140. Die Hard

Die Hard 2 was on the telly-box the other night. It's rubbish. Herself forced me to stay up while she watched it, so I played Scrabble on my iPhone. Anyway, watching the rubbishness of 2 reminded me of the brilliance of 1.

Brucie and his dirty singlet; Rickers and his German accent; 'Hans, booby, I'm your white knight'; the awful Bonnie Bedelia; it's all good, even the ridiculous sentimental stuff.

I bought my Old Man Die Hard on video one Christmas, and I think that's the copy the Parent still watches. She has a pash for Brucie - sensible woman.

It's a great one at Christmas. The others are rubbish. Die Hard - still fighting.

139. 'The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba' by Handel

I've got this ridiculous box of Christmas CDs - Christmas Crooners, Christmas Classics, Christmas Carols and Kids' Christmas - and the aforementioned melody is the first on the Christmas Classics CD.

I'm sure it has been used for a thousand adverts, for a thousand episodes of Antiques Roadshow and Songs of Praise, not to mention Highway, and I'm sure it has been used at a billion white weddings where the meringue has been dragged up the chilly aisle by one penguin and handed over to another and I'm sure old Handel would love it all.

I love it for its name, and for its sprauncy oboes, and its baroque charm. Also it's fun to do 'Air Violin' to.

I told Herself the other day that in a completely different life this would be what Small Brother dragged me down the aisle to - and then we both felt rather relieved that we could simply enjoy the nice tune from the comfort of our kitchen. No meringues necessary.

138. Nigella Lawson

Well, obviously. It may not be a popular opinion, but I am firmly in Nigella's camp.

First of all, in this bibliophilic blog, it is beyond doubt that the woman can write. Her style is her own, and I like it. As it turns out, she writes as she speaks; fluent, a little verbose, sometimes alliterative and polysyllabic, but what's not to like, says I?

So the books, with the exception of Forever Summer, which was written in sad circumstances, generally are very good. How to Eat and Feast are my faves, but they all have their high points. I have been enjoying Kitchen lately.

I think she is very beautiful, but in truth I'm not sure that she is arrogant or preening about her looks. And the fact that she carries a little spare flesh is a salve to the soul of all those unprepared to forsake food for fashion. Oops, getting a little Nigella-y there...

She's been through more than most people should have to in a lifetime, and she's only just 50.

There are moments on camera when you can see her shyness and hesitancy and it's adorable. After all, would I still be shy and hesitant if I were famous, rich and beautiful? I think it would be all too easy to turn into a monster, frankly.

According to those what have met her, she is charming, funny and as normal as a clever, rich, famous, beautiful person could be.

So I say yah boo sucks to the Nigella naysayers. Have a cupcake.

137. Tesco Finest Mince Pies

Homemade mince pies are the best, obviously, and both Herself and the Parent make killer mincies, but Tesco wins the shop-bought competition hands down. And yes, before you ask, my research is pretty thorough.

Sainsbury's mincies are pretty good, but the pastry is a bit dry. Duchy Originals mincies at Waitrose are full of candied peel (yeuch) which ruins them utterly. Although the dog will eat those, which is a bonus.

Tesco's mincies, however, have lovely buttery pastry, goodly amounts of really tasty mincemeat, they are not too sweet, and they're just the right size. So, they win.

136. Patrick Gale

Or, I should say, the work of Patrick Gale. I know Patrick a little bit, and he's a good man, but I don't love him.

I've read (pause for mental strobing) all the fiction Patrick has published, bar his recent book of stories. His two best, I think, are Rough Music and Notes from an Exhibition. I also have a soft spot for The Facts of Life.

But the point really, selfishly, is this: I'm aiming for Patrick. To be as good as he is. Which is really very good, but accessible and entertaining. There is a narrow band of fiction which falls somewhere between chick lit (so patronising) and literary fiction (so arrogant). Herself calls it 'chick literature'. Into this happy band fall such writers as Joanna Trollope, Mary Wesley, Elinor Lipman, Maggie O'Farrell and, arguably, writers like Kate Atkinson and even Patrick O'Brian. Perhaps provocatively, I would include Jane Austen and Charles Dickens too. And Patrick. And, one day, ME! Herself sometimes refers to 'Patricia Gale'. She's so funny.

We won't have the 'what qualifies as 'literary fiction' argument here, because if you're a literary fiction reader you'll already be sniffing at the list above, and if you're not I'd be preaching to the converted. Or you might be like my beautiful, brilliant Parent, who has read everything but is actually happiest watching Foyle's War.

Patrick's books are easy to read, but that doesn't mean your brain isn't working. He paints characters that are recognizable and yet uniquely themselves. He writes about families, love affairs and life. He has a light touch. These are books that you read on your way to work, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the sun. But, strangely, they are also books that you return to, like an iconoclastic friend - both comforting and new.

His books give me pleasure as a reader, and inspiration as a writer. Which is why I love them.

135. Being a Bit Behind

I am quite often a bit behind, when I come to think about it. A bit backward, poor thing. But mainly what I am behind with at the moment, is this blog.

It was meant to be the 365 days of 2010, give or take, but there are only 25 days of the year left (gulp) and I am on blog post number 135. Um...

So, the question is, shall I attempt to catch up, which would require me to write 9.2 emails a day for 25 days, or not?

It might be quite funny. For me, anyway. I'd have to discount Christmas Day and Christmas Eve because my mother's coming round which means cleaning one day and cooking the next. There's a couple of dangling modifiers for you, as an early Christmas present.

Hmm. I'll think about it.

The other things I"m a bit behind in? Where shall I begin?
I still can't dress myself properly. I haven't begun the revisions to my 'novel' yet because they frighten me. I haven't done my taxes yet. I haven't won a Best Screenplay BAFTA. I haven't read War & Peace or Middlemarch. I'm behind. Better go...

134. The Paris Metro

Ah, que j'aime le metro a Paris!

The stations aren't too deep so you go from pavement to platform in a short time. Not too many tunnels, not too much walking.

There are lots of stations, so you're never too far away from one and the journeys are quick.

There are lots of trains, so if you miss one or can't face jamming yourself onto one, there'll be another along in a mo.

It's cheap! €1 a go. That's about 85p. It's something like £14 to travel just in Zone 1 in London these days.

It's relatively clean. It's not too hot. There are people in the ticket booths. And, of course, you're in Paris so the ratio of pissed-up idiots eating Burger King and dribbling is low. You do, however, have to watch out for pickpockets. But this is true of all the world's underground systems.

The Paris Metro. Better than the New York subway? Discuss.

133. Unrestricted Carbohydrates

So, popped over to Paris to see the Monet, as you do. It was tres froid a Paris, so I ate nothing but carbs and protein for 48 hours. Bliss. Then we got home and discovered it was brass knackers in London too, so I have felt no compunction in keeping up my high-carb diet. It's true that for lunch I had soup, but I will be undoing that goodness with the garlic-heavy penne bolognese I have planned for my dinner.

I do usually try to keep an eye on the balance of carbohydrates vs other things in my diet as if left to my own devices I would eat nothing but potatoes, bread, flesh and cheese all day every day. Plus the odd egg and a very occasional rocket salad. Oh, and some chocolate. I would be 25 stone and covered in zits but HAPPY.

But this is the real world so I don't weigh 25 stone and I only have a few zits and I'm quite happy thank you but a period of freezing temperatures and otherwise hibernation-inducing weather means carbs and lots of nice things to go with them. Slurp. I will work off the calories playing tennis on the Wii. Honest.

132. 'Enigma' by Robert Harris

I've decided that when I can't think of anything more enlivening, this blog will revert to its bibliophilic roots. So today we have Enigma by Robert Harris, which is a book I can read again and again without tiring of it.

It's a fictionalized account of the code breakers of Bletchley Park, focussing on a young Mathematician called Tom Jericho. There's a stupid sub-plot about a failed love affair and sedition in the ranks, but chiefly it's about a few clever blokes sitting in a freezing hut, trying to work out where the hell a load of evil U-boats might be lurking. It's also wonderfully detailed about the privations of the time: the ghastly food, the cold, the lack of decent light, the increasingly threadbare clothes and smelly bodies, etc.

Robert Harris' first novel, Fatherland, might get its own blog post one of these days, but for me Enigma is a good choice for those times when I haven't got the mental energy for something new or difficult, but I'm not quite bad enough for something really silly. It's a good story, but it's written well too.

The movie of the book isn't bad, but the book is better. How often this is true.

Happy Weekend.

131. An Electric Kettle

For years Herself and I have had stovetop kettles. A Dualit one at home (natch) and a natty French job at the beach. They are solid workhorses of the kitchen, slow, dependable, practically indestructible.

Which is all very well. But sometimes you just want a quick cup of tea. Or some boiling water to put pasta in, or you forget that the recipe needs stock and everything else is ready... know what I mean?

Electric kettles are (mainly) pretty ugly. They're temperamental too. But they're FAST.

When I suggested to Herself the other day and not for the first time, that now I have attained my majority and become a tea drinker like my Irish forefathers, maybe it was time for an electric kettle, Reader, it was not a pretty scene. Words were exchanged.

I left it after that. Choose your battles, I say.

But she came home from John Lewis (see previous blog post) yesterday with a small, rather pretty, electric kettle. She's a sweetheart, isn't she?

Now I can have a quick cup of tea. I boiled two kettles yesterday for pasta and the food was on the table before the old kettle would have had time to gird its loins. I will miss the old kettle - and I'm fully aware that I have sacrificed aesthetic pleasure for callow convenience - but even in this house full of beautiful things, sometimes you just need a bloomin' electric kettle!

130. Cagney & Lacey

I was sent to bed at half-past eight until my parents realized that I'd have to come home early from the pub to meet their deadline. That early bedtime was directly responsible for any claim I might make to being well-read, but it was completely rubbish for TV watching. I should add that I did not have a TV in my room. The thought!

