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.