270. New Glasses

The most annoying thing about being a speccy four-eyes is the need every few years to have a new pair of glasses. It is also the best thing about it. (Other good things are: excellent bug defence shields in summer, my goodness Miss Jones you're beautiful, hides bags, wrinkles, hangovers)

Face furniture is a complicated and expensive business. If, like me, your glasses are on your face all the time, you want them to be both stylish and, ultimately, forgettable. If the one thing you remember about me is my glasses I really am living my life all wrong.

I found a company that was happy to send me four pairs of frames to try on at home. Herself would like a casting vote on everything in my life, but insists on approval of anything remotely sartorial. So the frames arrived, and BF was there too. And we were all a bit drunk. So they were more than usually frank and unexpurgated on which were the stylish frames and which were so AWFUL that if I DARED to buy them they would NEVER speak to me or agree to be SEEN with me EVER AGAIN.

I won't tell you if I heeded their advice, or not. I chose some new frames, and as I type they are waiting for me at home. My old glasses gave up the ghost six hours after I bought the new ones, and are being held together by sellotape and prayer.

As of tomorrow I'll have a new face. That's how it feels! For about 14 hours. Then I get my normal face back, with added benefits. And this time, I've got two different pairs to play with!

269. China tea cups

As a result of the odd dropped hint, I now have a small collection of pretty china cups and saucers. My favourite (among many favourites) is a beautiful Limoges breakfast cup, given to me by the Parent last Christmas.

Tea, even humble Yorkshire in a bag, tastes better out of a good china cup. Mugs are fine, and I'm barely scraping the surface of possible tea-based obsessions and peculiarities, but if you want a finer experience, it has to be china.

Throughout my childhood, there would be a proper 'tea' at the weekend. A big pot of tea, toast and jam and sometimes even a Madeira cake made by Dad. Eaten in front of a real fire, they were quiet, harmonious times – and Herself and I repeat the tradition as often as possible. We don't have a real fire, sadly, but the dog curls up in front of the halogen thing very happily, which looks right, at least.

This weekend we had china cups of tea, a crumpet with butter and a mince pie, because it is the season to be merry.

268. The Writer's Retreat

08:15 – The perfect time to get up. Sadly, I woke up an hour ago, but, joy of joys, I went back to sleep. The dog is curled up in the small of my back. She has most of the bed and most of the duvet. But at least I’m warm.

08:30 – Coffee. Delicious, even if I do have to make it myself. Dog’s still snoozin’ on the bed. The sky is blue, the clouds are scudding, and I sit in the warmth watching the seabirds whirling. This view is a balm to my soul, and a welcome change from magnolia office walls.

09:00 – Washed and brushed and ready to work. I’ve moved the table so it’s in front of the windows, and the laptop is primed and ready to go. There is nothing to fear in a blank sheet of (virtual) paper. Let the tapping commence!

Tapping.

13:00 – The man arrives to mend the oven. It’s nice to have another human to talk to, even if the conversation is, well, limited. When he’s gone lunch is halloumi, rocket and avocado in pitta. Slurp.

Tapping.

15:00 – I call my mother. ‘Darling, I was about to call you!’ She’s got guests coming and a trip to the theatre in store. She sounds happy and that makes me happy.

Tapping.

15:30 – Apparently there’s bad weather coming, so the Hound and I venture out. She sniffs, I trudge, we both get blown about. Only I come back with pink cheeks.

Tapping.

16:00 – It’s got dark and suddenly I’m aware of being alone. So I put a fairly new CD on the good stereo, which has got super-woofers and adjustable bass and treble and god knows what. Might as well be listening to the album for the first time. Which is amazing, and also worrying. What else have I listened to and not been able to hear?

Tapping.

16:20 – Herself emails the best news. Feel slightly weepy, but I am writing about three sisters who’ve just lost their Mum, so I’m hyper-sensitive to family business just now.

Tapping.

16:38 – Writing this. First and only bit of work avoidance all day. But it’s still writing, right? Right.

Tapping.

17:02 – Oops, a weepy bit. It’s quite hard typing with tears in your eyes – have to do a lot of dramatic blinking. I just hope if anybody ever reads this bloody book they cry here, too. 

Tapping.

17:30 – That’s quite enough of that. Do as the experts say and shut the computer while there’s still juice in the creative tank. But now it’s time to get the Spag Bol on. Decide to put a film on while I’m cooking – something Herself won’t watch. Spend a very happy 90 minutes chopping and frying in the company of Ratatouille – the ideal choice.

11.30 - Bed. That's very late for a week-night. I'm such a rebel.

Day Two promises to be similar, with slightly nicer weather, a supermarket trip and the arrival of the Queen of Herself in the evening to look forward to. If only this was my all-the-time life. If only I could find a way to make this life pay me money. Oh, wait, that’s what I’m doing…

Tapping.

267. Bicycle singing

Apparently, girls turn into their mothers. Lucky me, I say. But I have noticed the odd maternal foible creeping in already. My mother sings out loud - in the street, in a shop, round Ikea. And she gets very cross if you point out, however gently, that other people can hear her and God Mum you're so embarrassing.

I sing on my bicycle. It's partly to make the journey go faster, and partly because nobody can really hear me, and it's fun. I was singing in French last week, and that song is RUDE, but how many French people did I cycle past? Not many, I don't think.

