Sabotage

Those of you who haven't been aware of me for more than a few months probably do not quite realise how momentous this new exercise thing is.

Those of you who do know me are probably still batting away the flashing lights and revolving on your office chairs after reading the initial posts about me embarking on an exercise thing in the first place.

I have wanted to incorporate exercise into my life for years. I may chuckle to myself when I float in the bath looking like an I'm auditioning for the part of 'bloated corpse in lake' for Silent Witness, but I loathe my pasty, untoned flesh, and hanker endlessly for a toned physique. I've had a little fling with aerobics, I even went swimming once, but I've never actually managed to sustain a stable relationship with physical fitness before (unless you count the hundreds of pounds I frittered on that tart Fitness First. But I don't want to talk about that, it makes me feel dirty).

Thanks to every humiliating sports day I ever suffered through, every time I was picked last, the sterling efforts of Ms Lashem (I kid you not), Mrs Wilke, and the evils of rounders, hockey, athletics, football, netball, tennis, and the bloody Ping! *run up the playground* Ping! *run down the playground* Ping! *get out stopwatch, place fingers on wrist, monitor heart-attack, dry-wretch* bastard fitness test thing, I HATE sport. Hate it hate it hate hate hate hate it.

I don't understand watching the stuff either - why would anyone want to look at a bunch of overpaid thickos they don't know boot a bag of air about, hopefully into a bigger bag? Or defend some bits of wood from a horrid, hurtling little leather-bound ball by clobbering it with a big bit of wood?

Ooh, and rounders. Don't even get me started on rounders. Teenagers should not be allowed to hurl chunks of skin-bound wood at other teenagers who have nothing but a narrow stick to defend themselves with. Madness! Thank god I was excused from PE for the last term of school. Well, my anaemia played havoc with my ability to perform as goal defence (best netball position ever - no running, not your fault if the ball goes in the net).

So now I am 28 years old, and I have this running thing going on. I accept that it's running or a life of sex by candlelight, and I get nervy about things going up *snigger*

But I seem to be sabotaging myself with artery-busting cuisine. Even though I keep thinking - baked potato! Salad! I end up heaping ladles of grilled macaroni cheese onto huge stacks of chips in the canteen. I'm drinking sugary JD and coke like a crazy bitch, and I can't stop thinking about chocolate flapjacks. I have been going out running every day, but seem to be consuming as much sugar and fat as I can by way of compensation. I am currently tackling a huge, butter-icing covered cake that has somehow found its way onto my workstation, through absolutely no fault of my own.

I think it will be OK in the end. Like the not-very-long runs, it's less about the actual exercise, and more about getting my mind used to the idea. So far, although I acknowledge my need for physical exercise, I am not mentally prepared to become one of 'those' people yet, and am smothering the good intentions underneath a tumbling mountain of spring rolls, Easter eggs, crisps, cashews, cheese and lager.

Ah well, baby steps. Pass the Battenburg.

Two for the price of one, son

It's all about Drew...

... as McFly would no doubt croon earnestly, raising millions for charidee in the process.

Andrew is finally back in Blighty, which technically negates the purpose of this blog. I shall, however, ignore this fact. It is absolutely wonderful to have him back, although by the time we'd spent a couple of hours lounging about in front of the telly, I'd forgotten he'd been away in the first place. The best bit will now be suddenly remembering all the things that I absolutely had to tell him right away or would probably die, but couldn't, and didn't, but now can. I imagine the filtration process will last for at least a couple of months, and span a wide range of subject matters from the smutty to the sublime, and sometimes both in one go.


Hey, hey hey, do the high-speed shuffle

... if Mick Jagger would no doubt sneer, if he could see me running.

After a bit of a lapse last week (yeah I didn't get a chance to run for seven days, whatever), I've gone all dominatrix on myself and have managed to drag my confused, pathetically bleating self out of bed at 7:30 every morning this week to go.. you know.. faster.