There were lots of programmes my brother and I were desperate to watch, but the only one that I bothered sneaking out for was Cagney & Lacey. Like the scent of bacon wafting up the stairs, the strains of the Cagney & Lacey theme tune were harbingers of a more exciting life happening elsewhere. My success in actually watching the programme depended on a number of factors, including:

Before 1985, if the au pair was out, we might be able to sneak into her room and watch on her tiny TV. This was relatively risk-free, but not without its stresses.

Post 1985, the only thing that mattered was where the TV was in relation to the door. (In some houses this position would be fixed for many years. But if my mother gets bored she moves furniture. She's so funny.) Sometimes the positioning was propitious and I could either stand silently at the door, or, best of all, sit on the stairs. This only worked until either parent needed to leave the room, obviously, but sometimes I'd get a good twenty minutes in before having to race back up the stairs.

I wanted to be Christine, of course, for all her problems, but you always knew where you were with Mary-Beth. And she could be feisty when she wanted to be!

Even now, when I hear that theme tune I am transported back to being ten years old and sneaking around in my pyjamas. It doesn't matter that I could watch re-runs of C & L through the night without censure - some part of me will always be on the lam.

129. 'The Dish'

Oh boy oh boy oh boy do I LOVE 'The Dish'!

I first saw it at the Angelika Cinema in New York City. (So cosmopolitano!) Loved it.

Then The Artist bought us a copy of the soundtrack. Loved it.

Then I bought the film on DVD. Loved it.

Then the other day Herself was out being important and having a life, and me and the Hound were on the sofa feeling a bit sorry for ourselves, with our heads between our paws. But we found 'The Dish', on cable, so we sat and watched with some chocolate and soon our ears pricked up and we were feeling much better.

You see, The Dish is one of those movies that suggests the essential quirky goodness of the world. It sits somewhere between Cynical and Pollyanna (though more on the Pollyanna end, if truth be known) and thus has something in common with Yours Truly. This admission will not be a surprise to Regular Readers.

Sam Neill, a vast Dish in the middle of a sheep field, a town of Aussie eccentrics, and a wonderful 60s soundtrack. Beat that with a stick. It's funny, it's moving, it's about LIFE, and it's got a couple of world class jokes in it, too.

Have I mentioned that I love it?

The Dish. Watch it and tell me I'm wrong.

128. An All Natural Winter

Regular readers will know that in addition to being a (sort of) writer and dog parent, I am also a keen doer of highly scientific experiments. And this winter of 2010/2011 will see a dramatic addition to my scientific studies.

You see, I'm having an All Natural Winter. I am not allowed to buy anything other than wool, cotton or leather, to keep me warm this winter. I am allowed to wear items already in my wardrobe (to do otherwise would be wasteful) but there must be no man-made additions.

Why?

Good question.

The first reason is to do with static, smell and self-esteem.

The second reason is to do with Bruce Parry.

Man-made fabrics make my hair stand on end and can create so much static that it's painful taking them off. Man-made fabrics seem to become very smelly very quickly. Man-made fabrics are either too clingy or too stiff and for some reason they are always incredibly SHORT.

Bruce Parry went to live with some Eskimos. He took Gore-Tex this and that, goose-down filled whatevers, and ended up freezing his butt off, so they lent him some reindeer skin outerwear and he was just as snuggy as could be, and he could move freely.

Hence, my all natural winter. I have become obsessed with tweed and thick fisherman-type jumpers. I probably look even stranger than normal. BUT - so far, I have been warm as toast.

However, I can't decide if I want this winter to be as cold as last winter, so that I can really test my theory, or not. Probably not, although a few days of snow is always fun.

I will update you with the results of the experiment. Wish me luck.

127. 'Wonder Boys' by Michael Chabon

Very unusually, I like the film and the book, even though I read the book first. The film is really just a condensed version of the book (which you would think most films of books should be, but are not) so the film is all plot and the book is all tangential passages and what people are thinking. Perfect.

I like reading about writers. (Is that like dancing about architecture?) And the great thing about the protagonist of Wonder Boys is that he's two steps away from abject failure, so there is a certain amount of schadenfreude going on. But Wonder Boys the book is worth reading if you're interested in writing or writers - it's essentially a treatise on the kind of mental illness suffered (arguably) by most people who attempt to put pen to paper for a living. And from my experience, Michael Chabon's got it just about right.

If you can't be bothered to read the book - watch the film. It's quite engaging.

126. The End

I finished the first draft of my first novel last week. I wrote 'The End' at the end because it seemed important to my tiny mind that I mark the occasion in some way, then I hummed and haaaaed about a full stop for a good ten minutes. Displacement activity, I suppose.

Anyway, whatever happens next I never have to write my first novel again. Which is a huge relief, because I think writing a novel is one of those things you can't be sure you can do until you've done it. If you see what I mean. I am a little bit impressed with myself, I have to say, as I am not always good at finishing things. But I finished my MA, and now I've finished my book, so maybe I am finally becoming a grown-up?

I have lots of work still to do before I can see if anybody in the wider world might like to read it, but for now I am enjoying the sensation of having created something whole.

The End.

125. Steak and Chips

Sometimes, just for fun you understand, I try to decide what I would have for my last meal. The Alabama Institute of Corrections used to have a website on which they posted all the 'last meal' requests of the poor mentally challenged black men they murdered with their gruesome capital punishment habit - and it made for rather fascinating reading. Most of them wanted a cheeseburger, which is understandable, as cheeseburgers are both delicious and comforting. Some just wanted a pint of ice-cream.

Anyway, I usually come back to steak and chips. I'd want my Mum's Chicken Liver Pate to start with, then an entrecote steak cooked medium rare, skinny chips, bearnaise, french mustard and maybe a small rocket salad (though it might be too late to worry about eating healthily). Then I'd want cheese. And all of it washed down with as much Pomerol as I could drink.

But what about roast chicken? Spaghetti Bolognese? Lobster Bisque? Fish and chips? Eggs Benedict?

It's a good thing that I'm unlikely ever to face the death penalty (although I shouldn't speak too soon) because I wouldn't be able to decide on my last meal. Do you think that my indecision would postpone the inevitable? Or would they just give me the consensus choice - a cheeseburger, a Coke and a pint of ice-cream? Actually, you know, that might not be so bad...

124. Birthday Season

With some notable exceptions, the birthdays of all my favourite people occur between the 14th of October and the 21st of November. It's a happy, festive, EXPENSIVE six weeks.

(The notable exceptions are: the 10th of May, the 20th of May, the 22nd of June, the 14th of July, the 21st of July, the 23rd of September and the 12th of December)

Birthday Season is a little different this year as we wait for the birth of BabyBF, but the best news is that he or she will be a Scorpio, born within the Birthday Season, and therefore adding a whole new lovely day of celebration.

There are those who believe that celebrating birthdays is deeply childish. There are those who simply don't acknowledge their birthdays. Some don't like them, and find them difficult. I strongly disagree with the first, respect and rather admire the second, and sympathize with the last. I used to love my birthday, and now it makes me cry. I think it's because I"m so OLD and have, as yet, achieved SO LITTLE. But that may all be about to change...

Anyway, Birthday Season is a cheerful time in a part of the year that can seem dreary and dull. It gives me a chance to give people squeezes, presents and glasses of champagne - and really, what could be nicer?

123. Power Ballad Fridays

Working in Children's Publishing used to involve the weekly stuffing of 500+ envelopes, as we sent proof copies of new books, and letters, and various sales materials out to the booksellers. It's BORING. So every Friday afternoon, when most people had found some excuse or other to go home early, my colleagues and I would organize ourselves into a mini-production line, and put on the Power Ballads. This was my idea.

The great thing about Power Ballads is that most women and gay men know the words, particularly to the classics, like Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart, and Alone by Heart, which means that the lip-synching is of a very high standard. And as Children's Publishing is staffed almost exclusively by women and gay men, we were onto a winner.

So we'd put the old CD into the machine, crank it up as high as we dared, and spend a couple of hours making fools of ourselves, laughing hysterically, and stuffing envelopes. Made the time fly by, and then it would be time to go to the pub. Perfect.

So today, in the solitude of my eyrie, I resurrected Power Ballad Fridays. It was killer, and it got me past a little creative block I was experiencing. As a pastime, I highly recommend it.

122. Angry Birds

No, not angry birds, as in the famous Hitchcock movie, Angry Birds, which is a game I play on my iPhone.

The basic principle is that there are these frogs and they have built houses round themselves made of steel, wood and glass. You are given a selection of birds (angry) with which to smash up the houses and kill the frogs. The more damage you can inflict, the more points you get - and if you can kill all the birds and smash the whole house with just one bird you get three gold stars. Simple. Brilliant.

It is, it should go without saying, monstrously addictive. I'm on Level 11, Game 9. I hope there are lots of levels because I never want to stop. Angry Birds is fairly mindless, but getting those three stars does involve both skill and strategy so it's always possible to take things to a higher level.

I haven't been converted to what I will refer to, archaically, as 'computer games' because I can't be bothered with all the hardware. But the great thing about games on the iPhone is that it's all there, in your pocket. Angry Birds is the best game I've found so far (although Harbour Master can be quite diverting) and it's probably just as well. I wouldn't want to let modern technology get in the way of my telly watching, now, would I?

121. Pashley Bicycles

Riding a Pashley is like driving a Rolls-Royce. It's smooth and elegant, you're quite high up, and everybody looks at you as you go past.

Once you get past the old-fashioned looks (and weight) the bike is fitted with all sorts of modern gizmos that make life easier, like disc brakes, so it is not in fact exactly like riding an iron bicycle from 1913. Though when you're trying to go uphill it can feel like that.

They're no good for speed, or weaving through traffic, and they have three gears and brakes so their hipster rating is low. But for me riding my Pashley is an intensely joyful experience. I live in a calmer, more civilized world when I'm on my Pashley, and taxis don't try to kill me with the same malevolence that they keep for the single-speeds.

There are lots of 'retro' bikes out there now, but Pashley have been making the same bikes, by hand, since 1926. When the system will allow me, I'll put up a picture - because apart from anything else, and perhaps most importantly, these bikes are BEAUTIFUL.