I wonder if I have any other maternal foibles yet? Can I pick and choose? Does anybody know how this is supposed to work?

266. New musical discoveries

If it were left to me, I'd still be listening to Duran Duran and OMD. Luckily, however, I have a few friends who are happy to help me out of the musical doldrums. And in this way I have discovered lots of music that I love. Stornoway, Jessie Ware, Bon Iver, Roisin Murphy, Polica, Iamamiwhoami - I could go on, but I'm feeling a bit elderly today and can barely remember my own name.

265. Nail varnish

The me I become when I paint my fingernails a rather sultry dark red is a definite improvement. The painted me is better put-together and infinitely more chic. She is a bit naughty and definitely more fun at parties than the unpainted version. She is not taller or thinner, but she might look it.

All that, for less than a tenner? Amazing. But the trick is not to be painted all the time - or you don't feel the benefit.

264. Wildlife Photographer of the Year

Every year at around this time, I nick a couple of hours from whatever turgid task is currently causing stopping me finishing my novel, and look at the winners and runners up in the Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition.

It makes me laugh (look at the fluffed up raven, sitting in the snow). It makes me cry (look at the polar bear on the thinning ice). It holds me spellbound (almost all of them, but particularly the black and white of the hare).

The dedication and talent of these photographers is incredible, and it's a huge pleasure to look at their work. I should go along to the Natural History Museum and stand in front of the pictures - but I love being able to take my time, gazing at them with all the awe and wonder of a child at Christmas.

263. The Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

I found this novel by chance. And I'm so glad I did, as I love it to bits and pieces and so does every single person I have given it to.

It restores your faith in the modern novel and ruins your appetite for anything else for a good week or so. I've now read it three times and I'm already trying to work out how long I should leave it til I can read it again. Please run to your nearest independent bookshop and buy yourself two copies - one for you, and one for all your friends.

262. A bath

It's the weekend. You've been running around all day doing jobs and chores, so you've earned a long hot bath. A magazine, maybe a cheeky glass of something cold and bubbly, and lots of scented bubbles.

The magazine provides entertainment and distraction while your muscles relax. The cheeky glass of bubbly needs no explanation but will provide a nice counterpoint to the heat. And the bubbles save you having to look at your naked body.

Herself sees having a bath as a kind of necessary torment, but I come from a family of bathers, and love having the time to soak in a hot bath. I'm sure it's really bad for my skin and nails and all that but it's not like I do it everyday. And sometimes we all need a few minutes to ourselves, in the peace and quiet, with just bubbles for company. Bring on the weekend!

261. Peanuts by Charles M Schulz

I didn't care too much about pictures when I was a kid. I liked the Beano and the Dandy, and I liked raiding my grandmother's attic for my mum and aunties old annuals because they were profoundly strange, but I wasn't really a reader of comics. But I loved Peanuts.

Why didn't Charlie Brown have any hair? Was Snoopy a dog or a kind of god? Would Schroeder ever pay attention to Lucy? Would Lucy ever let Charlie Brown kick the ball? Would Linus ever kick the blanket habit?

I read the strips in books, rather than day to day in the newspaper, and had to ration myself or fear running out of reading material. I go back to those same books now, occasionally, if the world has gone dark and I need reminding of the light. Never fails.

260. A kitchen weekend

Herself was out teaching this weekend, and the Hound was recovering from a minor operation and had to be kept quiet, so I spent my weekend in the kitchen.

On Saturday, I took the tomatoes Herself disparages so cruelly (despite having grown them from seed) and turned them into the tomatoeyest version of themselves, stewed under greaseproof paper for two hours.

Then I made a one-pot lamb meatball tomato butter bean stew thing, using the tomato sauce – the pot puttering gently on the stove while I talked, cajoled and bullied the Hound into relieving herself in the garden. It's strange what that dog has to be persuaded to do, sometimes...

Then we watched River Cottage, tucked under a blanket. The Hound was allowed out of her Cone of Shame for that bit, as a special treat.

When Teach got back we ate and drank very merrily.

On Sunday, I made chicken and mushroom soup for the Parent. And I baked real oatcakes. And I nearly set the house on fire by mistake. Then I spent a couple of hours planning an imminent trip to the Auld Country with said Parent. We mainly talked about where we would eat. The apple didn't fall too far from the tree, did it?

I wrote some extremely bad fiction.

Then I made Shepherd's Pie, long and slow and rich and unctuous.

It was a deep, nurturing pleasure of a weekend. The dog's stitches are healing nicely, Herself was fed and watered as befits a hard-working person, the Parent was tempted from her diet, none of it went wrong. If only I didn't have to earn my living, I'd never do anything else.

259. Postcards

I am almost certain that I sent my grandmother a postcard from every holiday I went on between 1997 and 2010. Poor woman, probably got really bored of them. But for me, sitting with a coffee (or glass of wine) somewhere peaceful for half an hour writing postcards, then working out how to say 'stamps for England, please in whatever language - is a ritual part of any holiday.  Since my granny died I have been sending postcards to the youngest member of my extended family - baby BF. She can't read yet but when she can she'll have a good fat postbag to get through.

