I just thought it was a place where a bunch of people – the vast majority of whom you didn’t know and would never want to – mouthed off about the wholly insignificant minutiae of their often very mundane lives. And I was absolutely spot on. That’s exactly what it is. What I didn’t realise however, was that although that sounds like the height of tedium, it can in fact be excellent fun and a source of constantly sporadic fascination.

Two things make it particularly enjoyable. One is the arrival in the Twitterverse (shudder) of Jonathan Ross.

Wossy, to give him his Twitter name, is a fantastic fellow to follow. And if you’re a fan, Twitter is a great place to get close to him. Obviously he gets a lot of people yammering on to him all day and night (a Twitter search for to:Wossy gives you some idea), but that doesn’t mean he won’t get back to you. Most of his Tweets now are responses to some of the hundreds of messages he receives daily. Indeed, for a man who occasionally abuses one-time national treasures, Jonathan Ross is extremely personable. He’s also perfectly wiling to speak his mind. For example, in one Tweet he describes Piers Morgan as ‘a grotesque talent-vacuum’, which made me feel all warm inside. And in another he writes: ‘Just broke wind with such force that my wife is on the verge of tears’, which I must admit made me laugh out loud.

Of course it’s not just would-be starfucking that’s endeared me to Twitter – it’s more that I just happen to have started following the likes of Jonathan Ross, Stephen Fry, John Cleese, Graham Linehan, Henry Rollins and Darth Vader in the same week that it finally clicked for me. The other thing which made it all make sense is TweetDeck, which, thanks to Patroclus, I downloaded yesterday.

TweetDeck is an application which sits behind your browser and aggregates all of your Twitter twaddle. What this means is that I can have the document I’m working on here in front of me, and then, just to the side I can have TweetDeck feeding me Tweets as and when they are twittered. So I don’t even have to stop typing! I can just glance to the right and see that Stephen Fry is cuddling a narwhal or whatever and the delightful Veronica Belmont is going on and on and on and on about tech stuff. Please stop, Veronica. Tell me more about your cats!

In short, Twitter, via TweetDeck, takes all the lonesomeness out of working from home, but without the annoyingness of actually having to share a room with real people.

Do you see now?

Come on. Let’s live together!

...

In other news, I got virtual chatting to one Alex B, who was diagnosed with Clinical Depression in 1996, has now given himself 45 days ‘to defeat a lifetime’s worth of negative thinking’ and is chronicling his efforts here. Good luck, Alex. Look! Sunshine!

And speaking of depression, I’m finally owning up to the fact that my eyes are not what they once were. I’m going blind. Or – exaggeration aside – I think I might need glasses. I’m going to seek out an optician this afternoon. Oh, and because of a piece of tooth that broke off while I was in Scotland, I’ve also made an appointment with a dentist.

Oh, God.

I AM FALLING APART!

More wine!

See you next week. If I’m still here.

Oh, and have a nice weekend. Are you up to anything nice by the way? Let me know in the comments. (Twitter will never take the place of comments by the way. Comments are for real friends. Mwah.)

One Year On :: Happy Anniversary

On December 15, 2007 – a year ago today – I started this here humble blog. The idea behind it was to use my words to spur me on to change my life for the better. Specifically, and most importantly, I wanted to lose weight, get fit, make some friends and fall in love. I gave myself a year.

Piece of cake.

On February 6, 2008, I received an email from one of my first regular commenters and brand new blog friends, Suburban Hen. Hen wrote:

‘It used to be easy to find a good blog to read, there were so few to choose from. Only people who were genuinely interested in writing as a medium actually bothered with starting a blog. It was for nerds. And then it suddenly wasn't, which is terribly depressing for those of us who really enjoy reading a good blog; like some people might enjoy reading a good book or the daily newspaper.

You will become increasingly popular and in as such you might change. Your blog might change. It might all go to your head and where once there used to be thoughtful posts about how ugly you are and how much weight you have lost and how delighted you are to receive one comment from a lady expressing her desire to nob you, there might instead be short posts that read something like this...

"...Oh, my EDITOR is so demanding. He/she is expecting me to finish the third draft of my BOOK by next week and woe is me, I just can't find the time, what with meeting up with MY AGENT to finalise the locations for my BOOK SIGNINGS, and with all the INTERVIEWS, you must understand that I haven't really felt much like blogging at all. As I'm sure you can all imagine..."

Please don't misunderstand my annoyance with them as begrudging their success, but that in their success they have mostly left behind the very medium that gave them their voice. I begrudge them that. I begrudge them...well, Mike said it better than me...

"From my own highly subjective little corner of the blogosphere, 2007 was the year that the Bloggers With Book Deals started yielding tangible end results (otherwise known as, coo er gosh, BOOKS!), with many more to follow in 2008. As The Blogsbury Set came of age, and as "portfolio sites" started to make their presences felt, you could also detect the first rumblings of an increasingly widespread shift in priorities. ("Sorry I haven't had much time for blogging recently, but I've been SO BUSY, agents, deadlines, press & PR, oh it's all been such a GIDDY WHIRL!") And what with stunts such as Shaggy Blog Stories, which saw over 200 bloggers left out on the pavement as the Blogsbury glitterati sailed through the velvet ropes, and Post of the Week (over 200 blogs shortlisted to date, so why wasn't YOUR blog GOOD ENOUGH?), there was a distinct sense of competitiveness in the air, as a new élite basked in self-regard ("SO wonderful to see my DEAR FRIENDS doing SO well!") while the Not So Beautiful People muttered seditiously behind their backs ("Who the chuff does HE think HE is, and SHE'S nothing special, and who the f**k made HER the Queen of Bloody Sheba?")"

This is me, introducing myself to you and saying hello, I love your blog. I love the way you write.