120. Otters

According to Radio 4 this morning, what was recently a shortage of otters has become a surplus. Some of the rivers in Wales and the West Country are at Saturation Point apparently - there's no more room on the riverbanks. And I say, Hooray!

Otters are lovely. In a cruel twist of fate the only county in England not to have an otter population is Kent, but that must mean that Suffolk and Norfolk have lots. So when I eventually go to live up there I will be able to make friends with otters and watch their babies play in the early morning mist.

There is, in fact, an otter sanctuary in Bungay, Suffolk, that I forced Herself to let me visit a few years ago. She sat in the car reading the paper while I went round the sanctuary, talking to all the otters and finding out the otter news. I had nearly got round them all when I became aware of a strange sound - it was Herself banging her forehead on the car horn, trying to get my attention. It worked. She will not be allowed to watch the babies playing in the mist.

So, the otters are back and swimming in a river near you. What are otter babies called, do you think? Otlets?

119. Home Movies

As I write, Herself is editing some home movie footage she took 10 years ago. One particularly difficult sequence shows Herself, Myself and The Artist - all quite drunk - singing VERY LOUDLY to a medley of classics, including Dancing Queen. It's very funny, and equally AWFUL.

But she's also got footage of the Hound the very first time we met her. She's a little fat dumpling, chewing my fingers. She's got footage of her nephew when he was 5 weeks old. He might like to see how cute he was. There's stuff of the Small Brother, when he was actually quite small, rather than ironically small.

It's a nostalgic trip. We've all improved over the years (I was truly frightening to behold back then, I do heartily apologize to anybody who knew me) but that is certainly a subjective view. It's great to have it.

Of course Herself's family have footage of Herself when she was a fat little dumpling. And there's footage of her grandparents and her Mum and Dad when they were tender young things. It's all in sepia and is like treasure trove. Photos, footage, it's all good stuff. I have clutched my photos of my Granny to me over the last weeks and they have been a genuine comfort. So I'm going out this weekend with my camera. It's time to take some snaps.

118. The Telephone

It has recently become a policy of mine to return to that old-fashioned practice of speaking to people on the telephone. Because we all send so many of them, it becomes too easy to send texts or emails when honest-to-goodness human contact is what is required. It's the work of a second to misread an email, or tap out a text which the reader will misinterpret.

The useful, separating qualities of both are not lost to me, I'm not being holier-than-thou. I'll happily hide behind an email, but increasingly I feel ashamed of myself when I do. If I can't make a meeting, I'll call. If I need to talk to somebody I'm fond of about one of the many ways in which I am deficient as a human-being, I will call. Or I'll try to. I love it when my phone rings. I don't love it when it beeps or burps.

Most of my day is spent communicating with a faceless, limitless outside world. If it weren't for Herself and the Hound I could easily go for days without having any meaningful interaction with another person face to face. It seems to me that the telephone is the best compromise possible. I can't be with the BF as she runs about South London going to an increasingly bizarre selection of 'how to be a Mummy' classes, but I can speak to her on the phone. I can't be with my Mum and Aunties as they come to terms with the world without their Mum, but I can speak to them on the phone. I speak to my Small Brother on the phone quite a lot. The sound and timbre of somebody's voice is as unique as their face, so why would I intentionally divorce myself from being so close to somebody I love when all I have to do is pick up the receiver and tap in a number? You don't even have to have an 'ology.

Anybody can write an email or send a text. But these days a phone call is something special.

I should work for BT.

117. McVitie's Gingerbread Cake

The 'cake' is superfluous, of course, as the reason we know it as gingerBREAD is because it was originally baked as a loaf. Gingerbread men came later.

I'm sure the McVities loaf, in its immediately recognizable racing green livery, bears no real resemblance to proper gingerbread, but it accompanies a tea-time cuppa very nicely indeed. There is something comforting about its squodgy toothsomeness, and it combines heady sweetness and a touch of heat; so much more interesting than a biscuit, less all-out sweet than cake.

I suppose you could, technically, put butter on it, like we do with malt loaf. And if you were desperate you could dish it up with vanilla ice-cream for a quick pudding.

Herself eschews gingerbread loaf with a firm hand, reserving one of her special withering looks for it whenever I bring it home. I'm not sure why. Maybe she had a bad gingerbread experience at some point. But her disdain leaves all the more for me. The dog would like some, but she's out of luck.

Cut the fattest slice that you dare and settle down with a cup of tea and preferably a cold winter's afternoon outside. Lovely.

116. The Battle Hymn of the Republic

I know. Weird, right?

In fact, it's not just this one, it's pretty much any song that was originated for troops to sing as they marched to battle. So Onward Christian Soldiers is a favourite, and I'm even quite fond of the Marseillaise.

But the great thing about the Battle Hymn of the Republic, or Glory, Glory, Hallelujah as others will know it - is that it has many incarnations. So if you don't like the Christian element of it you can sing the original - John Brown's Body - and mourn that particular abolitionist's mouldery grave forever.

I struggle with the God bits, but there is something undeniably powerful about many of the lyrics. Take this one,

'As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free'

Now, you can quibble with the first part (and I do), but surely not with the second. It doesn't surprise me that it was the song of the Civil War and is still sung by American military choirs now - it has a rabble-rousing, hair-raising quality to it that does make the heart beat faster and, who knows, might give weary troops the strength they need to face the next bloody skirmish. I don't know, I'm not a soldier. But I was once taught to sing it by an American teacher visiting my school - and when we sang it for a crowd (and there were maybe 40 in the choir) it was an amazing, powerful, thing.

It's good for cleaning. It's good for the last half mile of a longish run. It's good for the last 20 miles of a long car journey when you're about to fall asleep. It's good when you're on your way to the dentist. If you're on your way to battle - let me know how it goes.

115. Practice DOES make perfect

I gave the 'Tribute' at my grandmother's funeral yesterday.

The final version was the seventh draft. Poor Herself listened to it all the way through 12 times, even when I had only changed the odd word or shifted a paragraph about. She helped make it better. She always makes things better.

When it came to the service, I was nervous. Definitely. But I had stuck the speech onto card so that if my hands wobbled it wouldn't be too obvious. I made sure I had a mint to suck beforehand so that I didn't get drymouth. I ignored the Priest's efforts to get me to blub. (Not just me, obviously, the whole congregation.)

And when it came time, it went off without a hitch. Practice had made if not perfect then as near as dammit. I got to the end, sat back down and had another mint. Then I held my Auntie's hand and sang The Lord's My Shepherd without blubbing and felt very much that no matter what people thought of the speech, I knew that I had given it my very best effort. And that was all she ever wanted us to do.

114. Bread and Butter Pudding

Mainly, I don't eat pudding. I'd rather have another glass of wine, or some cheese. But I make the odd exception and Bread and Butter Pudding is one of them.

It's nursery food, of course, but if you put some grown up flavours in there, like ginger jam, or a hint of cardamom, it takes you at least to prep school.

l had a very delicious B&BP the other evening and I was reminded of its crunchy custardy fruity loveliness. And as I am allowing myself one week of comfort eating I enjoyed every mouthful.

113. Amber & Lavender Cologne

I've been wearing Jo Malone's Amber & Lavender for years now. I don't wear anything else, bar the odd squirt of Coco if I'm feeling really posh. A big bottle lasts me over a year, and there's something about the simple glass bottle and its metal top that is both pared down and pleasingly luxurious. The scent itself is beyond my powers of description but I have yet to tire of it.

There is a pleasure in having a sort of 'signature' scent. There is something old-fashioned about it that I like. I just hope they keep making it...

112. Bertha Elizabeth Pringle, 1922 - 2010

Otherwise known as Granny.

A truly talented, but humble, painter.

A mean maker of chocolate fridge cake and meringues.

A wholly rubbish cook, but it didn't much matter.

A keen eater of chocolate, and nut yogurts.

A beautiful, sensitive pianist.

A beautiful woman, with no thought of beauty.

A properly dangerous driver.

A devoted wife, and mother.

A committed Antiques Roadshow viewer.

A generous, kind, patient, giving, funny, supportive, proud grandmother.

She has gone to a place full of loved ones who've missed her. We are poorer for her loss.

111. Watches

I got my first watch for my 10th birthday. It's possible that it had Mickey Mouse on it, which suggests that it wasn't a parental purchase, but nonetheless I remember feeling very grown-up and proud of my new arm adornment.

Since then I've worn a watch most days. Which is a weird slavery, when you come to think about it. (I don't usually wear one at the moment, however, it gets in the way of the typing and why do I need to know the time?)

But I do love watches. Herself gave me a lovely Swiss Army watch for our first Christmas, which I didn't take off until it left black marks all over my arm from sheer filth. Charming. So it needs a new bracelet which I have yet to organize.

My dream watch? A Cartier Tank Francaise. I will never be the kind of woman who can wear one of those, so I'll settle for a classic Rolex Oyster Perpetual.

I notice watches on other people. Your watch tells me a lot about you, and I will be judging you on it, so choose carefully and expect to answer questions.

110. Chips

Now, it might seem odd that it has taken me 109 posts to get to chips, but potatoes and chips in particular are so entirely central to my life that it's taken me until now to think of it. For me, saying that I love chips is like saying that I love breathing. Or blinking.

For any Americans reading, I do not mean potato chips. I mean fries. But I mean English fries, which come in many shapes and sizes.

There is the chip shop chip. Salty, vinegary, the smaller ones crispy, the larger ones either fluffy or greasy depending on the quality of the chippy and the hotness of the fat. All chip shop chips are good if you are drunk or cold or both.

There is the standard issue pub chip. Salty, but more like a posh oven chip - uniformly crunchy on the outside, but might need help from either mayonnaise or Tom Ketch. Good, but could often be better.

There is the fast food fry. But I don't eat fast food any more so I haven't had one of these chips for years. I seem to remember that McDonalds did the best chips and Burger King did the best burgers. Is that still true? These are not really chips, obviously, but they would do at a pinch.