I also use postcards to send little notes throughout the year. They're great for thank yous, or just to say hello without anything digital having to bestir itself. Have you noticed that daily life no longer requires any actual physical writing any more? But a postcard is a good excuse to put pen to paper.

And then there's receiving postcards. That's always fun. I have a particular soft spot for those sent by Herself's mother, who specialises in missives from exotic, far-flung locations that simply read 'It's raining today', or 'It's nice here'.

I suppose postcards are just a simple, time-honoured way of letting somebody know that you're thinking of them. Wish you were here.

258. Cottage Pie

I bought an enamel pie dish, so I had to make a pie.

Cottage pie is all about the gravy. Every single movement you make towards that pan should be about the taste and texture of the gravy, because everything else in there is pretty much going to cook itself. So once you've got your onions and celery and carrots soft and salty you brown your meat. Then what do you do? You add more flavour. Tomato paste, a crumbled stock cube, dried thyme, pepper. Then for the liquor - red wine first. Then water from the kettle. More of the former than the latter, please. Not too much - you're not making soup.

Then turn it down and bugger off. Sneak up on it every now and again for a taste. It should soon be viscous and savoury. It might need salt. Bugger off again.

When you literally can't bear it any more, turn the heat off. Then make your mash but remember if you make too much it will be too heavy and if you make it too sloppy it won't keep the meaty stuff in its place.

You'll want some cheese either in your mash or on top. Oven. Then, just before you faint with longing, get it out of the oven and put it under the grill until the cheese is sizzling and brown.

Revel. With some cabbage or peas and the rest of the red wine.

257. Longevity

Herself and I are celebrating an anniversary today. And I'm proud of it - of her, mainly, as I'm not sure how she puts up with me. But I'm so glad she does, and I tell her so every day.

256. Cooling

In Aldeburgh last week the smell of autumn was in the air, thanks to a few local bonfires. There is nothing, for me, more redolent of childhood weekends in the countryside than that smell - and it makes me happy. But the weather was lovely - warm and sunny. So I knew that I'd have to wait a little longer...

But my hands got cold as I cycled to work this morning.

WHOOP!

That means it must be coming. Soon the pavements and streets will be carpeted with leaves rather than gormless tourists. I will need to remember to bring a cardigan and my bike lights to work because I am a thousand years old and comfort and safety are suddenly All I Think About.

I have started to watch the thermometer slightly obsessively, however, because today's cooler morning might be a phoney war. Too often in the past I've got all excited about colder weather just because there's suddenly an 'r' in the month again and been chided for my folly. Increasingly it's not even cold on Christmas Day, which just plain ruins it, no matter how good the gifts, goose and grog.

Last night on the tellybox the man said that it would drop to single figures overnight. I trilled with glee. And this morning - cold hands. But I've just strolled along the canal perfectly comfortably in short sleeves so I've put my autumnal happiness back in its box for now. Maybe it will be cooler next week?

255. National Trust volunteers

For Herself's last birthday, my Parent gave her a membership to the National Trust. It was a generous, thoughtful present, despite any connotations of socks, sandals and cagoules one may (erroneously) make with the members of that august institution.

Herself is a thrifty gal, and likes to make sure that we get our money's worth. Or, in this case, the Parent's. Quite right too.

So, this year, we have been to St Michael's Mount, Monk's House, Levant Mine, Tyntesfield House, Willow Walk, Sissinghurst and Godrevy Head. Soon we will visit Blickling Hall and Orford Ness.

All those places have been fascinating, and well worth a visit, but the best thing about going to National Trust properties is the volunteers. To a body they are friendly, charming and encyclopedically well informed. Most importantly, they all seem to have a genuine affection - even passion - for their subject.

I'm a bah humbug sort, but you can't fail to be impressed by these people - and they're doing it all for free. Almost makes you feel proud to be British.

254. Sarah Waters

Sarah Waters has published five novels: Tipping the Velvet, Affinity, Fingersmith, The Night Watch and The Little Stranger. I couldn't finish The Little Stranger, due to an incident involving an elderly labrador that made me both weepy and angry. But I've read all the others, and I think she's a genius.

She calls herself an old-fashioned writer, because she cares about characters and plots. Which makes me an old-fashioned reader, because if a novel doesn't have great characters and a plot worth following, why would I read it? (John Banville, please take note.)

Tipping the Velvet is both hilarious and ridiculous, but you can't deny the authenticity of it, nor the take-no-prisoners pace.

Affinity is my least favourite, I think.

Fingersmith is just fantastic - one of the best stories I have ever read.

I love The Night Watch too, now, but it has grown on me. I wasn't sure about it at first, and the TV adaptation was No Good, but I find I go back to the book quite regularly now, when other novels pall.

I like not being able to see, hear or feel the writer pulling the strings, and Sarah Waters is very good at getting herself out of the way. The writing is never showy, or flashy, but some of her sentences are as good as any produced by more 'literary' writers. I'm starting to really hate literary fiction, by the way, but that's for a different blog.

I hope she's busy at work on number six. It's been a while...

253. Seth Meyers

For those not in the kno', Seth is the head writer and 'Weekend Update' anchor at Saturday Night Live.

I love him. Obvs, or he wouldn't be in this blog. But I don't watch SNL because it's not on the tellybox here, so I mainly love the idea of him. Which is probably (all things considered) a good thing.

