Biker chick reflection

I sometimes cycle on the path that runs alongside the river. I can cover two miles in about ten minutes, which isn't bad. Yesterday, I had a ride on my slightly rusty bike (the poor bike was unused for about two years after I bought it because I hated the saddle, but it's been serviced, re-saddled and runs well now).

When I've made it from my home to the river, I feel relieved. I enjoy seeing what's going on on the Thames and relish the shade provided by trees some of the way. Also, you only have to worry about other cyclists, joggers and dog walkers instead of car doors and lorries (but there are a few midges and mosquitoes that bite). I reckon I smile as I cycle, as people seem to smile at me and I'm never sure why. I probably trundle along grinning like a loon. I do this sometimes. If something good has happened, I smile (this can be as mundane as bagging a bargain in a sale or as important as having something positive happen to do with loved ones or work). If I am unhappy about something, I kid myself that I have a normal face but it doesn't fool people who know me remotely well.

However, sometimes, I wear a distant air (so I've been told). And when tired I can lose perspective as well as seem preoccupied. That happened frequently when I was bastardly exhausted while I was on the sleep programme and medication. I have fallen out with a friend who failed to understand why I was on planet la la and was acting oddly. I've re-read emails that we exchanged (she was angry, I was frustrated)... we haven't communicated for nine months. One thing she said, in response to my telling her what had been up with me, was 'Why didn't you tell me those things were happening? I'm not a mind reader'. Hmm. Good point. I chatted to S about this and he agreed that I sometimes didn't tell the whole story to people who really should know. Old habits.

So, my friend perhaps did have a point. Maybe I was guilty of being difficult to understand at times. Goodness knows, there have been days, weeks, months, when I had no idea whether I was coming or going. It was horrendous. I've decided to contact her. I'm not looking for reconciliation (though I hope for it) but I think it can only help her to perhaps not feel so bad if I (finally) tell her what was going on, in as much detail as possible, and it may help me to set the record straight, too. I'll give it a go, come what may.

Guitar heroes

Ahhhh, so tired. Myself, S and a friend played Wii guitar hero for five hours last night. I got to bed at 3am. I was rocking along to songs that I had previously not heard (and if I had, I wouldn't have liked them sans game). It was fantastic fun, quite possibly moreso because we drank lots of wine and ale. I haven't laughed so much in months.

It's 4pm now and I feel OK on the whole but have that heavy-head tiredness that accompanies late nights these days (not that I often party midweek). I'm meant to be going out tonight but will stick to water, I think. My liver will be grateful. I'm just glad I am on holiday this week.

Things I saw today...

• A group of what looked like South American Indians performing near the shops I visited today. I usually walk past but, as I have time on my hands this week, I slowed my pace. It was very sweet and relaxing, this music. It made me feel sad, and I am not sure why.

• A smart old lady pushing a trolley of Stella and other stuff through the car park in Sainsbury's. I wondered how she would cope with unloading the trolley. Either she was much tougher than she looked or was in fact aged only 50 and a hardened boozer.

• An email inbox devoid of work emails. This is rare. (There were some from worky people but they were group emails and were fairly banal in content.)

• Cards for 40 year olds. The friend I have recently reconnected with is having a party to mark her big day on Saturday and S and I are going. I looked around several shops to find a suitable card. It wasn't easy. Most cards for women were either tasteful and rather too sedate or completely ridiculously 'up yours' at being 40. So I got a card that didn't make any reference to age, which, I firmly believe (being 38) doesn't matter a flying fig anyway.

• A man lying in the road having been knocked off his motorbike. His helmet was in bits. He seemed to be talking to the police and paramedics. I hope he is OK, and I hope the car driver is OK, too. All too often, motorbikes zoom out at mad speed (but I don't know if this was the case, and shall reserve judgment). I turned my music down as it seemed disrespectful to drive by as though I was having a party.

• My rabbit, M, is so excited when I get home these days that she races around the flat and binkies (twisty jumps while running). She is extremely cool and very affectionate.

• I saw – and bought – some scallops in Sainsbury's. S cooks these to perfection and I am having to stop myself from raiding the cupboard for the tortilla crisps I bought to preserve my appetite.

• The sunshine – at 5am. Sunrise is very early these days, eh? My eye mask had slipped off and, apart from feeling tired, I was convinced it was 7.30am. (I still get up early-ish these days as per my sleep programme rules, holiday or not.)

Fudge and foxgloves

Typical Southern Lakes landscape © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

There were foxgloves all over the place in the Lake District. They are pretty flowers, bright strands among the green. (I have a vague memory of them being poisonous though, so didn't touch any.)

View from Western Lakes © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

I was craving the break when it came. My head had been spinning with the amount of work I had to complete before I could pack and shop for our self-catering cottage. I was stressed so badly that my sleep was plagued with worry and teeth-grinding, which always scares me. I cannot let myself ever get back to my old, poisonous sleep-stress patterns. I am by no means completely cured of insomnia and when stressed, I gnash my teeth, wake with headaches and become crazed with exhaustion if it goes on for too long. I can control it by sticking to the regime. I have developed new patterns. It was so, so hard and I shall not be wasting all the effort I put in over the past 18 months.

Anyway, that particular week seems a long time ago now. In the past week, I've done some more work on my novel, which is now two-thirds complete and very dark in places. I'm not sure why, but when I write when I'm away and can let myself become completely engrossed in the story, the characters do things that surprise me. Something about the lack of email, internet and distractions gave me the chance to immerse myself in the characters' world. I found it difficult to write much when I had an entire day stretching out before me while S went walking up mountains one day (my knees don't allow such activities at the moment). But on the days when we went out early and came back in time for a cup of tea in front of Countdown (oh yes, we became middle-aged for sure)... well, on those days, I'd write a fair bit post-tea break. S, at such times, would go off and do yet more walking while I crafted my story.

Ullswater © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

We visited several new places including Penrith (closed, as it was Sunday, and very cold indeed), Kendal (unexpectedly pretty, with a lovely chocolate shop that sold tasty fudge that I'd been after in Penrith), Ullswater (a peaceful, vast lake), and we went to some old familiars, such as: Hawkshead (which is always raining when we go, which means we have to stop for cream tea), Ambleside (pretty and busy) and we also found ourselves back in Seascale (a bizarre town with a very long horizon that gives me the shivers; it is near the nuclear power plant and has an air of desolation that seems to creep under your skin).

Lemur monkey © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

And there was also the South Lakes Animal Park, which we thought might be just OK, but was fabulous. We wandered around in the cold sunshine (yes, it is possible) and saw plenty of animals, which were being bred to be released or were being cared for due to excessive poaching in their homelands. It was a very well-kept place and our only moments of unease were generated by seeing the big cats, beautiful lionesses, pacing up and down, looking as though they wanted to eat the people who watched. We didn't stay long in that area, preferring to see the free-running lemur monkeys and emus.

It goes without saying that we walked on the hills, though I was somewhat limited due to my ongoing knee problem, which is improving slowly. I got to the top of one mountain as the steep, winding road went quite a way up. S helped me over rocks as we made our way to the freezing summit; it was really very cold. I was scared to see the clouds coming in behind us and, when S said we shouldn't hang around, I was alarmed. The mountain is no place for the unfit or those who don't know it like the back of a hand. There's something sinister about clouds that appear from nowhere and follow like silent ghosts, surrounding you, blocking you from seeing your path home. I love views but do find the majesty of what nature can do (sea, wind, sun) quite astonishingly awe-inspiring.

We did some clay pigeon shooting, which I really enjoy, despite the man in charge being a bit too prescriptive. I think he thought I was incapable of holding the rifle still and kept interfering. I hit the targets when he refrained from standing up close and personal and let me get on with it. I should have told him that I do kung fu and am not averse to hard sports. Silly chap. Anyway.

