Service!

Had about five or six hours' kip, mainly thanks to a pair of earplugs. They do help a bit but don't shut out half as much noise as I would like shut out. I could still hear GFG doing something with cupboard doors and a hammer during the early hours, but my deep exhaustion and a couple of painkillers (plus the plugs) must have helped send me off for a while. I woke up about a dozen times but managed to get back to sleep. Cured? Nope. Jetlag blah de blah de blah... it only wore off during late afternoon. Pain is creeping up my shoulder blades now, at 18:42. Sometimes the earplugs slide out; on other nights they stay put and make my ears sore.

Still, my bank manager made me happy today. She responded to a complaint I'd made about poor service over a few visits to the local branch by asking me to meet her and explain what had happened. It was things like waiting to see a personal banker for half an hour only for the personal banker to do none of what I requested, and being quizzed on depositing cheques – as though I was a money launderer – that annoyed me. I don't mind being asked where money is from if it's an anti-fraud measure but I cannot be doing with thoughtless comments from cashiers who really should know better and ask me (after taking my money) whether I actually bank at the place.

So, it was good to speak to someone who genuinely seemed to care about the level of service given. She, like me, has bad service down as one of her personal bugbears. People will be spoken to, she said, assuring me that she would phone me with an update. I don't want anyone to lose their job (I have managed to get one person sacked due to unbelievable incompetence in a medical setting) but here a simple good talking to is in order.

Oh, I did praise the member of staff who is consistently efficient and helpful, and I'll praise the manager to her manager if things improve. Slightly worryingly, she told me that I am "a celebrity" in the bank now, and revealed that she had read out my letter to all her staff. Some will continue to be genuinely nice and others will be nice and secretly curse me. Hmm, my money helps pay their wages and they would do well to remember that...

After all that, it was nearly lunchtime so I drove down to the riverside, where I unshopped something unsuitable and and shopped a little bit more, only for small things, but they were enough to make me feel 'treated'. Yes, it's shallow stuff, but it was therapeutic for someone who couldn't bear to return to a desk and sit there in a heady fog. The fresh air – the weather was beautiful – did help to clear my head, and I managed to work productively, relatively speaking.

Where am I?

Woke up at bloody 4am and only got to sleep for an hour before having to get up again this morning. Do I feel horrendous? Yes. Pain, foggy head, despair and plenty of work. Just what I need in abundance. Felt like I couldn't breathe properly last night, my chest was tight, and all sorts of things were going through my head. Dark? These beasts were blacker than coal dipped in tar. Alarming.

I do care if Monday's blue...

GFG was stomping around her flat downstairs very late last night. I was not amused. I sent her a message about the missing freehold documents and she replied, explaining that she was going to sort it out today. She added that she had had her wisdom teeth removed today, warning me that she might have a swollen head. If she was in lots of pain due to her teeth last night, well, I take back my complaining about the heavy footsteps. Toothache – that stabbing, throbbing sensation that becomes more intense with every footstep/heartbeat – is foul. And so is not being able to sleep.

Earlier, I became embroiled in an argument on a discussion board. The topic? Celebrity Big Brother. Maybe I need my head read. What a waste of time and energy...

I know it's only Monday, but I'm going to have some rioja.

Dearest, dearest Gertie

Brighton was windy and wild. The sea was browny-grey as it thrashed the silt and stones. The waves were huge – one, then another, then another, fairly small waves, followed by several swelling, smashing, crashing versions, which moved so quickly that you had to run from them. It was exhilarating and enough to blow away cobwebs of insomnia. S drove there and back, enabling me to drop off on the way home. I was hugely gratified. Weeks of bad sleep and a very late Saturday night would have taken a far harder toll, otherwise.

Wandering down Brighton's lanes, we easily found my favourite fudge shop, which produces vanilla chunks that are almost, but not quite as tasty, as those my grandma used to make. She was the ultimate doll's dressmaker as well as a first-class sweet and treat cook. I had a few cookbooks as a child, one was dedicated to sweets and another was filled with recipes and ideas for puddings and cakes. Every Sunday was baking day – I'd pretend to be on 'Why Don't You' as I talked my mum through every step of what I was preparing.

