View from my chair...

• My work schedule, which is on my desktop, is shorter than normal today, as my boss (me) has kindly given me some time off to compensate for my hard work of late. She even got me a free ticket to an exhibition and emailed a friend who I haven't seen for months so we can catch up at lunchtime.

• The sun is pouring through the kitchen/study window. Beautiful. I shall be taking my camera (which itself is within view at the moment). The trees are glinting as the sunshine caresses the leaf buds and evergreen foliage.

• My attractive knee support is on my desk. I left it there after peeling it off after my last kung fu class. I have damaged a ligament and it is unexpectedly painful when I move in certain ways.
• M, the rabbit, is cleaning herself in her soft bed next to me. There is a small clump of fur on the floor from when she fought me while I was giving her antibiotics this morning. I felt terribly guilty for upsetting her but she hates medicine and always struggles. Poor creature.

• My mobile phone, which is relatively new, is sitting there all shiny. I hope the client who has been giving me lots of stress calls today and confirms that they've taken on board what I said and found some resources to help me cope with the mammoth project that I've signed up to work on (I tried to get out of it but it just didn't happen, damn).

• I've just received emails from two friends with whom I plan to visit Paris in early summer. We've finally decided a date, so I shall get booking! Very excited about this. On my desk, there's a black and white postcard of Paris that S brought back for me on his recent trip.

Dreamworks

On Friday, at 6pm, I had a phone call from a woman who I may – if I choose – continue to work with on a magazine project. It's a new thing and sounded so promising when I had the initial meeting a few weeks ago.

I turned down work so I could fit this project in, and booked time in my schedule. But the organisation concerned has not fulfilled its side of the bargain. The woman is 'very busy' and has not furnished us with the details we (I) need to start work on the thing. Well, we are all 'very busy'.

I didn't like the way she snapped at me down the phone just as I was about to start my weekend. It has been preying on my mind. I have a miniscule budget with which to work – and they want me to complete the task in record time. The deadline is ever-closer, with things slipping in the meantime as they fail to deliver their side of the bargain.

When I told her, nicely, that as her department had not provided the information promised several weeks ago that we'd need to push the deadline back, she was horrible.

I don't like backing out of work. But this has been in limbo since it started. The woman in charge is very unhelpful and I have been thinking about work – and dreaming about it, which I hate – and am wondering whether to back out now, while I can.

This project hasn't started properly yet and it's stressing me considerably and affecting my sleep. OK, I have had some thorny projects to work on – and God knows I like a challenge – but this has got my alarm bells ringing like a Big Ben on repeat.

Springtime in London

It feels like spring. It is sunny and the sky is a pale, clear blue. The daffodils are out, the clematis is budding and I have spent all morning madly cleaning, imbued with quickness of hand and foot, so much so that I grazed my hand while frantically vacuuming under a chest of drawers.

M, my houserabbit is scampering around, very excited by the sunshine and all my activity. S is at a stag day event, paintballing his way through the woods. I intend to go out now, to have some lunch somewhere nice and bright, where there are plenty of tulips so that I can take some pictures with my beloved camera.

It is a lovely camera... I like looking at it, as well as at the images it captures. Last night, I wandered to the riverbank as the sun was setting – birds cried out as they flew over the water and dived in. It was stunning. I took some pictures – they are OK in terms of composition, I'd give them a grade B – but they are not sharp enough. I need to learn to use the settings correctly.

I don't believe it

I can't believe that the Archbishop of Canterbury thinks that the adoption of Sharia law in the UK is 'unavoidable'.

Religion doesn't do anything for me – I find it divisive and I abhor human beings hijacking what could be something good, what is sold as something positive, for their own ends. The things done in the name of religion are inhuman and amoral, too often.

I would, however, never dream of stopping people practicing what they believe. This is a free country. When I was a child and someone said something objectionable to another, they'd say: "Well, this is a free country".

Hmm.

I'm not an atheist. I have my own beliefs. I don't need to ram them down anyone else's throats. But I do not – not, under any circumstances – want to be governed by the laws of any religion, thank you very much. Maybe any new laws wouldn't affect me directly, as I wouldn't subscribe to any religion involved – but surely applying different standards in cases of tax, marriage and divorce will lead to inequities among people who live down the same street?

My main problem is: where do we stop? If I start a religion, may I invoke my own laws? How the hell can people living by different laws in one country (yes, even 'aspects' of religious law) contribute to cohesion? How can it help integration? Is it not the opposite?

It's interesting that nearly 11,000 people have responded to the BBC website's Have Your Say on the Archbishop's comments. Judging by the mood, I guarantee there will be riots like never before if people in the UK have any aspects of religious law imposed here.

Goodbye Grange Hill

Admittedly, I didn't know Grange Hill was still on television (long gone are the days when I have time to watch TV so early in the day), but it is to be axed this year, 30 years after it began.

They're replacing it with 'the Grange' and aiming it at those aged 10-11, basing it in a multimedia environment. It's a shame that it has to change but the Beeb has shifted its editorial policy and that's that.

It was an engaging programme, groundbreaking at the time. It was gritty (though those who can remember 'Just Say No' may laugh with me about just how gritty it was compared to life today). But it did raise issues that needed to be aired and good on it for so doing. I can't say I'll miss it, as I don't exactly watch it now. But 30 years? That's a hell of a good run.

F*ck me shoes?

Well, it says so on the news, so it very well may be true. High heels could improve a woman's – and a man's by default – sex life.

The pelvic floor muscles, which support the bladder, bowels and uterus are apparently kept in better shape if the owner wears high heels.

Orbs

I have a new camera. It's small, has an amazing number of megapixels squeezed into its capacity, and is just brilliant. It didn't cost too much, either.

At lunchtime, I went to visit my friend, SS, who has his late mum's dog staying with him while the new owner is on holiday. I'm not a dog person but this animal was very endearing and ended up sitting next to me with her head on my lap, asleep.

I happened to have my camera in my bag, not really sure why. So I took a photo of SS and the dog. He took a couple of me and the animal as she sat by me, and that was that.

In the evening, I sorted out the software necessary so that I could upload photos. Soon, there were five thumbnail-sized pictures on my screen. My heart sank as I opened the first one – the picture was fine but for what looked like two globes of light. I cursed the camera and opened the rest of the pictures but the globes were nowhere to be seen. I stared and stared at these perfectly round, almost spherical looking anomalies (one of which the dog was looking at) and then stopped in my tracks as I recalled there were such things as orbs that appeared in pictures at times.

Now, I don't know what orbs are meant to look like so I did what every sensible person does and turned to Google. The images were exactly like the circles of light in my photo. A minority of websites said that they were caused by light reflections but to me, these looked too perfect to be reflections. And, in any case, one of the orbs – or shapes – was over matt carpet and the camera wasn't facing the window or any obvious light source/shiny surfaces. Some websites said they are manifestations of spirit energy.

I told SS and emailed him the pictures (only one of which contained these floating shapes). He said it made him feel weird, and told me that he had been to put flowers on his mum's grave the day before, and he had told her to 'visit' him anytime.

It's easy to be cynical. Obviously. But no one knows what these shapes are. There isn't a fault on the camera and no dust on the lens. So, you tell me... (I'd upload a pic but it comes out sideways! Good old Blogger...)

Update: in response to Sanddancer's request... (Cropped to preserve SS's anonymity, which means you can only see one 'orb'.)

