The Purse of Truth

In a previous post, L referred to the 'Yes/No' purse she bought me at Spitalfields market, as a birthday present. Last year, with my friends J and J in Italy, I discovered this purse has magical powers. It has yes on one side, and no on the other. If you ask the purse a direct question, it will answer you. You can however, never ask the purse a question about yourself, only other people. It has been devastating in its accuracy. It predicted J and D's split. It also could have saved her the £8.99 she spent on a pregnancy test, but she didn't believe it when it told her she wasn't having a baby. It told C she would marry A without a problem (which did indeed happen), and is predicting a family for them within the year. More worryingly, it predicted not such good things for P's thesis. But I expect it was having an off day that day.

Moving On Up

And so the end of an era is nigh. At the beginning of next month, Male Model and I shall be parting ways, and I shall never again have to live in a block of flats. Oh, raaaahh, these bloody newbuilds, with their paper-thin walls, lack of sufficient windows and fire-proof heavy doors. The whole set-up is too communal for me, especially given my proximity to Screaming Orgasm Woman upstairs, Dope Smoking Students downstairs, and Sleazy Martial Arts Expert Avec Fiancee Who Every Once In A While Makes A Pass At Me opposite. And that ghastly cat, thanks to whom I live in constant fear. Will it be lying in wait for me on the stairs in the morning, its clear green eyes glinting with evil as it stares me out and refuses to budge? Will it jump out at me when I open the front door, its tail (shudder!) raised in hatred and defiance, as it hisses threateningly at me? The constant fear and uncertainty generated by Evil Cat has raised my blood pressure immeasurably.

And Male Model. Hmmm. Well, I certainly won’t miss the mess and the dirt; the shoes left all over the place; the grubby fingerprints on the glass coffee table, the dog-eared evidence of his having perved all over my art (not porn, thank you very much) books, the sodding fish tank and his dubious methods of cleaning it; the numerous and pointless electrical gadgets…

Although, bless him, the boy has been an absolute sweetheart, counselling me through my recent difficult period, giving me boy advice (which sadly has not helped at all), supporting and encouraging me, feeding me leftover Christmas chocolate and various delicacies from the M&S food hall and generally being very lovely.

But, the time has come for me to continue my slow progression up the Northern Line, further into the centre of London. Hoorah for urbanism! My new living companions will be South African Male Accountant and South African Female Teacher. I dread to think what cringeworthy stereotypes we collectively form of a Jewish household, but they are lovely, around the same age as me, and more importantly, committed to a clean, tidy and hygienic lifestyle.

Now all I need is a new job. And if anyone is offering to make all my dreams come true, please bring me a man with no “baggage”, who will not break my heart.

My Personal Guide to London

So, the time has come to depart back to my Belfast life of work, teaching, and the odd pint or a hundred... Have just had an email from a friend bringing me up to speed on the Belfast gossip, and blimy! in my six month absence, people have had babies (1, female), got engaged (1 couple: L knows the man involved!), split up (2 couples), bought houses (3 people), got pregnant (3 people)... Do you see what a normal, productive, family, house, couple world it is? No wonder I don't fit in!!

So here is my idiosyncratic guide to my personal London "must do" list. If you do this, you have, in my opinion, experienced much of the best the capital has to offer. But I expect the other girls will have v different lists...

1) The Southbank

Throbbing cultural heart of London now, rescued from the indignity of being "South of the river". There are great restaurants, bookshops, and of course the NFT, the Hayward Gallery, and the National Theatre. Take a stroll from the London Aquarium to Tate Modern/ the Globe and marvel at the views and everything you can do. Try and ignore the stupid people standing still for money - never get this form of "entertainment".

2) Tate Modern

It gets its own entry. I still don't like the general hang of the paintings -it leaps around too much in time for my own pedantic liking, though they have some fabulous stuff. But the two very contemporary exhibitions I have been to see Pierre Hugyhe and Fischli and Weiss have been revelations - wonderfully curated, accessibly presented, witty, warm, and thought provoking.

3) The National

While we are on a general cultural vibe, must also record just how wonderful the National is these days, especially thanks to Ken's inspired decision to get rid of the traffic by Trafalgar Square. You can sit and have a sneaky fag (if you are still a smoker!) and admire the view, then go in and see some of the best paintings in the world, for free....And have a coffee or a wine in the Rooftop restaurant of the National Portrait Gallery next door, great views over Trafalgar Square and back down to Whitehall. You can fantasise being a sniper and being able to get Gordon Brown!

4) North London

For me, the best bit of London stretches from Camden out to Hampstead and Highgate and back down to Angel. There are vast areas of park (Waterlow, with wonderful views back to the city; and, of course, Hampstead Heath), millions of cafes, bars, and great pubs such as the Flask in Highgate Village - C and my's new local. I just love the vibe of North London, even if in the summer I had the odd nostalgic moment for Putney and the river...