So, back to reality. I did a clever thing, for once, and booked this week off, too. For the first time in years, I have two weeks off! But, being self-employed, I did get a couple of work-related texts from colleagues last week who seemed to have forgotten that I was on leave despite me drumming it in. To say I was angry was an understatement; my neck snapped into tension and I had to reply to tell the man to leave me alone and sort it out himself. I couldn't believe the thoughtlessness.

Yesterday, I had one work-related conversation but that was OK, as I'd made the call to put my mind at rest about something I'd slaved on before going on holiday. It was deemed 'compelling' by a new editor I'm working for – hurrah! Deeply relieved, I went to check out the sales, sit by the river for lunch and later watch The Edge of Love, which was average at best but was an impromptu stop at the flicks and not a bad way to spend the latter part of the afternoon. Today? Not sure... but I like it that way. The sun is shining in London and I have a diary that says only 'hol'. Great stuff.

Cringarama BB

Is there anything more cringeworthy than someone throwing themselves at someone who is patently not interested? Sylvia has excelled herself in that department. The way she followed new housemate Stuart (pictured left) around was puppyesque – and I am pretty sure he wanted to shake her off his leg. His body language was a lesson in 'get stuffed' (or as Miranda in SATC might say: 'He's just not into you!'

Last night, he told Jennifer that he was only in the house for the experience and nothing else (i.e. no Sylvia). While I find Kenny Everett – oops, I mean Stuart – a bit odd, I did feel sorry for him. If it had been a woman targeted by a man, there would have been uproar. It's a shame that Jennifer, who purports to be Sylvia's friend, didn't just tell her that Stuart didn't fancy her. Instead, we now have a situation where Sylvia's all angsty about her poor boyfriend In The Real World and is hankering after the Everett lookalike (why, I have no idea).

Anyway, as tedious as all this might be, it's not half as dull as the Dale-Jennifer mating dance. Uggggggh...

PS: Seeing as I was away, I didn't get to talk about Alexandra's efforts. Hmm, yes. She reminds me in some ways (mainly in terms of her attitude) of the lovely Ground Floor Girl – our neighbour – who is a difficult, defensive moron. I was listening through the wall recently (well, I am a journalist and quite frankly her voice is quite loud)... and she was telling her visitor, an estate agent , that she is off to travel the world soon. Shame.

Holiday! Celebrate!

Not one of Madonna's better songs, but, hey... I'm off work – on Holiday! – for two weeks as of this afternoon, and am deeply pleased. We'll be in a beautiful part of England for part of the break, in a small, beautiful cottage that nestles in hills.

I shall report back with pictures and tales in a week or so. In the meantime, today, I have about 2,000 things to do. So I had better get cracking. Have a good week, one and all.

Apprenticed

So, Lee won The Apprentice last night. Despite lying on his CV and then blatantly lying to the interviewer who questioned him (in the last episode), he won. Still, compared to the rest of them, he seemed like a decent bloke. Apart from when he yelled at Sara.

It was a good finale, but then, I have loved the show since it started four years ago. I was slightly surprised that Claire and Lee beat the other two, based on their 70s-esque commercial for 'Roulette' fragrance, but they did actually work together and didn't snipe with members of their team (made up of previously fired contestants).

I didn't think Helene stood a chance of winning; she seemed quite dour and negative a lot of the time. Alex came across as a tad sulky, but I think he'll go far. As will Claire (but I do think Sir Alan was worried she'd drive him crazy). Lee had boundless enthusiasm and seemingly, was a gentleman. There was no contest, really.

So, now that The Apprentice is over for another year, the question is: do I let myself succumb to Big Brother? Hmm.

Memory Lane

I'm shocked at how horrendous my insomnia has been over the past 18 months. I've been reading my blog entries since I began in January 2007 and, this time last year, I can honestly say – without exaggerating – that I was in hell.

How the hell I survived it, I don't know. I'm possibly more determined than I thought I was. As summer came and went last year, I went from madness to sanity and am now drug-free and getting my sleeping patterns back on track.

I sleep fairly well, most nights. But I have to be careful. I've been drug-free (that's benzodiazepenes, my friend) for a month now, following my rapid end-to-the-withdrawal due to a very dodgy prawn curry at the local Thai place. I mean, there was no point taking tablets that would only be in the sewer an hour later. It hastened things. I'm not sorry about that.

Anyway, several themes are clear to me:

• I need to exercise to rid myself of stress
• I can't drink very much alcohol
• I must handle stress well – dealing with things quickly is a must (where possible)
• some of my friends are angels
• S has the patience of a saint, though he would disagree

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Listening to: Editors - The Racing Rats

Too late for flowers?

I have realised that it is June and I haven't planted any flowers for summer. Is it too late?

Good timing

Monday morning, and I am fraught. I was meant to be on holiday this week but have had to put it back due to people being tardy and tedious when it comes to their part of the bargain re meeting deadlines.

Green & Black's has, however, seen fit to send me a free organic cereal bar with chocolate in it. This is good. Perhaps the day will turn around now.

It's a cycle

I don't cycle much, and when I do, I prefer to stick to quiet roads and the path by the river. I wear a cycle helmet. It felt so tight today that it gave me a headache. I was too scared to loosen it. And, anyway, the instructions said it should be tight, so that has to be right, doesn't it?

A tosser in a Porsche drove right behind me at one point – inches away – in a scary manner. He revved the engine as he passed me. Moron with small penis.

Bunny and the hayfever tabs

M has a breakfast of hay, crunchy veg (dried) and crunchy veg (fresh). She loves her food. Her small black head bobs delicately as she chews her feed. I swear I can see happiness in her chocolate brown eyes.

She likes to eat, then sit in her small, soft bed, grooming her dark, velvety fur. Then, if the sun is shining, she stretches out and dozes. She tends to do this in front of the drawer in which I keep my hayfever tablets and vitamins. That's what she is doing now.

I've got the window open, it is June. I have hayfever.

M's eyes are half-closed. I can't move her. Well, I could, but I can't...

My eyes itch.

Yes, yes, I did. I did.

My name is Mellifluous Dark and I watched Big Brother last night.

And by the time the third person – or was it the fourth? – trotted down the stairs, I had favourites. Oh dear.

I can't remember all of their names but the ones that immediately spring to mind for being instantly annoying are:

• The Leo woman (Alexandra?) who thinks she is 'it' (and gives a bad name to us Leos)
• Dale the 'ruthless' sex maniac
• The dancer bloke – just seemed really desperate

And the (initially) interesting ones:
• Luke, the teetotal student who doesn't swear
• Sylvia from Somalia – there's something about her I find interesting
• Rebecca the excitable lass who really should be irritating but is infectiously happy, and that's no bad thing; I do fear she'll go up and down in the mood stakes though
• Rex – he will cause fireworks, which will be interesting at any rate
• Mohamed – I am intrigued to see what he's like in the house
• Kathrey – OK, so she's utterly nuts. But I like her.

The rest? Well, we'll see. I can't remember their names. But, as you can see, I have taken a) the trouble to watch the show and b) the time to write this post.

Whooosh – that's the sound of the summer flying by...

(But seriously, no, I am not going to watch every night. If the weather is crapological then I might. But I intend to watch now and then (probably for all the evictions and maybe a night or two on top), but that's it. I am a journalist. I need to be well-versed in popular culture. Innit?)

Zany Lucinda

Well, it never really crossed my mind that Lucinda would be the new apprentice for Sir Alan. She was far too new age and wasn't motivated by money – not a combination that you could attribute to Sir A.