The stuff in the Hoover

Where on earth does it all come from? OK, I can tell that the rug is still shedding and there may be some of my hair and M's, too (the bunny).

But there's all this other stuff, all grey and lumpen. It's bizarre.

Let them eat cake?

How can Selfridges justify charging £3.95 for a slice of cake*? They must just buy cake, probably from some cheap-as-chips supplier (judging by the taste), cut it into 20 pieces, and make an easy profit of about £70. Madness.

If the cake was orgasmic, then fine – I would happily pay £3.95 for a bit of cake that made me tingle. But this one was not moist enough (I expect my fork to slide through it with no effort), it had no cream with it to help make it edible. It was a total rip-off. My cake was chocolate and was horrible – I don't often find chocolate cake inedible. S had a sponge, which didn't even have a layer of real cream in it.

We sent them back and had them replaced with the same again. Yuk.

* I realise the choice to buy said cake is mine. But I didn't look at the price until I was at the till and it had been rung through. I didn't expect a small slice of cake to cost nearly four quid.

Pictures

I need to buy a new camera. It needs to be digital, small, not too expensive, reliable and easy to operate.

I'm thinking of purchasing a Canon, as I have always had good experiences with this make. But I am not sure... Weirdly, the man on the radio has just recommended a Canon camera to his co-presenter. I may take this as a sign. Mmm.

Too cold to go out

I'm waiting for a call to see where my friend (and her new boyfriend) want to go tonight. I would much rather stay home, though. It is very cold outside and I hate being cold. I don't know what to wear. I wish she would hurry up so that I can a) get ready and b) tell S, who is stuck at work (waiting for news of our venue) where to meet.

I realise I sound a tad miserable, not wanting to go out just because it is cold. But the going out will involve me waiting for a bus (if I want to drink and not drive) and that means I have to walk in the cold to the bloody freezing bus stop.

Pants. On. Fire.

Beadle's not about

I feel sad that this entertainer – who was best known for playing pranks on people – has died. It was pneumonia that got him; he'd survived two bouts of cancer. He was only 59.

Jeremy Beadle was often berated. I don't know why, but I suppose it could be that he sometimes looked as though he was smugly enjoying others' mishaps (even though they were harmless). I grew up in the 1980s and recall finding his television shows funny – they attracted around 15 million viewers. Game for a Laugh was good entertainment – my family sat around and laughed together at the antics on screen, and that's no bad thing. He was a good radio presenter, too.

But whether people liked him or not, you cannot argue that the loss of a man who quietly raised a mind-blowing £100 million for charity is indeed tremendous. He was awarded an MBE for his good work, and rightly so.

Photo: PA

Windy city

The fact that it is windy today has made the news. Yes, the wind is gusting and making next-door's wind chimes clang in a violent dance. But it is January. It is winter. What do we expect?

Sweeney Todd, hmm...

I wasn't impressed with Sweeney Todd. Maybe it's my own fault. I don't like many musicals but I thought the combination of Johnny Depp, Alan Rickman and Helena Bonham-Carter et al would do the trick and make the annoying enjoyable (and, yes, the songs were very annoying).

Most people will know the plot (I didn't) but suffice to say, I was not convinced that Depp conveyed enough madness to successfully portray a man who'd lost his wife – and was about to lose his daughter for good – and behaved so amorally as a result.

Take Hannibal Lecter. You admire him in some way. He is intelligent – fiercely so. And he snaps with humour that doesn't spring from softness. Hopkins's flashing eyes, his thin smile: a proper demon. But Depp? Well, his performance reminded me of Russell Brand, Captain Jack Sparrow, Amy Winehouse, Mick Jagger and other glottally-stoppered folk who were simply in a terribly bad mood. He was flat, I thought. There was no menace there. I didn't like to look straight at the screen during the killing scenes but it wasn't through suspense, it was just that I don't like gore.

The film is literally colourless and the CGI made it flatter yet. London, referred to in the opening song (cringe) was wasted as a character. It's a gloomy film, left me wondering what all the fuss was about, and that was that. Average: C+. Could do better.

Anyway, en route to the cinema, S and I went into a tiny pub that was so small it was like being in someone's front room. A real fire burned. We had enough time to have a drink before Sweeney Todd started – a lovely forty minutes or so that helped to make the film worthwhile. And, on our way home, we both talked non-stop, agreeing with each other and with all of the above.

Bigots, stay at home

It's astounding to hear this morning that anti-gay protesters (mainly from the US) are planning to picket Heath Ledger's funeral when it happens. They'll probably be booking their plane tickets to Perth now. I really don't know what to say.


For those who haven't seen Brokeback Mountain, Heath, who is heterosexual, played a gay cowboy. This apparently is just not acceptable. The film is a love story about two people who can't be together – it is moving, heartbreaking and beautifully acted. Heath Ledger was nominated for an Oscar for his outstanding performance but the homophobic imbeciles of Hollywood, living in their Disney-papered towers of 2.4 kids and a mistress on the side, decided that he shouldn't get the top award.

What mentality must someone have to want to picket a funeral to peddle their beliefs? How utterly vile a brain must such a person possess? In Australia, the freedom of speech laws are not the same as those in the US. I hope the protesters, if they get anywhere near the funeral, are locked up and shut up.

Picture: AP

Don't say he deserved it

Heath Ledger was found dead last night. I found it shocking, not because he is famous, but because he was just 28 and it was a bolt from the blue. I saw the unassuming young man, who was named Heathcliff after the Wuthering Heights hero, in A Knight's Tale at the cinema in 2001. My friend and I thought this new face was a charming knight, a proper Hollywood hero in the making with his blond hair and strong build. Then S and I watched Brokeback Mountain in 2005 and were impressed. The contrast between the knight and the ranch hand was marked – he had grown up and was a damn good actor with the promise of much more to come. Rolling Stone said: "Ledger's magnificent performance is an acting miracle. He seems to tear it from his insides."

I was appalled to hear a few idiots on the radio last night say Heath Ledger was stupid, that people who take drugs deserve all they get. And this is even before the autopsy! Maybe it was suicide. Maybe it was an accident. He took prescription drugs – sleeping pills, I think. God knows how not sleeping can make a person feel. It is torturous, cruel, hellish to the sleepless. Sound sleepers, some of them smug bastards, cannot possibly glimpse the depths: everything, everything is affected. There are things that cause the sleeplessness obviously, and who knows what these were in the case of Heath Ledger. He had a selection of sleep and anti-anxiety medication around him. He told one interviewer that he couldn't sleep, that his mind kept on and on. The recent split from his ex-fiancée and their child, battling to stay off heroin and hating the Hollywood publicity machine that plagued him were too much for him to manage.

How can anyone stand back and be callous enough to say he deserved it? Reportedly, he was hypercritical and gave himself a hard time. I bet the "I told you so" brigade don't have much insight into their own failings, their own faults and problems, ghosts and demons. No, it's much easier to pick on easy targets from your self-made pedestal of perfection, isn't it? They should remember as they sit in judgment: what goes around...

OK, so I didn't know Heath but I respected his work, and from what I've read and seen, he came across as a kind, caring, hardworking, ego-free, talented human being. And that is enough for me to say that I'm sad and sorry that such a person is no longer with us.