When my grandma first visited England, she brought a huge bag of fudge for us. But I was seven and thought the home-made flat patties were savoury biscuits. It was only when there were a few left at the bottom of the storage jar that I tasted one, and how I regret, to this day, not appreciating my grandma's efforts. She was talented, quiet and loving, and died all too soon, after suffering a stroke, on my mother's sixtieth birthday. People came round anyway and together we remembered Gertie, as she was nicknamed: a strong woman, the ultimate in grace, generosity (what very little she had she gave to her family) and a classic iron-fist-in-velvet-glove. I wish I'd spent more time with her – she was the only one of my grandparents I met – but she spent her final years in cold, cold Canada with a dear uncle of mine, and then had to go into a nursing home for 24-hour care, from where she finally left for good.

My memories of Gertie, though few, are clear and evocative. She loved watching wrestling on the TV and shouted at the screen, gesticulating all the while. Her cooking was divine. Her eyes sparkled, probably right up until the end. I have her eyes, hands and fingernails, and I love clothes, just as my mum does. Maybe I can blame my maternal genes for my shopping habit. Thinking of her after what may have been her penultimate stroke is harsh. She could barely speak, move or feed herself. My heart broke and I was the only one there to lose control and cry although we all felt the same, standing there as helpless as it is possible to be. She managed to tell my mum: "I wan' go home..." and by that she meant back to her South American homeland, where it's sunny, and fat, sweet fruit hangs off garden trees. I thought I saw her in my bedroom a night or so before she died.

I wonder what Gertie would have made of the larks on Brighton Pier... I think she'd have laughed and laughed and wondered at how so many people could waste so much money. Especially on nonsense such as these bizarre X-Factor and Robbie Williams dolls that were in one of those machines where you guide the metal arm (after slotting in £2 or something equally silly), and fail to get the thing to clamp on to any part of the so-called prize...

... which brings me on to Celebrity Big Brother. Shilpa Shetty won! The Great British Public are indeed great. Jermaine Jackson was the runner-up and Dirk Benedict was third. Marvellous stuff. But I'm relieved it's over.

Chocolat

Richmond is a fitting place to spend an aimless couple of hours on a bright wintry Saturday afternoon – the people are interesting to watch (quite a few are/have been on stage, in bands or on television), there's a good selection of shops, there are dozens of places to eat and drink, and it has the Thames flowing through it.

The reason for leaving the flat was to get the car valeted at the NCP near the station. However, the car wash man wouldn't have any of it, throwing up his hands and repeating the words "impossible today", so I decided to leave the car in the car park (seeing as it had already cost me £1.80 or something) and wander around with no agenda and no time constraints. I ended up seated on the bench pictured on the right of this picture, sipping a small hot chocolate from a new chocolatier that has recently opened. The little shop is filled with exquisite chocolates and tiny, handcrafted pastries. Expensive women sat at the small table in the window and ate expensive cakes, and the three distinctly unspotty teenagers behind the counter did disproved the popular view of their age group with their politeness. Bet they get more than minimum wage.

The lack of cleaning at the "impossible" NCP meant that I had to brave the car wash – £6.99 for a premium wash – that lasted five minutes and included the bit where the dryer comes down and you think you're about to breathe your last until the infra red thing kicks in to save it from crashing through the windscreen.

I went home and ate one of these. They used to be around all year back in the 1970s and 80s but now they seem to be marketed as Easter eggs, which is odd. And, yes, there's Easter stuff in the shops already. Sainsbury's had hot cross buns on its shelves as soon as it sold off the remains of its mince pies.

Slave to lots of work

Who wouldn't want to disappear into this video for a while? Good old Bryan Ferry. His music is sleek and he is slick, and the video looks like it should and makes you want to slip on something slinky and drink something silky in a soft, muted world where all communication is non-verbal.

I've been listening to too many songs on YouTube this afternoon, and my brain is elsewhere (currently at a party with Kate Bush, Skin, Maxim and Bryan Ferry, and even Limahl was there, having leapt over a garden wall). I slept-ish last night, I think, but woke up with a thick head, and haven't shaken it off. My neck and back are rather painful and I can hear the bones crunching as I move my head. Hardly news, is it? I only had beer last night (admittedly a very large bottle) but it wasn't enough to be responsible for feeling like this, but add it to sleep deprivation (yawn) and it's a sledgehammer. Anyway, I did a bit of yoga, had a brisk walk in the cold, fresh air, and came back and did a bit of work but not nearly enough. Today, I want only to have a nice sleep, drink fine red wine and write fiction, not fact. Anyone out there want to pay me to do that instead?