5) Night Buses

Did you know my friend Marty has lived in London for a decade and never taken a night bus??!! To me,this seems strangely symbolic of a fear of risk - how self controlled do you have to be to NEVER EVER have had an evening where lust, or drink, or sheer bloody fun, have prevented you from catching the final tube? Night buses are a godsend. They are a safe way home (usually!) and they criss cross the entire city. You feel strong and independent getting one, and sometimes you have funny conversations. Don't sit next to someone who is asleep though, they might wake up and vomit on you.

6) Buying Sunday's paper on Saturday evening on the way home

And then in my case, never having time to read the thing in the week. But makes you feel part of happening, throbbing metropolis, where the news is always available, and life is lived at great speed

7) El Commandante

My beloved local pub! A shrine to Che Guevara run by two Bolivian political refugees. It's always a fiesta in there.

8) The quirky little museums

Any one of these three: easy to look round, fascinating, and entirely different. Freud Museum; Sir John Soane's Museum; Lord Leighton's House (the last has a quite mind blowing Arabian room)

9) The shopping!

It always overwhelms me, the quality and range of choice you can get. An hour or two in Selfridges or a browse along the King's Road will fulfill all your consumption urges, and blow a hole in your savings.

10) South Ken

One of the venerable London neighbourhoods. My pattern is arrive, go for crepe at the Creperie de South Kensington, go and buy Biba magazine at the French bookshop, watch a film at the Institut Francais. Alternatives include a traipse around the V and A, where you can do everything from admiring some Vivienne Westwood shoes to a piece of 14th century religious art, then a meal at the Cafe Daquise, which as long as you are not with drunk lairy friends and don't bump into your life's mentor, is fab, with proper old world Polish classics - love the blinis in particular.

11) The East End

I'm sneakily adding this a bit late, but I went for dinner with P on Tuesday night and we ended up at a restaurant near Old Street and I'm reminded just what a peculiar and particular part of town this is, with the contrast between the Hoxton trendies (they still exist) and the hundreds of curry houses on Brick Lane (they aren't going anywhere). I have done some of the most unexpected things here - gone to a gallery opening with L and some of her friends, where we critiqued photographs showing terrible poverty and injustice while sipping gin and tonics; gone for a curry at one in the morning with my friend J and a load of guys from the passport office; gone for curry with my ex-boyfriend because his new girlfriend being more health conscious than self doesn't "do" curry - I'm his naan bread whore; spent happy hours wondering around Spitalfields market buying things I don't need but love anyway (like my trusty bobbly scarf).

12) The Electric Ballroom in Camden

Relive your youth! Drink cheap (ish) beer, dance to Tiffany, snog a boy you don't fancy!

The Past, The Present, The Future

2 entirely unrelated things have happened in my life that have pushed me towards a series of thoughts about the way I conceive my relationship to the past and the future, and the contradictions, instabilities and complexities of my position. On the surface, these two acts have nothing to do with each other, and one is political, the other personal. Yet they are entirely intertwined. The first is the announcement on 6 December by the bastard Gordon Brown, my personal number one hate figure and regular feature in my pub rants (he has only made one other blog appearance, a miracle)that the government will be placing a "green tax" on flying. This will come into effect on 1 Feb, and shockingly in my opinion, will be charged retroactively i.e. even if you bought your tickets months ago, you will be charged the extra tax, having to pay it in cash at the airport!!! So how then is this green? The environment doesn't give a toss how much you paid to produce the carbon, the carbon has the same effects. So by charging people this supposedly green tax that is meant to curb the behaviour AFTER the behaviour has already been committed, the hypocrisy of the whole enterprise is laid bare. And I shan't even start on Tony "but of course I must fly to Miami" Blair. Of course, my particular venom has been raised on this point because my job is in a location which means to see my family, my friends, to have any semblance of a cultural life, and to engage in any meaningful way with the world, I am forced to get on a plane. Now my flight has doubled in price overnight thanks to the government. Is the government going to use the extra tax raised to build a high speed train link between England and Ireland? I doubt this very much. Flying isn't much fun for anyone unless they are superwealthy - I spent fifteen hours stuffed into cattle class just last week to get back from KL - so the idea that making people pay an extra forty quid will make a difference is laughable - people already put up with so much, that it must be obvious to all but a fool that the benefits of flying to many people far outweigh the disadvantages - getting to see the world, see their relative and friends, experience otherness. To be honest, I think that is all FAR MORE IMPORTANT than some putative future generation. I don't give a fuck that in a hundred years time, other peoples' grandchildren will live in a radically different and more unstable world climitically - I prefer and value my present more. In fact, I value my present ability to fly cheaply and easily over some hypothetical future disaster that may occur to me. And here we move onto the second event. On 6 December (same day as GB made his announcement!!) I smoked my last cigarette. I can't say I will never have another again (post posh meals and house parties are always v tempting) but I have given up, and am determined not to cave in. I have managed the pub with Marty and brunch with D without succumbing. I hope I can cope in Belfast without the support of my friend nicotine, but I'm going to give it a bloody good go. I wonder what my motivation is for this? For my statement about flying was always the one I used to explain my smoking - it is immensely pleasurable, relaxing act, an ideal quick compensation (everything going wrong? a cigarette is always there to comfort and sustain) which enhances most events. Why do I care about some future horrible disease faced with an enjoyable evening in the pub with my friends, of which smoking is an intrinsic element? I find myself puzzled by my own determination to give up smoking. I wonder where the motivation - strong as it is - has come from. For an optimist, I have always rather dreaded the future, which seems to me shadowy, dark, and full of potential problems, and have lived in, nay revelled in the present, in immediacy, and in engagement with present circumstances and situations, underlined by a nostalgia for the past. Maybe this is why I've never felt the urge to buy a home, and my savings are strictly as a rock against "the scary future." Does giving up smoking suggest I am secretly more invested in the future than I know? Still going to bloody fly as much as possible, though. In fact, maybe I shall use the money saved by not smoking to buy extra air tickets!

