6. Smith's Rosebud Salve

Having spent years experimenting with Chap-Stick, Lobello, Carmex, Blistex, Vaseline (green and blue) and various other proprietary lip salves - and finding them all wanting in one way or another - it wasn't until I visited New York City for the first time that I found the solution to the lip situation.

Bigelow's Chemist (6th avenue below 9th street) will be revisited in this blog, but it's near a first-rate diner, which is how I found my way to it. Mooching about the shop, enjoying the old-fashioned smell of a proper apothecary (well, it's not really, of course, but it still smells good) I found myself at the lip-salve section. Yes, you read that right. There, before my eyes, was a stack of beautiful blue tins - one of which was open, a tester. The stuff inside was the same pink as a perfect pout, and lighter than Vaseline. It came up off the tin onto my little finger tip as if they had been made for each other. A gentle smear on the back of my hand left a gentle pink shimmer, and a scent of real roses. I didn't apply any of the tester to my lips (are you MAD?) but I took one precious tin to the counter, and handed over what seemed like a fair number of dollars. Outside on the street, this wondrous substance and my lips made their first acquaintance, and as I calmly accepted numerous compliments on the gorgeousness of my lip colour, I knew that I would have to go back to Bigelow's and buy some more.

To deprive my lips of Smith's Rosebud Salve (for that is the name of the wondrous substance) would be as cruel as depriving my dog of cheese, and I have no intention of doing either. Such is my gratitude to Bigelow's I still buy ALL my Rosebud Salve there, despite the fact that it is sold in the UK now, and every time I'm in New York City I buy at least five tins. My very best and closest pals have all now been initiated into the cult, and they are happy evangelists indeed.

Over the past decade I have never been without a tin of Smith's Rosebud Salve, and more often than not carry at least one tin about my person. It is pink, it smells of roses, and it makes me feel pretty. 3,000 miles is but a step, with that as my reward.

5. Stationery

It's an obsession common among school-age girls (particularly those who go to swot schools and have a lot of homework) but my obsession never faded. Just this week I went out of my way to buy a new Parker fountain pen, when I already have two functioning (and rather smart and lovely) fountain pens, and - get this - another Parker fountain pen exactly the same as the one I bought. I can't explain it - but the need was profound, and the satisfaction considerable. (It came with a little pen case! I was powerless to resist.)

Being a freelance writer who works from home gives me unlimited opportunities for new stationery. I am only constrained by my budget. Who would have thought that plastic folders, lever-arch files, pencils, erasers, post-it notes, Pritt Stick, file dividers and Sharpies (black, blue and red) would be considered exciting purchases? And that's before we get onto paper and pens - which are for me what handbags and shoes are to others. (Though, if you're offering, I like handbags and shoes lots too.)

My mother's face still goes pale when she thinks about the smelly rubber years, and I still think fondly of those strange plastic pencils (which were often also smelly) with replaceable plastic tips. Remember those? They were great - but rubbish for actual writing.

Computers have had a considerably deleterious effect on the world of stationery in general, and in Central London at least there is only Paperchase and Ryman to feed my addiction. Small market towns, however, often have an old-fashioned stationery shop, and there I can delight and revel in A5 plain pads, 2B pencils, fibre tip handwriting pens like what we used in Mrs Carelse's class, pentels in every shade of the rainbow, and - best of all - glittery and metallic pens for Christmas, and other special occasions. These shops are slightly dusty and they always smell of photocopiers and brewing tea. You can still buy a small white rubber for 20p. I always emerge from these shops at least £10 poorer, and nursing a slight headache - from the cheshire-cat grin of sheer pleasure I have been wearing for however long I've been allowed to spend in the shop.

It is a simple, innocent pastime - and one that is useful for somebody who basically wields a pen for a living. It is possible that, due to the tragic disappearance of stationery shops in our towns, in my later years I will have to open my own stationery shop, and sit there, cackling to myself, lipstick smeared all over my hairy face, waiting to sell other sad addicts the very latest (circa 2014) gel pens and neon highlighters. Life will then have gone full-circle, and I can shuffle off to the great stationery shop in the sky.

4. East Anglia

Why?

Because the skies go on for ever.

Because not everybody can see how beautiful it is.

Because if you are lucky enough to be able to see the beauty, you can still see the beauty when it's grey and raining.

Because the people talk slowly, but are quick to laugh.

Because the beaches are stunning, and unspoiled, and gently falling into the sea.

Because it's ancient, and important, and yet curiously humble.

Because it only looks like everybody's in bed by 9pm. Behind closed doors, they're rockin' out.

Because some of my favourite people live there.