I have a bottle of Marks and Spencer zinfandel waiting for me. The bottle is almost black, and the label says 'full-bodied'... Mmm. I should only open it as a reward for transcribing an interview I recorded a couple of days ago, shouldn't I? I haven't started listening to the tape yet and the computer has just told me (with Freez – or were there three 'e's? – playing in the background) that it's now "eighteen hours". Thanks for that. Better get on with it then. I suppose.

What doesn't kill you...

... no, not the lack of sleep this time (more of that later). I've just had a bit of treacle tart that has been hiding in the oven, in its tin tray. Mmm, that and the remnants of the custard (which was properly stored in the fridge) were fine fayre. Went down a treat. I think the tart was a couple of days past its sell-by date and had been heated up once already. But it looked so good in its sugary glory. And, it has to be said, it tasted great. So far, my insides feel OK.

Oops. My stomach has just started to rumble.

Anyway, as far as the sleep thing goes, I managed more than six hours (possibly not unbroken but not too drastic seeing as I can't recall). Of course, this meant I woke up feeling jet-lagged, but there you go. Did some yoga – this time with the help of a book – and have vowed to have a session every morning as it woke me up and moved me from post-flight from New York to post-Eurostar from Paris in the jet-lag stakes. My heart still does this thing where I can feel it beating. Obviously, I know it beats, this wondrous organ – and I am hugely grateful and glad that it does – but I wish I wasn't so aware of it at times.

Oh, Celebrity Big Brother is still rumbling on while Jade Goody tries to rescue her career with a trip to India. Apparently the "highest authorities" at the Indian Embassy are deciding whether to let the gobby one through its portals. I know what I'd say.

It's crispy, gaspy cold again (which is a good sign for winter, isn't it?) and I have four layers – plus the central heating – on. Wish I could click my heels and find myself back on this mountainside Caribbean beach...

A silent scream in the snow

If I don't sleep properly soon, I will keel over. I'm taking painkillers before bed, painkillers (if I can find any) to ease my aching neck in the morning when I get up, and that is as exciting as it gets right now.

GFG's radio sounded ridiculously loud this morning. It isn't her fault... I don't think she realises how the sound travels in these flats, which is probably due to the complete lack of soundproofing by Mr Idiot Moron-Troll. We hear nothing from the couple next door. So, I was sleeping and then GFG woke up and that meant I had to, too. It made me cry.

It snowed overnight... This snowman probably has more energy than I do. I am eating 'café noir' chocolate bought from Bruges purely for the caffeine content, and it has helped. How I have waited so long to eat this stuff is a mystery. There's a bar of 'extra noir' waiting in the wings (for bigger emergencies).


Dear S tells me that he has booked me an appointment with a sleep guru. I am unbelievably grateful for this intervention and have, for now at least, stopped feeling lower than a worm's belly.

To sleep, perchance, on Dreams

The new mattress arrived yesterday, just after the bailiffs left a little note in the middle of the hallway – not for us or Ground Floor Girl – but for the annoying man who once owned and allegedly 'refurbished' the two flats that were once a large unkempt Victorian house. He owes thousands of pounds worth of council tax, receives penalty notices weekly and is a thoroughly unpleasant troll. I phoned GFG to warn her that they "intended to return tomorrow". She phoned the bailiffs, telling them they'd better not strip her almost bare flat of what it contained. Troll now has yet another person who automatically attaches expletives to his name.

Anyway, the mattress, bought from Dreams, is lovely, with its special pockety bits and internal supportive thingies. It seems much thicker than the old one, which was around 10 years old and a little bit saggy. Is it right to be excited about a new mattress? Oh, yes. This one holds the promise of sleep, which for me is like crack cocaine to a supermodel. I think I slept better but I can't say for certain as I'm still feeling the effects of weeks of poor-quality sleep, and consequently appear to have some kind of jet-lag (or am possibly in shock at not having to generate so much adrenalin to keep going today). With the priceless support of S throughout my insomnia plus the £400 (half price in the sale) support of the mattress, I am optimistic that I may conquer this dratted thing.

I ventured into the garden today, risking frostbite in my tiny socks + (medium) slippers combo, and marvelled at the plants again. They are still spreading, especially the clematis, which has produced the beginnings of fat buds. The white flowers that bloom will be scented, and there will be hundreds of them, unless the snow promised for this week has its wicked way.

To warm up, I went upstairs and did a bit of yoga and some ballet stretches I remembered from way, way back. Not much – just 10 minutes – but I feel rejuvenated. Perhaps I'm on to something...