He is definitely dreamy, in that slightly pointy, nerd-boy way I seem to like. He's definitely clever and funny - he is responsible for the Tina Fey/Sarah Palin sketches that everybody made such a fuss about. Also, you don't get that job without being clever and funny - he took over from Tina Fey (see previous blog post).

Martha Stewart is in love with him, which makes him giggle like a schoolgirl.

He's a runner.

Anyway, that's enough. Seth, I love you.

252. Kevin Kline

I miss Kevin Kline. I know he's alive and well and thesping away in NYC, but I miss him being on my screen. He tipped up recently in an underrated movie called 'Definitely, Maybe' and was gorgeous as ever, but it's not enough. Also, I don't want him to have changed. If he's had work done or stopped doing that thing with his hands or WORSE had his teeth done, that's it - he can stay on the boards.

They don't call him Kevin Decline for nothing, though. Whenever somebody complains about Steve Martin in It's Complicated (frequently, don't ask) I get them to imagine Kevin Kline in that part and they go all melty and demand to know why KK didn't do the decent thing and take part. Well, because he says no to everything. Also, maybe he hasn't forgiven Meryl for getting all the attention over Sophie's Choice.

Anyway, Kevin, stop saying no. Your fans need you.

251. Coffee

I've been feeling a bit orf colour the last three days and in that time I have realised how much I love coffee - because I ain't had none. Tea is all very well and good (and, remember, I am a recent convert to tea) but it's a miserable replacement for a cup of coffee in the morning.

I've just been reading about something called a 'Cortado' which is espresso with an exact percentage of steamed milk added to it. Exact. Get it wrong and it becomes something else. I like that kind of a challenge.

I'm not going to have any coffee until the weekend, but then I will be extremely enjoying it. And maybe I'll have a chocolate croissant with it - to celebrate.

250. The sound of the key in the door

I am very happy when Herself goes out with her little friends in the evening. As reported in previous posts, the dog and I have our own little routines when we are home alone - everybody's happy.

Until it gets to midnight or so. Central London is not a nice place after midnight. It's full of drunk people who aren't going to get a shag or a taxi and who are PISSED OFF as a result. 99% of these people are not dangerous, but I still don't trust them.

Herself is not very big, and she's not very fast, and she's extremely precious to me. So after midnight, if there's no key in the door, I just worry. That's not her fault, it's mine. But still it has to be managed.

So this is where a cab account will become my friend. She books and is transported – I pay. Perfect. And MUCH cheaper than more therapy. The sound of the key in the door is one of the best in the world, if you've been waiting for it. I hope to sleep through it much more often in future.

249. Hot Pink

It will come as no surprise to those wot kno me, that I am not a fan of soft, baby pink. I would do anything for my darling godchild BabyBF , but I will NEVER give her anything baby pink. No matter how hard she begs. (She won't, she'll be too sensible.)

I hate soft pink. Hate it hate it hate it.

But HOT pink, now that's another matter. You can call it fuchsia if you like. I've been doing some work for a charity called Breakthrough Breast Cancer recently and their signature colour is hot pink – maybe that's why it's in my mind. BBC pride themselves on being bold and feisty and the colour really suits them.

Hot pink goes beautifully with a tan, but it also goes quite nicely with the palest skin it's possible to imagine. It works well as shirt, or socks. If you're a Hoxton Hipster you could have trousers that colour, if you liked.

But it reaches its peak of wonderful out in the wide open spaces of the world. Herself's lovely grandmother Elsie left a cutting of a fuchsia that is the most glorious colour I've ever seen. Dahlias of course are resplendent in hot pink, as are those funny spiky ones what look like starbursts.

Can we teach the little girls of the world to love hot pink, rather than soft pink?  Look out for a campaign - coming soon...

248. Being between books

In fact, this one's a bit of a cheat. Because I have a love/hate relationship with those rare moments in which I am between books. I love it because it's so rare, and it makes me feel like something's missing. To the point that I start looking around for whatever it is I've mislaid, or try to remember what I've forgotten, until I remember that the cause of my vague unease is that I haven't got a book to read. And that makes me laugh, because it's idiotic.

I also hate being between books. It is unnatural and frankly terrifying.

I have books. But not, currently, the 'right' book. I don't want any new-fangled 'e' nonsense, either. No. What I need now is access to a real bookshop...

247. Fried egg on toast

If you're going to have a fried egg on toast, it's worth doing it properly. Have good sourdough bread, real butter (YES, you have to have butter. I don't care about your arteries. Stop moaning.) and the freshest, bestest eggs you can find and afford.

Have some real coffee with it. Or, ideally, a bloody mary.

When we go to the farm to get the eggs I am very polite and courteous to the hens, and make a special effort not to squish them with my motor. Those birds deserve my respect, for the incredibly delicious and nutritious breakfast they give me. Thanks girls. Keep on cluckin'.

246. Beetroot Remoulade

Peel a raw beetroot (or two). Grate beetroot. Add mayonnaise, plain yogurt, salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon. Leave to infuse.

That's it. It's simple, delicious, incredibly good for you (mayo cancelled out by yogurt) and cheap.

245. A Splurge

 Infrequently, and only if the bank balance supports it wholeheartedly, a splurge is a great thing.