I enjoyed last night's penultimate episode of The Apprentice. The interviewers were hard buggers. They were unreasonable and unfair, and it was tricky to see how any of the candidates would be recommended to Sir Alan after the gruelling day of interviews.

I cringed when Lee's CV lie was uncovered. And Lucinda's lack of money-motivation was silly – did she think Sir Alan would like that? Claire was just herself (gobby, loud, hard, cocky). Alex was strange – clever but also snakey (and I don't see the appeal as far as his looks go)... Helene was once more bovine and went on about a hard childhood... hmmm.

So, anyway, instead of firing three people, Sir Alan gave Lucinda her marching orders and kept four back for next week's final. The fact that he thinks there's so little to choose between those remaining makes it hard to predict who will win. I wonder.

Sex and the City

Today's sunny in London. The sky has been (and still is) blue with a few fluffy, white clouds here and there. People are walking around with their coats draped over their arms; after all, yesterday was coldish.

I timed my half-day off well. I did some work-work this morning, plus some housework, then took myself off to the nearest Odeon cinema to catch the matinée of Sex and the City. I was meant to see it with my friend, H, in a week or so, but I have heard so much about it that I couldn't wait. I shall go along with her when she's free – it was a very good film and I'd happily watch it again.


Having watched the entire series, and bought the (shoe) box set of DVDs, it just had to be done. I feared there would be a bit of shmaltz. There was a bit. Just a bit. But it was balanced out by a good storyline, great dialogue, fab acting and the lovely clothes. Mmm, and the shoes. Mmmmm. The red heels of Christian Louboutains flashed at the audience frequently.

I went to the cinema alone, which didn't bother me. The cinema was only one-third full at that time of day and it was nice to just lose myself in NYC for a while. I felt nostalgic remembering discussions and laughter in my late 20s and early 30s following episodes. There would be long phone calls and much mirth. I have similar chats with the same friends these days – the closeness is very much there – but the topics have moved on, as was the case in the film.

It was great. Really good, in fact. Abso-fucking-lutely fabulous, as Big would say.

Michael and Raef, yer fired!

I had to do this post as a two-in-one, having been a lax blogger of late. Also, I missed the Raef-firing episode and there are various reasons I haven't blogged of late:

• Work (I've been working on several magazines; sometimes I have no idea where to head to when I wake up in the morning... and when you are staring at a screen all day, and into the night at times, believe me, you don't want to blog...)
• Holiday to Paris (lovely break – and it was hot and sunny the whole time)
• Stress and tiredness have taken over (due to work). I have felt better; it's been bad – bad – at times.

So, anyway, The Apprentice. Well, Michael, who is so young, according to Al, went. I'm not surprised, but I have to say that I wasn't too bothered whether it was him or Helene that went. I reckon they had to fire Mikey due to Helene's comment about age (i.e. the Beeb couldn't risk a furore over Sralan being ageist).

Helene defended herself well. She seems OK, at times, but has also been a horrible bully, and is so miserable looking that I can't take to her at all. She needs to liven up a bit, methinks. She's looking permanently bovine.

Michael was an entertaining little thing, wasn't he? Irritating but quite watchable in a sort of experimental fashion. As for Raef, well I watched the boardroom bits on BBC iPlayer, which was handy, and after seeing the commercials, think he had to go. Shame really. He was just too subtle and measured for his own good.

As for tomorrow, I reckon that Helene or Lucinda might go. But I really hope it's Lee. He was awful to Lucinda and frankly, needs to calm down. I think Claire and Alex stand out as my final two. For now.

London people

I was sitting on the bus, a packed bus, and looked at the people spilling out from Holborn Station during rush hour. And I thought: how wonderful, all those people in my city, helping to make it run, living here.

June greetings

I would like to wish you all a happy June ("white rabbits").

I will be back soon. Properly. I will blog again. Quite a lot. And it is not because Big Brother is on this week.

No.

NO.

NO!

Goodbye, Jennifers!

Last night's Apprentice was great. The boardroom was especially brilliant, with plenty of backstabbing and bitching – until Sir Alan lost patience and fired first Jenny redhead, who is simply awful and a great buck-passer, and then the screeching Jenny ice-maiden, who is a charmless individual. Wonderful.

The funniest part was Michael defending why he called himself a 'good Jewish boy' on his CV but failed to grasp the difference between kosher and halal. He claimed to be half Jewish, which is not possible, and didn't know what to say when Sir Alan sarcastically suggested that Michael pulled his trousers down so he could make sure.

It was good to see Lucinda and Sara, who have been bullied by the rest of the women and some of the men, being praised for their efforts on the task. I think the BBC is very keen to avoid the accusations of bullying that affected Celebrity Big Brother.

I'm not sure who I want to win, but it isn't Helene, Claire, Lee or Alex.

No agenda

Am not entirely sure what to do today. And that is a good thing.

I've worked and worked and worked and worked over the past few months. Oh, and been ill (probably as a consequence of aforementioned work).

I could go on a guided walk in the City, have tea at the National Gallery, or at the top of Waterstone's in Piccadilly, go to London Zoo, take a book to one of the parks, watch a film, go to a matinée, potter around Covent Garden, sit in my back garden, or several of the above.

I like having no agenda – for a change. There is a chance that I may receive work phone calls, but they can wait for an answer.

Warm rabbit

My rabbit, M, is lying on the floor. She's stretching with her legs elongated behind her. Her brown eyes are closed. The sun is shining on her back. A happy bunny.

M has become very friendly of late. She comes when called, sits by me and S on the sofa and puts her head next to the nearest leg, hoping to be stroked. It's very sweet.

Get on yer bike!

I've had a bicycle, a proper adult bike I mean, for two years. I remember buying it, all shiny, and riding it a bit. The saddle was uncomfortable and after riding it about five times, I locked it up, with S's bike. And then we lost the key.

I occasionally guiltily looked at the bike, as it gathered rust and dirt from being left outside, but I didn't have any strong desire to free it. And, anyway, it was trapped, locked by a seriously hardcore chain, until S's dad came along with a chainsaw.

Eventually, this week, I took the bike to a large bike store and had it serviced. I spent a fair bit on a helmet, lock, lights, new grips and a comfortable saddle. S sprayed some WD40 on the chains of his bicycle. We went for what must have been a seven-mile cycle ride along the riverbank today. It was warm outside – the forecast is for good weather all week – but wasn't too sunny, which is good when you get sunburned as easily as I do.

The Thames was low when we set out and was lapping over the top of the bank as we rode back (having stopped in a pub for a very tasty lunch). All in all, we were out for about four-and-a-half hours. It was a relaxed day but energising and tiring, too. My legs ache. But in a good way. I've been told to strengthen my legs, and this seems to be a good way to do it.

Al gets it right

Kevin really had to go on last night's Apprentice. His famous last words "I have never lost a pitch" were surely a sign of things to come. Too cocky, by far, though he came across OK on the You're Fired show.

So, that was good.

But I am eagerly awaiting next week's Morocco challenge, when, apparently, two people are fired for almost coming to blows. I wonder if it will have anything to do with the bullying of poor Sara. I couldn't believe the reception she got from the others when she went back to the house after the boardroom. They were awful. Good for Raef for sticking up for Sara. She looked like a deer caught in headlights – she needs to stand up for herself but I think she was just shocked at being bullied so badly by some of those people.

Hmm.

Tag, you're it!

Sanddancer has tagged me. I think I've done this once ages ago, but as I can't recall my answers, I'll try to be original.

The rules:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to your blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So, here we go...