Because the beer is so good.

Because the oysters are so good.

Because the air is soft, and salty.

Because it calms the demons, and sometimes even shuts them up.

3. Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons

'Ah, there you are Seth.'

The tale of Flora Poste's brave attempt to bring order and harmony to the chaotic lives of the Starkadders of Cold Comfort Farm is, to put it mildly, a work of quivering genius. Stella Gibbons decided to write a novel satirizing the overblown Victorian gothic novels of her childhood, and succeeded in writing a book which seems to encapsulate everything that is wonderful about English eccentricity. I hope she cried with laughter as she wrote it; I certainly cry with laughter every time I read it, which is approximately once a year - more if I can manage it.

I remember well the first time I discovered Flora and the Starkadders. I was home from university, miserable and dreading going back. My beautiful bibliophile mother made me a cup of hot chocolate, sat me down on the sofa, and handed me a book. 'Read this,' she said. 'It will make you feel better.' That was 15 years ago, and Cold Comfort Farm has been a regular source of solace and inspiration since then.

It certainly wouldn't be to everybody's taste. It's quite silly, in places, and there's something a little bit irritating about Flora's obsessive need for order, if I'm truthful, but the whole is so breath-snatchingly funny, so mind-ticklingly inventive, and ultimately so heart-soothingly affectionate that for a brief moment after reading it, the world takes on a rosy hue. I've tried reading Stella Gibbons' other novels, and they're pants, quite frankly. Cold Comfort Farm was her One-Hit Wonder, but what a hit it is. My mother and I converse freely in the strange lexicon of the Starkadders, and don't much care if others think us mad. To know Cold Comfort is to know great happiness. I only wish it were compulsory reading.

2. The West Wing

I came late to the West Wing. The first episode I watched was more than half way into Season One.

I have never experienced a real life coup de foudre, only a couple of literary ones which we'll come to later in this blog, but I took one look at the West Wing, and that was it. Love. And my immediate and undying adoration was made more remarkable by the fact that I was still harbouring an unreasonable dislike of Bradley Whitford, caused, mainly, by the part he played in that wonderful 80s movie, Vital Signs. Anyway...

Since I first clapped eyes on the show and swore to give it my firstborn child, it has continued to give, and give.

In my first writing job the rhythms and vocabulary from the show helped point the way towards my own style. In moments of quiet desperation a couple of episodes from Seasons Two or Three can usually bring me back to good cheer. The episode 'Noel' is one of the finest hours of television drama ever written, in my opinion, as is 'Two Cathedrals'. I can watch them both again and again and find new things to admire. The acting is (almost) faultless (we'll forgive any scenes starring Ginger), the writing goes beyond anything describable, and it's funny and it's prescient and it's educational and it's aesthetically pleasing.

Every time I watch a whole season I find a new favourite character. Sometimes it's dour Toby, the brilliant idealistic writer with the sad heart. Sometimes it's Sam, the boy genius with occasionally iffy social skills. Sometimes it's Josh - all energy and passion and Tigger-ish enthusiasm. Sometimes it's CJ - calm, elegant, professional, funny.

I see myself reflected in parts of all those characters, and it must be partly narcissism that makes me love the show so much. But mainly and above all I love it because it isn't afraid to engage my brain. It isn't afraid to leave me bobbing about in the jetwash left by ideas and language and sophistry. No other TV show I have ever watched has expected as much of me, and meeting the challenge gives the most extraordinary pleasure.

For the most part watching television is a passive activity. Not the West Wing. In order to get the most from it (and why wouldn't you want to do that?) you must imagine yourself there, walking the corridors, saving mankind from itself on a daily basis. I hope there's never a day in my life when I couldn't watch an episode or two of the West Wing.

All human life is there.

1. Reading

If you teach yourself to read at 3, because you need to know what happens next in the story and you can't wait until bedtime, chances are you'll grow up a reader. When you have parents who love reading and also read everything they can find - your path is certain.

I read everything. Not just books, papers, magazines, web sites and blogs - but cereal boxes, billboards, hoardings, adverts, programme and film credits, clothing labels, food packaging, the back of the wine bottle and, if necessary, the strange and random literature that falls out of the Sunday supplements.

When I feel sad, I read. When I feel happy, I read. And for everything in between, there are words to provide solace, inspiration, friendship, reassurance.

Every night before sleep claims me, and in one way or another throughout the day that precedes bedtime, I read. 32 years have passed since I first managed to make sense of the squiggles on the page, but the excitement has never faded. Reading is my favourite thing in the whole world (people excluded) which is why it has pride of place in this blog.

Reading is my first love. 364 to go...