Kensington memory street

Now that the car stereo is fixed so that CD tracks come out of the right and left speakers instead of just one, music en route is back to what it should be. The drive to Kensington is just about long enough to play a good selection of tunes and short enough to not have to repeat any of the two albums and two singles I've usually thrust into my bag in preparation for the drive.

Kensington is a funny place. Mainly peculiar rather than ha ha, but in a good way. I realised yesterday, as I walked up Earls Court Road towards the Commonwealth Institute and then on to the station, that I've spent numerous hours of my life in this particular street and its offshoots, and have had all kinds of times, most memorable and many evocative. I'm old enough to recall feeling cool as a teenager sneaking around Kensington Market with its winding passages, plenty of burning substances and leather... I also remember walking past Derry Street and being envious of the journalists who worked for Associated Newspapers, who could step out into the High Street, party at the Roof Gardens and lounge in the modern coffee bars that started springing up in great number during the early 1990s.


Kensington High Street has seen me sad, happy, annoyed, ecstatic, mournful, distraught, drunk, drunker and drunkest. I've gulped tea, coffee, stupidly expensive wine, normal-priced wine, G&Ts, cocktails and water in huge measures, in settings ranging from a tiny, wonderful, restaurant run by a tiny(ish), wonderful woman on Kensington Church Street at one end, down to an Italian place that keeps changing its name, near the cinema. Loved ones, friends, friendly colleagues and one (sort-of) foe have all accompanied me on excursions to Ken High Street. It's a wonderful place – not for the shops – but for reminders of time well-spent. When I'm there, I can remember almost exactly what was said, where I went, what I ate and drank, with a strange clarity I don't associate with many other areas. Peculiar.

Bye Jade, hello ducks

Davina McCall probably saved her career last night. She didn't gurn, fawn or dodge the issues when Jade was evicted from the Big Brother house - I suppose her bosses made damn sure of that. But fair play to her, she did a reasonably good job and conveyed the fact that Jade's star has plummeted into a muddy puddle pretty well. Sometimes just presenting the facts - shown as a series of clips of Jade screaming, swearing and behaving like a banshee - is enough. You don't really need to be a Dimbleby or a Paxman to sound controversial when dealing with subject matter that includes bullying and racism.

There was a curry on the table from the best Indian restaurant in the area plus two bottles of rioja and a jug of cold water (just in case) as the catchiest theme tune in TV history (with Coronation Street and Grange Hill coming close) thundered through the television speakers. Jade looked extremely nervous as Davina announced her demise (she received 82% of the vote). Shilpa was shocked and shaken and later had to be comforted by Ian, a pop star who used to sing in Steps, a group about which I know nothing. Jack, Jade's sexual plaything, seethed quietly, his snake eyes flicking from Jade to Shilpa and back again. Danielle's brain cell switched to the 'on' position as she began to worry about the implications of being associated with her 'best friend' Jade. Jo cried under her hat, saying she never thought she'd see a time when she would be upset about having no Jade under the same roof as her. She wasn't wearing her dressing gown, which she seems to have lived in lately, so that was probably a bonus for those within sniffing distance. The rest of the housemates looked uncomfortable or upset. Cleo, as usual, was a combination of both.

Anyway, Jade, unsurprisingly for someone who had been briefed by their PR/ a shrink/ the producers et al for an hour, claimed she 'nevvah meant it' and she 'wasn't racist' and was 'disgusted with herself'. OK. So you are just a bully then? I'm afraid I won't be buying your perfume, any mag or rag with your face on it, or reading your biography, dear. It should be noted here that Jade advised Danielle, on the programme's live feed yesterday afternoon that you can 'talk your way out of anything'. She tried very hard to do just that but as The Sun today shows, failed to make the media fall at her feet:


Note the 'free Shilpa Shetty DVD' offer in the Sun? Fabulous.

And here is the Mirror:

On another note, today is the first day in a while that I have woken up without a headache. I was awake on and off, until 2am, but stayed in dreamland until 10am, when the new neighbour downstairs did her morning 'heels on wooden floor' seemingly endless pacing. What Ground Floor Girl does walking up and down, up and down, is mystifying. Maybe she has one of those gadgets that measures calories lost according to steps taken. I just wish she'd pull on a pair of slippers if she insists on walking miles at home. The click-clack starts much earlier during the week, as she works in Canary Wharf doing something numerical and fiscal, and needs to leave far earlier than I could cope with.