And that other people are going to come along, people more engaging and more important than me (if they already haven't. For all we know you're possibly being watched by an agent AS I WRITE) and they are going to fawn over you. While one can't begrudge another person friendship or success, one can sit back and wonder at it all. Coming into your own is one thing, but friendship because it's cool to be mates with the ugly guy... I dunno. I hope it doesn't happen, is all. I hope that if you find friendship with people through your blog, or better still, a lady love, that you will keep your feet firmly rooted to the ground... Meeting a lady love through your blog is probably going to happen, by the way. Completely. Because it happens to the best of them. Don’t Go To Vegas, for example.

Anyway, enough from me.

dix
aka suburbanhen

My reply began:

‘Hello Diana

Thank you for your kind, if to my mind rather overripe, words. You’re the second person to suggest that my writing might change as I get more readers. I’m torn between thinking, ‘well that would never happen’ and ‘so what if it did?’ I’ve been writing, mostly corporate hogwash, for around 10 years, and it’s pretty soul-destroying on the whole. I’ve written other things, for my own pleasure, some of which I’ve tried and failed to get published. So this blog is actually the first time more than two people have read my words, and I do get a big kick out of it, yes. Therefore, if someone offered me money to write about something that wasn't pharmaceuticals or cosmetics or higher education, I would be delighted. Would I then start posting about the stresses and strains of lunch at the Ivy and pressing book draft deadlines and the like? YES!!’

And ended with:

‘Anyhow, I can’t help feeling that you’re rather over-egging the pudding with your confidence that agents and publishers might be interested in big old me… I think the idea of finding love through the blog is more likely than finding a new career, simply because there are lots more people out there looking for love than for someone to publish.

Anyway, we shall see.’

So. You’ll never guess what’s been happening over the last couple of months…

Well, you know I started seeing Morag properly? Well, I did. And this time round we’re having fun. But serious fun. Grown-up, going out and forsaking all others fun, with no messing about, no mind games and no nonsense. Well, that’s the plan, and thus far it’s going well. I think not blogging about it all makes it easier. So I should really shut up right now, before I say anything I might regret. Although this is different obviously. Here I’m just sketching an outline, I’m not giving away personal details about Morag’s body hair, or loud toilet habits or the fact that she doesn’t clean her teeth of a morning. Oh. Those were just examples by the way, of idiosyncrasies a person might exhibit. I realise I made it sound like I was describing my lovely Morag there. I was not. Sorry.

Anyhow, as I say, it’s going well. So well in fact, that we’re planning on spending Christmas together, just me, Morag and the occasional special guest or two. And that’s not all. We’re also planning a trip to meet Morag’s old man and her step family, in Scotland, just after Christmas. And that’s not all. Also – on the sole condition that nothing goes horribly wrong between now and the end of the year – we're planning to give living in sin a shot come January.

In the same house.

I know this might seem a little previous to some of you - it certainly does to me - but it's what we both want, so we're going to just cross our fingers, hold our breath and jump. Just like Butch and Sundance. And if that means we're destined to die in our prime in a hail of poisoned pig-bullets, so be it. At least we gave it a shot. I’m very excited. And a little scared. But I want it. It’ll be fun. We have fun together, Morag and I. And as long as we continue to have fun together, I think we’ll be alright.

So that’s pretty good. I’m happy. Very happy actually.

Now, ordinarily this news would be more than enough of a wonderful thing to be able to make the anniversary post sufficiently special.

But these are no ordinary times.

Second big news item coming up… Drum roll…

You remember that writing project I mentioned on Friday? Well, it's a rather special one. I still can't quite believe I'm about to write these words, but here goes...

I’ve got a book deal.

Ha!

Actually, 'ha' doesn't really do it justice, even with an exclamation mark. What I really feel like doing is running up a few walls like Donald O'Connor at the end of Make 'Em Laugh. But I don't want to be writing this book from a wheelchair. So instead, let's just imagine, just for one moment, that this is me...



Ha!

Diana. You saw it. I shook my head at you, and I smiled and thought, ‘Who is this silly, simple-minded wretch?’ But you were right. And I take my hat off to you. Furthermore I promise, with my hat held out in front of me like – alas – a skull, I promise that I shall never sully these pages with tedious talk of deadlines and blog star-fucking. Also, I promise I will never whinge about the pressures of good fortune. Or if I do, I will grovel on the ground and wring my hands in abject and heartfelt apology just as soon as it’s pointed out to me.

The truth is, I have no intention of spending any time whatsoever with the agent, or the publisher – not because they’re dim-witted, spineless, self-serving imbeciles, as I’m certain they’re not – but because I’ve got a book to write, and as of yesterday, a garden to tend. More importantly, I've got a wonderful woman whose company I crave, and in a few weeks’ time, I’ll have a kitten to raise and tutor in the ways of righteousness. And frankly speaking, a kitten, a garden and the company of a wonderful woman are just about pretty much all I've ever wanted, so I can't see myself giving them up to go and hang around with publishing people.

Indeed, as far as the day to day business of my life goes, I promise that nothing will change. Except perhaps, I will be a lot happier as I potter around, from litter tray to oven glove to knicker drawer. (I am obsessed by the concept of the knicker drawer by the way. I would like to write about it at some length, but of course I simply don’t have time. Deadlines to meet, lunches to do, bloggers to schmooze....)

So there we have it. One year on and I can safely say, the decision to start this blog was by far the best decision I ever made in my entire life.

Thank you, the internet.

What a contrast this post is to this one of just three months ago. It just goes to show, something you probably don't really need reminding: life is irrepressibly, relentlessly surprising. But also, sometimes, sometimes, the surprises are pleasant.

Two more things worth noting:

1) Yesterday was my birthday. I am 31.

2) This is my 200th post.

Life - for the moment at least - is sweet.