1) I have seen three ghosts while out with a friend, who saw exactly the same thing. They were Victorian. It was extremely weird. The experience was vivid and was almost like watching – or being in – a film.
2) I don't like spinach. My mum ate loads of it while she was expecting me and I wonder if there is a connection.
3) I'm always having to tell people at work my age, as they think I'm about 10 years younger than I am and they fail to take me seriously until I let them know that, often, I am older and more experienced than they are. I love watching their faces change and their attitudes sharpen up.
4) I love fighting. Kung fu, that is. Am not an aggressive person but I do find martial arts cathartic.
5) I got locked in the school toilets when I was six and screamed and screamed until the caretaker arrived. It was traumatic.
6) I am writing a psychological thriller. I aim to finish it by my birthday this summer. I will, I will!
7) I remember being about four and asking my mum whether we live in London, and being ecstatic when she said that we did indeed. I am a born and bred Londoner and love this city immensely. I love its flaws, beauty, history, diversity and its vibe.

I am tagging:
Misanthrope and Glory
NMJ (seven facts on her forthcoming book)
The Scottish Lemon
Absolute Vanilla
The Struggling Writer
Preetha
Sameera

Death penalty

I think perhaps in cases like this, the death penalty would be no bad thing.

Or, perhaps, harvest their organs. Donate them to people who act like human beings instead of feral moronic turds.

Killing someone because of the way they look surely is an indication of an intelligence lower than that of an amoeba?

Just in case there isn't a hell, can we at least make sure these creatures are meted some kind of justice?

Bike bum

Yesterday, I rode my bicycle for the first time in 18 months. Ouch. Sore backside. But it was good fun.

"You're fired, and you, too!"

Apparently two The Apprentice contenders will be fired by Sir Alan this week. They are two women who "almost came to blows", according to the radio today.

Bring on Wednesday! I vote that Jenny and Helene go... *rubs hands*

I've just discovered that a friend's sister had dealings with the show and said that some of the would-be apprentices were "prats". Understatement.

By the river of London

It was beautiful yesterday. The sun shone (but not too hotly); it was the weekend (but not full of chores) and I had a new book to read (but was not limited time-wise).

So, I went to the riverbank and sat on a bench with my new book. A large group of sixteen year olds gathered nearby to celebrate one of the party's birthday. They weren't as noisy as some teenagers could be, and seemed to have plenty of fun without acting like fools. They tidied up as they went, too. It was nice to see.

People trailed up and down the riverbank in their dozens. Rowers drifted by, children were bought ice creams and drinkers took drinks from the nearby pubs to sit on the grass and steps.

I started on my book and, after a couple of hours, S called me and came to meet me. By this time, the antibiotics I have been taking for the horrible food poisoning had really kicked in and I felt spaced out and unwell. He suggested we go home. Not quite the day out I had in mind but it was the first time I'd been out (beyond the chemist) in two weeks, and was a bit much, perhaps.

In any case, we went home and I settled in the bright room upstairs, complete with fresh fruit smoothie, sunshine, an open window and the book. Home, sweet home...

Russell Brand in my head

I watched Russell Brand (and the other guests Ashton Kutcher and Ronnie Corbett) on Jonathan Ross last night. And then I had a dream about him (more later).

I've always liked Russell Brand – since his very early days presenting Big Brother's Big Mouth a few years ago. I find him funny and love his way with words – he is articulate, that's for sure. He's a mad, pirate-esque rogue, and I like the fact that he is different and is controversial. People who call him stupid are sadly mistaken. One thing he is not, is stupid. I can see why he irritates some people but he is someone you either get or you don't. To call him stupid is stupid.

Anyway, last night, in my dream, I was staying at Russell's house, which was in fact a castle. It was a large place set in rambling grounds. It had tiny windows (like slits where arrows would be fired from) and larger ones, that had sturdy locks. He had cooked dinner for me, S, and some other people who had been invited and set it out on a large wooden table. There was a graveyard outside, a stormy, gothic place with fallen stones and crumbling headstones on uneven ground.

The scene changed and I was back inside, in a hall that reminded me of school assembly, and there was Russell, flitting in and out like a big, black crow of a man. Next thing, I realised I had lost my green handbag with all that it contained (I don't have a green handbag and if I did, it wouldn't be the shade of green that appeared in dreamland...). Someone had stolen my purse, keys, phone... Russell was very upset by this. I felt frustrated that I'd have to sort all those things out. Then, Russell started to show me various antiques around the place. And that was that. I dare anyone to psychoanalyse that one!

Sir Alan, what are you on?

Last night, Sir Alan fired Lindi from The Apprentice. He really should have taken his opportunity to get rid of that cold fish, Jennifer. What a horrible woman. What with her, that Helene and the other Jennifer bitching, well, it doesn't give women a good name. The way they carry on is embarrassing.

I was pleased that Lucinda, who comes across as soft but is actually just a nice woman, didn't get the boot. Jennifer was icy. It was funny when she went back to the house after the board meeting and complained that Sir Alan had called her icy and the room remained silent as everyone silently agreed with El Beardo.

This is a very entertaining series but I think Sir A has made some diabolical decisions. But then again, he is a millionaire, so what do I know?

Tummy trouble

My digestive system is in chaos. It has been doing odd things – painful, cramping, horrible things... and I have not left home, except to drop a sample at the GP, for around 11 days. I'm too flipping scared to. Thank goodness I can work at home.

I think it started after I had a meal that contained prawns in a Thai restaurant. The next morning, my stomach/abdomen felt pretty dodgy and the morning after that, I was shaking violently, had a fever and was confined to bed for the entire week. I didn't even feel bored. All I wanted to do was lie still. Even changing position in bed was agony. I've had to take rehydration salts and have to say that I've felt so rotten that I didn't mind the taste. I've had to sit up at my desk this week, simply as I have so much work to do. But although I feel a tad hungry now, I'm by no means recovered.

My first sample (and oh, that was fun, getting that together!) was lost by the hospital's lab. So, I'm hoping that today, when I phone, they can tell me what the heck is going on and maybe give me some antibiotics.

*We interrupt this silence*

It's been a while since my last post, as I have been (and still am) ill with either a food poisoning bug or something similar. I've been in bed for nearly six days now. Not good.

Hopefully, normal service will resume soon (blogwise and me-wise).

Oh, can I just say: Sir Alan – what are you thinking? Why did you let Simon go? Why did you keep that awful woman Claire?! Total craziness.

How old are you?

The start of a very, very busy day was made sweeter by the woman in Tesco who asked me if I had any ID on me, as I had a bottle of cava in my mound of supermarket shopping (I had started the day especially early, as S and I had to collect a car from the garage and I had to give him a lift there).

I told her I am in my late 30s and the cashier exclaimed in surprise. She examined my shopping, saying that I obviously look after myself. She looked impressed at my fruit and vitamins. (There was cake, alcohol and crisps in there, too.)

It was funny. I cannot believe the cashier really thought I was under 18 – maybe she is a soul who likes to cheer folk up. But I shall retain the memory, in any case.

A kilo of apples and a smack

I walked past a whole shelf – no, make it six shelves – of books in the Tragic Life Stories section in WH Smith. They all have similar covers and titles such as Please Mummy, No and Our Secret... and so on. They sell millions.

I bought Ugly last year (it's about Constance Briscoe, who tells how her mother treated her appallingly badly – she went on to become Britain's first black female judge despite the hardships; some of her family are now suing her for libel). I could only get through one-third of it. It was so sad and depressing; I flicked to the end, where Constance was triumphant. Her story is undoubtedly inspiring. I know such abuses go on from watching and reading news accounts of court cases where parents or step-parents are jailed for hideous crimes; I found reading it in my leisure time slightly uncomfortable.

I can see that these books may give fellow sufferers a boost, a window of hope, to show that they, too, can overcome unbelievably awful early starts. But I can't help wondering at those who read the books slightly voyeuristically, or who think reading about someone being systematically abused is on a par with reading Bridget Jones or Jackie Collins. Hmm, shall I buy the bonkbuster or the battered child? Does it cheapen the abuse suffered to have these books on sale next to the vegetables in Tesco? I wonder.