It's sunny here today. In fact it looks like a beautiful early spring day, even though it is midwinter. There are little flowers blooming in the garden and the clematis is a shiny, dark green against the Victorian brick walls.

This picture was taken from the banks of a small island in the Thames - couldn't tell you how to get there as it was one of those places you would never plan to visit but just happen upon. It was a place we found by serendipity: turn right, then go fourth left, up to the end of this road, and, er, left again looks good, and on and on... The river was so high that it covered most footpaths. What remained above ground was very slippery. There weren't many water birds around but those that were there seemed very grateful for the bagful of crusty ends of Marks and Spencer golden wholemeal that they received this afternoon. It was cold - ear-tingly cold - but the air was fresh, the sun was bright and relaxation pulled us deeper with every step we took. Fresh cream chocolate éclairs that had somehow lain forgotten in the fridge overnight were a fitting reward.

Picture © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

So tired...

I am not getting enough sleep... I wish I could sleep, then I could work properly during the day, and then I'd have free time to relax. It really is a vicious circle. I have a headache most days, too. It's not good.

Maybe it's the tiredness, but I can't concentrate on much this week, except Celebrity Big(ot) Brother... I am obsessed by it this year. Well, obsessed by the issues and debates surrounding Shilpa and her tormentors. Wish I worked as a columnist. Did so once, but that was for a 'serious' publication about health and stuff. I discovered this on my CBB media trawl today:


So, tonight is the big night. Jade (well, it has to be her, surely...) gets to trot off back home with no audience boos in the background (they're scared for her safety). But she won't get to go home straight away - there is talk of a safe house. I'm sure Davina - even Davina - will not be able to call Ms Goody an "awesome housemate" as she gurns at her. Or will she? I wish we could vote for who we want to interview Jade. Davina McCall or Jeremy Paxman - you decide! Or maybe Edwina Currie, who called the trio of troublemakers 'slags' on BBC Question Time last night. I was shocked but I did cackle. I really should have been in bed.

There was a girl in my class at high school called Shilpa. She was targeted by the two class bullies for years, mainly because her family wasn't very well off and she had to make do with the clothes her parents could barely afford, oh and she was a 'skinny Paki'. I remember her running home one lunchtime in the third year (can't be doing with all this 'Year X' nonsense!) and staying there because she was so upset at what Beverley (the bigger bully) had said to her. She was brought back to school by her sister, tears rolling down her face, eyes red, and refused to tell the teachers what was going on. Like they needed telling.

Everyone was scared of Beverley, even the teachers. She was a large, fearsome girl with a voice to rival Jade's and the vocabulary to match. Shilpa was short, skinny, had huge brown eyes and I bet she's a flipping stunner now. I last spoke to her around 10 years ago - she had just got married... but I lost her address and that's that. She is a memory I associate with bunsen burners, school dinners, lonely playgrounds, wooden desks (the smell!), netball, Odyssey's 'Inside Out', eating Diwali sweets at her home and the unforgettable blob of anger that was Beverley... All the girls and boys in our class were picked on by Beverley at some point but Shilpa came off worst. Shilpa had a pair of burgundy shoes that were scuffed and rough (everyone loved anything burgundy, it sounded so sophisticated), and her socks never clung to her birdlike legs properly, giving her a permanent Nora Batty air.

We, however, were better people at 14 than Cleo bloody fence-sitter Rocos, who appears to be reliving moments from 'Cleo and Kenny together forever' in her head instead of trying to stop Shilpa (the Bollywood version) from being picked on. I initially thought Cleo – Cleopatra, for goodness sake! – was somewhat ethereal and interesting but she is quite dull and talks of nothing. You can tell she's thinking about Kenny Everett. Really. That, or she's on drugs.

So, my classmates and I (boys and girls) got together and complained on behalf of Shilpa and ourselves. This resulted in Beverley and her stocky sidekick being suspended from school. Beverley left school before she was 16 and I think she fell pregnant soon afterwards (or maybe she left because she was pregnant?), so that was that. I heard that she had three kids by the time she turned 18. Who were these men that found her attractive? I like to think she grew up mentally as well as physically. One can but hope.

Storms

The weather has gone mad. Again. Is this January or late March? Gales have been whipping the UK for weeks, on and off. And it's warm-ish (which isn't easy for me to admit). There hasn't been any snow and I can't recall more than a few nights of frost. What is going on? People are dying due to these freakish storms. Hmm.