Getting up at 7:30 is brilliant because:
- I am too confused to make up cunning excuses and talk myself out of going
- I have more energy and it doesn't hurt so much

Getting up at 7:30 is not brilliant because:
- Who the hell wants to get up at 7:30? Not bloody me, are you mad? Why can't I be thin without trying? *sits on pavement and cries*

The thing is, I saw this poster today with a photo of a woman running over a bridge. Now, at no point have I ever made any pretensions towards your actual running running, I just use it as a generic term for, like, going faster and getting well hot. But this woman in the poster, her leg was kicking out behind her as she flew like a really fast runner across the edgy paving stones of the metropolis. But my legs do not kick out behind me. They hardly even leave the floor. Clara told me it's all about the heel-toe action and maximising your, you know, thingie, by, um, minimising your... output? Yeah.

Basically, what I think it means, is why try harder than you have to (and to be honest, trying as hard as I am - which wouldn't really be high up there on the athletic chart of trying hard - is already killing me). So I try to keep my feet close to the ground and my hands steady. Well, if I didn't, I'd drop me keys and me tape recorder.

I also keep my head down, for fear of catching the eye of the many pubescent school lads who roam the badlands of Chessington at that time - mainly because I want to think they are unrealistically but madly in lust with me, and cannot face the reality of having them shout "Knees up Grandma! Ha ha, look at that red-faced fat bird," or similar.

But I am becoming aware that, with the low feet and the slowness and the low eyes, I am doing something of a high-speed shuffle, and probably look like a fast-forwarded video of Bez, or maybe the old man downstairs going to the shops.

However. I am not longer on the verge of physical collapse by the time I get home, and think that maybe, at the weekend, I might try and go a little bit... further.

But not faster. I'm sticking with the high-speed shuffle.

Welcome home!

Well, Andrew, otherwise known as Drew. As I write this, you will be winging your way back to London. Probably. I haven't really worked that bit out.

You've been shaking your thing with the tank-topped, glitter-sprayed boys in the US of A for a week. I hope you haven't picked up any nasty rashes. When we see you, you will be golden brown. I know this, because you told me that you have been going on sunbeds so you look sun-kissed when you turn up at Heathrow, and you're going to pretend that you couldn't help but get really brown in the tropical sunshine, or whatever it is they have there. I said I was going to spoil your fun by getting even more tanned, but you know me. I couldn't be arsed. As there's been shag-all to do in Wellington, you will probably be in reasonable health from all the running and swimming and SEAFOOD (how can you not eat veggie sausages and then eat stuff out of the sea? I will never understand that about you), unless those boys worked you over real good, and took all your mojo.

Either way, I hope you have your drinking hat on, because I have the day off work and, even if you are jet-lagged, I think we should throw a few shots down to toast your return. I'm sorry, but the woman on the telly said it is going to rain tomorrow, so we will have to drink indoors.

It's possible you will have picked up an accent during your time in NZ, in which case I will have to take the piss out of you constantly, until the harsh realities of job and flat-hunting in London crush those exuberant tones out of you. However, as you failed to pick up the accent the whole time you were growing up there, I don't think this is very likely.

When you get back, you will be living with your sister. I give it two days before you try to kill each other. But that's OK, because me and Caroline don't mind if she stays over at our house sometimes, or if you do. We're not fussy.

Andrew, when you see us tomorrow, we will all have changed. I have had my hair cut. And I have re-envisaged myself with a newer, slimmer physique. It's only a matter of time before the reality catches up. Christopher has been growing his hair. We may look different, but we're still the same people on the inside - we're still your friends. And we can't wait to see you, and read that book of yours.

Welcome home, Andrew! (otherwise known as Drew)

Why Corrie is better than 'Enders right now

Fred Elliott to Roy Cropper in Roy's Rolls last week: "You are a tree-hugging, brown rice-eating, chatter-up of flowers..."

I want you to know that...

...I will never forgive you for digging your finger into my Carmex.

It has been two months, and I have only just smoothed over the churned-up surface.

I shall never offer a straight boy lip lubricant again.

David Schwimmer is the new Christian Slater. Discuss.