Big Brother and the Curse of Modern "Celebrity"

Aaahh, a new season of Celebrity Big Brother: the tears and the tantrums over shopping lists, the mindlessness of grown adults, desperate for adulation, sitting around a squalid house all day doing bugger all, the inexplicable watchability of such vacuous crap... what is it about this programme that endures?

Since the late-nineties, there has been an explosive growth in our fascination with other people's lives. It started with Candace Bushnell's New York Times(?) column based on her life as a thirty-something singleton.Helen Fielding penned a similar column for the Independent. Both became best-selling books, and were later adapted for the visual media; Bushnell's for the small screen, and Fielding's for the big screen. Around this time, a journalistic vogue for diarised observations in weekend supplements had begun; Kate Muir in The Times on Saturday writing about living as a Briton with her young family in Paris, and later, in Suburban Virginia. This writing became far more intimate and personal when Ruth Picardie serialised her battle with cancer in The Observer, and John Diamond produced a similar account of his own illness in The Times on Saturday (Diamond's story was also showcased in a BBC documentary).

Our bubbling fascination with the lives of media faces facilitated what in another media age may have been regarded as the audacious interviews with the Princess of Wales (Martin Bashir) and the Prince of Wales (Jonathan Dimbleby), and which certainly became apparent in the collective public mourning that followed the death of Diana.

It was not long after this that Big Brother burst onto our screens. Media commentary at the time was focused on the pseudo-psychological experimentational aspect of 12 strangers thrown together, in what would now be a laughable analysis. But we were hooked. I am often scorned at for my long-held assertions that Bg Brother is no merely trash TV, but is in fact an ironic, post-modern look at our contemporary culture. In fact, I would argue that that first screening of Big Brother represented a ivotal moment in what has now descended into our deplorable demand for quick-fix solutions and the worship of virtuality.

The first group of housemates to enter the Big Brother house did so in ignorance of what awaited them at the end of their stay. From the second series onwards, Big Brother's raison d'etre was permanently altered. The "innocence" was lost, and contestants entered in the conscious knowledge of possible fame and fortune.

That Jade Goody could emerge from the Big Brother house a celebrated media figure is central to understanding our shifting perception of modern celebrity. Her "anti-hero" status in the house - being shockingly thick, her resemblance to (in her own words, as well as those of Graham Norton) Miss Piggy, her stripping off in front of the cameras during a drunken game and the fact that her mother was a one-armed former prostitute lesbian with a voice guaranteed to make even the most hardened smoker ditch the ciggies forever - nevertheless secured her what was at the time unprecedented media attention for a Big Brother contestant. Ironically, this was the making of her actual celebrity; now reportedly worth millions (although questionable), she has barely been out of the pages of Heat Magazine since, and has her own column in Now Magazine. She recently launched her own perfume, Ssshh (if only she would!) and having now made the transition from "lay person" to "celebrity" - and modern-day definitions are arguably practically interchangeable - she has earned 3 documentaries of her own, charting her "celebrity" life; one about the opening of her beauty salon, one charting the creation of her perfume, and the third following her search for a personal assistant.

It was the post-Big Brother "success" of La Jade that acted as the catalyst for contemporary notions of celebrity. If an "ordinary" person could become a celebrity - appear in magazines, attend parties with the glitterati and earn a bit of money - well, anyone could do that. Cue a plethora of popular "reality" TV programmes, featuring ordinary people (eg Wife Swap). Furthermore, once the notion of celebrity had been downgraded to the likes of Goody, and even worse, Jodie Marsh - who was propelled into our consciousness following her appearance in a documentary about Essex wives - it twigged that already-existing celebriies could boost their media exposure and attempt to revive flagging careers by appearing on celebrity versions of reality TV shows (I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here and Celebrity Big Brother). Thus our understanding of the concept of celebrity shifted again; you're hardly goin gto get the likes of Madonna on a show like that, so you end up with disgraced entertainers with mental health problems (Michael Barrymore), socialites (Tara Palmer-Tomkinson) and even politicians (George "Best Mate of Sadaam" Galloway). "Celebrity", then, has moved from being about glamour, mystique, a projected, controlled image, to putting it all out there, neuroses and all (Barrymore again, and - famously - Vanessa Feltz), playing the new rules with the media to win over the public.