And, the furore surrounding Big Brother (I won't use the C-word: celebrity)... it goes on and on, with rather pleasing results. The Carphone Warehouse has pulled its sponsorship of the show, the Perfume Shop will clear the shelves of Jade's *ahem* scent. And, well, Shilpa and Jade are up for eviction tomorrow night. Now, am I the kind of sad person who will cancel a social life (or build one) around BB? It would appear that I am.

Some YouTube delights from the house:

Jade and Shilpa argue over Oxo cubes while Jo and Danielle wet themselves laughing

After the fight - Danielle says Shilpa should "fuck off home"

Shilpa tries a bit of girlie bonding and fails miserably

This from The Mirror:
Jade to Shilpa: "You're not some princess in f***ing Neverland. You're not some princess here. You're a normal housemate like everybody else. Everybody else.

"Go back to the slums and find out what real life is about lady. "You're so far up your own a**e you can smell your own s***. You're a liar and a fake."

Shilpa, 31, told 23-year-old Jade she needed elocution lessons, before fleeing to the bedroom.

Sniggering Danielle - who once fronted an anti-bullying campaign - said to Jade: "That was f***ing fantastic, I loved it. I think she should f*** off home.

"Does that mean I need elocution lessons because she can't understand what I f***ing say? She can't even speak English properly anyway."

Surely whether this is acceptable in 2007 is a no-brainer. But still, it needs to be shown. It's great that people will see what Chavscum are really like and maybe we will stop calling them 'celebrities'. I hope the upshot is that so many people will be appalled by Jade, Danielle and Jo 'Pat Butcher' O'Meara, that their words will hold no water and we won't have to see shelves filled with their talentless mugs any longer.

Big Bully

Like most of the rest of the country, I've been watching Celebrity Big Brother. There's been endless debate about the taunting of Shilpa Shetty, the unsuspecting Bollywood actress who is currently in the house.

The 'is it racism or just plain bullying?' question is on phone-ins, on message boards and is being talked about by nearly everyone. Of course, there are those who moan that the people who object to the way Shilpa is treated should switch off their TVs. Now, how disingenuous is that? Just because you don't watch a programme doesn't mean you can't – and shouldn't – take an interest in what is going on. Very silly reasoning that's trotted out by those too lazy to formulate an argument or hold a point of view but still want to be included somehow...

As far as I can see, the three women at the centre of the row - Jade Goody, Danielle Lloyd and Jo O'Meara – are definitely bullies, and you can just imagine what they were like as kids. But are they racists? Jackiey (Jade's mother) using the term 'the Indian' in a derogatory fashion makes the term offensive. Calling someone you detest a 'silly cow' is fairly tame but change it to 'silly Indian cow' and, well, it's pretty obvious. Context is crucial. And the context here is that Jackiey hates Shilpa. As an aside, today, Jade has said she wants to head-butt Shilpa apropos of something to do with Oxo stock cubes. Oh, genes, what have you made? Jackiey, you must be so proud. Bet you are, aren't you? Tragic.

People have argued that Jackiey, who referred to Shilpa as 'the Indian' several times (including during the post-show interview, where she was inexplicably described as 'an awesome housemate' by Davina McCall, who is the antithesis of Jeremy Paxman), had a problem with saying her name. Two syllables can be a bit much when you're about as bright as plankton piss, I guess. Well, I'm sure she's said the words 'shilling' or 'sh*t' before, and I guess she could manage 'pat' or 'pants'... That should take care of the syllables needed, surely. Or can't she quite manage her mother tongue??

If indeed 'Shilpa' is a tricky word to get one's tongue around, how about calling her 'the actress'? The fact that Jackiey chose to use nationality as a descriptive term while spouting bile about the woman is significant, I feel. You wouldn't get away with it in an office. And there were comments and questions about Shilpa living in a shack, looking like a 'dog', being called a 'f*cking c*nt', having a 'monkey face', and the stuff about 'how they eat over there...', and oh, the 'fact' that Indians are all thin as they don't cook their food properly... Shilpa can appear imperious and slightly aloof, but what is the woman to do in the face of such rude, foul, dull, inarticulate, asinine housemates? She deserves a medal for endurance. And if there's any justice, she'll win this game.

The beginning

So, this is where it starts...

I've thought of doing this for a long, long time. Ridiculous. It took all of five minutes to set up and, now, here we are. I have joined the modern world. I am now a blogger.