David Schwimmer is appearing in Some Girls in the West End, and is all over the London party circuit like Anna Nicole Smith over a screaming interior designer brandishing a bottle of cheap gin.
Much like Slater before him, it was at first shocking to realise that Schwimmer was present at all the better parties, alongside such luminaries as Sophie Anderton, Calum Best, and Dean Gaffney.
But as his semi-iconic mug crops up again and again, Schwimmer is fast becoming as familiar a sight on the ''society' pages as Neil and Christine Hamilton.
A couple of months ago, the formally - and some might say persistently - gorgeous Slater finally quit his extended run of Cuckoo's Nest at the Gielgud, and clawed himself away from the tarnished allure Soho's dark and smoky drinking clubs, long-legged actresses, and Brit luvvie chums (though his marriage was in tatters by the time he made it back to New York).

Schwimmer may not be a star of Slater's calibre, but he seems to have filled the void of globally recognised American rubbing shoulders with Anthony Costa and Lisa I'Anson in London's glitzier pleasure emporiums. Sadly, he has already dallied with non-A list celeb ladies Natalie Imbruglia and former S Clubber Tina Barrett, which knocks points off his sexual credibility.
Slater, if he were to have been tempted to stray, I'm sure would have wandered with a bevy of chorus girls, or some racy tart from Bishops Stortford he stumbled over in a velvet-clad, beer-stained bar following a performance of Mama Mia. Class, pure goddamn class.

But Schwimmer does the job for now, although his reign as big American celebrity here in little ol' Blighty could be in peril. The uber-dynamic Robert Downey Junior is in town, and might just rob the hapless Friends star of his moment in the limey-light.

Eeeek! Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the canteen...

Not that I'm suggesting that the British media likes a good food scare story or anything...

Inspired by the awful Evening Standard's toothpaste cancer story last week.



Toothpaste in cancer scare.

Is your deodorant giving you cancer?

Chromium picolinate, popular with dieters and bodybuilders, is linked to cancer.

Green Cuisine Ground Chilli, Wing Yip TRS Chilli Powder Extra Hot, Indus Foods Indus Chilli Powder extra hot, The Spice Shop Organic Cayenne Pepper and Bart Spices Organic Paprika are linked to cancer.

E110, or Sunset Yellow, used in cereals, sweets, ice cream and canned fish, is linked to cancer.

It has long been believed that the changes in diets could be linked to cancer.

Scientists have already confirmed that acrylamide, a chemical found in crisps, chips, cereals, bread, rice and other foods - can cause cancer.

Twinsweet, another artificial sweetener, is a combination of the controversial sweeteners aspartame and acesulfame K. Aspartame is thought to break down into other chemicals which have been linked to cancer.

Can prawns give you cancer?

Almost all fish contain some levels of dioxin, which is linked to cancer, brain abnormalities and reproductive problems.

Heavily salted and pickled foods have been linked to cancer.

Health fanatics who pop too many vitamin C pills may run a higher risk of cancer.

Chemicals linked to cancer and birth defects have been found in eggs and chicken portions.

Soy sauce containing 3-MCPD has been linked to cancer.

More than a third of Britons are eating "healthy" oily fish that contain levels of toxic PCB and dioxins - cancer-causing chemicals - that break new safety limits.

Farmed salmon contains PCBs and other dioxin-like contaminants linked to cancer.

The European Food Safety Authority confirmed the discovery of semicarbazide, which can damage DNA, in a range of products, including babyfood.

Lettuce, tomatoes, and fruit - basically anything that grows above the ground - is more likely to have been sprayed several times with cancer-causing pesticides.

Because of pesticides, vegetables such as potatoes are likely to contain chemicals, some of which have been linked to cancer and infertility.

A fibre-rich diet thought to prevent bowel cancer may cause the disease, research suggests.

Soya - found in vegetarian foods, and a key ingredient in products from meat sausages and fish fingers to salad creams and breakfast cereals - had been linked to cancer and brain damage.

The SA has recently allowed the use of sodium nitrate, a preservative linked to cancer, in organic bacon.

Fluoride absorption can be linked to cancer, Down's syndrome, bone fractures and thyroid disorders.