The irony of this is not lost on the producers of Big Brother. The inclusion in last year's Celebrity Big Brother of Chantelle Houghton, a "non-celebrity" who folled her fellow "celebrity" housemates into thinking she was an actual "celebrity" was a self-consciously humorous tongue-in-cheek nod to modern day celebrity. Houghton went on to win the show, emerging from the Big Brother house a bona fide celebrity. Jade Goody herself has entered this year's Celebrity Big Brother house, this time as a celebrity. Her mother - herself a pseudo-celebrity, following her recent appearance on another reality TV Show, Extreme Makeover, in which she was filmed having drastic plastic surgery - also appeared in the Celebrity Big Brother house this year.

Proof indeed that we are all "celebrities" now. Websites such as YouTube offer instant worldwide coverage to anyone who cares to expose themselves in this way. But where will it end? Once you have a film premiere full of Jades and Jodies and no one else, you have to wonder - what is celebrity?

To me, the celebrity reality TV shows, in which celebrities are essentially selling themselves rather than the talents that have brought them celebrity status in the first place, are both symptomatic and a driving force of a modern culture in which core values and principles have been eroded in favour of style. Look at New Labour. Look at the Cameron-led Tories. It's endemic. I despair of this society that teaches us that quick-fix solutions are the answer to our woes. Flabby tummy? Forget daily sit-ups, just have a little tummy tuck during your lunch hour! An emerging generation of poorly-educated barely literate teens? Just turn any old institution into a university, lower national exam levels and hey presto, we have 20% (or whatever the statistic is) more university graduates than 30 years ago, when it actually meant something to have a degree!

Where will it all end? And yet in the meantime, I do find Big Brother so very compelling to watch...

Things to Sulk About

1. 1. Bills bills bills bills bills
   
2. 2. Male Model and Friend are hogging the widescreen TV in the lounge with their puerile X-Box antics, preventing me from watching Desperate Housewives - my sole purpose for getting through the day. They have been playing an imbecilic football game for the last TWO HOURS ("Oh maa-ate! That was offside!"; "goo-aaal!!!" and much football chanting, etc
   
3. The strap on my wooden wedge platforms has broken, and the shoe repair people say there is nothing they can do
   
4. I dropped a weight on my finger at the gym (again) and it really hurts
   
5. I am missing a couple of talks at Jewish Book Week that I REALLY wanted to go to (the Judith "Gender Trouble" Butler/Julia Kristeva and the Linda Grant/Samir El-Youssef ones), as I will be running the LA Marathon
   
6. I have not started training for said marathon, which takes place in less than 2 months, and it is constantly cold, dark, windy and rainy, so once again, I shall be horribly unprepared
   
7. I love Tsubi (which has just changed its name, inexplicably, to Ksubi ++) jeans, but their sizing is UNFAIR. The Scooters fit me fine, but I cannot get the Lean Beans paast my thighs. My entire day has centred around this quest, with much grunting and swearing in the loos at work and extra thigh and gluteal exercises at the gym, but to no avail. And now I have resorted to the comfort of TWO bars of chocolate, which is obviously going to prove v unhelpful. Also, Ksubi jeans come with a highly disconcerting label, reading along the lines of "holes, holes, holes, we love holes, the more the merrier, the bigger the better. Our jeans are designed to rip". Surely this is cop-out excuse for badly-made jeans? I resent buying "premium denim" that will inevitably become unwearable rag. Gorgeous jeans, though
   
8. Lust-Object Man has not called, adding weight to my developing suspicion that I am indeed walking man repellent, in a mere 2 hours of whose company a budding flirtation can be irreversibly destroyed
   

On Beauty

It is one of life’s greatest injustices that my talents as a potential beauty editor remain as yet dormant and undiscovered. However, the advantage of being a blog contributor is that I get to inflict my knowledge and expertise (tongue firmly in cheek, here!) on all who may care to read on.

(Note: I did consider expanding my mini guide further into clothing and fashion buys, and to this end, I ventured into the West End after Saturday's gym session (all in the name of research, you understand). However, with the sales on and my bank balance already strained a week into the new year, this proved too dangerous. I finally had to abandon the operation when I nearly got into a catfight with a young teen in Topshop over the last pair of silver foil-esque leggings (yes, I know, it was a v foolish move; I have now ordered them online – much safer). )

(Note 2: Echoing the words of Nigella some years ago, when she wrote the beauty column in the Saturday Times magazine (for which she was completely unqualified, and which read like an advertorial for Eve Lom and Laura Mercier), this study is necessarily subjective; these are merely the products that work for me.)