Then there is the posh restaurant fry. At Le Caprice, swanky London restaurant, you can choose between 'pommes allumettes' and summink else chippy. Get the matchsticks. The chips at Le Caprice rival those at the Wolseley, which rival those at the Ivy. But, in my humble and frighteningly untutored opinion, the best chips in London at the present time are to be found at Le Relais de Venise, on Marylebone Lane, W1. It helps, of course, that they accompany the best steak in London, which will be liberally supported by the most frustrating and delicious green sauce ever invented. The chips are thin, hot, salty, crunchy, fluffy, light, substantial and best of all, you get two helpings of 'em.

I inherit the chip thing directly from six generations of Irish ancestors and, more particularly, from The Parent. She doesn't eat potatoes in any other form, I don't think, but every now and again, starting from a gentle rumble and building (if ignored) to a mighty shout, she will say 'Chips' and keep saying it until she is fed. Ignore her at your peril.

109. Foraging for fruit

This weekend, in Suffolk, Herself and I have picked blackberries, rosehips and done a tiny wee bit of scrumping. I made a blackberry upside down cake, and we're going to make rosehip jelly with the rosehips and the scrumped apples. We spent many a merry hour getting our hands covered in blackberry juice and, in my case, being so determined to get to the really juicy specimens at the back that I got my entire body attached to the giant bramble bush and had to be forcibly removed with a sound like splitting velcro. My poor clothes.

They were everywhere, these free fruits. Round every corner and along every path and lane. I kept expecting passersby to stop and say, 'oi!' but instead they said, 'It's so nice to see people picking those - they always just go to waste.' Lots of people had suggestions as to what we could do with our plunder (blackberry and apple crumble is a popular choice among elderly gents in Suffolk) - it was all very friendly.

The dog couldn't work out what the hell was going on.

Most years we pick elderflowers and if we can, wild garlic. But to add fruit to our list of foraged items is rather exciting. Herself has a plan about where to find apple trees in Kent, and wild plums too. It's fun, it's free, and it's tasty - once you've washed off the spider's webs and the dust and the dog pee...

108. 'Damages'

We have come only recently to pray at the altar of Damages, but what we lack in experience we make up in ardour. We watched Season One in three days, sitting on the edge of the sofa, clutching cushions, occasionally turning to look at each other in wide-eyed astonishment/bewilderment. We had to put a hiatus on Season Two.

It's the kind of show that you couldn't watch week to week because you would literally die of anticipation.

Plus you get to watch Glenn Close's ever-evolving facial work. It's sad, really. It was once a wonderful face, and now she looks like a Muppet.

Pour yourself a Hendricks and tonic and settle in. But don't expect your social life not to suffer.

107. John le Carre

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you will perhaps recall the fact that my yumptious Parent's house is in reality a library. Growing up, that library seemed already to have everything I needed in it: Winnie-the-Pooh, Enid Blyton, Frances Hodgson Burnett, etc. The only authors I had to add myself were Judy Blume and Virginia Andrews. Sadly for me, as it turned out.

When I put away my childish things (still haven't completely) the library really came into its own. It didn't occur to me until I was quite grown up that both my parents were prodigious readers - I suppose I assumed everybody's parents had houses stacked with books. But there was PG Wodehouse and Jilly Cooper (very useful for those awkward transitional years. Also very instructive.) and the Brontes and Jane Austen and great books old and new, as far as the eye could see. But, saved til quite late as I believed myself not intelligent enough, with their pale covers and bold typefaces, was the work of John le Carre (the computer won't do the accent, sorry.)

My notion is that the Old Man was the big le Carre fan, and that the Parent read him because she reads everything, but I may be wrong...

I'm still too stupid to get all the nuances and complexities - he's worse than Iris Murdoch for complexities - but the writing is like jumping into Lake Coniston on a clear day. It is bright, cold and clear and somehow painful but satisfying. He captures voices like nobody else. A character can have three lines over eighty pages and you would know him anywhere. The spy stories are labyrinthine and thick with cigarette smoke and ennui, and not for everybody, but if George Smiley didn't exist the world would be a poorer place. I have struggled with the post-Smiley world. Some have, some haven't. I haven't worried about it too much, as I have the spooky stuff to go back to, and I even like his first two novels. The best thing of all was discovering the man behind the wounding, inspirational pen. I have seen him talk twice, and both times I've sat rapt with attention and fascination. He'd have been a great teacher, I think.

So anyway, another bookish thing, but a vital one. He's nearly 80 now, tucked away on his Cornish clifftop. He likes a whisky at the end of the day, apparently, so here I raise my glass to John le Carre. Long may he scribble.

106. Aspall's Cyder

Aspall's is to cider (forget the y) what Sancerre is to white wine.

It is made in Suffolk, it is light and appley, it is crisp and dry, it is PROFOUNDLY alcoholic.

In Aldeburgh, and other reputable Suffolk towns and villages, (and the Green Man on Riding House Street, W1) I can get Aspall's on draft and if I'm lucky they put it in a special glass. I do love a special glass.

It goes beautifully with fish. And fishfingers. And everything else.

Forget Magners and other wannabes. You're either on Diamond White, and are about to be dead, or you know about Aspall's. I drank something the other day that tasted like boiled down cider-flavoured ice lollies. Yuck.

It will make you very pissed though. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Happy Friday.

105. Dingy Weather

I am a November baby, a mid-season Scorpio, and Irish to boot. In Galway everybody has black hair, blue eyes and skin the colour and consistency of tracing paper. There, I am happy, I am among my people. I mention these things as I believe them to be relevant to today's topic: preferring bad weather.

I have never been a fan of proper heat. Poor old Herself, who is a salamander in human form, would dearly love to spend at least a couple of weeks a year lying on a beach in 40 degree heat, but sadly for her she chose me, who'd rather be in Ireland, in the rain. We compromise in Italy, in late September.

But only recently have I had to accept, fully and gracefully, that I actually prefer it when it's dingy. Sun and heat and everything is lovely on holiday, but sitting inside in front of a computer all day every day only feels good when it's grey and miserable outside, and better if it's raining. Fiction feels easier, writing copy isn't a pointless childish way to make a living, I"m glad that I work from home and don't have to go outside. In nice weather I have to draw the blinds in order to see the screen, clothing becomes impossible; the only good thing about it is how nice white wine and beer suddenly taste.

No, it's grey skies for me, please. Preferably half way up a mountain round a lough in Galway, amongst my people, but Charlotte Street will do at a pinch. I look better in Autumn/Winter, I feel better in Autumn/Winter, I understand the point, emotionally and psychologically, of Autumn/Winter. Would I feel differently if I were a July baby? Answers on a postcard, please...

ADDENDUM: OK, I'll admit it. Twenty minutes after I wrote this post, I was nearly drowned in a biblical downpour. I had to take shelter in a Holiday Inn and buy new socks at the gym for fear of trench foot. The timing can only have been somebody's idea of a Little Joke. However, it was exhilarating, and I was going to get wet at the gym anyway.

104. Double Deckers

Chocolate. Chocolate. Chocolate.

All chocolate is good, but in a sliding scale white chocolate would be in its own sub-category, sub-basement.

Two squares of 70% cocoa a day is OK with the health police, and I do try to stick to that, but every now and again a girl needs a whole bar of Galaxy, or, occasionally, a Double Decker. That's just me, though. Herself would always go for a Snickers, for example, and if I were really going to let my hair down and go for broke I'd probably still go for a Mars Bar, but, like minstrel shows and 25 year old gay 'room-mates', some things are no longer acceptable.

Cadbury's Caramel is good, but it has to be cold. Fruit & Nut is good but I get the nuts stuck in my teeth and sometimes the raisins leave a weird taste behind them. Walnut Whips are too sweet and sickly. Galaxy Ripple is excellent but can seem insubstantial. On days where all these thoughts go through my brain, I opt for a Double Decker.

Cadbury's chocolate, nougat, ricey stuff. Choccychewycrunchy. You want it room temperature, no distractions, nobody tutting at you. You might feel a bit sick afterwards but that's just the societal pressure - it'll wear off.

If you want, you can recite the old advert: 'Keep up your pecker, with a Cadbury's Double Decker.'

Ahem. Yes.

103. John Lewis

They have everything. The staff are knowledgeable and rewarded for their knowledge - a virtuous circle. It is a reasonably pleasant shopping environment considering it's a vast department store - the lighting is better than Selfridges' and Bloomies'. The coffee in the coffee shop with the great views is tasty and not expensive. The receipt is a warranty and you can take stuff back and they just give you a refund. It is one of the few things I would miss if we left London for the seaside. (Not counting people)

BF goes on an almost weekly basis with her lovely Mama - sometimes I think they go even if they haven't got anything to buy. That's how you know a good shop.

102. Making my own CDs

My iTunes library is not something I would ever share with the world. It's too embarrassing and revealing of my hopelessly teenage taste in cheesy pop and - worse - soft rock and electronica.

My friend Mr Farringer, who is an ex-professional musician and current and continued arbiter of excellence in modern music, sometimes makes me CDs, which I greatly enjoy and which teach me a little something about 'good' music. I like this approach, and wish that I could find other, similarly talented individuals to teach me about paintings, good clothes and wine.

I make Mr Farringer the odd CD, and he's very sweet to me and doesn't laugh in my face.

So, anyway, today Herself toddled off to Hibernia for a few days, and I decided to make myself a poptastic CD to play while I sit in the eyrie writing like a demon (and as badly). So I've got Kylie's new one on there, but otherwise it's a gentle stroll round the crappest, naffest pop you can imagine. Brilliant. The dog managed to pull one of her own claws off earlier today, so she's feeling a little bit downcast, but I can tell that she too has been buoyed by my latest CD.

But maybe my rubbish CDs should join my other hidden talents, expertly bad disco dancing, and expertly bad musical theatre anthems sung at high volume. Maybe I should embrace their rubbishness, and get them out at parties.

Or maybe I should save them for dancing round the eyrie...

101. Charity Shop Bargains

Generally I dislike shopping for clothes. Books, yes. Lipstick, yes. Shoes, yes. Clothes... no. But the one main exception I make to this is picking up bargains in charity shops.