Lindane is a hormone-disrupting chemical and is used on strawberries, grassland and in grain stores. It has been linked to cancer.

Nitrates and nitrites, used in cured meats, have also been linked to cancer in laboratory animals.

Leading brands of tinned food contain a 'gender-bending' chemical linked to cancer and damaged sexual development has been found in more than half of the cans of food on sale in supermarkets.

Ever so slightly crushed

I tried very hard to style my all-new, fan-f*cking-tastic hair this morning. I didn't use too much product, I dried it in sections, as per instructions. I studied the photographic evidence of said barnet at its finest hour, I solemnly and seriously set aside at least quadruple the maximum amount of time usually spent of coifing myself up of a morning. And it looks pretty good.

It may not be sleek, but it is subtly defined.

The front parting isn't what it should be, but I don't look the receding male members of my family.

But the Nicky Clarke Hairomatherapy wax is really making my nose tingle.

If you were being cruel, you could say it looks a little flat, and also maybe a touch lank.

And I look ever so slightly like Simon Le Bon.

Going faster

I went running on Friday. Well, I say running, let's get this straight, I am not Forest Gump, and there was no running being done. But I dislike the term jogging, it sounds like an activity favoured by the sort of person who goes to bed early and says things like "Oh Martin and I were having sex again three weeks after Alexandra was born, but then, she was already sleeping through," who possibly also plays hockey and netball in the manner of a 14-year-old, despite being 36. So I shall henceforth refer to the thing I do that makes me redder than any other thing I do as 'going faster'. That about sums it up.

Anyway, I wanted to post about the going faster on Friday, but Blogger was b*llocksed up. The reason I wanted to post about it was that I got up at 7:30am and went before work. And then, and then, I actually did go to work, and didn't phone in sick then lie on my sofa all day catching up on a little daytime TV, because quite frankly, getting up at 7:30am and going faster is quite enough for one day, thank you. But anyway, I am going to cease documenting this monumental event at this point, because those who don't know me are probably sick of hearing about the going faster, and those who do will have just read the bit about 7:30am, and they will probably have gone blind with shock and fallen backwards off their chairs.

So, onto a far more interesting subject - my hair. I had my hair cut by senior stylist at Tony & Guy in Wimbledon on Saturday. The reason I had rented the pricey fingers of a senior stylist to slice up my crowning glory was that Amy and Caroline bought me fifty quid's worth of T&G vouchers for my birthday, which I promptly lost put somewhere safe. I had started to think I was never going to get that damn birthday haircut, when lo! The vouchers finally manifested themselves from a secret dimension, a portal to which is surely located in the mystical recesses of my knicker drawer. Now I have, for the first time in my life, a haircut that actually suits my face. I would get the photo off my phone and put it on here to show you, but of course I have no farkin idea how to do that (and if I did it would be sideways) so you will just have to trust me.

Now, clearly I would like to use this weblog for good, and so I will share with you the wisdom I gathered at Tony & Guy on Saturday. Go for the senior stylist. It's ten pounds more. Ten tiny pounds. That's an accidental wander down the nibbley bits aisle at M&S. Don't fritter away your pertest, most collagen-plumped, child-free years sadly preening and flirting with a tragic, misshapen barnet sprouting forth from your noggin, all for the sake of ten measly pounds. Oh, what a waste.

It could be worse

Quote from the Prince of Darkness to start the week:

"I'm not proud of everything I've done. I'm not proud of having a poor education. I'm not proud of being dyslexic. I'm not proud of being an alcoholic drug addict. I'm not proud of biting the head off a bat. I'm not proud of having attention deficit disorder. But I'm a real guy. To be Ozzy Osbourne, it could be worse. I could be Sting."

Just in case you were wondering...

OK, so I don't actually advocate dole-bludging. But it's more the almost brutally forceful joie de vivre and essential vitality of youth encapsulated in Wham's lyrics that appeal to me. Well, all the stuff about going to parties a lot. And George Michael rapping. Heh.