So: here are my top tips:

Best Cleanser: Eve Lom. I have it on good authority from my friend J, who is rather partial to her facials, that EL herself is “a bit of a superbitch” – but no matter; the woman is a skincare guru and her cleanser – which I have been using since 2000 – is simply outstanding, even if you can’t be arsed to do that tiresome and time-consuming 7-step skin pinching thing every night

Best Moisturising Products for Face and Eyes: A tricky one, this. As I have previously indicated, I am the ultimate consumer. I adore shopping, I love acquiring new things, and I am a total sucker for anything with pretty packaging that promises to make you look younger and more beautiful. As a consequence, my bathroom resembles Selfridges’ make-up hall and my pores are clogged with useless chemicals.

These are my favourites:

• OC8: Sentational. Mops up the T-Zone oil that is so irritatingly characteristic of combination skin such as mine. You can use it over foundation, as an alternative to moisturiser, and at a mere £10, it is a bargain. (Bloody difficult to get hold of, though.)
  
• Nars: Balancing Moisture Lotion. Just a great moisturiser that makes your skin all lovely and soft and smooth and plump. And I adore the Nars brand.
  
• Nars: Super-Acqua Serum (or similarly entitled). An outstandingly brilliant product. Just amazing. It's made up of 85% water (I told you I believe everything I'm told by beauty experts), and while one may wonder why one has to pay £65 for a small tub of something that comes out of any tap for free, I can assure you that this product has worked wonders on my ravaged-by-constant-flying skin. I never fly without it, and nothing else even remotely measures up. Really.
  
• Eve Lom Day Cream: This is what I am currently using. With its all-important SPF 15, it provides my skin with the extra moisture the cruel, windy winter British climate has robbed me of. Plus, as my skin continues to age at an alarming rate, I find myself increasingly drawn towards Eve Lom's firmly-held belief that we don't necessarily need every product all the time - ie, just a little bit of help here and there. A thrifty piece of advice if ever I heard one
  
• Eve Lom TLC Cream: Simultaneously a dose of Vitamin C, a skin-hangover cure, a cheater's alternative to 8 hours of sleep, a flying remedy and an undereye cream. And god knows I am in desperate need of all the above. Superb.
  
• Nars: Nourishing Eye Cream: Haven't used it for ages, but love the product

Best Cheaters' Products to a Glowing Complexion: V predictable verdict here, but here goes:

• Nars: Brightening Serum: Fabulous product. It is slightly irridescent, and can be used all over the face, mixed with foundation or just used as a highlighter. Oh, and it's Nars (again)...
  
• Becca: Does a similar product, and I used to use the white one, until Space NK stopped stocking it and I have not been able to find it since (grrr). Nothing has ever quite measured up to the Becca highlighter
  
• Clarins: Beauty Flash Balm - and the one for eyes as well. A staple of any make-up bag. I usually use it to freshen up after a flight, especially if I have fallen asleep and half my face has rubbed off onto my inflight pillow - it cleverly gives the illusion of a happy, healthy glow
  
• Origins: Never a Dull Moment – a zingy, zesty scrub; great for first thing in the morning. Gives you a fresh glow
  
• Yves Saint Laurent: Touche Eclat. Rightly a cult classic. Just watch out for camera flashes – if overapplied, it can make you look old and ghostly in photos
  

Best Blemish Zapper: Back to Eve Lom. Her Rescue Mask is an absolute life saver for oily blemishes and red blotchiness. Her Dynaspot works similarly, but is applied to specific blemishes. I would not be without either product

Best Make-Up Bases: Laura Mercier, all the way. I don’t even use foundation. Her tinted moisturiser – with SPF 15 offers me enough coverage (as I have no desire to look like a masked Oompa Loompa, like my sister), and used with the concealers (see below), you can create a beautifully flawless base

Best Concealer: I use Laura Mercier’s Secret Concealer under my eyes. As someone who never sleeps and who is fast aging, it takes a miracle product to conceal the dark circles under my eyes, and this concealer is just excellent. For blemishes and red patches, I use Laura Mercier’s Secret Camouflage – brilliant product, as you can mix two shades together to match your skin tone. I also recently tried YSL’s undereye concealer, which I thought was good, but looked a bit caked on – I am not that bloody old, after all

Best Eyebrow Shadow: Laura Mercier (again). She does these great dual-shade palettes, and I use the auburn one – after years of eyebrow plucking disasters that I was only ever able to rectify with grey or brown shades, I have finally found the perfect colour for my hair and skin tone. It lasts for ages as well