Photos: Dima Gavrysh/Associated Press

London: another kiss

I love London. Love, like you could love a person. It has its faults, benefits, beauty, ugliness, character, style, brittleness, warmth and can either bring you down or inspire you.

I know which bits of London inspire me, and, as a Londoner, I know them well. Their pavements and parks have the imprint of my heels at some molecular level. I go to them sometimes serendipitously because my bus takes me past – or to – them depending on where I am working. Other places involve a short or long drive at the weekend. And there is the part of London in which I live – it has pockets of beauty that may inspire me to buy a new camera soon, seeing as my current one no longer works. The formerly trusty Canon now takes pictures that are criminally underexposed, leaving me with the hint of an interesting photograph. I couldn't live in a concrete-dominated area with no trees, parks, waterways or space to breathe.

Last week, I had so much to do that I worked on Saturday, but I don't mind doing so now and again because there is always something to do in the evening: a sweet carrot. I went with two friends to watch a third friend take part in a comedy competition. S was still away, or he would definitely have come along. We used to go to live comedy frequently when we first met – The Comedy Store in the West End was a particular favourite, and we also went to smaller, more intimate venues around the capital. We've found a couple of places close enough to where we live that we can walk there and back, which means we can drink beer (or in my case, Guinness) while we watch. The comedy contest was a good night. We complained about the standard of some of the acts and sat back with surprised laughter when some of these fledgling acts managed to make the room chuckle in a good, rather than embarrassed manner.

The night before that, I went to the cinema – the film was good but the price to get in and the cost of popcorn these days is madness (something not-so-good about London, though this may just be the case with Odeon cinemas everywhere). On Sunday, having slept pretty badly (partly due to work stress, partly due to the pain in my rib), I drove to Kings Road, Chelsea, to wander with no agenda and no one to meet – exactly what I needed.

Chelsea is fantastic. Not just because it has shops, no, but it is not crowded and feels spacious for a main street, has little cafés where you need not spend more than a fiver on lunch, and is head and shoulders above its nearby cousin, Kensington High Street. Also, I discovered a road where you can park free on Sundays – a huge bonus that is going to remain secret.

I did buy a few clothes, one of which was a jacket that had an extra forty quid slashed off the price tag at the till, rendering it bargainous. Then, I had a slow lunch while I read a magazine and people-watched before going for a walk and then driving home. There was some traffic but I didn't mind too much – the route home was fairly scenic, and once on the main road, it was very quick.

Back at my castle, I flumped on to the warm sofa with M, the rabbit, by my side and watched a DVD. Maybe you can do similar things anywhere, but in London there is a lot of what I like on offer with little effort involved to enjoy it. Maybe it is that I know where to find what I like. This city is vast. Rivers, yes rivers, incredible history, a plethora of entertainment, wide green parks, good food, style, art, culture, views, and most of all? Home.

Cleaning up

I gain a great deal of satisfaction from being in my home when it is clean, as it is now. Normally, there is a pile of clean clothes to put away, another pile of things that need to be washed, odds and ends to sort out, and a few papers dotted here and there. Nothing too terrible, but still.

I walk around looking at the clean rooms. It's not minimalist or huge, but it's comfortable, bright and warm. Sometimes I survey my kingdom (well mine and S's kingdom) two or three times, and then I sit down, sigh with satisfaction and drink a cup of tea.

Is this normal?

Missed my own blogday!

I started this blog on January 15th last year. That is mad. Mad. Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad.

Good heavens. Happy belated blogday to me...

Remedy for a stressful day

First course:
See The Golden Compass...
Oxford and its spires
Magic
Good witches
Escapism
Imagination (that of the writer, Mr Pullman)...

Followed by:
Home, sweet home
Hot risotto
Cold ale
S calling me from Paris
M, rabbit, sitting nearby
Me, dozy and warm

Paris plus S

S is in Paris. It is quiet without him. The familiar turn of the key in the lock, his footsteps coming up the stairs to my study, and our happy hello, before he ruffles the rabbit M's head is a routine when I am working at home. I keep thinking S is in the living room and then I remember that he isn't here. A friend popped in earlier and I commented how strange, that I had once lived alone for seven years or so, and how I then relished my aloneness and, yes, I liked it very much, thanks. But things, they change. Life's funny.

He went earlier this evening, though I did not see him leave from shiny new St Pancras, as he went straight from work. I was invited to go with him (to see family who are staying in Paris for a while) but at first, money problems made this impossible for me (S offered to pay but I said no, and I can be very stubborn), and then work piled in and there are the practicalities of not being able to lift much at the moment thanks to my cracked/bruised ribs.

So, S is in Paris, the wonderful city of light and romance. We went there two months into knowing each other. I went there last year to visit my friend, Inz, and to have a break from my sleepless London bed. S was unable to come with me due to work madness. The air was fresh and cold. The oxygen and the delicious cityness of the place seeped into my being, waking me in a good way, giving me energy. S is there now. I am there, too, if only in my mind. It's not quite enough but it will have to do for now.

Please let there be karma

Reading stories like this in the news makes me want to weep. Let's hope the judge is sensible.

I don't believe in hell (or heaven) but on this occasion, I'll make an exception, give hell the benefit of the doubt, and hope that those responsible for this murder get what they deserve.

The hardest thing

The past few days have been a bit of a pain, literally. My bruised rib still hurts and makes sleeping tricky unless I neck painkillers that contain opiates. These dull the pain and knock me out – I can't say I mind. My friend, SS, picked me up yesterday so that I could buy a trolley-load of goods from Sainsbury's, as there was no way I could manage alone, and I didn't want to wait until S was home in the evening. We had a cup of tea and a cake afterwards. It was a lovely, sunny day, almost approaching springtime, I thought (it rained like fury later, however).

SS seemed to be in fairly good spirits. He is trying to sort out what to do with his mum's house at the moment. At times, he seems so calm and amiable that you forget he was bereaved just a few weeks ago. I ask him how he is regularly, but not overly, and at times say that if he wants to talk about anything relating to his mum, he can. I'm not sure he would. But that's his choice. He has friends rallying around him – useful in the absence of siblings.

Occasionally, SS comes out with something that sounds off, or odd, but maybe he is not really thinking clearly. I recall the fortnight after his mum died, he would ask me things that I had literally told him about in detail the day before.

When my grandmother died in 2000, my mum was upset but didn't talk about it much. She isn't a talker, in that sense. She mentions her beloved mum now and then but I don't think she would sit down and answer: "How are you feeling?" with any eagerness. She is calm, and is a relaxing, caring presence, always. My dad, whose mum died when he was a child, stopped talking about such events a long time ago. He had a hard life afterwards. He, too, has dealt with much, and become a wonderful human being in spite of things that many would use as excuses for bitterness.

A dear friend lost her sister when my friend was just 18. She once told me she felt "robbed". She refers to her sister in conversations occasionally – I think she is inspired by her memory; she is a do-er, a remarkable, funny, kind woman who doesn't take life for granted. Another friend lost his father at 11, and has – I think – shaped his life around that loss. He is devoted to his children and is delighted by them in an all-encompassing way that brings him fulfillment.

These are some of the ways people deal with the hardest things. It is their prerogative and worthy of the utmost respect. There are more stories like these.