I'll never forget when I was listening to this song in my car, and realised I was singing "Do you enjoy what you do?" and suddenly, obscurely, sickeningly realised the answer was no. So don't listen to cheesy pop, folks, unless you're prepared to spend the next two years struggling to steer your career in a totally different direction.

Pesky rapping George Michael, and pesky Andrew Ridgley, doing that... Andrew Ridgley thing that he did (does anyone remember what he did? Did he do some singing?).

But I do enjoy what I do now. Which is nice.

"Wham! Rap (Enjoy Waht You Do)"
[Chorus:]
WHAM! BAM!
I AM! A MAN!
JOB OR NO JOB,
YOU CAN'T TELL ME THAT I'M NOT.
DO! YOU!
ENJOY WHAT YOU DO?
IF NOT, JUST STOP!
DON'T STAY THERE AND ROT!

You got soul....
You got soul....
I said get, get, get on down,
Said get, get, get, on down.
Hey everybody take a look at me,
I've got street credibility,
I may not have a job,
But I have a good time,
With the boys that I meet "down on the line"
I said, I - DON'T - NEED - YOU
So you don't approve,
Well who asked you to?
HEY - JERK - YOU - WORK
This boy's got better things to do
Hell,
I ain't never gonna work, get down in the dirt,
I choose, to cruise.
Gonna live my life, sharp as a knife,
I've found my groove and I just can't lose.
A.1. style from head to toe,
Cool cat flash gonna let you know,
I'm a soul boy - I'm a dole boy,
Take pleasure in leisure, I believe in joy!

[Chorus]

Party nights, and neon lights,
We hit the floors, we hit the heights.
Dancing shoes, and pretty girls.
Boys in leather kiss girls in pearls!
Hot-damn! Everybody, let's play!
So they promised you a good job - NO WAY!

One, two, three, rap!
C'mon everybody, DON'T NEED THIS CRAP!

[Chorus]

IF YOU'RE A PUB MAN
OR A CLUB MAN
MAYBE A JET BLACK GUY WITH A HIP HI-FI
A WHITE COOL CAT WITH A TRILBY HAT
MAYBE LEATHER AND STUDS IS WHERE YOU'RE AT
MAKE THE MOST OF EVERY DAY
DON'T LET HARD TIMES STAND IN YOUR WAY
GIVE A WHAM GIVE A BAM BUT DON'T GIVE A DAMN
COS THE BENEFIT GANG ARE GONNA PAY!

Now reach up high and touch your soul,
The boys from Wham! will help you reach that goal.
It's gonna break your mama's heart, (so sad)
It's gonna break your daddy's heart, (too bad)
But you'll throw the dice and take my advice,
Because I know that you're smart.
Can you dig this thing? - YEAH!
Are you gonna get down? - YEAH!
Say Wham! - WHAM!
Say Bam! - BAM!

[Chorus]

Do you want to work? - NO
Are you gonna have fun? - YEAH
Said one, two, three, rap, c'mon everybody,
DON'T NEED THIS CRAP!
ENJOY WHAT YOU DO?
Everybody say Wham! - WHAM!
Everybody say Wham! Bam! - WHAM! BAM!
ENJOY WHAT YOU DO?

Knickers

I've done it again! What the hell is wrong with me? OK, so I only leave myself 25 minutes to shower and wash my hair, dress, pack my bag and blow-dry my hair, but really.

Running... out of headers

I am on the brink of signing up for the Race For Life in Hyde Park on July 24th.

It's only 5km *snorts with horror/laughter*

It's just that, if I don't have a deadline hanging over me, I will procrastinate, stand in front of the open fridge eating pesto and mustard with a butter knife, lie on the sofa staring at the ceiling, anything, anything, rather than go running. Unless I am threatened by humiliation, mild violence, or docked pay, I don't do stuff. That's just the way I am. On the rare occasions I DO do stuff without being coerced, I feel wonderful. And I think - I could be like this all the time! And life would be just peachy sweet! But do I change? No I don't.

And the race raises money for Cancer Research, and I know my Auntie Gilly would have a right laugh at the idea of me helping to generate funds through the medium of sport. Honestly, if you could see the colour of my face when I exercise, you'd cry, you really would.