I had a little splurge in Cornwall. Then I had another little splurge last weekend, during which I bought posh jeans. Which, for the sake of argument, is a pair of jeans with a designer label and costing over £100. But they're worth it, even if I'm not. I also bought Touche Eclat by Yves Saint Laurent. But that's because my face needs increasingly specialist help.

The great joy of a splurge isn't just treating yourself to nice shmutter, although that is of course its primary goal. The great joy for me is in finally choosing quality above quantity. After all, if I'm going to rampage through my 40s in a blaze of triumphant white light, I'm going to need the finest arsenal a woman can buy. And that includes the clothes on my back. Until then, the jeans make my bum look smaller. Result!

244. My iPod

My brother gave me my iPod for Christmas one year. I had asked for a book, so I was a bit surprised to be given a parcel the size of a pack of cards but it was a lovely (and generous) surprise. My iPod is getting on a bit now, but it still works perfectly. I am never without it.

My musical tastes reveal my essential schizophrenia in a way that my wardrobe or bookshelves never could. Multiple personality disorder as evidenced by playlists. But as it's mine all mine I don't really care how mental they all are. I love them.

There is a part of me that misses sitting with my boombox on my knee waiting to hit record when a particular song was played. Ah, the good old days.

When this iPod dies (as everything dies, in the end) it will not be replaced. I'll transfer the files to my iPhone, which will become a onestopshop for all my diversions. And my world will shine a little less brightly. For such is the price of progress.

243. Dancers

Yes, professionals, but also just those what can really move. It's a bit of a guilty secret that I love those silly modern dance movies, like Step Up. Can't help it. And I like watching Justin Timberlake dancing. But not Jennifer Lopez. She's trying too hard.

This is in my mind because last night I watched Staying Alive. I have never seen it before. And it was hysterical (as in I was practically hysterical by the end of it). Staying Alive is the sequel to Saturday Night Fever, as any fule kno. But where SNF had grit, Staying Alive has, well, face tinsel.

Staying Alive was written and directed by Sylvester Stallone. No, I am not kidding. Tony Manero has basically decided to give up being a Brooklyn bum by day and tip-top disco dancer by night, to focus his energies on becoming a Real Dancer and a better person. There's a nice girl, and a bad girl. Both wear face tinsel. There are some songs by the Bee Gees and some by Frank Stallone, brother of Sly. Sly even makes a 'meet cute' cameo which you have to see for the outfit alone.

The bad girl can only kick up her right leg, so without knowing it she was laying the foundations for a French & Saunders sketch. She can't act either, but that's by the bye.  John Travolta can't do the splits and grimaces whenever he has to pick up a girl.

THE OUTFITS! boyohboyohboy you have to see the outfits.

Was there really a time in the mid-eighties when people wore black tie to see modern dance shows, ie theatre length shows with nowt but folk dancin'? No chat? Would they really have paid good money to see 'Satan's Alley'?

Anyway, I have digressed.

Amidst the tears of laughter caused by Staying Alive I enjoyed watching the dancing. These are people not bound by the everyday laws of gravity. I envy and admire them. But not Jennifer Lopez.

242. Winning

Yes. Lurking not far beneath my mild-mannered exterior (?) beats the shrivelled, green and wonky heart of the truly competitive. I'm not playing for the love of the game - that's an excuse for LOSERS. If I'm playing, I want to WIN.

At school, I was never ever going to be the cleverest, so I didn't play. I left that game to the girls who have now got double Firsts from ancient institutions and are consultants in a variety of fields. But I was strong, quick and mean so I took part in a variety of sports, which allowed me to do a lot of winning. It was great.

 But it's harder as you get older. Life becomes the game, so when am I playing and when am I not? These days, it turns out, I play by getting jobs. And, quite often, I win. Perhaps it's the gladiatorial approach I take to it that makes the difference between success and failure. Perhaps its my arsenal of tricks and deceptions, honed over many years. Maybe it's my despicable fluency and calculated charm.

Who knows? Who cares?
I won the game.
I've got a great new job.
Go, team.

241. I Was Glad, by Charles Hubert Parry

Otherwise known as the Coronation Anthem. If the first 20 seconds of the choir singing don't make your hair stand on end, there's something wrong with your ears (or your hair).

(You can fast forward to 0.49 - but don't miss the choir coming in at 0.51)

What? It's Easter!

240. Ryan Gosling

Ryan Gosling. Yep. Oh yes.
I think we'll just leave it at that.

239. Something a bit different

I've been asked to do a voiceover. The agency is submitting one of our ads for a big award, and they've asked me to provide the narration. Gulp. And also, how exciting.

I always think I sound as squeaky and pathetic as Julie Burchill, but it's possible I've got that wrong.

Anyway, I get to sit in a sound booth in Soho for two hours, taking 'direction' from two very nice guys who've written the ad. I'm looking forward to it. Two hours of talking? I can do that.

238. Cheeseburgers

This is surely too obvious to have been left until 238? Am I repeating myself? But no - don't think so.

It's so obvious I'm not sure exactly what to say. It's grilled or fried meat, in a roll, with melted cheese on top. If you're suffering from rickets or kwashiorkor I'll allow you to eat the salad they always put in cheeseburgers, otherwise you should take it out. Or order a salad.