April snow showers

© Mellifluous Dark. All rights reserved.

The snow, in places, was very thick earlier today. It was beautiful. The trees were heavy with clumps of snow and when S and me walked (gingerly in my case due to the knee thing), the squidge-crump noise was satisfying. We had lunch in a country pub and then returned home and had tea and chocolate cake from M&S.

Eh?

This morning I dreamed that my mum told me that I am adopted. In this sleep-state, I was shocked, troubled, looking for S so that I could tell him, but he was nowhere to be seen in dreamland.

It's very odd. I mean, there's no possibility that I'm adopted – I share many of my parents' characteristics (physical and otherwise). I'm close to them, too (so there's no rift that could have sparked this uncomfortable dream). My dad was around, going in and out of the dream, saying it was about time they told me. They seemed sad.

Then, as with dreams, it was nighttime and I was outside in the street of my childhood home. First, someone drove off in my car – my old car that I owned for 15 years. I ran but couldn't catch them as there was snow on the ground. Then, my rabbit, M, was lost outside – I found her and scooped her up. She was wet and shaking, her soft, dark fur was covered in snowflakes. When I awoke, I pulled back the curtains to see that snow is falling...

I know it's a cliché... (part two)

Last Sunday, it was sunny in London. I put on sun cream as I felt my arms heating up as S and I went for a drive.

Two days ago, it was 18 degrees and the sky was deep blue.

Today, it is snowing. Snowing! It is very pretty, yes, but it's meant to be spring. Poor little flowers, I hope they survive.

I know it's a cliché...

...to go on about the weather, but it's gorgeous now. The days are warm – about 16-17 degrees, and the evenings are long – and getting longer. It's beautiful.

After last year's unending mono-season of 'springtumn', it's good to feel a new season beginning and the promise of warm days that go on for a stretch of longer than a weekend. I bought two summer dresses and a couple of skirts last year, in preparation for the sunshine, but didn't get to wear them. June, I recall was rainy and the rest of the summer was indifferent.

I'm one of those people who sometimes wakes up headachey when it's overcast (though I do like storms and rain), so sunny mornings and cool nights are simply perfect for a clear head. I guess that if low pressure can affect a barometer, it can affect the brain, too. Simple really.

My garden is crying out to be pruned back. It's wild. The clematis has clambered up the high walls and the shrubs are shadowing some smaller plants. Time for secateurs, followed by a warm bubble bath and a glass of bubbly, if my knees hold out, of course...

Oh, Sir Alan!

The outcome of last night's episode of The Apprentice was ridiculous. Why did Sir Alan fire Shazia? It was blatantly obvious that Jenny Loudmouth should go. She was rude, unpleasant and lacking charisma. Also, she let Shazia leave the premises (this was the main reason that Sir Alan fired Shazia) – so shouldn't it be down to her to know who should stay and who should leave the place of work? Very odd.

Raef and the boys turned around their reputation and ran a slick ship, winning the challenge hands down. There was no silly bickering – just lots of camaraderie. I know whose team I'd rather have been on (though I'd have to have a sex change!).

Dreamboot

I had a very detailed dream last night/this morning about a gorgeous pair of shoes. Actually, they were shoe-boots, which in waking life always gape around my ankles. These were tan, leather, had a sort of lacing thing going on and were wonderful. They cost £385 but I still bought them. I even had the slightly sick feeling I get when I'm buying something that I like to call an 'investment'... Expensive dream, that.

British Summer Time

So, it's BST again. We have 'lost' an hour and again debate the rights and wrongs of changing the time by an hour. It was sunny today and the day seemed so much longer than those of Easter weekend. It was great getting back from our day out at 8pm and it not being pitch dark. (We went boating in Oxford and walked around the town very slowly, on account of my bad legs.)

The day was fresh and springlike. Birds fed their chicks by the verges as we boated by, and there were tiny lambs grazing next to their mothers in Oxfordshire fields. I think I decided then that I would probably not eat lamb again. I obviously previously knew where lamb comes from, but I hadn't thought about it too deeply.

Anyway, this clock thing... I think we should stick to summertime and enjoy our longer evenings. The Scottish farmers – if is indeed them for who we change the time twice a year – surely have the same amount of daylight whatever the time? And it has been proven that darker evenings mean more accidents for children and motorists. So, why do we faff around with the time despite this?

There will be an Oscar

Having seen There Will Be Blood over Easter, it's impossible to dispute Daniel Day-Lewis's Oscar win. His portrayal of aspiring oilman Daniel Plainview is astounding. The character is gruff, harsh and distant but has charisma in spades.

It's a long film that chronicles the rise of a man who has a lucky strike down an oil shaft he has built on his land. He has a son and tells people who ask that his wife died in childbirth. He's a strange fellow: quiet, but driven, and also pretty menacing. I won't give away too much of the plot; suffice to say it isn't Hollywood but somehow manages to be epic.

Without Daniel Day-Lewis, I doubt this film would have succeeded – he was simply amazing.

The Apprentice

Ah, he's back. Alan Sugar and his gravelly voice, shiny boardroom, greying comrades and inevitable 'you're fired' is back on the TV.

The Apprentice is my favourite reality show. I love watching the competitors start off by being friendly and then descend into what I've been dealing with most of the week: political shenanigans designed to upset the applecart for their team members. They're all after the one job – to sit at the right hand side of Sir Alan at one of his many companies.

There's always the troublesome opinionated one, the posh one, the good-looking one, the timid one, the earthy one, the loud one, the nutty one, the quiet but effective one (who fails because of their lack of oomph) and so on. A great mixture. Like any workplace in fact.

Last night, Nicholas (number one in the picture) was fired. He reminded me of the preacher in There Will Be Blood. Not for preaching (though he did do a bit of that, on and on about his qualifications), but it was his face. It's scarily similar and kept making me laugh. Great film, that. Daniel Day-Lewis was amazing.

Yesterday, I was on the phone and became a bit Alan Sugar-esque. I've been dealing with people who simply cannot get on with their jobs without me spoon feeding them. I've lost sleep this week over having to pick up after people who really should know better, and should be working much harder. And, as any regular reader will know, me and my sleep take strong measures to keep our relationship healthy.

So, having had just a few hours kip the night before last, having made the silly move of looking at emails at 11pm, I was not happy yesterday morning. As I explained the situation to the big boss, expletives, to which I hardly ever resort at work (in anger, at any rate), flew out of my mouth. It certainly got the point across.

I'm well and truly done with putting up and shutting up. Those days are gone. I have no patience with being messed around, workwise and otherwise. People have expected me to accommodate them and I've gone along with it for too long. I know I let it happen, so it has been my own fault. But people that persist in taking advantage of me now should consider themselves well and truly fired.

First day of spring

I can't believe today is the first day of spring, and tomorrow is Good Friday. This year is flying at supersonic speed.

I hope you all have a happy, peaceful Easter break and have the chance to go out and see the season's new blooms. Eat some chocolate, too.

I don't have a penis

Every morning I log on to my computer and am greeted by several spam messages, which have automatically been squirreled away into a spam folder. Throughout the day, more appear, telling me to 'pleasure my lady' and, erm, 'get a bigger one'.

I don't understand why I am receiving these adverts. Does anyone open them? Is there a roaring trade for this sort of thing?

The 'names' of the people sending these adverts are quite amusing. I'd post some but sadly I've deleted the lot.

Knee strike, elbow strike

Doing kung fu has caused problems with the structure of my imperfectly-structured legs. I am not built to be a top class sportswoman, apparently. (I didn't need a physio to tell me that...)