I think its partly the hunt. Will there be anything in this strange-smelling shop which is either a) made from natural fibres or b) not crunchy with unexplained spooge? If 'yes' - will there be anything I like? Will it fit me? If yes - on to the acid test - will Herself allow it in the house or would my Parent go pale and silent if she saw me wearing it. Most things fail at this last stage. Those that make the grade, however, often go on to be worn into rags.

Of course the quality of the hunt depends on your location. In Sandwich the other day the quality of shmutter in the charity shops was generally high, and I would have been happy and done well had Herself not been tapping on the shop window with her head.

In Faversham you have to be prepared to go through the racks of nylon spooge - but between us me and the BF have done pretty well, so it is always worth the risk.

My best ever charity shop bargain was my Gap leather jacket - which came from the Sue Ryder shop in Aldeburgh, was that season's stock, the perfect size, and £10. Sweet.

I like charity shop bargains partly for the altruism, partly because the clothes don't scare me the way new ones do, and partly because I usually end up with something a little bit different, so I don't feel that I am going through the world dressed exactly the same as everybody else. It also gives me something to do when I'm not book shopping.

100. Nigel Slater

(My hundredth blog post. Cool.)

Nigel Slater did not teach me to cook. No, Jamie Oliver has that honour, as the first proper difficult thing I cooked as an adult was his prawn and pea risotto. Soon after that, however, I found that I needed something a little more ... considered, than Jamie, and there, waiting in the wings, was Nigel.

Nigel took over from Jane Grigson at the Observer and he is beloved throughout the land for his faultless, never-fail recipes, and for a writing style that is intimate without being cloying, and beautiful without being distracting. It's possible that I have learned as much about good writing from Nigel as I have about good cooking. I hope so.

I own most, if not all, of Nigel's cookbooks, but for me his piece de resistance was The Kitchen Diaries. Here he brought together everything that makes him special - for me - as the book is part diary and therefore memoir, part seasonal guide, and part recipe book. If I'm feeling down, or tired, or otherwise below par, I pick up this book. It never fails to soothe me, and soon I'm feeling much better. And hungry! Of course I also pick it up when I'm looking for a new recipe to try, and frequently when I want to see what he was cooking on a particular day in a particular month.

For Nigel, cooking is a way to show people that he loves them, and I have come to realise that that is true for me, too. Few things give me greater pleasure than cooking for and eating with someone dear to me, and it is largely thanks to Nigel that I have a fund of recipes to choose from.

I met him, a few years ago. He signed a couple of books for me in his lovely copperplate handwriting, and he was charming and shy, and a giggler. His books have always felt like friends in the kitchen, and meeting him did nothing to lessen that feeling, only accentuate it.

I have lots of other cookbooks now, and I've probably got to the stage where 9 times out of 10 I don't need to use a recipe - but Nigel is my default mechanism, the place that I start, and his writing is a sanctuary.

(His bread never works, though. NEVER.)

99. The SeaVole

The SeaVole is my boat, so called because it is small, questing, and has a pointy nose. It is a 6-foot Walker Bay and it was a present from Herself. I use it as a rowing boat, and sometimes we put a two-stroke engine on the back of it. It is possible to get a sail etc for Walker Bays but Herself does the sailing in her Topper - so the SeaVole is for rowing. The dog comes out with me in the boat - we are Byron and Boatswain - and we row out to the shingle spit, get out, go swimming, get back in, row back and the row about some more. It's excellent exercise.

The SeaVole has got to be up there in the top three best presents I have ever received - with one of those being Life Itself. As a small person I was forever begging to be allowed to row various boats, so to own my very own rowboat is the fulfillment of many childhood dreams.

Here's to the SeaVole. Long may she quest.

98. Sandra Bullock

Sorry, can't help it. I love her.

I haven't seen All About Steve, for which she won a Razzie, and I haven't seen Hope Floats because Harry Connick Jr is forever the killer in Copycat, but I think I've seen most of the rest and it's simple: I love her. Herself understands this, and my feelings for Her Royal Highness Queen Meryl of Streep (to whoome we will wreturne), and puts up with it graciously. She has deep dark feelings for Juliette Binoche, you see, and before she met me had every single episode of The New Adventures of Superman on video, so she gets it, the love.

In order, my top three Sandra Bullock movies are:

3) While You Were Sleeping. The original, for me. Saw it, I think, 5 times in the cinema and bought it on video and then on DVD.
2) Murder by Numbers. Rubbish movie, but sad and sexy Sandra is an interesting twist.
1) Two Weeks Notice. Ha! You were expecting me to say Miss Congeniality, weren't you? Nope.

That's about it really. Me and Sandy, it's for keeps.

97. 'The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society'

If I could produce, in my whole lifetime, one piece of written work that induced in another the feelings this book produces in me, I could die happy on the spot. Sadly for me and my meagre talent, I don't think it will ever happen, but it is a joyous standard to attempt.

The story of Juliet Ashton and the Guernsey islanders is a classic one, in many ways, but there's a spring and a twinkle in the writing that's just delicious, and while you're reading the characters seem to leap off the page into the room and stand around you chatting. The structure of the story is perfect, the highs and lows judiciously meted out, the payoff substantial, yet subtle.

Of course the biggest frustration and sadness of the book is that its author didn't live to see it published - which causes grief in my heart for two reasons:

1) She probably worked hard to produce it - I wish she had lived to see how much her book is loved and cherished by its readers.

2) I can't look forward to the next one.

I bought myself a copy yesterday in a secondhand bookshop because the weather's been rubbish and Herself keeps having long, loud telephone conversations when I'm trying to work (to be fair, so's she) and I needed both distraction and cheering up. I've managed to buy an American copy which means there are some bizarre and annoying 'translations' but suffice to say by the time I was ready for sleep last night I had read more than half the book and was feeling that same mixture of gratitude, joy and raging jealousy I've felt before. It's mainly the first two, with a small but tangy drop of the last. I will try NOT to finish it today, as once it's finished I'll have to wait another few months to read it again and I'm not sure that the Anne Tyler I've bought to read next will make it onto the 365. But you never know...

96. A Boiled Egg

Towards the end of primary school I did a lot of competitive swimming, which meant going to galas all over London in the evenings after school. It was usually the Parent who took me, and before we piled in the car she always tried to get me to eat a boiled egg. Trouble was, my stomach was always full of fists and snakes and acid before a gala so eating was torture. I'd have preferred some butterscotch Angel Delight, but I suppose that wasn't Nutritious.

An unfortunate by-product of those years was that boiled eggs came to stand for jittery nerves and so were off the menu completely, until I met Herself. (I've got her back onto mushrooms, she's got me back onto boiled eggs. But I still can't do pesto.)

Now a boiled egg (4 mins) is a treat for breakfast, with Marmite soldiers, and those swimming galas a warm memory. Of course I mainly remember the ONE time the Old Man came to collect me from a gala in somewhere bizarre like Hornsey, and all I could hear as I came up for air was snatches of his favourite supportive yell, "Come on my son!" Or, as I heard it, "Cuh ayyy onn" I'm fuzzier on all the many galas the dear Parent slogged out to, not because they didn't matter as much but because it was normal, that she was there. Taken for granted? 'Fraid so. But now I see it, and I'm grateful.

Grateful too, for the eggs, which surely meant the difference between winning and losing. Maybe the many kids the St. Peter's team THRASHED in the pool would have done better with a bit of boiled egg inside their tummies. Poor dears.

95. Fountain Pens

Or ink pens. Or cartridge pens, whatever.

The BF might well correct me on this, but I'm pretty sure that our school insisted we use fountain pens for all our work. To a stationery addict with a speciality in pens, this was obviously no problem. The school even issued blotting paper. I would like to point out that I am not 130 years old - this was in London in the mid to late 80s. It was, however, quite an old-fashioned school.

'Duh', you all say.

Working with fountain pens meant having ink permanently on your hands, and quite often on your face and frequently on your clothes. They leaked into school bags and onto any furniture they came into contact with. They always needed refilling at the most inconvenient times and if your brother tried to use them as darts they rarely survived. It amazes me to think that I wrote all my A-level papers with a fountain pen. Three subjects, three papers each, each exam was three hours long. That's a lot of bloody writing. That's a lot of ink.

I have always owned a fountain pen, and at the time of writing I own five:

1) A beautiful silver Caran d'Ache which was a gift to me on my 30th birthday from my sisters-in-notquitelaw. I cherish this pen. It's heavy, and smart and aesthetically wondrous and I feel both clever and interesting with it in my hand. It is the pen I use to write thank you letters and cards and anything with some heart in it. It's ink-thirsty and a bit leaky but if I lost it I would be distraught.

2) A dead posh Parker with a gold nib, bought for me by Herself one Christmas. Another beautiful pen. But I dropped it and the nib is bent. I've been saving up for a replacement - they're VERY expensive.

3) A Lamy, bought for me by the Parent. This is my workaday fountain pen. It goes with me everywhere.

4) Another Parker. Not a posh one, therefore obviously bought by me, for myself. This is what you might call a jotting pen, if you were a twat. It's the pen I use to write telephone messages, practice my 'Mrs Jason Bateman' signature, that kind of thing. You know.

5) Another one of the above. It's broken. But I can't get rid of it. Somebody please help me.

But the pen I love the most is 'The One That Got Away'. My Old Man had a gold Parker he carried about with him wherever he went, with his Smythson diary. It was a truly classic pen - a beauty, heavy, serious. He let me borrow it sometimes, but the nib was moulded to his handwriting so it only really suited him. It should have been mine, his legacy to me, but it didn't come back from the hospital with his things...

I'm not complaining. I got half his genes after all, and his baby blues.

A writer isn't a writer without a fountain pen, is my feeling. If words are your business you need the best possible tools for the job, and a fountain pen is to the writer what the brush is to the artist. Not the only way to do it, but the original, and still the best.

94. Prawn Cocktail

Despite being a child of the (ahem) 70s, I don't really remember that decade. I remember my denim winnie-the-pooh suit and the yellow transparent mac that I wore with it. I remember OshKosh B'Gosh dungarees. I remember wellie boots and the consequences of drinking Auntie's glass of wine down in one and the flat and the cottage and all sorts of things but not the food.