I have yet to visit any of the 'cool' new burger places in London - Meat Liquor, Lucky Chip, etc. I would like to, as a good cheeseburger is hard to find, but I'm too old and grumpy to stand in a queue surrounded by twiglets who will only pretend to eat the burger. Maybe I could do a deal with a twiglet whereby she did the queueing and I did the eating? If she refused, I would just eat her. I like Twiglets.

Anyway. Home-made cheeseburgers are good as long as you are extremely specific about everything. You need a decent quality roll. You need decent quality meat (of course) - minced steak at very least or preferably minced chuck for a nice flavour. Don't muck about with the meat. You don't really need mustard/egg/capers/herbs mixed with the mince, but it's your burger so do what you want. Oil the meat, not the pan. Put cheese on meat as soon as you've turned it or it won't melt properly. YOU DO NOT NEED SALAD. Gherkins, onion, relish - up to you. Eat.

I don't see the point of Sliders. Why would you have a small cheeseburger on purpose? Baffling.

Do not eat cheeseburgers on a date. Did that in the very early days with Herself, and had to sit staring sadly at a burger I knew would be delicious, but I couldn't eat it in front of her. I did a lot of smoking and drinking in those days until I got over myself. She had no such concerns I remember, and cheerfully went on eating normally. She's good like that, is Herself. Imperturbable. I am irretrievably perturbed.

237. Champagne

Just while we're on the subject...

I don't drink cocktails. There are too many of them and most seem to have silly names, ergo they are not real drinks. (Although for accuracy's sake I should tell you that I did have a gimlet recently and it was entirely splendid)

But there you are, in your best clobber, looking mighty fine, waiting for your lover/friend/boss to arrive at the restaurant/bar/hotel. You're a bit buzzy and need a drink. What do you order? Wine's too boring, cocktails have silly names (and unless you're in Mad Men are honestly a bit challenging on the classy front), and you're not a teenager so Coke is out of the question. So - one word...

Champagne. Don't give it a name unless you're going to say Krug, Pol Roger or Veuve Clicquot. If you're a pimp you can have a glass of Cristal. If you know that you should say the T on the end and are ENTIRELY confident that the barman knows that too - by all means go ahead and order a glass of Moet. Otherwise whatever they decide to give you is fine. Faffing about with it will kill the mood stone dead.

Hold it by the stem, never the bowl, unless you want warm Champagne. Which you don't. Remember that if you lift your chin and your glass at the same time you'll be showing your lovely neck off to its best advantage, as well as avoiding the likelihood of spillage. Boys, that goes for you, too.

Good Champagne perfectly chilled is a luscious, naughty sip. It might make you feel luscious and naughty. Hope so. Chin chin darlings.

236. Fizzy Fridays

The week is long. The weekend is short. So how better to say 'ha!' to one and 'hello, darling' to the other, than with a glass of champagne? None. That's how. So Fizzy Fridays were established, and it's a great invention.

I wish I could claim credit for it, but I can't. I stole it from Nigel Slater. I think he was writing about KitKats at the time, but he mentioned routinely opening a bottle of champagne at the end of the working week and a huge alcoholic lightbulb went on over my head.

It doesn't have to be champagne (although it is worth going for the real deal. You don't have to drink it all ((note to self)) and then you can have another glass with Saturday's lunch) but it does have to be fizzy. Have whatever you like. Herself likes Prosecco, which is lovely, but I like the hard-core dryness that only comes from real Champagne, and I like feeling that I'm worth it.

So this Friday sling your satchel in the corner, turn up the stereo and pour yourself a glass of champagne. You'll soon see - it's not called bubbly for nothing.

235. A Half Day Holiday

I was allowed to carry some holiday over from last year, and today is the deadline for taking it - so I've got the afternoon off. Herself has decided to take the afternoon off too, so we've decided that we'll see the Nicholson\Mondrian exhibition at the Courtauld.

I'm not sure I've had half a day off before. I'm sitting at work (working very hard, obviously) and the prospect of walking out of here at 1 and not coming back is rather appealing. I've got some errands to run this afternoon that aren't usually possible in the week, and with any luck the exhibition won't be rammed so we'll be able to see the art, rather than just the backs of people's heads. It might have been a good opportunity finally to have a go on the London Eye, but it's overcast today so why bother.

Anyway, so far I can heartily recommend it. Half days - who knew?!

234. The Idea of Exercise

If you are a sixth generation Irish woman with shoulders built for the potato harvest and a somnambulant metabolism, you have to take exercise or be on a perpetual 1000 calorie a day diet. Recently I have been doing neither, and as I don't like diets (they actually DO make you fatter in the end) I've been thinking about exercise.

I like the idea of running, but I don't like the pain from the tendinitis I've still got in my pointless, useless heel.

I like the idea of swimming, but I don't like swimming costumes, swimming hats, swimming goggles, swimming pools, verrucas or chlorine.

I like the idea of cycling, but I don't like the idea of being turned into jam by the 390 bus.

I like the idea of the gym but I don't like the idea of having to go at 6.30 in the morning.

What I really like is walking quite slowly to the pub. And herein lies my problem.