When a friend of mine died when she was 20, I dreamed for years that she had faked her death. Sometimes, even now, those dreams override the reality that she is no longer alive and I have to remind myself of the truth. She has been with me in dreams – in the background – with me telling her that she was dead and asking her what was she doing there. Confused, I'd ask: "Is that you, (insert name of her sister)?" And she would reply: "No, it's me." I would wake up bemused at times, slightly uncomfortable and then, sad. Once, she told me, in one of the most breathtakingly vivid dreams of my life, that she was "happy now", and then she danced into the distance, smiling as she never had in life.

Doctor's orders

Darn. I am not allowed to exercise for at least two weeks. The sucker punch I took to the ribs has, thankfully, not caused a fracture, but has caused muscle and tissue damage and what is known as a 'bruised rib', which can take a while to heal (relatively speaking) due to the ribcage moving constantly. I love kung fu; it helps me to sleep and sends me on an endorphin high. (I may re-think the sparring though.)

I slept for less than two hours last night as the pain was so great when I moved around. I cried with frustration. If there is one thing I cannot bear, it is sleeplessness that goes on for longer than one night.

Anyway, S took me to the local hospital A&E department this morning, where I was given some strong painkillers. We both fell asleep when we got back home (S was tired from having stayed up late). I felt like I was on another planet when I woke up. The packet says that the tablets 'cause drowsiness'. This is no bad thing.

Ow...

Oh dear, as much as I love it, maybe I'll have to restrict the amount of sparring I do in kung fu. I'm not sure that as a self-employed person I can risk having ribs bruised/cracked. Couldn't even hold my handbag yesterday, as it was too heavy to not cause discomfort. Luckily S was there to help at the end of the day. It is a big bag, and it did have papers and magazine in for work, but still...

Let's see if the sleep fairy does a shift tonight. One thing I can't bear is another reason (in this case, pain) to cause me to lose sleep.

Friday's child has had mojitos

Two tall mojitos, expertly mixed, with just enough lime and sugar... Zingy freshness that makes your mouth water, sweetness that turns a savoury drink into a treat. Delicious. On an empty stomach, however, they can go to your head a bit. Especially when you haven't had a cocktail for the best part of a year. Marvellous.

Today was good in contrast to yesterday's odd melange of weirdness. My two meetings went well, and were followed by two social appointments, both of which were very pleasant. One of them involved me meeting a relative I hadn't seen for years over cocktails, and the other was dinner with S, an impromptu meal that was very nice.

I just hope my ribs don't pain me too much tonight. When I turned over in bed last night, I yelped pretty loudly. And when I cough (for the darn lergy will persist), well, that is really not funny.

Thursday's child is full of woe

Things that happened today:

• This morning, after seeing a therapist who is helping me to deal with sleep-related things, I got a parking ticket. This was despite me having 45 minutes left to go, and the ticket was on the windscreen, clearly visible to the normally-sighted among us. Pee off, idiots.

• I slept very little (OK, so that was 'last night' but really, most sleep happens 'today').

• Most of my day was spent dealing with tradesmen (a pest control chap and an electrician – both very amenable and good at their jobs but their presence was not conducive to work). And, in contrast to last week, I am bloody busy now.

• I was punched very, very hard in the ribs during kung fu. I couldn't breathe. We aren't meant to thwack each other that hard – it's semi-contact, not semi-coma! I am in [insert swear word of choice] agony and am annoyed, as this has now become yet another health thing to deal with. I think a rib is cracked. Great. This same person broke another classmate's ribs few weeks ago...

• Following my previous post, I'm still smarting from the implication that I get work because of nothing more than my vital statistics. My friend overstepped the mark, but I can't really say anything as he is going through a hard time. I'd put it down to his trials had he not said similarly ridiculous things – though not as bad – in the past.

'It's only cos he fancies you'

I'm not best pleased. A bloke who we shall call Envielous made a silly joke, number 344 in a series of 2,902 in all likelihood. But the joke was not funny. Ergo, it was not a joke.

I have been given a couple of pieces of work by Henry, someone Envielous and I both know. Envielous asked me a perfunctory question about the work and then said: "Henry likes you. He does." I was puzzled at the way he coupled this with a stupid, cheesy grin. Like? What has like got to do with this? I do a damn good job. End of.

Shocked, I said: "Envielous, that's not very nice. Henry does not like me like that. He likes me, yes, but as a colleague. I've worked with him before and he likes the way I work, that's all. He's hands-off, I like being autonomous, so it's fine."

Cue silly expression from Envielous (a sort of grimace and smile, but essentially, jealousy)...

"Henry's always surrounded by women. He works with lots of women."

"So do you."

"Yeah (ha ha), and I know how men think. And when Stuart walks past your desk, he says hello. He always says hello."

Ooooh, he says 'hello'. How raunchy. Hmm, yes, he is polite because we have worked together a lot, idiot. Not because he wants to jump my bones.

How dare he paint me as some kind of tart who is given work just because I am female? What's he saying – that we have orgies in the stationery cupboard to judge suitability for employment? That the only way I could possibly have been given the work was because someone fancies me? Oh, please. Maybe it was meant as a joke but I find it hurtful and silly.

Hmm.

Not. Happy.

* * *

And I didn't sleep well last night. Three hours at the most. Grrrrr.

Careful what you wish for

I wished for work, as I had none. Now I have plenty.

I now wish for more time to do my creative writing.

Ah, well. I shall have to work quickly on my work writing to give myself time for the stuff that I love, the non-work writing.

I wish my non-work writing would transform into being what I do for work writing. Better get on with writing the novel, eh?

Dear Plagiarist

Thank you for copy-and-pasting one of my posts word for word. You have, judging by your blog's breadth of style, lack of consistency, variations in grammar and plain oddness of content, copied the work of a few bloggers in a somewhat haphazard and meaningless manner.

I will take it as a compliment that you have chosen to copy and paste my words. But do remember, foolish one, I could kung fu you into 2009 if I wanted to. I still might.

Think on,
Mellifluous Very Dark

Januaryness

I am not earning much money at the moment and December's various tax bills and Christmas have not helped my cashflow situation but nevertheless I feel surprisingly OK. I have a large business expense (my accountant's fee) to pay this week, which is worrying, and if I want to keep up with kung fu and pay my share of the household bills, I need to find some extra cash pronto.

I'm being frugal but what's the point of falling into a worry hole? I've been doing practical things to try to get more work but it's a pleasant change for me to have time, precious time, in which to consider my direction and to approach the people for whom I really want to work.

It's strange. Most people I know detest January but I like it. It always comes with the feeling of newness and promise. I don't like the ridiculous money-fest of some people's Christmases, where it's 'buy buy buy' no matter what. The season of no reason. And I like my socialising to be spread out a bit rather than concentrated in a mad fortnight that results in exhaustion and the common cold.

So, here's to January. A good time to pull back on the reins and admire the view so you can conserve a bit (of energy and money) and perhaps see where you are going...

Naughty breakfast

Instead of having wholemeal toast and jam, I picked up a new box of cereal this morning. I emptied some into a bowl. I only expected crunchy nut clusters (a treat) but there were chocolate curls in there, too.

I may have another bowlful.

Hot cross buns

Mmm, yes. I saw hot cross buns in Sainsbury's two days ago.

Today I saw someone buying them. Surely the scent of pine needles, brandy butter and mince pies cannot have evaporated yet?

On guard

When I spar in kung fu, I am shocked when someone hits me in the face or around the head. I have tended to drop my guard, which is dangerous (obviously) but am doing my best to keep my arms up. Being swiped or hit is an incentive, that's for sure. If someone closes in on me, I tend to fight back hard, which had the result of me hitting someone below the eye in my last class.