Anyway, my kneecaps are in the wrong place some of the time due to slight misalignments that may have set in when I went through a growth spurt. They now click and snap and try to get to where they should be but due to stronger muscles on one side of my legs (from kung fu training), they can't quite make it. Certain muscles have tightened up to compensate and the whole thing means my poor kneecaps are suffering. So, when I bend or crouch, everything seems to seize up. It's not pleasant. Anyway, I'll see the physio again this week – she seemed to think it can be sorted out – and I'll have stronger-than-ever legs. Bionic me.

Getting to work and back yesterday was awful. The buses were packed (I had to stand a lot), the bus drivers seem incapable of driving smoothly, train journeys were long, and I was exhausted, in pain, and ready to cry on the way home. S called and picked me up from the station, which was an absolute boon.

Oh, on the way home, I had a large idiot plonk himself on the seat next to me when there were plenty of other seats available. He dug his elbow into me, claiming his space and part of mine, and pressed up against me. I mean – what the hell is that all about? Because you are big and bulky, you think you can squash me and I am not going to do anything?! Moron.

So, I used my stronger-than-it-ever-has-been upper body, sat up really straight and dug my very strong elbows (which often perform elbow strikes at large men and thick pads) right back into his arm. Shame, he didn't like that. He whined: "Well, your coat is over the dividing line of the seat." Oh piss off, mate. Your huge body is taking up more than one seat and your elbow is in my space (my coat was not on his seat, and in any case, if it had been obstructive, he could have said 'excuse me', like a polite person).

I told him to stop poking me with his elbow, to which this 45/50-year-old said, "Well you started it." How pathetic. I was seething. He would never have behaved that way had I been a man. This is partly why I do kung fu. I was ready to belt him if he continued to assault me by pushing me hard against the window/train wall. I told him again to take his elbow out of my space and sat there, feeling thunder rising, willing him to go (apparently I do this vibe thing effectively when really riled). Maybe he felt it, too, because he shifted uncomfortably and moved within seconds. He got up and found a set of four seats all to himself.

It reminded me of a time when I was 16 and sat on the top deck of a bus. A man came upstairs and sat next to me even though there about 30 other seats free. He pushed up against me. It was gross. I got up and moved away; I was scared. But now? No way will I let some lowlife treat me like that. These people would never mess with a man that way – who the hell do they think they are?!

Kneed therapy - part two

Having had something wrong with one knee, I was pleased that the other one was relatively OK. Until yesterday. I crouched to get something from a bag and – Bam! – I felt an excruciating sharp pain in the good leg, and screamed.

It's awful. The pain has remained – a tight feeling and clicking. Also, down the sides of both my legs, from the kneecaps down the muscle, it aches. I stood up, let it subside and gently crouched again – the same thing happened. And it happened again this morning.

When I went to the physio on Tuesday, she seemed to be unbothered by the tightness and sensations in the then one bad leg. Hmmm. I have now booked a private physio, because, at this rate, I won't be able to walk much. It's pretty scary.

Sweet

There is nothing more restful and sweet than the sight of a rabbit washing its face and ears.

Kneed therapy

Apparently, one of my kneecaps is facing inwards instead of straight ahead. This was probably caused by a kick during kung fu, according to the physio, a short, athletic woman with strong shoulders and great posture. She had the build of a swimmer.

The good news is that I won't need any draining or cutting done. I just need to be diligent about my posture, physio advice and exercises, and not overdo it. So, relief. I just hope it gets better soon.

I won't be sparring in kung fu for a while though. I've been watching one of my friends being trained for a competition and it looks really tough. He has lost two stone and is knackered by the end of class – he looks far healthier for it, as he was a little bit overweight when he started kung fu.

* * *

On another note, this made me laugh. Leona Lewis being asked by a child if she was a virgin, when in fact the little boy had meant to say 'vegetarian'. Ah, out of the mouths of babes...

Old maid's knee?

I have to have my knee looked at today at the knee clinic. I'm quite glad that my car is an automatic so that I don't have to use my left leg at all. Instead it just stays there, tapping gently to the music that I pour through the speakers.

People have been scaring me with various tales of knee woe. One had an operation that took 18 months to heal; another had to have their knee drained. Drained?! And a third had to give up football (OK, so that was someone telling me about Paul Gascoigne.) And there are more tales, usually involving people's mothers. I am indeed old enough to be a mother, oh yes. But still. Also, they throw the names of conditions at me – old maid's knee, housemaid's knee and so on... one person kindly called it runner's knee, which sits more easily with me.

I am desperate to get the joint better. I need to run to keep feet [eh, typo, or what? I meant 'fit']. Kung fu is keeping me fairly fit, from what I can do, but being at half power isn't enough... My capacity for doing press-ups is increasing though, so that's good.

I will have to return the recently-purchased platform heels (12.5 cm), partly because they are a bit too high, but mainly because – shame – I opened another shoe box last night and found a pair that I bought pre-knee and hadn't been able to wear (and had forgotten about). They are absolutely gorgeous. Mmm. I will have to impress on the orthopaedic doctors how vital it is that I wear these new heels. I don't wear high heels often but I would like the option. There's only so many months a year that a girl can get away with Uggs (well, the NZ version of Uggs)... And, right... anyway... I can't wear them to the office. They'd never take me seriously again.

Retail therapy

Ah, the last bit of the working week was a bit pants. Without going into too many details, something went wrong (OK, so that's really quite crappy as far as details go...). But anyway, anyway, anyway, it was a bit iffy when I got the post and opened a letter, and I was rather peeved. My stomach slumped, my heart sank and my forehead crumpled. Ha, I've been through worse.

Still, I couldn't focus on work, as much as I tried. So, I took myself off in my car and headed to the local shops. The local shops are very nice indeed. Mmm, yes. And it was a weekday and not many people were out and about so I had shop assistants – entire departments' worth – to myself.

There they were, bringing me shoes, telling me how good they looked (and they did...). And I purchased said shoes. I did. I forgot, conveniently, that my knee is basically royally fucked, and I handed over my shiny card in exchange for a pair of shiny new platform shoes. And then, I thought it was time to go, because, yes, I did feel a bit better.

But obviously not better enough.

I found myself drawn into the third shop along from the shiny shoe place – a shop that normally never satisfies... went in, browsed, and saw a gorgeous skirt. Lovely. Unusual shape and tailoring. I picked up my size, went into the changing room and, well, it was just a formality really. I felt quite smug as it was wrapped in tissue paper, packaged and handed over. Ahh.

I drove home, feeling quite a bit better than I did when I had set out. I may take the shoes back if the doctor bans me from wearing heels but I will still have my lovely skirt...

The rest of the day was a bitty workwise but I managed to accomplish some necessary tasks and then went to kung fu and had a brilliant session, despite the knee problem. I wasn't up to full strength but it was fine as the instructor kept in mind the knee thing and I managed to do a fair bit. Endorphins are definitely the best therapy of all.

Mad, sad world

And yet another story that is just too despicable. A mum, her daughter and son, killed by the mother's former boyfriend. The focus of the case has been on the pretty, talented daughter, Kesha Wizzart, who decided to stay at her mum's place as she had arrived back home late (she normally lived with her father). But then, she was raped and murdered. It's hellish.

The fuckwit responsible got 38 years minimum. I hope he rots in jail.

What is happening in this world? Is it really getting worse? Is it just that all these cases are coming to a head at once? What??

Yet another one for the hellbound handcart

Poor Kate Beagley. She was on a first date, did all the right things, and a pathetic excuse for a human being killed her.

The lowlife Thing has been sentenced to life and must serve a minimum of 30 years. Again, I hope he is in with a bunch of feral inmates who are psychotic and have sisters that look like poor Kate.