So I'll do some cycling, now that the weather's a bit better. It's 40 mins or so each way from town to Hammersmith which is a decent day's exercise. A bit of common sense keeps me from the wheels of the bus and a pump and an allen key deal with most mechanical problems. I think it's a shame that I can't be cool while I'm cycling, but it seems to be beyond me, so I"ll have to leave my ego at the door. But with any luck the cycling will keep the spread from spreading and I'll be able to go on eating nice food and drinking nice wine. That is my goal - no more, no less. So the idea of exercise becomes the much less adorable reality of exercise - a sweaty girl in neon and a silver mushroom head heaving a shabby black bike inelegantly from W1 to W6 twice a day. Life is so prosaic.

233. Cookbooks

The collection is spilling out of its (limited) shelving these days. Herself pouts when I buy new cookbooks because she is under the entirely erroneous impression that each book should earn its keep. Poor girl. She doesn't know that cookbooks are for reading in bed and looking at the pictures. They're for inspiration and encouragement and comfort at times of strain. And yes, I have cooked out of most of the cookbooks I own, but by no means all. Buying a cookbook is a statement of intent, as far as I'm concerned, and no more.

Most of my favourite, don't have to think about it, cook on automatic pilot, recipes came long ago from cookbooks and then were committed to memory. Some I still have to check no matter how many times I make them - like pancake batter and Kosheri and Jamie's baked beans.

And they come in and out of focus depending on my latest culinary enthusiasm. At the moment it's baking, so Nigel will come out, and Hugh, and my new boyfriends the Herbert Bros.

In moments of doubt I have Delia's Complete Cookery and Leith's Bible. Both are excellent. Best loved are Nigella's How to Eat, Nigel's Kitchen, River Cottage Every Day and the Internet.

You never have to pay full price for them, they're often quite beautiful, and obviously they are full of deliciousness. I need more shelves.

232. Baking bread

For years I have tried, and failed, to bake my own bread. They always either failed to rise, or came out of the oven as lethal weapons. It was sad, and disappointing, and a waste of time and money.

Then, recently, there was a show called The Fabulous Baker Brothers on the telleovision. I knew of Tom Herbert before (he tipped up on a Mary Portas show, and he's cute so I paid attention), but now here he was showing me how to bake stuff! And of course I had been making some very basic errors.

I made my third loaf of soda bread yesterday. They're still a tiny bit hit and miss but they are always edible and tasty. So, armed with confidence and a greater degree of knowledge, next weekend I will attempt to make a loaf of white bread. And I will keep going until I get it right - because it's true that baking your own bread scratches some deep atavistic itch. And as I seem to have become a soup-eating, cycling, water-preserving, natural-fibres kind of person, it feels like the next logical step. Soon I will be wearing socks with my Birkenstocks, and then I'll have to kill myself. My only hope is that I'll have baked some decent bread before then.

231. Spoonerisms

I find it annoying when everybody's favourite spoonerism, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy", is attributed to Tom Waits. I mean, seriously. Surely it's much more likely to have come from either W.C. Fields or Dorothy Parker? Rather than Tom Waits, that gravel-voiced dour-merchant?

But it got me thinking about spoonerisms and why I find them so funny. I've decided it's because they make the English language ridiculous even while it makes perfect sense. So "You have hissed all my mystery lectures. You have tasted a whole worm. Please leave Oxford on the next town drain" is good, but "Someone is occupewing my pie. Please sew me to another sheet" is better. I suspect this is a very English thing.

It's not a Spoonerism, but my absolute all time favourite funny silly word thing is,

'Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana.'

Never fails. Thank you, Groucho.

230. Online sales

Or, to give them a more personal title: "Yet another excellent way to waste time and money"

If you're one of those people who has the time and mental acuity to go physically to a shop, try on the item you like - and then wait for the sales, you have my respect. I buy random things online because the photo looks nice and IT'S HALF PRICE, and then spend the best part of a week going to post offices, filling in forms and feeling disappointed. But there's something exciting about the whole process. Because after all, if it doesn't all go horribly wrong, if I don't end up looking like a sack of potatoes in an ill-fitting case, then maybe the opposite is true. Maybe I'll have bought something in the sale that looks good - and IT WAS HALF PRICE! I think it's a risk worth running. And at the end of the day, we need to use our post offices, or they'll be closed down.

229. Instagram

My big sister (movie producer, photographer, lover, lunatic) got me and the small brother onto Instagram when she visited our shores recently. I can't speak for the small one, but I love it. It's a photo sharing site thingy, but there's something very immediate and warm about it. My photos are rubbish, but you can put different filters on them and perk them up a bit. Both Big Sis and Small Bro are better photographers than what I am but I haven't given up hope.

In her case, Instagram serves as a daily diary. The dog features large (it must be a hereditary condition) but I can see where she's been and who she's seen, just by looking on Instagram. I like it. She's 3000 miles away, but no further than my pocket.

I recommend it highly. I think it costs a few pennies, but it's well worth it.

228. The Royal Tenenbaums

What I love the most about TRT is that it's a well-observed story about a dysfunctional family, with a lovely shiny layer of bonkers over the top. (Also I'm pretty certain that Gene Hackman was just playing himself, but that's another story.)

Many, many people have tried this kind of whimsical tomfoolery on film before and failed miserably. I think TRT succeeds because it's not a construct - it's very likely that Wes Anderson's interior world looks and sounds almost exactly like the world in the movie. I like Rushmore and The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (and I quite liked The Darjeeling Limited) but for me TRT is his best movie yet. There's something poignant and melancholy about TRT that is only just balanced by how funny it is - it's soulful.