The chap in question, who is a very nice person, was not too pleased. But what could I do? He'd stepped on my foot a couple of times after I'd hurt my toes and he had swiped me on the face and head a few times, and he was really going for it (as one must).

It feels unnatural, fighting, but it's good when it is controlled, as you learn to focus and realise that there is art in defence – attack is not everything. It makes you more stable on your feet, too.

Anyway, I apologised profusely. I did feel bad, as the intent is not to hurt one another but rather to make contact, which can be painful nevertheless! I suffered a hard kick on the arm from a relative newbie who was lashing out like mad (and rather dangerously). I guess we'll all have our share of injuries. I've had a kick in the breast (extremely painful), a cut lip (caused by the instructor!), massive bruises and various pains.

Why do I do it? There are many reasons: serious exercise, increased stamina, better focus, great camaraderie, I like to learn rather than just pound away in a gym, it brings catharsis in huge measure, it helps me to sleep and it is empowering. I certainly don't walk down the street feeling invincible – that would be insane – but if I needed to punch someone in extenuating circumstances, I'd hope all the practice would kick in (so to speak) and I'd send them flying.

Apparently people who are trained in martial arts get into less fights – maybe they give off more confident vibes, or maybe they know that they could really hurt someone... My instructor, and others I've seen, would be formidable opponents. If anyone was stupid enough to try to take them on in a threatening situation, they'd be pretty regretful when they woke up in hospital!

Pause for thought

A woman I worked with many years ago recently got back in touch with me. She is now married and has a child, a little girl. She posted some photos on email; I commented on her daughter's bright, sparkly eyes.

My friend then shocked me by telling me that her child is in fact blind – she lost her sight at the age of two months, when a routine operation went wrong and she was starved of oxygen. Apparently, the girl's sense of hearing is so acute that people often fail to notice that she is blind, let alone the other disabilities she has. More than anything, my friend says she would choose to restore her daughter's sight so that she could see the looks in her parents' eyes as they look at her.

I know it isn't helpful but I can't help thinking: a routine operation went wrong... why? How can such things happen? How can my friend bear it? (Well, I know she obviously adores her child and that such love is quite rightly and naturally unconditional.) But knowing that someone made a mistake and robbed those eyes of vision? Horrendous.

Life is a mystery.

Resolution MMVIII

I resolve to be resolute:

1) I will get my sleep pattern sorted. I will come off the pills and it will be OK. My life will be mine again. I will be energised.
2) I will earn more money. I work very hard but my income doesn't always match the hours I put in.
3) I will continue to train in kung fu and become fitter yet. The health benefits of regular exercise have been astounding.
4) I will finish my novel. I cannot have this as a resolution for a new year again – no way. This is the year.
5) I will save more money. I don't want to worry about money any more...
6) I will continue to sort out my ball of wool stuff. (This means something to me, apologies for being vague.)

Happy New Year

To you all, I wish health, peace, prosperity and happiness in 2008 and beyond.




If you have a talent, use it in every which way possible. Don't hoard it. Don't dole it out like a miser. Spend it lavishly, like a millionaire intent on going broke – Brenda Francis.

Compare and contrast

I was going to call this post 'art or fart?', as it seemed most appropriate when discussing the merits of modern 'art', such as many of the exhibits at the Tate Modern. After visiting the Museum of London, which was interesting and engaging, S and I spent the remainder of our day at the nearby Tate Modern, an imposing building on the banks of the Thames. We spent most of the time muttering about the 'emperor's new clothes'. People stood and stared at a plethora of paint splatterings and blocks of colour, or sat gormlessly watching poor-quality animation or short films about absolutely nothing. They looked blank and bored. Hmm.

There were some – a few pieces – that provided intellectual stimulation and hit synaptic goals, but on the whole, well, anyone could have produced some of the rubbish in there. I say rubbish because, frankly, my rabbit could have arranged her pellets in a more meaningful form. It's an old criticism that is met by cries of 'Philistine' but it's true. And it's not because I don't get it; it's that I cannot respect and cannot recognise 'art' that is in fact no step above what Joe or Joanne Bloggs could produce given some crayons and an egg box.

Yes, at the risk of being called a raging Philistine, I have to say that on this, my third visit, I again found the contents of the Tate Modern insulting, patronising and empty. You shouldn't have to (pretend to) have an existential crisis to appreciate art. You shouldn't have to dissect something to have it say something to you, or worse, try to decide what the creator of the piece was thinking! No, art should be above such theorising. When you see a rosebud, the sea, a formation of clouds, or the flowers in someone's irises, you just understand. Art should be like that, not some elite, hidden 'style' that can only be appreciated by those who have spent two years learning other people's theories at art school or elsewhere.

All that pretentious 'what was the artist trying to say?' angst leaves me cringing. Often, he or she was saying bugger all, as demonstrated very clearly by the explanations proffered by most of the artists in the Tate Modern's very own video clips of people explaining their art. It was like watching sixth-formers having crises. Painful.

It would have been funny had it not been so up its own behind, and so utterly vague. Artists saying things like: 'Well, uhm, I create these things because I like them,' and 'I, erm, like just seeing what happens when I throw colours together'. Well, that's fine: they are having fun expressing themselves through paint or balancing toilet rolls or whatever, but to read into such simple desires humanity's place in the cosmos is seeing a fine arrangement of regal clothes when the king is in fact walking around with his nadgers hanging out in the breeze.

Art turns me on when the creative work that has gone into it is relatively obvious, when you can speak about it without resorting to psychobabble, and it shows skills that leave you in awe, knowing that someone blessed with gifts that can't be reproduced, and who can fashion originality that doesn't reek of pretension, has produced beauty.


Walking out of the Tate, on to the Millennium Bridge, seeing the majesty of the glittering Thames, St Paul's Cathedral, the other bridges spanning the artery of London, and the blue lights twinkling on trees – Christmas and otherwise – was infinitely more delicious to the senses than most of what was on display the Tate Modern. Such a vista needed no labels.

Really, it is OK

I am a glass three-quarters full person.

I started off with a full glass but a little was tipped out a long time ago. It is still there, around the base of the glass.

Sometimes I see the droplets, shiny, glinting back at me, pieces of the whole, and bemoan the loss.

But really, the absence of something – the spillage – has given me room to move, to slide, to bubble and settle, and because there is a little distance from the top of the liquid to the top of my glass, it feels that little bit safer. Somehow.

Strange moaning

When I have a bad throat – a really bad, sore throat that is accompanied by a cough – I groan while sleeping. It stops me from coughing. Somehow, and luckily, S sleeps through it.

I was in bed last night, still in the throes of this annoying throat/chest virus thing, when I heard S get up. I figured it must have been because I was doing my strange moaning. I felt ill, though. My stomach was aching and I was very nauseas but couldn't bring myself to move from bed. I did that thing where you breathe deeply and slowly, and swallow down saliva, and repeat... I must have gone on like that for hours.

Ah, I should have mentioned that there is a dead mouse (or possibly two of the blighters) beneath the floorboards in our bedroom. The stench is vile. We aim to get pest control out as soon as we can. No mice have been seen anywhere, so I must assume that they have been living downstairs primarily, in GFG's place, and then head up to the ceiling to breathe their last.