Best Blushers, Eyeshadows and Eyeliners: I go for colour, quality and brand-funkiness, so it’s Nars and Shu Uemura all the way, with my current preference for Shu Uemura’s cheek colours (way more flattering shades for me) and eyeliners (they glide on beautifully, and I also love their Ice-Pink white eyeliner for inner eyelids – a far better colour and texture than Nars’ version) and Nars’ eyeshadows, especially the dual palettes. They have funkier colours and I love the quirky names

Best Lip Colours: I don’t wear lipstick (although I’m on the hunt for the perfect red; not an easy quest when you are a pale-skinned redhead and red lipsticks tend to make you look like a clown), but I adore lipgloss and my home and office are littered with dozens of tubes of the stuff. I tend to wear one at a time, for months on end, before making a new discovery and switching my allegiance. Currently, I’m wearing MAC’s Plushglass in Fulfilled, and I love it

Best Nail Polish: For sheer cult status alone, it has to be Chanel. Remember Rouge-Noir in the mid-nineties? And the recent, limited edition Black Satin? Fabulous. (Little-known fact here, which causes much amusement to friends who discover this for the first time, but I am actually a qualified nail technician! I took a course about 10 years ago, before acrylics and gels etc became fashionable and I had outrageously long and terribly impractical fingernails that I had pierced)

Best Beauty Treatment: People absolutely balk when I recommend this above every possible beauty treatment in the world – and my mother was particularly horrified and disgusted when I told her this was my number one beauty treatment – but I swear by colonic hydrotherapy. Not only is it the best detoxifying treatment (which thus improves the condition of your skin and hair), but once you have cleared out your colon, you absorb nutrients more effectively, which will ultimately improve the health and condition of all your organs. Once your insides are healthy, you will look fabulous on the outside, too (unless you’re hideously and irredeemably ugly, that is)

Best Hair Products:

• Shampoo: My hairdresser is banging on about Kerastase at the moment, so I’ll give it a mention, although I haven’t tried it myself. The best shampoo I ever used was truly excellent: Philip B’s White Truffle Shampoo, but I absolutely cannot justify the £35 price tag. Currently, I use one of the following: Phillip Kingsley (I have several of his ranges), Burt’s Bees (ditto), Bumble & Bumble. All are adequate; it’s really the conditioner you have to take care over
  
• Conditioner: I absolutely love Aveda’s Madder Root colour conditioner for auburn hair. Love it. Despite the alarming and unwelcome emergence of the odd white hair, I have not yet had to colour my hair (since the Blue Hair and Pink Hair and – briefly – blonde hair disasters when I was at university), as this gives my hair the helping hand it needs
  
• Hair Styling Products: Sebastian for straightening and Tigi for post blow drying funking up. I use Elizabeth Arden’s Eight-Hour Cream in emergencies
  

And I dread to think what my bathroom cabinet would be worth if I auctioned it off...

Immaculate (Mis)Conception

I cannot settle, cannot fall asleep, have been unable to sleep for the last few weeks. Every time I lay down, I feel the heavy unease deep within, the stirring in my belly. Something is not right.

A glance through my diary reveals nothing. I frantically rip through the pages, trying to jolt my memory into recognition. Still nothing. The fast pace of my city life, the hundreds of people I encounter each week, the whirl of my social life – it’s all a timeless blur to me, and I can’t attribute any dates to these events.

Each day is a struggle. I feel the life growing and dying inside of me, the heart beating sometimes with hope, sometimes anxiety, pulsating with the energy of a life that wants to be lived, felt, savoured, experienced… and whose potential I continue to suppress.

I have tested it, just to be sure. It says there is nothing there, but I just know. I can feel it. I am swelling up, rounded and swollen from my wounds, heavy with the burden. It is growing daily and I am powerless to halt it.

My body has become detached from my mind. My hair, a voluminous bouffant of frizz and unruliness, refuses to co-operate with my GHDs. My blood sugar levels are uncontrollable, defying the attempts of the Guggel herbs that have worked so well thus far. Despite my inner resolve, my hand repeatedly reaches for the left-over Christmas jar of Celebrations chocolates, the pile of empty wrappers covering the top few inches of the bin, a testament to my loss of control.

Though perceptible perhaps only to myself, I am beginning to resemble a mid-90s pop star, my rounded belly nestled between the waistband of skin-tight jeans and a tight t-shirt that barely covers the growing mound. I wonder which spineless cad has left me in this nauseous pit of worry and destruction, and it makes me yearn for a long-forgotten time, when sex was still unconditional, non-politicised and altogether more innocent.

The stirring inside me is unrelenting. The contractions and the nausea and the pain and the anxiety, and I am floored by its intensity. Whatever the outcome now, it will have touched my life, etched another indelible trauma upon my soul, added another defensive layer for the next poor sod who may or may not come along to peel off. I will be forever bound to the deluded sod who thought he could project all his fantasies and ideals onto me, who fought to stop me from running, but who then ran himself; sprinted, disappeared, melted, disintegrated, until it was as though his physical self had never existed. Except for the painful, pulsating evidence that remains inside me.