I went out on my own for the first time last night. Somebody brilliant suggested I use my old tape-fuelled Walkman for musical inspiration, as I have to carry my discman gently along on just the right slant, as if it were a saucer of milk. Even when it is lovingly perched in my lap on the train, a bump on the track can send it skittering into an abyss of confusion, leaving me tapping, turning, tilting and squeezing it encouragingly for anything up to ten minutes, until the music blasts back into my ears and makes me jump like a startled kitten.

So, not much use for running, really.

The problem with tapes is, I only have two at home. One is Reactivate 10, a quite profoundly brilliant collection of superb dance music classics, compiled in what must have been a vintage year. The other tape is Wham! If You Were Here, which is in many different ways an inspiration. I mean, I live my life by the lyrics of the Wham Rap. No really, I do. But I'm not sure if it's suitable jogging fayre.

I may also be close to perfecting my outfit, although it ain't pretty. When I started this job, I found a freebie Reebok sporty supporty orangish toppy thing in my desk drawer, which had been confined to under-bed storage, never to be worn, until I remembered it was there and retrieved it. Amazing how those things offer so much support. Bra straps, you see, dive off the shoulder at the first sign of vigorous movement. Well trained, my bras.

Sadly, the top clashes horribly with the red trackies and the puce face (oh, oh, my face), but is concealed by the hoodie. I've also added a scarf - which miraculously halted the potentially jog-threatening neck stiffness - and stuck a bit of gum in my face to aid concentration. An unsolicited bonus was that when I ran around a corner and unexpectedly straight into a sprawling, pavement-wide gang of brawling, marauding chavs, I was eyeballed curiously yet allowed to pass. If they'd looked closely, they would have realised there was no Burberry or Nickleson or McKenzie or Hackett, but I fooled them with my camouflage and was allowed to pass unmocked, and un-spat at.

And the biggest surprise about the running? I don't hate it.

Weird.

I would like to confess...

...that I spent the whole of Monday with my knickers on inside out.

At least I managed to get them underneath my tights. Although I'm told that knickers over tights is a great way to stop the horrific nylon tubes of claustrophobia from falling down.

Don't think a thong could cut it, though. So to speak.

Running on empty

I'm going to run out of running headers soon. Ha!

So. I got up on Saturday morning after a pretty tranquil Friday night - ting! Gold Star! - and traipsed home to prepare myself for all the running. As I had failed to master the mental concept of what running means and how to do it while I was asleep, I decided to create some jogging alter-ego. Well, Beyonce has her alter-ego stage persona, the tantrum-throwing diva Sasha, so I don't see any reason why I can't have some kind of inner prima donna who bounds through the park with her pony-tail swinging, screaming at squirrels to get the f*ck out of the way, and kicking trees if fellow joggers dare to pass at a greater speed.

Sadly, my brilliant plans were thwarted when I got home and realised my inner jogging diva would have to wear old Nike Airs, red Hennes trackies, a white t-shirt, my sister's baggy old grey Gap hoodie, fingerless gloves and a denim baseball cap, because that's all my outer loser has to wear. So, I didn't even get around to naming her. I think I'll call her - Slowy.

Getting carried away with the whole health thing, I had an apple, banana and a glass of water for breakfast (tee hee! I ate breakfast!), and drove over to Clara's to pick her up. As she jogged out of her house, I was relieved to see that she was sporting similar attire, and a headband. I don't think she couldn't find her inner diva, either.

We listened to Chaz 'n' Cam's wedding on the way, and mused that enjoying a jog in a sunny royal park while they said their vows would have been a highly appropriate way to mark the occasion, had we cared.

I did OK, we managed about 35 minutes, with a fair bit of walking. But we were blowing while we were walking, and doing marching arms, so it counts as exercise. Launching into a jog was weird, man, and we both had flashbacks to cross country at school (Clara was usually at the back, I was generally walking, and probably crying). Motivations were:

Clara's brother David, who is all slim but on the Atkins diet nonetheless. Grr! (jogs faster)
Hotpants. Argh! (jogs faster)

Eventually, I had a stitch in both shoulders and a crick in my neck, so I had to give up. My face went SO RED, SO VERY, VERY RED, I couldn't believe it. And I thought I hadn't pushed myself very hard, but by god did I feel it when I woke up on Sunday morning. Afternoon. Whatever.