Anyway, S eventually headed back to the bedroom, took a step inside and then retched when he smelled the decaying mice/mouse (I had managed to stay in the room thanks to the effects of my heavy cold; S's mum was staying in our other bedroom so we weren't able to decamp there).

S was very poorly. It turned out we had food poisoning, with S succumbing to the worst of it. He looks so little when he is ill, like a young boy. As it turned out, he hadn't left the bedroom because of my strange moaning but due to the washing machine that was his stomach. He hasn't been well since. We went out briefly today to get some air (the kitchen now also smells of ex-mouse – great!), but mostly sat in cafés like a pair of squeezed lemons.

What a combination – me with my ongoing Christmas cold, S poisoned by sausages... Just spoke to my friend, V, who is sneezing and spluttering.

'Tis the season to be unwell, it seems...

Merry Christmas one and all

Should be in bed, but like a small child, I have woken up and am in the kitchen. My eyes are tired, yet I can't sleep. I want Father Christmas to take away my cough/cold, which has made slumber impossible.

I am seeing whether manuka honey stirred into hot water will help.

It is December 25th. I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful, happy New Year.

February? Are you sure?

A magazine to which I subscribe has just sent me its February issue. I took it out of its plastic wrapper and hid it beneath the January issue. I can't look at it yet. I mean, it will be full of Valentine's gifts. Spring clothes...

* * *

I have spent most of today in bed with a cough/cold. Many of my colleagues and fellow commuters coughed their way through last Wednesday and Thursday. One woman at work sounded plague-ridden – why she came to work is anyone's guess. I think it's rather selfish, especially when there was hardly any work to do. Such generosity...

Anyway, it was very foggy in London today. The view from my window was Dickensian, so it wasn't too difficult to stay inside. Nice and cosy.

It's Christmas, be happy!

My supermarket visit today was not relaxing. Sometimes, when I am working at home and can get there early, it is fairly quiet when I arrive. On such occasions, there is time to read the labels and scan shelves. Weirdly for some, I enjoy doing this.

But today, the place was packed with people impatiently pushing trolleys down aisles populated by those who hadn't had the foresight to make a list and loitered annoyingly, oblivious to the dozen people stuck in their wake of indecision. I carried a basket and a small shopping list but managed to fill it so that I could only lift it if I used both of my kung fu-strengthened arms.

All the checkouts were open so I put my basket down behind a grey-haired woman who was buying a feast's worth of goods and remembered that I had forgotten to but the stuff you pour down the plughole to get the water to flow faster. In the minute I was gone, the feast-buyer still had plenty on the conveyor belt but a youngish woman had wheeled her trolley up. When I slipped in to where my basket was – in its legitimate place in the queue – she snapped: "You shouldn't do that!" And thus ensued a ridiculous conversation where this sad, lumpy woman, who looked as though she sucked lime for pleasure, kept on and on about it. How, oh, the world would end if everyone did that. And, oh, how it would stop global warming if I hadn't left my basket there for sixty seconds. (Almost.)

I told her to stop being so rude and added that I couldn't be bothered to speak to her. I was amazed that such a non-happening could arouse her pique. She really must have a life devoid of any real problems if she could spare the energy to act like such a silly fool over nothing. The most ironic part was when she said: "It's Christmas, be happy!" with a scowl on her face.

I shook my head in disbelief and she changed aisle. A lovely old man with sparkly eyes and a smile then unpacked his things behind me. The woman watched from the corner of her eyes as we enjoyed some banter and laughed.

* * *

This song sends shivers down my spine. It makes me cry, every time.

RIP SS's mum. RIP Kirsty MacColl.

Sorrow

A good friend found out today that his mother has died.

A total shock. SS's mum, M, lived at the other end of England. Her friend couldn't get hold of M and called her son today, during the tail-end of our Christmas lunch. I'd just left but a mutual friend called me as I was on the bus and said that SS had had a call and that he'd rushed off – we live close to one another so she knew it was likely that he'd visit me and S over Christmas. We'd planned an evening of mulled wine, mince pies and games for Saturday. I'd planned to call SS tomorrow but he sent me a text message in reply to my 'please let me know how your mum is', which arrived during the surreality of my kung fu class.

The police broke the door down and found his poor mum. We had been talking about her a lot yesterday and today. He was brought up by her and has no siblings. They were due to spend Christmas together. He is driving up to his mother's place now. God...

He hasn't wanted/ been able to talk yet, and I don't feel as though I've been able to think of anything useful to say in my messages to him.

Christmas events two, three and four

I know it's lazy. I know I said I'd write an entry for each event. But I am far too tired... And, to add to my lazy behaviour, I shall write a synopsis rather than a lengthy account for each. There is probably only so much one can say about Christmas parties, anyway.

* * *

Well, number two was a good night – it was spent at a very good curry house with 12 friends, including S. We ate a lot, drank a reasonable amount (I stuck to my quality-not-quantity-Champagne quaffing) and people laughed frequently, which pleased me as I had organised the meal.

People seemed to enjoy it more than they perhaps anticipated, which I think is better than expecting a wonderful time and feeling the slump of disappointment when it doesn't meet hopes. I wore my silver dress, which attracted a few comments. Seems that it was worth the mad hunt to track one down in my size.

* * *

Event number three was a large lunch party that fell short of the mark, mainly because it was at a Chinese restaurant and I have never been keen on Chinese food. The party – at one of the best restaurants in London, apparently – failed to impress me. Also, I was not in a great mood for the event, having been slightly arm-twisted by a friend who wanted me to go with her, as she would not have known anyone else at the lunch otherwise.

As it turned out, several people we knew were there and we sat with them and some strangers who quickly proved friendly and humorous. But I was glad to get home into my warm rooms, where I kicked off my boots, climbed out of my skinny jeans and relaxed, tiredness seeping from every pore. It has been so very cold of late... Being home was like being back in the womb.

* * *

Event four was a traditional, posh Christmas dinner, courtesy of one of my major clients/employers. Out came the (clean) silver dress again, attracting comments, including the bizarre, scowling: "If I tried to get into that dress it would come down to my ankles, but you are so tall and slim. You're such a fucking bitch." Thanks. So are you.

I was taken aback that this woman who barely knew me has spat out such a back-handed, erm, compliment. There was no irony or humour. But she was effusive in her 'good morning' to me this morning, whereas in the past she has bordered on the monosyllabic. A friend, who was considering employing this woman, was shocked, and suggested the comment was based on jealousy. How old are we?!

The 'fucking bitch' woman has stepped very neatly over my tolerance line with her charmless mouth. I had noticed (but not cared) that she excludes me from conversations – makes eye contact with everyone but me – although I have always been friendly to her... Don't really like being spoken to like that. This young lady should remember that what goes around comes around, and I know quite a few people who could give her work (or not).

S gave me and a friend of ours a lift home, which was brilliant and lovely of him. It would have been a very long, very cold night otherwise, as we all live on the other side of the capital. The silver dress is not conducive to a temperature of zero.

Fight afterwards, yeah?

That's what several of my kung fu club friends have said to me. We are going out tonight for a meal at a very nice restaurant. We're meeting in a bar first, then possibly going to one afterwards, too. But what has made me laugh is the number of people who have jested about having a fight once the desserts have gone down.