Food from the 70s is still a source of wry humour as, for most normal people, is the memory of the 'fashion'. So black forest gateau, avocado mousse, quiche lorraine, cheese and pineapple chunks and good old prawn cocktail are considered irretrievably naff, because they came from those style-blighted times.

But Herself and I have reclaimed the prawn cocktail and so have many chefs and restaurateurs. Hurrah! It all began ten years ago in Amalfi, in a little place at the bottom of the cathedral steps. I ordered bresaola. Herself, with a slightly self-conscious hesitation, ordered prawn cocktail. It's called summink much smarter in Italian. Anyway, the prawns were large and juicy and immaculately fresh. The sauce was perfectly balanced between sweet and sour and the lettuce was clean and crisp and crunchy. I say all this but I didn't get to eat it myself. I hadn't opened my mouth to ask for a taste before it was all gone. I think she would have liked to order another one but then her fritto misto arrived and distracted her...

Since then, prawn cocktail has become a favourite. I've been practising with the Marie Rose sauce and I've got it just about right. Sometimes Herself likes it with avocado, at which point I excuse myself briefly and return wearing a full paisley Muu-Muu and a turban, but it does taste really good. Mainly we have it with Little Gem lettuce.

So next time you're wondering what to have as a little amuse-bouche, consider making Prawn Cocktail. Don't buy it ready-made, please, it's cheating, and only Waitrose make a nice one.

93. Living 'The Good Life'

Well, sort of.

Herself has taken to growing vegetables in pots in our tiny urban back garden. So far she's produced lettuces, tomatoes, rocket, mizuna, chillies, cavolo nero and radishes. These, I believe, are the nursery slopes of vegetable growing, but I'd say she's ready to move on to a steeper challenge.

She goes out there at frequent intervals and while she's not quite talking to her plants there is certainly a lot of chat going on, usually to me or the dog - depending on which of us is nearer. We are required to listen attentively, ask sensible questions, enthuse prodigiously and provide unflagging moral support. Also, sometimes I provide actual, physical, support in the way of sheer bloody muscle.

There are two wonderful consequences to this new hobby:

1) It all tastes fantastic. Salad from your own garden tastes completely different to anything you can buy, even from the Farmers Market. The radishes were extraordinary and the tomatoes are outrageous.

2) The pure delight on the face of Herself when good things happen, like when the first tomato started going red, and the first chilli appeared, and (much earlier in the process) when seeds turned into seedlings in their precious little trays on the window-sill.

She's having a ball, and it's a joy to watch and take part in. Am I Barbara to her Tom? Not quite, I'm still more Margot than Barbara, but I'm doing my best. And her jumper collection is much smarter than Tom Good's and she's not such a control freak. There have been setbacks; neither the courgettes nor the beetroot really worked, and I had to get in professional help (Auntie) when I fried the radishes in a makeshift cold frame thingy, but I'd say so far it has been more success than failure.

Growing veg is her thing, what's mine? Well, I talk wistfully about chickens, and maybe a goat, but for some bizarre reason she seems to think we can only do those things when we move out of London! Bloomin' cheek. I think a couple of Welsomers would be a wonderful addition to the household...

92. The Pub

I've spent quite a lot of time in The Pub, when I come to think about it. It started when I was 15, in the Phoenix & Firkin by Denmark Hill station, with pints of Scrumpy. Fairly quickly we moved on to normal cider, or beer, because we knew that if the Scrumpy itself didn't kill us, the effects of the Scrumpy would.

Aged 17 and 18 I spent most of my time in the Ivanhoe, with three tall young men of my acquaintance. Lots of beer and bullshit. And laughing. Lots of laughing.

At 18 it was really about me and the BF. She was on her 'gap year' which meant she had lots of time to sit in the pub with me. We did lots of talking about boys and laughing and writing notes to our future selves. I'm not sure any of the notes still exist, but mercifully (for me) the friendship still does.

Manchester was all about the pub, really, hence my dismal degree. The BF kept me fed, with Crispy Pancakes and Chicken Kievs (not at the same time) and the rest of the time I was in the pub. I was very bored in Manchester, and miserable, and if it hadn't been for the BF, my lovely friend from Chorley and regular visits home I think I might have gone under. I certainly got pretty fat.

First job was about meeting the BF in The Pub after work for debriefs about just how AWFUL working was. Everybody I knew and was friends with I met at The Pub.

Then I met Herself, who doesn't really do The Pub (far too grown-up and sophisticated) and anyway I was working all hours so there wasn't as much time for The Pub. A few years later I realised I missed it, and reinstated it.

Nowadays, Herself will accompany me to A Pub if we are in The Countryside, and I go to The Pub with my little brother and some of my friends, most notably Mr Farringer, who I meet once a week in The Pub and we chat and he makes me laugh A LOT and I do my best to make him laugh and I look forward to seeing him and having those chats and it wouldn't be the same if it weren't in The Pub.

There is both good and bad in The Pub and the idea of The Pub. My Parent refers to every pub ever built as 'The Rat & Handbag' which still makes me laugh. I wish I could have occasionally gone to The Pub with my Old Man. I have had the best of times and the worst of times in the pub but I have never been sick in one or otherwise disgraced myself. Sometimes I want something more glamorous. Sometimes I can't decide what to drink. But most of the time, of course, I'm in the pub because I'm meeting a friend, and we're going to have a couple of drinks and a chinwag and, really, there's nothing much better than that.

91. A new game

A story that my Mother tells about my Father led last evening to the creation of a new parlour game, so I thought I would share it with you so that you too can play.

He (the Old Man) was asked to nominate two movie types he had yet to meet and would like to. This was at a point in his career when he'd probably met most everybody so I'll bet he had to think about it for a bit, but he chose Robert Mitchum (Bob) and an Australian writer called Morris West (Morris).

Arrangements were then made, and my parents had dinner with Robert Mitchum (Bob) and Morris West (Morris) ((not at the same time)) and, presumably, their wives and whatevers. Fun! Apparently the old man really liked both Bob and Morris so he was a clever chap because most times when you meet your heroes they're awful and a part of your soul shrivels and dies with the disappointment.

Anyway.

So the game is, choose two famous people to have dinner with. They have to be alive. (The preamble to the game may be more interesting than the game itself. This has yet to be decided but it does very much depend on who is playing.)

Me and Herself played the inaugural game last night. I chose Meryl Streep and Bill Clinton. Meryl for flirting and a giggle and because she's got a brain and I'll bet she's a laugh. Bill because I'm sure I could get him to spill the beans on who killed JFK and other international secrets. Of course. Herself chose Diane Keaton and Antony Beevor. Don't ask. I didn't.

The best thing about the game is that you'd probably choose different people every time you played.

I haven't thought of a name for it yet, but I will. I have not been inundated with suggestions for reading material, apart from my Big Sister who is a Goddess of Smart, which means that either nobody is reading this blog but BF and BS, or that people read but do not want to Get Involved. Either way, I'll be playing again tonight.

Jon Stewart I think, and Tina Fey...

90. Marina Hyde vs. Trudie Styler

Don't know why this blog has suddenly come over all newspapery, but it might have something to do with my desperate efforts to keep my mind from atrophying while I have little to do bar drink and write bad fiction. (Don't panic; I am in the process of getting a job.)

Anyway, one of my regular enjoyments is the Guardian's Lost in Showbiz column, in G2 every Friday. Lost in Showbiz (or LiS) is written by Marina Hyde who is wonderful and who definitely DIDN'T shag Piers Morgan because if she had I would have to stop reading her columns immediately and that would cause me great sadness. LiS pokes fun at celebrity culture, but it does it in a way that is both amusing and sobering, which is quite a feat. Sometimes I'm so busy fuming with jealousy at the quality of the writing I miss the jokes and have to start again. But it's always worth reading twice. This week's extended edition on Chelsea Clinton's wedding is formidable.

But Marina saves her Sunday best for Trudie Styler, aka Mrs Sting. Trudie and Sting, as you probably know, work tirelessly for the Rainforest Alliance, when they're not too busy being rich, and LiS likes nothing better than to smack Trudie around a bit. She ALWAYS deserves it.

Have a look at this:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/lostinshowbiz/2009/apr/14/celebrity

(You might have to copy and paste it. Sorry. It's worth it.)

Oh, happiness. I haven't met Trudie, but I've certainly met a few Trudie-lites, and without question they are what put me off working in the meeja. But now I have Marina to help lance the boils that those awful, witless, hypocritical, talentless, narcissistic fuckwits created on my poor innocent soul. So I thank her, and will send her money if she wants me to. Or Marmite. Whatever she needs.

89. Crystal Castles - 'Baptism'

I am the only person I know who would like this song. It has a serious trance beat and a mad Canadian woman shrieking at the top of her lungs. Love it.

I love quite a lot of Trance music, in fact, but I have learned not to expect anybody to listen to it with me. So it becomes a secret pleasure, just me and my iPod out pounding the streets or the treadmill, dumph beats at full volume. Still, whatever gets you through, right?

There are, obviously, many many songs that I love, but I have chosen this one for the blog because I discovered it the old fashioned way - by listening to the radio. BBC 6 Music, if you want to know. Thank god they've saved it. Anyway, Nemone with the silly name played this song and I sat very still and quiet all the way through it and held my breath in case she didn't tell me what it was called and where I could get it from IMMEDIATELY. So seconds later she had told me its name and I had downloaded it from Amazon. Ah, technology and old-fashioned together, my favourite.

Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones. Now that's a tune. Oh yeah.

88. Discovering a new writer

I don't mean finding the manuscript at the bottom of the slush pile and turning that person into a billionaire, I mean finding a writer previously unknown to me and becoming a fan.

It happened earlier this year with Elinor Lipman, who is not that well known here, but I think is quite famous in the States. She writes deceptively clever comedies of manners and is compared to Jane Austen. She almost deserves it. Finding an Elinor Lipman I haven't read in a charity bookshop is always a thrilling moment.