Anyway, it holds up beautifully. A perfect movie for a rainy Sunday afternoon.

227. Westies in ads

It seems perfectly sensible – and logical – to me, when companies use Westie dogs to help sell their products. Well, duh. Westies are the cutest, shnarfliest, wuffliest, bestest dogs in the whole wide world, so it obviously makes sense to hitch your wagon to their gorgeous little haunches.

Sadly, not all marketeers have cottoned on to this remarkably efficient, simple, strategy. They persist in using cute (?) children, handsome (?) boys and pretty (?) girls, when they could just use a Westie. They fly to Connemara, Vancouver, Bordeaux - when they could just use a Westie. They spend thousands on ad agencies and cynical, world-weary copywriters like me, developing cynical world-weary slogans that sound all fresh and hopeful and bubbly, when they could just use a Westie. Why? Why do they bother?

I think I've made my point.

I will open the floor out to other small dogs (particularly terriers, obvs) and the occasional larger hound as long as the first thing that crosses your mind when you see the pooch isn't 'big dog, big poos.' This thinking may be unique to me. I'm not sure.

So if you're thinking of starting a small business, or other commercial enterprise, I have a Westie for hire. She's not very white any more and she's almost entirely unpredictable where consistent behaviour is concerned, but she's a Westie, ergo she will help you sell your products. No, no need to thank me. You're welcome.

PS - She is afraid of her own farts, so remind me not to give her any veggies before the shoot or you'll need a contingency for overtime.

226. Echoes - Will Young

Another one for the list of my musical crimes - the new album by that nice Will Young. I've never owned any of his music before (the copy of his first album which is in my possession came from my rule of 'Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers at the beach. Just FYI.) Auntie Kim very sweetly bought this new one for me, for Christmas.
The first single, Jealousy, is like an earworm. And it turns out that the rest of the album is like that, too. My top three are Come On, Runaway and Personal Thunder. I am listening to this album on endless repeat and really struggling to get bored with it.

I always used to think that there was a grating chipmunk quality to the Young voice, but I've changed my mind. (Sidebar: I've changed my mind about Gary Oldman's Smiley, too. But that's a different blog.) And, frankly, there is something appealing about the fact that when Will Young's singing about his broken heart he's singing about a boy. Sorry, tiny bit of politics there. Won't do it again.

Herself can tune out my singing, and doesn't hear half the nonsense that comes out of my mouth, but she says that she likes this album, so you have a second opinion. She had to watch me dancing round the beach house to Thriller yesterday - wife and woofy sitting there staring at me with a mixture of affection and alarm. Ah, good times.

Anyway, I'm wittering. Will Young's album Echoes. It's a good un.

PS - the dog lovers should watch this video...

225. Thoughts for the Day

Work is being more than usually annoying at the moment, so we have taken to fortifying ourselves with bracing thoughts for the day. So far, they have centered on 'occupations which would be worse'.

I was working on a brief the other day for TENA incontinence pads, so my thought for the day became, 'I do not have to analyse the wet patches inside 350 adult all in one briefs.'

My friend Philippa, it turned out, is relatively untutored in the spectrum of revolting jobs, so her thought for the day became, "I do not have to hack the fat off the insides of the sewers."

Bizarre as it sounds, it works. And obviously my new goal is to find the most disgusting jobs undertaken by humans and tell Philippa what they are while she's eating (for maximum effect). Who says I'm not effective in the work-place?

224. Spiral

Spiral (or Engrenages in French France) is a French cop show. I luuuuurve it. It's violent and angry and sweary and makes Paris look ugly and everybody in it is morally compromised and it's GREAT.

Herself and I have watched 3 series on DVD and towards the end we had to ration our intake, to stave off the inevitable. Sadly for us, Season 4 has only just been made, so I'll have to wait a good few months before my addiction can be fed. Hm - I can feel a boxset coming on...

223. The Night Sky

Happy 2012, bleaders!

(Sorry to be tardy posting, had a bit on.)

Anyway, in Suffolk between Christmas and early January, the skies above were fair twinkly with stars. I've witnessed a starry night before, of course, but the rich tapestry of the night sky unfurled itself in a way that was quite mesmerising this time. Don't know why - maybe it was the Stilton.

I could even see some Milky Way - it was THAT clear and bright. Lovely, I tell you. Lovely.

But it was like being a small child again, and not knowing how to read. Herself is no good to me - she can do the big saucepan (which I KNOW is called something sensible really, so don't write in) but that's about it. A kindly friend told me that the three stars in a line was Orion's Belt, which was very exciting news. As we walked along the seafront, me tripping over small dogs, bollards and bins full of chip wrappers, too busy studying the stars to bother looking where I was going, Herself said wearily, "There's probably an App for your phone, you know. You could probably just point the phone at the sky and it would tell you what you're looking at."

Bleader, she was correct! It's called Night Sky (original) and cost 69 of your British pence. So now I will become extremely au fait with celestial patterns and will wow people with my knowledge. I'm excited. But of course there isn't really a night sky in London because of all the pollution, so I'll have to wait until this weekend to try it out. Look out for further reports!