I don't intend to fight, of course. I'm not quite that obsessed with kung fu, and I haven't become a street-fighting wench. I will keep score if others wish to fight (they won't – they're actually all nice people) but if certain friends could see me now, scaring classmates, talking fighting talk and managing to get in some quick hits with much glee, they would probably think I have a secret twin.

* * *

My pet rabbit is stretched out in her soft bed, looking at me with her liquid brown eyes. Goodness, that creature is the epitome of gentleness. Utterly sweet. The animal manifestation of molasses, velvet, a fluffy hot water bottle and magic dust.

Frosty morning

Left the central heating on all night by mistake. Normally, this would turn the place into a sauna but instead it took on a mildly warmish feel. The cars outside are all white, the sun is bright but is hidden behind a mist of grey.

* * *

As I eat my breakfast, I am listening to the story (on the radio) of a 12-year-old who is writing her second book – incredible. Ah, I really must get cracking with mine. This young lady has even signed a three-book deal...

Lalalalalala

I wriggled my toes, focused on softening my shoulders and tried to regulate my breathing. But I still found it difficult to totally relax as the dentist pierced my gum four times with his long, thin hypodermic needle. This thing was longer than my (quite long) hand. It glistened.

After the trauma of my recent tooth extraction and ensuing infection and disgusting antibiotic treatment, I can't say I was terribly eager to visit the dentist, who is a nice chap, but not one you want to see too often, especially when he has metal implements to hand. Anyway, it was OK. The process was uncomplicated enough but the noises rendered the simplicity complicated.

I wondered what I was meant to be thinking of as he prodded, poked, bleeped, crunched and, of course, drilled. I started by thinking about people who can withstand surgery thanks to their strong minds alone, eschewing anaesthetic, the crazies. It didn't help that the words driller killer ran through my head. That started images of hydraulic drills used by people who dig roads. Road diggers. That wasn't helpful.

Once the fillings were in place, I wiped my seemingly nerveless face with a couple of tissues, my mouth drooping slightly, paid and left. My next visit will be to the hygienist. Surely that will not involve blood and needles. Hmm.

I'm better than you...

I can be as competitive as the next person. But the person I am most competitive with is myself. Me.

However, I encounter people who are stupidly competitive in the context of friendships and it is terribly destructive. Like a shadow behind them that you cannot always see, you sometimes think this most unattractive trait has gone or was never there. But then, the light changes and it's there, sharp and dark.

I have one ex-friend who was idiotically competitive. She even said her new flat was in one part of London when it was in fact in another, less salubrious area. She was a miserable cow when she earned an OK wage, as long as it was one that was less than mine. She was irritated when I got engaged, wistful at my wedding and then pissed off when things got too much for her ego. They got to be too much for me, too, it has to be said.

* * *

What is it about some people that they have the manner and charm of a melted slug when 'serving' in shops? Why do they not go home and stick pins in their eyes, for surely that would make them happier? To the gnarled woman and the effete man in the small store I went in today: you are a disgrace. I will never buy anything in your store again but I may just go in tomorrow and try on 50 pairs of shoes just to make your grim little faces turn pink. Idiots.

Champagne farewell

My lovely boss took me and another employee (another freelance) out to say thanks for working at the magazine for the last few months. I told her I could only drink Champagne, so she bought a bottle for us to share. (I really can only stomach Champagne, following my treatment for insomnia... No, really!)

I had just about had enough water to feel detoxed from last night's four glasses (not exactly heavy drinking!). I retoxed with another two. I just want to eat fruit and eat good food now. I don't like feeling tired and zonked' have had enough of that with the insomnia.

* * *

The bruises on my arms from kung fu are black now. They'll heal just in time for the next class. I was glad the room was sort-of dark last night, as it made the marks less noticeable.

Christmas event one

OK, so I'm back home already and compos mentis enough to write my blog, but I did go to a party from fairly early on this evening, where I drank Champagne. I had a few canapés as well – they were OK, not enough to soak up the few drinks I had, though, so I'm eating bread and honey now.

I wore my high-heeled black suede boots and my sixties silvery shift dress. I liked the result.

Plenty of S's colleagues were at the posh bar (it was a work-related event hosted by his workplace). It was good to see the ones I knew, funny to see the ones I'd only ever just heard about, and interesting to meet a few new people, too.

I realised yesterday that I had nearly 10 events to go to over the ensuing fortnight. These will be detailed in this blog. Going to the party has made me feel festive. I think I'll put the decorations up at the weekend.

The smelly man

I was lucky enough to get a seat on my bus to work this morning. I put my bag down and a woman plonked her wet umbrella on it. I wasn't pleased. As I settled down, an oldish man using two sticks as an aid embarked the double decker. As the bus passed the river, I stood up and offered him my seat, and stood nearby. He said thanks and sat down, seemingly amazed.

As he passed me to get to the seat, I smelled the stench of one who has lived on the streets. The woman who had placed her wet brolly on my bag glowered at me as he took his place next to her. The man played with what looked like a toy mobile phone as the stink of urine seeped from his very being. But he was just a man. What difference does it make that he was a down-and-out? He had more manners than the woman had with her frosty features and stony glare. It made me smile.

Eventually, the wet-umbrella-woman got off the bus and the man tapped me on the shoulder to offer me a chance to sit. I was getting off soon, so refused, thanking him. His blue eyes sparkled.

I wondered what he had looked like when he was a baby and his mother had held him close and breathed the very skin of him. I wondered if anyone did anything these days but simply walk away.

People, people, everywhere, and not one stops to think

... or do they? They probably do. People.

It's funny, watching people Christmas shopping today, I wondered what it was all about, whether we are just bigger mice on bigger wheels. Signs said: 'Want it, Need it, Buy it'... And people, they bought and bought. It took an age to even get near the car park, let alone find a space. Why was I there? To buy some cards and a birthday gift. I could have waited until tomorrow and done that in my lunchtime. Ah, well.

Not many stopped to listen to the brass band playing (beautifully) in the store. They started with 'Joy to the World', then went through to my favourite carol, 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman', which makes me think of Dickensian Christmases.

On another note, I have fallen in love with Oxford. I had never been there until this weekend. The quadrangles with their perfect lawns, the tall yellow stone, the wood, the towers, the bells, took me back to dreams I had as a child, of spires, studying, silence and secret places. Christ Church was open to visitors – the hall was just lovely, with its huge Christmas tree, and the grounds near Merton College were bathed in tranquility. Utterly gorgeous.
----------------
Listening to: Editors - The Racing Rats

The root of the matter

Yeah, well, my gum was infected. What with the recent health sagas of late, you'd never have predicted that, eh?

I put up with the pain for a week and secured an appointment at the dentist's on Tuesday. My boss was sweet – she let me leave work nice and early, so much so that I had time to collect my car so that I could get there with ease. She was probably also worried that I looked dreadfully pained and was somewhat odd as far as the new members of staff were concerned. I can't say I was at my most conversational but they seemed to understand.

So, dentist prods around, uses a jet cleaner thing to deep clean the wound and says he can a) see the tail-end of an infection (I was right! I knew that pain was abnormal!) and b) that he could 'see the bone'. *faint* Did he have to tell me that? I mean.

He stuffed some soluble dressing in the hole and prescribed antibiotics. Now, you'd think that would be that. It would be for others. But no. No, no. The antibiotics made me feel faint, nauseas, deeply tired and my stomach was puffed up like a balloon. I lost my appetite, which was a relief, as trying to eat while in pain had been terribly difficult. I couldn't exercise at all this week. I had no energy.