The news is so depressing of late. So many murders. Was it always this way? Should we stop reading the news to preserve ourselves? Or do we owe it to the people who have suffered so horribly to know what they went through/are going through – to form an opinion and speak out? As long as hearing bad things angers, motivates and disgusts, rather than desensitises, I think we need to know.

Let's face it...

...I am rather 'merry', having quaffed half a bottle of cava. Cheap date or what? Life has been an unending seesaw for years. One thing. After. Another. After a while it gets quite exhausting. It takes a lot of strength – at times – to maintain the status quo, the equilibrium.

S is away at the moment, well, a long moment: a week. I feel like getting absolutely plastered and writing my novel all night. But I can't do that because I have a sleep programme to adhere to.

I'm getting there, though. I am.

Cava shield

is the answer tonight

and I am nicely marinated in it

a pickled brain

is sometimes

rather pleasant

when life

is a bit too

ready to throw

ball
after
ball

after ball

at your face

Guitar

I taught myself to play the guitar and keyboard when I was a child. I wrote many songs, too.

Sometimes, sometimes, I wish I was a rock star.

Madman

What an evil man, this so-called nurse was. I can't bear that he murdered these patients – people with whom he was entrusted. Again, yet again, I find myself hoping that there is a hell. A proper, scorching, terrible hell. He'll be sentenced tomorrow. Let's see what they decide is an apt punishment...

Fingers crossed.

UPDATE: He has been jailed for a minimum of 30 years. I hope he meets plenty of inmates who are rather fond of their grandmothers...

Granilante

A grandmother in Melbourne tracked down the two men who raped her 18-year-old granddaughter, knocked on the door and blasted them in the genitals.

The 81-year-old then went to a police station, lay her gun on the counter and, confessing to her actions, said: "They won't be able to rape anyone again."

The men are still alive, BTW.

Three million people in the city want to make the granny mayor or have her canonised. She did what she did because she feared the police would go easy on the bastards, and let's face it, what would they have got? A year or two in return for possibly ruining a young woman's life? Good on her.

Marching on

It is distinctly springlike in London today. The sun is beautiful but there is a sharp wind blowing. The sky is a pale blue, streaked by high clouds and lower clumps that threaten afternoon rain. The clematis is blooming. I didn't prune it back last year but it doesn't seem to have suffered – it is reaching up the high walls and looks gorgeous.

It is Mother's Day today. Mum didn't want to go out – she insists on cooking – so I'll take a gift for her. Goodness knows how the day came about – there are dozens of theories – but from the days when I was a little girl and pasted coloured paper petals on to a card for her, it meant something good. It was a day for kind gestures and thanks. It still is.

My friend, SS, has sent some flowers to his late mum's best friend to place on her grave. I was telling him my plans to visit my mum and dad today when he and I spoke in the week. And then I remembered. He was OK, didn't seem upset, just told me what he planned to do.

Happy Extra Day

I'm not quite sure how this February 29th lark works. I mean, how did we work it out and is it really correct? What would happen if we just dispensed with the day? Hmmm? Would it really make a difference? Would the clocks eventually be out of synch?

Don't get me wrong, I like the fact we have this mad day every four years. It's quirky. But I just don't understand how we know...

Anyway, enjoy today. It's Friday, quite springlike, and well, life's too short and it's nice to have an extra day.

Earthquake

Last night, there was an earthquake in England – the biggest in 25 years. I'm relieved to hear that no one was badly hurt. Must have been frightening to wake to your home shaking and your cupboard doors blowing open.

I'm amazed to read that some people are saying things like: "This is by far the worst earthquake I've experienced in England."

Just how frequent are they?!

Any room on the wagon?

Why is it on the news that the parents of Madeleine McCann "have sent their prayers" to the family of missing schoolgirl Shannon Matthews?

Is that really news? I find it somewhat disgusting that they a) need to make public their thoughts/prayers about poor Shannon, and b) that some news media choose to report the McCann sentiments.

It's repulsive.

Juno what I mean?

Oh dear. I am possibly among a minority because I didn't love Juno. It was OK but that was that... it was watchable and I thought some of the characters were well drawn (the mother, father, friend and boyfriend). But I didn't leave the cinema thinking 'wow'. I could see why the film would appeal to some, but, erm, I couldn't see why all the hype was deserved – maybe it was just hype after all.

I think Ellen Page played her (annoying) part well. But I felt that her character's endless smart-arse dialogue was overdone on a grand scale. It was trying so hard to be cool and hip that some good lines, in my opinion, were smothered. There were points when I wanted to shake Juno for going on and on and on and on in that manner of hers. I liked her a bit more once she realised the husband in the adoptive couple was a sleaze, but the smarty-pants comments... Her saying she wanted to "procure" an abortion while on her 'cute' hamburger phone just didn't do it for me. It was all far too obvious and try-hard. A bit of subtlety would have helped at points. The constant ramming down the throat of the 'Ooh, she is so young/but yet she is a woman' paradox choked the life out of the film, I thought.

As I say, it was OK. Just.

But I won't be procuring the DVD. Honest to blog. Silencio!

*scream*

Monkey marriage

This story about two monkeys getting married made me smile. It is so odd. They seem to have been well cared for as pets, and this was quite a good way to release them, if somewhat unusual.

It isn't Monday

Maybe it is the changing of the light, earlier sunrise, birds singing (beautifully) at dawn... but I can't sleep beyond about 6.30am.

I am tired. I need to go for walks and do more in the day – maybe saunter by the river or visit the many parks of this city. Working from home and having a painful knee is making me feel a little bit caged.

I woke up thinking it was Monday. It isn't – it's only Saturday, so I have two bonus days ahead. I'm not sure what to do today. A slow walk with S to our see a friend, maybe? Or maybe we'll go to the cinema, or to see live comedy. Something like that. Something...

Shirking from home?

When I tell people I am working at home, there are two main responses. Some people tell me how they'd never have the discipline to work from home. Others say "God, you are so lucky, sitting watching TV all day".

Hmm.

Well, in response to the first lot – yes, it can be difficult to motivate oneself at times. But I am my own boss. If I work quickly, I have more free time. If I don't, bang go my weekends and evenings. Also, if I don't motivate myself, no one else will, and I risk going bankrupt. Professional pride, a strong work ethic (inherited from my parents) and a love for what I do – as well as the need to earn a living – are reasons to not spend the day on the sofa.

Yes, there are times when cleaning the bathroom is attractive, or I feel a desire to go to Sainsbury's, just for a change of scene. But on the whole, I love what I do. As for the people who think I sit in my underwear, drinking cans of Stella and eating chips while watching Jeremy Kyle (who is he?) well, no. It's not like that. My days start early, they end late. I don't have anyone around to chat to (thank God for email and phones)... So, it's tough. Often, I work nine-hour days, everyday. But it's my choice and I love it.

Sometimes, I do need to see the whites of people's eyes, though. This happened yesterday afternoon. It was late in the day, and freezing outside. But I got ready (well, I disguised my casual top with a smart woollen top) and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and boots that I can wear without upsetting my knee problem, and set off for the other side of London.

My quick stop turned into a two-hour circuit of two floors, as I caught up with some people for work, and with others for a chat. It was lovely. I could have had conversations on the phone but this was good – this was proper interaction – in a shortish dose, and it was extremely valuable. At times, people need to see you to realise that the email you sent was not sent in annoyance but was simply firm and factual. And they need to know, through all the non-verbal communication that's sacrificed in email, that you are smiling, happy and are working with them. And that it's going to be OK. I left there feeling uplifted and lucky to be working with such a fine bunch of people.