Then recently I discovered David Benioff. He'd been hiding in plain sight, because he is a Hollywood screenwriter, responsible for Troy (yuck), the early drafts of X-Men: Wolverine (um, nearly) and, most importantly, the adaptation of The Kite Runner. But before he was a screenwriter, he was a novelist, and when he gets bored of writing million-dollar screenplays he continues to pop out the odd novel, the latest of which is City of Thieves. City of Thieves is a cracking read, and I really hope it never becomes a film. David Benioff's first novel, The 25th Hour, became a movie starring Edward Norton. I haven't seen the film yet, but I'm halfway through the book and loving it. He is clearly a better novelist than he is a screenwriter, because The Kite Runner was a beautiful film but I suspect he'd have had to work hard to ruin it. Homer, meanwhile, continues to spin on his pyre, or whatever they did then.

David Benioff also has the gratuitous good fortune of being married to Amanda Peet.

I'm looking for my next discovery. Any suggestions?

87. Sun-Dried Washing

In the darkest days of last winter, when we had been shivering for months and we spoke to each other in whispers about feeling the warmth of the sun on our skin, one of the most frustrating daily discomforts was getting the washing dry. Herself refused to allow me to ruin us by using the dryer, so our clothes hung from the drying rack in front of the radiator for DAYS, obstinately refusing to achieve any status beyond, 'That might be dry, I can't tell. It's cold, my hands are cold, the room is cold.' I stomped about the place in as much wool and cashmere as I could fit on my body, thinking nervously about soldiers in the first world war and the ticks and lice they got as a result of never washing their clothes. Ultimately, I decided some extra wildlife might help keep me warm.

Fast forward six months, into the days we hardly dared speak or dream of back then - pure blue skies, bright sunshine and warm dry breezes. The washing, no longer heavy with winter woollens, dries in two hours and carries with it a scent of summer. We trip about the place in cotton and linen, a blush of colour in our cheeks and on our forearms, smug and proud in our rarely-used sunglasses, drinking lager on pavements, faces tilted to the evening sun.

Little children scream with laughter in the playground, the washing flaps gently in the breeze, the goldfinches and greenfinches and wood pigeons chirrup and coo, and winter feels like another country. Long may it last.

86. 'Something's Gotta Give'

This film (with a terrible title) stars Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton and is both preposterous and wonderful. Jack plays an ageing lothario who won't date women under 30, and Diane plays a happily divorced playwright. She's too old for him, he's too immature for her. They fall in love.

Good things about the movie: Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson, Amanda Peet, Keanu Reeves (I know!), the house she's supposed to live in, Frances McDormand.

Bad things about the movie: THE TITLE!; Frances McDormand only has three scenes, which is a CRIMINAL waste if ever I saw one; Diane Keaton wears these horrible high heeled wedge flip-flops; I don't live in that house on the beach.

Herself and I treat ourselves to SGG once a year, or more if we need cheering up. It's funny, well-observed, and as fluffy as a souffle.

85. 'Days Like Those'

Rebecca Tyrrel is a journalist, as is her husband, Matthew Norman. For years Rebecca wrote a column for (I think) the Independent, entitled 'Days Like These', all about her life with Matthew and their son, Louis. I don't read the Independent, because I have enough brain cells to want to read the occasional long word, but some clever person had the idea of combining all Rebecca's columns into a book.

The premise is that Rebecca is scatty, numerically dyslexic and long-suffering, Louis is small and addicted to Doctor Who (long before its renaissance) and Matthew is a neurotic hypochondriac intellectual snob. Sounds awful. Funniest thing I've read in YEARS. Literally hooting with laughter. Dribbling. Carrying the book about with me, reading while I"m walking, waking Herself up in the middle of the night laughing. I think the honest truth is that I see something of myself reflected in Matthew and it reminds me that I must be forever grateful to Herself for putting up with me.

After the book was published, the column morphed into 'Days Like Those', but continued to be funny and beautifully judged and completely mad in the best English tradition.

And every now and again, when I have a day like today during which no sensible, productive cerebral output has been possible, I cheer myself up with a few of Matthew's restaurant columns, and a dose of endorphins thanks to 'Days Like Those'. So I will rise from my chair and leave the eyrie certain that I must try harder tomorrow, but with a smile on my face.


Corrections and Clarifications: 'Days Like These' was first published in the Daily Telegraph. When the column moved to the Independent it became 'Days Like Those'.

84. Wrapping Presents

The thrill of wrapping presents is imagining the little face lighting up as the paper is torn away. Giving a loved one a present he or she genuinely likes or even loves is always cockle-warming, and the wrapping is an important part of the ritual.

I don't indulge in ornate wrapping. There are not too many frills and gee-gaws on my packages, and quite often I prefer plain old brown paper and string. But pushing my laptop over to one side of the desk to make room, cutting out the right sized piece of paper, fishing the sellotape out of the drawer and folding the paper into a tidy package with neat corners is a contented few minutes, if you're me.

Of course, Christmas can sometimes threaten the fun. But I've discovered that the trick to Christmas wrapping is to set aside a decent amount of time, have a drink and maybe a toothsome snack somewhere nearby, put on some Nat King Cole, and relax into it. After all, unless you're nuts you'll have bought thick rolls of cheap paper which will certainly ruin the planet, and have cut up last year's Christmas cards into little labels for the parcels. A couple of different coloured bobbins of shiny ribbon and a sellotape dispenser and you have the first festive moment of the season.

My wrapping year begins about now, with the Parental Birthday in mid-July. Then I get a little hiatus again for August, before the glut of autumnal birthdays begins in September. This year is the first time in my life I have managed to pick up the odd thing as I've been going along, and I'm looking forward to handing over those presents as they are that tiny bit more special than a book, or a DVD, no matter how carefully chosen. And most excitingly of all, this year my BF will hatch a babyBF and I'll have the opportunity to wrap the first of what I'm sure will be many over-indulgent and spoiling presents. I'm looking forward to it already.

83. A Prize

The other evening a couple of friends and I went along to a literary quiz at a local charity bookshop. It's not your normal charity bookshop: the selection of first editions and rare books is impressive and the fiction section features very few pink covers. Anyway, arch-sceptic that I am, I turned up thinking that it would either be full of book weirdos and embarrassing, or high-brow and clever and I'd be embarrassed for a different reason and have to get my mother on speed-dial. In the end, of course, it was somewhere between the two.

My friend Jill (whose debut novel, The Last Kestrel, is published next month - please look out for it) turns out to be fiendishly competitive and excellent on poetry and foreign literature. Joanna is not at all competitive and excellent on twentieth century female writers and 19th century american fiction. I am good at faces and fairy tales. We knew this.

There were twenty people in the room, 5 teams, and we came joint second. I hadn't paid enough attention to the e-mail and had no idea that there were prizes to be won, or I might have done some swotting. We won a voucher for books to be spent in the store that evening, and when the quiz was over we spent a merry half-hour spending our winnings. Fun! It has been a long time since I won anything and we all went quite pink and felt rather pleased with ourselves. We might even go back for more.

82. A Goldfinch

I am quite blind, and a bit dim, but I do like watching the birdies flit about in the garden and at the beach. Recently in London my eye has been caught by a tiny little bird which flashes gold as he flies past. My oracle on these matters, my friend Mr Matthew Hunt Esq., thought that maybe I was catching a glimpse of a goldfinch. Reader, in this he was entirely correct. As ever.

Yesterday as I sat in the eyrie weeping with and for one of my characters (it must be going well if it makes me weep, surely?) the most beautiful bird I have ever seen close up landed no more than three feet away, on the parapet outside my window. I had to stop crying immediately because I couldn't see him for tears. He had a scarlet and white and black face, and honest-to-goodness GOLD on his wings. I held my breath, but still he flew away.

Then he came back, and had a look at me. I don't think he would have thought me breathtakingly beautiful, but you never know. I think he might have babies nearby. I can hear chicks cheeping, so I have been shouting and throwing things at the magpies and wood pigeons in the hope that my Goldfinch and maybe his lovely wife and babies will remain unmolested by those grotesque vandals.

The thought that he might come back and let me look at him again provides all the inspiration I need to be at my desk early, and to stay late. I am going to put some nuts out on the parapet now for him. I'll let you know if there are any developments...

81. Police Motorbike Outriders

Sitting in the Borough High Street branch of Pret a McManger this morning (as you do) I watched a single copper on a motorbike co-ordinate a three point junction heavy with traffic to let Princess Anne through in her smart blue Jaguar. He never got off his bike, which means he did the whole thing with one hand. It was wonderful to watch because he was completely confident and skilled. And then he zoomed off after the bouffy-haired Principessa, no doubt to perform his tricks on the other side of London Bridge.

I've seen outriders work their magic before and been impressed by it. This time I had a perfect view, and I enjoyed the performance. I hope that copper knows he's good. I hope the rookie coppers want to be him when they grow up. Dammit, I want to be him when I grow up.

80. Home-made Elderflower Cordial

As part of a restorative, rejuvenating and bucolic week in Suffolk, Herself and I made Elderflower Cordial. We found a tree a mile or so down a private track which appeared to be in good health, and plundered it for its delicately scented flowers. We even put them in a basket, rather than a bag. La La La! Add syrupy water, lemons and citric acid and 24 hours later you have Elderflower Cordial. Which somehow manages to taste of all the Elderflowers on the tree, rather than the 15 or so heads we used. It's summer in a glass.

I respected the purity of the process for at least three days, before seeing how the cordial went with vodka and tonic. The answer is, like Fred and Ginger. The vodka gives the cordial sex appeal, the cordial gives the vodka class. I had the double joy of sitting by a pretty rose-filled courtyard, with wood pigeons cooing somewhere nearby, reading my book and drinking a cocktail part of which I had made myself, while eating toast covered in home-made chicken liver pate. Delicious, nutritious and just a little bit smug - this is what good holidays are made of.

79. Marmite

I'm sure I must know some people who don't like Marmite, but they have never identified themselves to me. Or maybe liking Marmite is a subconscious requirement of mine when it comes to choosing friends. This is the thing about Marmite, it works on so many levels.