In the morning I awake. The contractions and bloatedness have gone, replaced by intense, crippling fatigue. A familiar sensation of dread I have experienced many times before, but not for nearly 4 months now. I look down in time to see the familiar dark-red droplets stain the toilet bowl.

It is back.

I got my period.

I am not pregnant.

What the *%!@???

I soooo need to rant about this: Lembit Opik and Gabriela Cheeky-Girl??? Huh????? How is that even possible? No disrespect to either of them (except him; he is clearly having a mid-life crisis and can't believe his luck. And her, actually - I mean for god's sake the girl released a song called The Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum) with her scarily itentical twin sister - but each to their own, I guess), but how are they both so loved up after like a week, when they have nothing in common? I mean, can you really see her having fun at the Science Museum, or discussing the future of the Lib Dems with him?

I am normal and functional by comparison (remember, we are pretending the food diary and the vitamins don't exist), and yet I am STILL a living, breathing man-repellent. Why? Why? WHYYYYY???

I'm off to buy my books now, so that I can morph into Andrea Dworkin and pretend I'm not bovvered by any of this.

I Want, I Want, I Want

Right: Time to engage with one of my overwhelmingly many new year's resolutions. I vow to read more literature of intellectual substance - erm, just as soon as I have finished this week's Heat Magazine.

Here's my wish list:

• Cristina Sommers, Who Stole Feminism?: How Women Have Betrayed Women
• Ariel Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs: Woman and the Rise of Raunch Culture
• Andrea Dworkin, Intercourse
• Andrea Dworkin, Heartbreak: The Political Manifesto of a Feminist Militant (this title sounds like one I could have written myself, actually!

Typical!

So I too have a typical New Year's Eve tale to relate, illustrating only too well the problems of over determination associated with this date about which L and D have both blogged previously. Sydney, my location for New Year, is probably the New Year Eve's capital of the world. They celebrate the New Year with not one, but two firework displays! And, what's more, P, my sister's boyfriend, had bought a group of us tickets to an island in Sydney harbour, Clarke Island, from which one can look back and see the opera house, the city skyline, the harbour bridge, and the harbour filled with boats. It was ridiculously romantic - an island in the setting sun, the harbour bridge in the distance, a live jazz band, doing all the old numbers (Besame Mucho, By the Sea, The Look of Love etc), hundreds of boats with lights twinkling in the harbour, fantastic fireworks, pink fizzy wine to be slurped continiously (parents refused to let me buy pink champagne, saying it was a waste of money buying a ninety dollar champagne to be drunk out of plastic cups. Sometimes I wish my parents weren't so bloody pragmatic about absolutely everything. Still, did manage to buy four bottles of pink stuff for ninety dollars, so hurrah). All was fine til midnight, when my sister, under the influence of pink fizzy wine, and being a sensitive soul really, burst into tears. She told us about a boy she had been nursing this year who died of bowel cancer aged 23, and told us she can't not believe in life after death given her job and what she sees, and that she is very upset with Mum for wanting to give her body away to medical research when she dies! She and Mum sobbed on the ferry all the way back to Circular Quay, surrounded by drunk Aussies chanting "four-nil, four-nil" (I am so unsporty only realised this was an Ashes reference when someone started asking me if I enjoyed cricket).
Mum and Dad then left for their hotel, and we began the long walk home (no taxis to be had). A, my sister, was still a bit tired and emotional on the walk home, which was a bit horrendous (crowds of drunken youths, rubbish strewn everywhere). She and P began to bicker and were obviously building up to a big row, so I left them slightly and walked ahead. Alas, the group decided not to return to my sister's flat for sparklers, as has been planned, but to another friend's flat. I meanwhile returned to our alloted meeting point, A and P's flat. Therefore I was left, sans phone, sans key, in a road full of drunk people, for over an hour, unable to get into their flat, with awful men bellowing at me to "cheer up, it's New Year!". I was able finally to get a security guard to ring my parents' hotel room (at 3:30am!!); my Dad rang P, who ran back home, full of apologies. What a crap start to the New Year and one that felt like a terrible metonym of my life, as I begin 2007 drunk, alone, feeling lonely and upset, as streams of happy people go onto a party somewhere else.