S joined me after my trip to the office. We used to go out for meals in Covent Garden, central London, when we first met. I decided we needed to do so last night, just because it had been a while since we'd been to a particular, favoured restaurant. We had a lovely evening, eating, drinking prosecco and talking. I don't know whether it was the influence of yesterday's full moon or eclipse, but I found ways to unfurl feelings and turn them into plain speak (in a positive sense). Somehow, I found words to express things that I had previously failed to comprehend (these are things relating to my insomnia, things that are deep-rooted but are being eased out).

Last night, I slept like a dream. Bliss.

Kneed and the city

Kung fu has left me with an injured ligament in my knee. In fact, I have a proper sports injury: runner's knee. It hurts – a sharp, stabbing sensation – when I move in certain ways, and, as you can imagine, kung fu demands plenty of moves. The solution? Rub with tiger balm and rest. Argh.

I feel frustrated at yet again having something wrong with me that stops me from going for it, all guns blazing (well, fists). One of my classmates is up for a competition and I would have liked to have started training for the one after. Instead, I have to mainly do stuff that involves standing on the spot. It's driving me mad. Well, at least I had the chance to hit pads at the end of class.

I'm not a violent person. It's funny when people say: "Ooh, you do kung fu, you must be sooo violent." Er, no. It's not quite like that. We sure as heck don't go out as a mob, duffing up members of the public as we are so pumped up. Sure, some of us could do serious damage, but when you can, you tend to be able to keep a lid on it. You couldn't be any good at kung fu without learning self-control. Also, once you have taken a martial arts class – just one – you'll find the police will automatically assume that you mean business if you get into a fracas. Silly, but true.

But, having said that, it is deeply cathartic. When I've had a stressful day, or have been dealing with things that have been rather heavy (such as those that pertain to the reasons I have suffered from insomnia for so long), kung fu is brilliant. If you can do it properly... I was doing some fairly easy moves at the end of class but nevertheless felt a sharp pain – back to square one with the knee. Damn.

Anyway, I tried a couple of classes, which I found frustrating, and then came home, still not quite warm enough. S was at a football match, so I stuck a pizza in the oven, poured myself a glass of some award-winning chardonnay I'd bought from Marks and Spencer (now 20 per cent off all wines and spirits, if anyone's interested), and waited for Sex and the City to start on one of the satellite channels. Not the healthiest meal in the world. Oh well...


Ah, Sex and the City. I love it. I have said it before: it isn't worthy (and why on earth should it be?) and it sure isn't dull. It made me laugh and I coveted some of the clothes. I have no idea which series I was watching but I recalled parts of some of the episodes from seeing them years ago. Still, the lines were sharp. They won't appeal to everyone but for me and my friends the programme was a must-watch when it first came out, and I have fond memories of discussing what had happened, interlacing chat with stories from real life. We laughed and laughed, on the phone or at restaurant tables, inevitably with a glass of wine or mojito in our hands, as we chatted about the escapades of four fictitious women (as well as our own, much more sensible lives).

The combination of exercise and relaxing afterwards was a good one and I slept well until the alarm clock went off just over an hour early, the dratted thing. My leg aches today and I have a snuffly cold... if I had my way, I'd sit on the sofa and watch SATC all day. I could order the DVDs... Online shopping is such a temptation when you're working at home and can't walk around the shops. What's a girl to do?

Dream girl

The girl was about five, immaculately dressed in white and pink. She stepped forward and started to sing. But no words came out. Her mouth moved, she carried on, trying. But nothing except the odd shadows of words emerged. She was there to sing for the Queen. The Queen didn't seem interested.

I watched the child curiously while noticing two kittens there in front of me, in a box. I picked them up and they lay still, content, as I stroked their fur. They nestled into me, warm and silky. I remarked, to no one in particular: "Look at how my kittens have grown."

Then a parachutist came into view, except he was taking off, not landing. Bizarrely, his chute was open; he seemed rocket-propelled. He was scared. Those around were nervous. I was concerned about the little cats and held them close.

And then, the alarm bleeped me awake. I told myself I must remember this dream: it means something. S came back into the bedroom and I told him the first part about the voiceless child, and it made me cry.

No words for prose

Clouds in her head
Sometimes
Make the room heavy with unease

Formed years ago
Storms
That need a thunderbolt

To release pressure
Sustained
Through things that are unsaid

Wind blows gently
Soothing
She closes her eyes to breathe

Raindrops start falling
Spattering
Her face with cool relief

----------------
Listening to: Editors - Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors

Time: clock of the heart

Wedding bouquet © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved.

Part of me thinks, like plenty of people, that St Valentine's Day has become increasingly commercial, like Hallowe'en and just about everything else. But it is only like that if you make it that way. For me, it's the intent that is the most important thing.

The day can provide a lovely way to break the ice with someone. It can remind some people that they need to stop and appreciate the one they choose to call their girlfriend, boyfriend, or spouse. This doesn't necessarily mean that you 'need a day to remember each other'. If things are as they should be, this should just be the cherry on the icing, or just another layer of icing on the cake. That's all. It doesn't mean you've 'done your duty' and that's that for another year (if it does, run. Fast.)

S took me to a small French restaurant near our home. The food was good but the best bit was having the entire evening to talk. We both work very hard, are pretty sporty and are out for some of the week keeping fit, so it was lovely to have an evening with no cooking, chores, television or phone calls. It's not unusual for us to go out or talk – we make an effort to speak to one another properly every day, without exception. How people – especially married ones – can stand to go through their lives stalking around and not communicating is a mystery to me.

Time, given wholeheartedly, is undoubtedly one of the best things you can give someone, no matter what the day. Given time, you can (hopefully) talk, listen and understand the trivial and tumultuous things that go on. The stiff upper lip is just waiting for someone who can make it quiver...

Valentine's Day or not...

...I hope you've had a good one. Eat some fine chocolate, drink some delicious wine, have a cup of tea and some cake, put your feet up. Be good to yourself.

Agh, just PC off, Shami!

We are not living in an ideal world, not that any of us need telling. Some young people – whether it be due to the breakdown of family life, the poor quality of family life/parenting or apathy (brought on by a lack of imagination, need or gumption) can be utter arses.

There have been plenty of stories in the news in the past 12 months, detailing appalling behaviour by some young people. Ask Gary Newlove's widow, who wants the death penalty restored following the murder of her husband. Ask dead Rhys Jones's dad. Have a word with Ernest Norton's wife, who has to live her life as a widow now. Add in teenage gun and knife crime. And on and on and on...

In an attempt to deal with groups of feral youths, someone created a device that emits a high pitch that causes discomfort to those under 25. The so-called Mosquito is used in areas where young people gather in an anti-social manner. It is used as a last-resort. It's not plugged in at Mothercare or Marks and Spencer at two in the afternoon, for goodness sake.

Shami Chakrabarti of Liberty, however, has come out bleating about the rights of young people, saying that the device 'had no place in a country that values its children'. Oh, do shut up. Valuing children means giving them boundaries. Tough.

No one writing about such matters should have to say I'm not talking about all young people, just a minority. It is a no-brainer. However, the minority are a majority in pockets of some cities. And (as I have said previously), I'm sick of people defending anti-social and criminal activity among the young by going on about how a hard life breeds 'disaffected' young people. Poor loves.

The trouble is, their lives are probably not hard enough. They do X and they get a caution (if that). They know the voice of the 'our rights' brigade will come down on their side. They are not slum dwellers; there are ways out. If they could be bothered. This is the UK, not a war-torn land or a slum-dominated city (where I'd wager young people behave with more dignity). People in England do not have nothing. How insulting to those who scrabble in the dust for food, who wear nothing on their feet, or queue for bits of broken biscuits for dinner (I've seen it). Lack of rights? My arse. Disaffected? Hell, I think I am fast becoming disaffected by the stinkingly pathetic attitude of some of this country's decision makers...