Oh, and there were some really cool duck things in the park. But we didn't see any deer. Then we went to the pub.

Yesterday, I meant to go for another run, but couldn't because I was too sore from being too vain to warm up in the car park. Well, I'd have looked a right wally, wouldn't I? Maybe not as much of a wally as I look limping gingerly up and down the escalators and around work, but hey. Anyway, I totally undid all the good work by purchasing about a four million calories, then cooking them, eating them, and licking them off the tins last night. Mmm, roast chicken.

I want to go tonight, but I still feel like I've been shoved into a barrel and rolled down a hill. How does jogging sprain your ribcage? How? How?

Hey, I'm crying on the inside

I'm having on of those days where it seems that for everyone around me, the least fascinating, most choresome, tiring, uninteresting thing they could possibly do is finish a conversation with me. I'm sure they are all busy, but unfortunately I have to communicate with them. Is it so hard to finish a sentence? All I want is a brief exchange of words, but no.

I don't know whose mothers advised them that turning their heads in another direction is a suitable way to close a dialogue, or why some people think that talking really fast then saying goodbye and hanging up is a suitable way to answer telephone queries, or where certain PRs were taught that a curt, unhelpful email answering precisely none of the questions posed is a great way to generate coverage...

...hey, are you...?

Oh, I give up.

Running scared

I'm going jogging tomorrow. No, I've never done it before. No, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. All I know is I'm sick and tired of inhabiting a bag of porridge, and that I want thighs like sculpted marble which shimmer excitingly in the summer sunshine. This summer, I do not want to sit on a pub bench in a split-front skirt and look down to discover I have cultivated a lap-arse. Puts you right off your Pimms, that does.

So I'm going running with Clara. We are going running. Clara and I are going running. Of course. The reason I chose Clara is Caroline told me she used to belong to the gym's running club. When quizzed on her days as a dedicated pavement pounder, it was revealed that she only went twice, and everyone thought she was asthmatic. But, compared to me, she's a pro, so we're meeting at midday in Bushy Park.

The problem I have is that I don't actually know HOW to run. You might as well ask me to perform a backflip, scale a building, or clamber about on monkey bars. My body's like - wha? Do wha? Last time I really f*ckin ran for a train (I do believe the journey was from Sunbury to New Malden, and the year was 1995), I still had the shakes after a 25 minute train ride, and I had to scoff an entire bag of peanut M&Ms in order to recover.

Thing is, I have to run as I am too skint to join the gym, too busy to go to the gym, and there, um, is no gym near my house. I have tracksuit bottoms, I have trainers. I have fat arms that look like sacks of spam. After a monumental and decade long battle, the white-knuckled hand of the fiery combined force of my vanity and self-loathing is finally twisting around and edging down the determined limb of my hell-bent laziness in their eternal arm-wrestle. I want to look good in hot pants. No matter how much I want to lie on the sofa watching Charmed, I just really, really want to look good in hot pants. And I know that, if I were to disrobe from my PJs and pour myself into my Ibiza shorts, the resulting image would make me cry.

So.

Looks like I'm going running.

Heel toe

Nobody told me that when you wear proper girl shoes, and you wear them all the time (and not just to show off for a bit at parties before realising your skin's laddered and bleeding, and you have to take the shoes off and carry them around all night, getting really filthy feet and totally annihilating your tights in the process), the heel tips wear out.

I wore my first pair down after a month - a month! Shame on you, Office. One minute I'm poncing about in blissful ignorance, the next, the heel tip's off and I'm left hobbling around on a scratchy metal stump, wondering what the hell happened.

Two months later, the buggers have worn down again - does this mean that I am extremely fat or something? Because it makes me feel extremely fat. Imagine what would happen if I didn't have shoes on, for crying out loud. I'd be down to nothing but ankle bone by August.