In French, 'marmite' is the sticky savoury stuff stuck to the bottom of the cooking pot - the stuff you scrape up with your spatula when nobody's looking and chew greedily with drops of greasy goodness on your chin. I think the English Marmite was originally the detritus from the brewing process - the left over yeast. Which makes it sound disgusting. The French get these things right.

Marmite, butter, toast. The holy trinity. The three amigos. Herself likes her Marmite spread generously, whereas (despite my lifelong addiction to salt) I prefer a meagre amount, but all the way to the corners.

Marmite and cucumber sandwiches. Marmite and lettuce sandwiches. Marmite and cream cheese on a sesame bagel. Marmite mixed with butter, spread generously on Mother's Shame, cut into quarters with the crusts cut off. I recently discovered Marmite, butter and swedish crispbreads from Ikea.

I have one further word for you: TWIGLETS. Yep, nuff said.

I don't think there has ever been a day since I left home that I haven't had a pot of Marmite somewhere about my person. It sits there, its yellow lid glowing warmly at me, waiting to adorn my toast with its salty savoury yumminess. It asks for nothing in return but that I do my best to keep crumbs and butter dollops out of the jar, and this I do with grateful thanks, and will do all my life.

78. A Foray into Poetry

I don't do poetry. It was ruined for me by school - all that Seamus Heaney and John Donne. My parent does poetry - she's proper. I tease her about it.

I do poetry secretly. I know my way round Keats, and sometimes I read Wilfred Owen for the beautiful ghastly pain of it. I can't stand Andrew Motion, but I've got time for Ms. Duffy, and Fleur Adcock is always worth reading. Then, in the way of these things, I discover a novel-length book of connected sonnets by a poet well known in the States but not here. It takes me ages to track the book down and have it sent, and longer for it to arrive. But today I sit at my desk and read and it's as if my brain is bilingual. Poetry and Prose.

It's an extraordinary book (no names. not going to tell.)

I still don't do poetry.

Shh.

77. A Gap in the Clouds

Strange, moody weather in London this week has not helped shift the scudding grey clouds in my head. Not sleeping; drunk suddenly on three glasses of wine; sadness in other lives leaching into mine because I love them and want them to experience only happiness, never pain; unemployed and unemployable; lacking in talent and inspiration; lonely in the eyrie. It could be worse. But it could be better.

Generally I am an optimistic sort, happy to think of the glass as half-full or at least on its way to it, but every now and again the Black Dog comes for me and I have to kick hard to keep my head above water. At those times, perhaps usefully for fiction (if I'm going to try to see a silver lining) the everyday things suddenly help break the clouds...

A perfect apple. Chicken and mushroom soup (my favourite) made by Herself for lunch and dished up with sensible advice and lashings of love. The parent calls to ask herself round for a cup of tea later. Seeing the BF post the parent for photography and more sensible advice and lashings of love. A small white dog sound asleep in a big blue basket. Another writer's blog which inspires and encourages. Rimmel's Heather Shimmer lipstick (so shallow). A literal gap in the clouds, sunshine on my face. Writing a note to a friend on an old picture postcard with a fountain pen. The West Wing.

It's not a cure, but it is a big help. I'm lucky - I know the clouds will shift. In the meantime, I'll keep kicking.

76. A Holiday List

Not a list of holidays I would like to take, places I would like to visit, but a list of things I must remember to take with me when I go on holiday. A scrap of paper brimming with promise. Its creation yesterday meant that it is not long now before we take off for the wilds of, well, Suffolk - for a week's actual holiday. No work, just play.

So the list sits on the side of the fridge, and will be added to daily until it becomes grubby and marked with smeary fingerprints and smudged ink and inevitably we'll forget to put something vital on it, but as the list grows longer so the distance between me and my holiday grows shorter. The list is my collaborator in fun.

I think you are either a list person, or you're not. I make lists as a work-avoidance technique, or, as is more customary, because I don't want to forget something - like nail varnish, or, more importantly, nail varnish remover. My bathroom cupboard is full of small pots of nail varnish remover bought from chemists in unlikely places - so the lists are clearly fulfilling a vital function, and I really should pay more attention to them.

I'm wondering now if I could make lists for serious things, like career goals or books I tell people I've read but haven't really. But that starts to look uneasily like a five-year plan, and they are the work of the devil. I haven't got a plan for this week, let alone any further along the line. I'd only lose the plan and forget to finish my novel, or take the Trans-Siberian express, or own a 1964 Porsche Speedster, or teach a dog to run alongside me for five miles... It would be a shame not to do those things because I'd lost the list, so I'll continue to make lists for holidays, and nothing else.

75. The iPhone

I wasn't going to. In fact, I had promised myself I wouldn't. But it would be wrong not to, because I do love it.

It is aesthetically pleasing. It is easy to use. It enables me to pick up my emails wherever I am, obviously, which is more important for people who actually have jobs but is useful nonetheless. I like the ringtones: Herself quacks, the parent ding dongs like church bells on Sunday. Harbour Master and Flight Control are addictive, but not more so than Solitaire. I've got Sherlock Holmes novels ready for if I get stuck on a train or something. I can look at YouTube, download songs, do whatever the hell I like.

I don't use it as an iPod, I have an iPod for that. Two, in fact.

I don't use it as a SatNav, I have a map and a brain for that.

I'm sure I don't and will never exercise even 2% of its capabilities but it has enhanced my life, and I love it.

74. Being the Middle One

It has been brought, gently and lovingly, to my attention, that this blog is in danger of becoming bloring. Too much running, apparently. Fair enough, I say. I will try not to let my obsessions get in the way of a good blead.

Which brings me to today's post, and no running in sight...

The only photo of my father's five children all together was taken in Edinburgh in (I think) 2004, when we all spent the weekend together. We are sitting, in age order from right to left, on a park bench. And there, sadly in black and white or it would be obvious, are five pairs of EXACTLY the same eyes. Otherwise, we're all different. The oldest two are tall and slim and fair (ish) and the youngest two are tall and sturdy and dark. Plus the one in the middle equals five. We all look quite different, and we're obviously individuals, formed out of different sets of DNA and life's experiences... But there they are, the father's eyes - same colour, same shape, same naughty glint.

Most of the time, I'm the eldest/oldest/eldest/oldest. But every now and again I get to be the middle one, which is rather interesting. I have a big sister who's funny and bossy and eccentric so I get to experience what all three of my brothers have grown up with, but I also have a big brother, which turns out to be extremely pleasant. I think he wishes I would wear skirts more, but I don't think he's seen my legs. Anyway...

If the glass is half empty, or half full, depending on the spin you put on it, I reckon as far as my siblings go I get the best of both worlds. Which, as you will by now know, is EXACTLY how I like it, and how it was meant to be.

And now I'm going to the pub.

73. Running in the Rain

I mean it. I had so much fun! Splish! Splosh! Just me and the other nutters, or joggers, as we like to call ourselves. The park was deserted, so I didn't have to do any dog-dodging, the rain kept me cool and my new 90s playlist is fab. Herself stared at me in bemusement when I re-appeared at the front door, dripping and grinning - but she should be used to it by now. The dog was clearly disgusted.

I suppose, in England, that it could be quite useful to have something to do when it rains, but I think that going out in the rain moves me one step closer to being allowed to call myself a 'runner'. This is like being given a green beret - it's a badge of honour. I haven't earned it yet. But I will. Oh yes. I will.

72. Serious Rain

I was just sitting here, looking out of the window, trying to think of today's blog subject, when it began to rain serious rain. And I smiled. Not because I am the devil incarnate (though my brothers beg to differ) and I enjoy the thought of all those commuters getting drenched on their way home, but because serious rain is so much better than drizzle, or worse, the threat of drizzle.

I like climatic absolutes, I've decided. When hot the sky must be azure and cloudless, when cold it must be azure and cloudless unless its foggy, when wet it must be soaking, when dry it should not threaten. So no clouds. I clearly need to emigrate. Sorry Mum.

I was going to go running in the drizzle, but I am dissuaded by the serious rain. Wimp. If it lets up a bit I will go and try out my new 90s pop-classics playlist. If it doesn't (and it seems intent for now) I will do the only thing the weather demands - curl up on the sofa with a book.

71. An Early Start

Yesterday morning, I got myself up to the gym for 8.45 and came home an hour later feeling very sorry for myself. The rest of the day was a monstrous struggle. So I decided that today would be better.

And today is already better because it started a little earlier than usual, and I am reminded that I prefer the promise of the early morning to the hard scrabble of the end of the day. I've been bouncing around, making bacon bagels, tidying up, thinking about what to wear rather than just pulling on whatever's nearest, sitting down at my desk, water and apple to hand, thinking about the day's work and how best to do it. Insufferable, isn't it?

But I'm happy! I've got a sensible serious job of work to do today, and later I'm going out to supper and will be fed the best curry in London, so I have a reason to work hard. Carrot and stick, you see. I'm not running today because I've been going too far, too fast so I'll have a day off and lumber slowly round the park in the rain tomorrow. I feel well and bushy-tailed because I almost didn't drink last night and I've slept well, and had an early start and my day is full of promise...

It's Friday!

I'm going to go, before everybody's sick.

70. Completing a Difficult Task

A script report completed, an extra mile run, a desk clear of filing and receipts - what a lovely feeling. Can't imagine how glorious it must be to achieve something genuinely difficult, like curing a disease, or putting Herself off painting the naffing kitchen this weekend.

The completion of a difficult task and its attendant euphoria is all about exams, for me. All those years of end of year exams at my nightmarishly academic school, followed later by serious national exams and then university finals left a long shadow on my psyche. The BF looks at me blankly when I talk about our school being an academic hothouse, but she's cleverer than a wily fox in full chicken costume so I pay no attention.

I don't have to take exams any more, but every now and again a stressful, challenging, deadlined task comes up that causes me to have to lock myself away with bananas and other brain foods and snap grumpily at Herself when she interrupts me. But then the task is completed and I feel like dancing in the moonlight. Today, in case you hadn't already guessed, is one of those days. I will not be doing any moonlit dancing, but I might find my supper more delicous this evening, and that glass of wine more refreshing. And that's enough to make it all worthwhile. That, and my two degrees.