Anyway, I took the stuff for the rest of the week and was glad to take the last of the bitter pills today. The pain went after a couple of days, thank goodness, so it was worth the side-effects. I can just about brush the areas either side of the gum to clean a bit more thoroughly now, too. I like a fresh mouth.

The huge difficulty, however, is that this tooth saga has been stress-induced. I am beginning to realise that, actually, I do have a lot on my plate. It was when S sadly shook his head and said how awful it was that I had had to have a molar removed due to stress-related teeth-grinding that it hit home pretty hard. I don't mean that in a self-indulgent way, but seriously, I need to sort out the tangled source of my stresses – and the way I handle the (very) tough stuff. It's critical.

Dancing and pain (again)

My mouth is still hurting. Stillllllll... Ow. S and friends who have had teeth out say it isn't unusual that it is still hurting after Monday's extraction. So, instead of heading to A&E this weekend, I have put up with a throbbing jaw.

I was tempted to miss a birthday party on Friday night due to the mouth situation but went along anyway. S and I first went to visit a friend who lives on the same street as the pub at which the party was held, had cake and tea, and settled in very nicely in his warm flat. We didn't want to leave – it was so comfortable and outside was very, very cold – but we thought we should show our faces and dragged ourselves off his leather sofas.

The party was literally one of those occasions where you start off by thinking you'll stay for half an hour and then sidle off, but turned into a brilliant night, where you get to bed at 2am. The birthday boy, who was 40, played the guitar to one song and asked us all to get up and dance (he is in a band). It was excellent.

I haven't danced for months – possibly a year – and I loved it. Two of my friends from kung fu, V, and J, were also there. We laughed a lot and V and I had an obligatory play-fight, which amused the men. It was funny, though, to hear that I have a reputation among my friends for being 'most fearsome' when I spar. You wouldn't think so to look at me! I find it funny but secretly encouraging. I overheard two of my classmates talking about me while I was putting on my sparring gear in the week – they said 'Mel D's sparring, yeah, blimey we had better watch out'... I feel like I am in the Truman Show; it can't be me they're on about. Can it?

I had a couple of flutes of champagne and that was that for me (I didn't want any more than that) and did sleep well, but was exhausted yesterday, due to the ongoing blasted pain. I'm finding it rather tedious.

Forceps... clamp...

I thought I was going in for a filling. But no. The dentist said that today was the day for my tooth extraction. I had been nervous enough at the prospect of being drilled and filled, so was shaking by the time he had administered the two injections. I sat in the blond-wood waiting room, trying to interest myself in the magazine covers on the rack, and waited until it kicked in.

The nurse called me back after 10 minutes – I was convinced that surely this could not be enough time. After all, I was still walking, shaking, able to speak...

So, I sit in the large chair, am covered with the blue apron, don a pair of orange plastic safety goggles and am told to open wide. I did so, trying to concentrate on my breathing, my toes, the radio, and not on the dentist's requests for 'clamp', 'forceps', 'suction' and so on.

My tooth didn't want to be parted from me. It dug its roots in, the poor tooth, and gave the dentist a hard time. Now, following my experience of hearing my skin snipped away when I had the lump removed from my armpit earlier this year, I can add the sensation of having a long piece of my skull yanked out to my catalogue of 'things I'd rather not feel/hear, thanks very much'.

He said: 'Oh, stubborn tooth', and carried on putting what felt like his body weight on my jaw to steady it. 'Keep your head still,' he said. Hmmm. I'm afraid I couldn't do that, not while having it gripped from within and without. Just wasn't happening.

Anyway, out it came eventually, my mouth's equivalent of childbirth, with a bone-crunching whoosh and lots of blood (which I couldn't feel on my face but the nurse mopped up for me). I then bit down on wadding, which I was scared to take out for two hours, and tried not to throw up as I walked to my car and then drove to Sainsbury's to buy soft food. The cashier understood my tooth-out mime and sympathised as I paid. I mumbled back.

It is throbbing. THROBBING. And I won't even get any cash from the tooth fairy. Pah.

The dress

Well, I went out and got a dress to wear for the festive parties I have agreed to attend. It was remarkably quiet in the shops – there were parking spaces and none of the crush I had expected.

I looked in several shops and eventually happened upon a dress I liked – a champagne-coloured, beautifully cut number in a heavy material with a criss cross of straps at the back. As much as I loved it, it couldn't imagine it surviving those occasions without getting splattered with wine or food. If they had had it in scarlet or black, I would have bought it immediately.

Anyway, it was getting colder so I stepped up my hunt and came across one of very few dresses that didn't look like a tunic/tent. It's a lined silk satin number with beads around the neck and falling into a drape around the bust, with the waist and skirt cut on the bias, ending above the knees. It's gorgeous, elegant and striking (the picture does it no justice), and when I tried it on, it managed to detract from my coldy eyes and tired pallor. It is now in my wardrobe, waiting...

I also bought merino wool tights and a thick-knit cream merino wool zip-up cardigan to wear in the office in which I am based – they just can't keep the temperature constant and I often sit there in three layers and a scarf. Not good. Anyway, all I need now is for the postman to bring me a cheque from two companies that haven't paid me for a while, and I shall rest easier knowing that when Mr Mastercard pops round again, he will be sent away satisfied.

More lergy, more fire, more chi

You know how some people say they wouldn't mind being ill (and even wish themselves the flu, which is nuts), so that they don't have to go to work? I don't do that.

For starters, when I am ill and at home, no one pays me, so it's almost as though I have taken time off specifically to watch the horrors of daytime television and to sit/lie feeling rough while people still call me for work reasons, seeing as I am a freelance and they know not of my lergy.

Hardly pleasurable. I mean, have you seen Deal or no Deal? I have watched it in the past but the episode I saw was just awful – and I think, horrifyingly, that Noel called the contestants pilgrims. Maybe that was my mind and scratchy ears playing tricks – let's hope so...

So, yes, boringly, I have been off work again for part of this week, with yet another virus. My throat was a gargle of Gillette, creeping up to my ear canals like snakes strapped to a pair of stilettos. I forced my way through two kung fu classes (while dosed up), thinking it would maybe be sweated out. Didn't work. I was high on endorphins but not cured. I am definitely physically addicted to kung fu now and feel restless and 'itchy' when I don't do my requisite sessions. I love it.

I'm sure the combination of a man sneezing into his newspaper, held at the right angle to capture germs and deflect them towards me, while I was on the train a week or so ago, was enough to cause this latest lergy attack. That, the icy cold weather of the last few days and the general fatigue of dealing with certain big things that I alluded to in my last post would have been enough for anyone.

In the course of my frenzied attempt to get better, I re-discovered active manuka honey, which is great. You dissolve a spoonful in hot (not boiling) water and drink it. I had a few mugs of this and swear it helped me. So much so, that I went to a kung fu class with the Master and learned some very interesting techniques, whereby you use your body's natural energy to have an effect on things external to the bounds of your skin. The technique was based on the ancient origins of t'ai chi, and the sense of calmness, while at the same time feeling energised – as though there was a fire from my belly to my throat – was amazing.

I slept like a log last night and feel almost ready to go out and see if I can find something new to wear for several upcoming Christmas parties.

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Listening to the absolutely amazing and utterly fabulous: Editors - Escape The Nest