2006: The Round-Up

OK. Have stopped sulking and feeling sorry for self long enough to produce a summary of some of my highlights of 2006. Voila:


Greatest achievement of 2006: (revealing my core vanity and vacuousness here, but) getting down to a size 6. Only 49 remaining aspirations to achieve now on my list of 50

Biggest regret of 2006: I don’t believe in regrets, but if I did, I guess it would have to be the untimely demise of my breasts (see above)

Best fashion moment of 2006: the welcome return of puffballs, ra-ras, fishnets, leggings, legwarmers, fingerless fishnet gloves, skulls, metallics, and various other items that I can foresee looking back at the photos of myself in a year’s time thinking "what the fuck?", but can momentarily get away with

Worst fashion moment of 2006: accidentally exposing my left nipple to a room full of sexually repressed male colleagues

Most careless and gruesome accident of 2006: nearly cutting off my little finger with a kitchen knife while attempting to de-stone an avocado, having bloodcurdling screams ignored by selfish neighbours and having to be rushed to A&E by Male Model

Most fun and inspired Sunday afternoon activity in 2006: hosting a Topshop party at home – shopping, champagne, girlfriends and 2 style advisers, all without stepping out of your front door – it doesn’t get much better than that

Most important items lost in 2006, due to innate – and probably incurable - scattiness: make-up bag (the little one, containing everyday essentials; total value – around £300), running trainers that had run 2 marathons in, Laura Mercier eyebrow brush that I have tried to replace several times, but annoyingly all the Laura Mercier Counter assistants in department stores across London are denying ever existed, mobile phone (in black cab, last week)

Most carefree and childish moment of hilarity and wild abandon of 2006: dancing round K’s kitchen with S, pretending to be Maria Von Trapp, belting out the entire soundtrack of The Sound of Music, while simultaneously taking the piss out of Andrew Lloyd Webber. The entire weekend.

Best magazine of 2006: Grazia, hands down. But hey it used to be Heat Magazine, so I surely deserve some credit for at least ensuring that I have now progressed to reading trashy mags intended for my own age group, and which contain some news items that don’t include Z-list celeb sightings

Celeb sightings in 2006: (excluding MPs): Russell Brand (swoon! – at Gilgamesh), India Knight (also at Gilgamesh, on a separate occasion. I am clearly either v trendy or frequent v pretentious N.London soirees), Michael "utter fruitcake and pointless waist of space" Barrymore (in Hampstead), One of the Maria contenders from How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria (in Belsize Park), Princess Beatrice (at the Tatler Black Book party)

Most Memorable Diane and Michael Moment in 2006: When they won that award for This Week at that pointless Channel 4 political awards ceremony, and stood on stage gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, with Michael making some lame joke about people watching porn. Not as good as the Diane-Michael moment on 7 July last year when they were deconstructing the London bombings, and Diane was getting carried away going on about how she bumped into some of the "mayor’s officials" after the Live 8 Concert, and how they – and I quote – ended up "drinking champagne in a top London hotel"… at which point, Portillo interjected, to quip: "just another day in socialist Britain!" It was one of those classic moments you couldn’t script. When oh when will those 2 get it on?

I have countless resolutions for 2007. Here are a few of them:

1. Get a new job. ASAP.
2. Stop compulsively plucking facial hairs (my friend S is reading this, and I know she will be applauding!)
3. Tone down aggressiveness, not swear so much and develop aura of calm and patience (I give this one about a week)
4. Not argue with sisters (doing v well so far, as they are both abroad at moment, and neither of them is talking to me anyway)
5. Reduce visits to Topshop to maximum of 2 a month. When making clothes purchases, carefully consider practicality and necessity of each item, before making balanced decision and returning to store the following day, rather than calling every branch of every store in London with Grazia Magazine page references, making unreasonable demands for reservation and delivery, then rushing to store, knocking down innocent shoppers in aggressive determination to bag said item, which will invariably lie shamefully in dark corner of cupboard
6. Stop obsessing over weight and never ever ever allow food diary or multi-tiered daily vitamin holder to be seen in public again. Never admit existence of either to any living soul (blog readers aside!)
7. Reduce gym sessions to maximum 5 times a week and for no longer than 2 hrs at a time. Substitute 2 sessions for street jazz dance classes
8. Not run a mile every time a man shows interest in me (it doesn’t happen v often, so shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve!)
9. Stop being complete slave to trashy culture. Read more books and articles that are more intellectually weighty than Heat Magazine. Attend more theatre productions and art exhibitions without having to be dragged there by F (who is cultural goddess)
   

And so begins another year…

(Un)Happy New Year

So New Year's Day is not even over yet, and this is what has happened so far:

1. I have incurred irreversible organ (esp. liver) damage, due to excesses of last night, which ended at 7 o'clock this morning

2. I have - already - managed to drive away a lovely man I was quite interested in, through my innate and irrepressible neuroses (I mean what the fuck was I thinking? It was so lovely to have a date on New Year's Day, and then I had to ruin it by sulking about being in the country (well, Hertfordshire) AND - even worse; I am cringing just thinking about it - I STUPIDLY produced my food diary and vitamin case, and he looked alarmed and took me straight home. Oh GODDDD

3. I nearly got mugged by 3 youths, one of whom tried to grab my bag and push me up against a fence, while the other 2 ran by. Am feeling v smug and hard, as I tripped him up, and ran away as he fell (hoorah for kickboxing training!). Thankfully I managed to escape with a mere cut finger and broken umbrella

Oh well. I can only hope it gets better, otherwise needless to say, I'm a bit screwed!

Happy New Year, Everyone.