So it's drizzling outside, I'm broke, and I don't want to go to Timpsons to stand in my tights looking at key fobs and shoe polish while the nice young men re-heel me. But there's just a sliver of plastic left, and the metal peg is totally sticking through. If I have to feel the scrape of metal on pavement through my bones again, I swear my teeth will retract into my skull, my eyeballs will shrivel, and my nails will crawl right back up inside my fingers.

Going back

There are a couple of clubs I used to go to - back in what I understand is officially known as 'the day' - that I resolved on January 1 2004 that I would never, ever go to again. One of them is called the 414 and it is located on Coldharbour Lane in Brixton.

I unexpectedly ran into the 414 at the weekend, and I feel I would publicly apologise to the venue for any bad feeling between us.

414, you were my training camp. I cut my teeth on your Breezer-soaked carpet tiles. I learned how to pee and hold the toilet door shut with my foot whilst balancing my bag on my lap to avoid minor flooding in your very own ladies convenience. I have stared at my mascara-streaked mug in your misty mirror a thousand times. You helped me to master a spiral staircase in the dark at an unsteady run - a skill that will stay with me forever. My people skills are second to none thanks to late-night chats with your surreal clientele. Where else, if not within your hallowed and dripping walls, would I have learned there was such thing as scented toilet paper, how good a pot noodle can taste at 1.30am on a Monday morning, or just how much one can need a cup of tea at 3.30am on a Saturday night?

My god, I used to turn up like clockwork every Saturday night without even knowing what event was on, and even when it was gabba, we'd just sit it out upstairs with our hands over our ears, smiling at the mutant tropical fish and chatting. I don't think any other could make me feel like you did on bank holidays. When I was suddenly alone in central London one autumn night, I spent my last few quid on a cab to Brixton, knowing I'd be let in for free and kept safe until the trains started running.

So where did it all go wrong? People grow, they change. I changed. 414, I thought I was better than you. And the reason I said what I said that new year's day is that I had found a new club, called Fire, that offered me a so many things I'd never experienced before. The sound system blew me away, the people were fabulous - even the freaks were more like carnival acts than the snaggle-toothed monsters in dirty day-glo that I had grown used to. I made some incredible new friends, and I discovered something that I felt had been missing between us for some time. I didn't want to run into tie-dyed hippies who smelled of old carpets anymore. I didn't want to be flicked with sweat by a headband-and-shorts-wearing university lecturer from Guilford. I needed something else.

Fire was a revelation to me, and after a long discussion, Annabel and I made a resolution to officially never go back to 414 again. It's not that I thought you didn't have anything to offer, just not to me. Not anymore.

Once the decision had been made, I had no trouble sticking to it. If anyone asked me to come along, I just told them I didn't go to 414 anymore, and never would again. It felt good. Although I would speak glowingly of our formative years, I never missed you.

414, when I found myself standing on your ever-so-slightly refurbished dancefloor on Sunday, I didn't realise what a good time I was going to have that day. I had forgotten the whole point of the 414, I forgot how good we were together. I know it was messy between us towards the end, and I still love Fire. But I want to say sorry for dismissing you like that. You and I go back a long, long way. I hope every now and then, we can still hook up, and work some of that old Coldharbour Lane magic.

Humiliation

When I woke up this morning feeling less than glamorous, I should have known.

When my hair kinked and frizzed, my skin opted for dull, and my unused second ear-piercing went mysteriously bright red, I should have known.

For round our way, that can mean only one thing.

It means that a senior co-worker is going to pounce, and send you packing at a moment's notice to a corner of the building, where a photographer lies in wait.

And there, he shall take out his big camera and snap many images of you grinning self-consciously and doing something ridiculous.

(Today, I was supposed to be cheerfully consuming a biscuit, whilst inexplicably holding a cup of tea up to my head. I smiled broadly, and attempted to twinkle. End result - double chin, moronic gaping beam, squinty eyes.)

Then the picture people shall select the wrongest of all the images, and they shall publish them for all to see.

Thank god I managed to wait until afterwards to dribble tea down myself.

Still. Beats working for a living.