Hello.

I haven’t written anything for a while. Feel a bit uninspired actually. No scrap that, my concentration is currently that of a gnat. I’m all distracted. Who knows why? Maybe I’ve been mainlining coffee too regularly, but I can’t even concentrate on my really, really good book. Usually my nose is stuck in there for the entire duration of my tube journey, but lately I’ve found staring at other people much more interesting.

I expect I’ll get a smack in the mouth soon, but that doesn’t stop me from peering shamelessly at my fellow travelers. I can’t even be bothered to be discreet about it.

My favourite game is to try and guess how the people around me vote. This morning I sat amongst two right wing Conservatives, a ready-to-rumble militant Communist, three sappy Liberals and at last count, nine acquiescent and beleaguered Labour supporters (although one did look buoyed up by Home Secretary Jackie Smith’s university jazz fags admission last July).

As for my own political leanings, I’ve just taken a quiz to find them out because the bloody press just clouds my judgement. It’s as I thought: Centrist, nudging specifically to the right.

That’ll be the influence of my crush on Boris Johnson then…

Am I alone in thinking Kylie Minogue sounds like a chipmunk sucking up the helium?

Especially live.

This post about freeloading visitors from Greta She Elephant merely confirms what my Mother always told me.

“If one must allow the guests in, get rid of them after three days. For like fish, they will have gone off.”

Wise words indeed.

They are particularly prudent in these modern times, where social graces have been somewhat eroded. Apparently people who are vaguely beyond ‘hello, my name’s blah’ believe it’s absolutely fine to land on the doorstep and fester up the sofa for the next three weeks.

I fear if manners were a slab of Edam, we would be grated down to the rind.

I learn Heath Ledger is dead. What a shame, I thought he was rather good in Brokeback Mountain.

I have sprained my ankle and it is all swollen. The tube is a veritable nightmare when one is forced to Tubigrip the way to work.

Latest on the spam:

Because of course, these nuggets of information gold are all you need to guide you through the choppy waters of life.

I despair.

For reasons that shall remain nameless, I had cause to swing by Ann Summers this lunchtime. (Hello Mum. Hello Dad.)

Anyway, it rather tickled my funny bone (and nothing else, I hasten to add) for two reasons.

1) It’s something of a parody of itself now. All that bunny-influenced vibratory nonsense, in eye watering hues of pink and green more at home on a Crasher Kid circa 1999 - replete with lolly wedged in mouth and hair decked out with pipe cleaners - than on something you might wave around your nethers. And don’t even get me started on the men’s range. It is to sexiness what a caravan club site is to charisma.

2) The branch I had cause to patronise is in Soho. The deepest depths of. And it is the quietest shop in that whole square mile or so. Bored shop assistants half heartedly shuffle French knickers and nipple tassles around, while gazing forlornly out the window. However, just around the corner the real purveyors of smut are doing a roaring trade.

The last time I was invited to an Ann Summer’s party was when I was 17, and I expect the next time will be when I’m 57. It attracts the giggly teen demographic likes bees to a hormonal honeypot. (Just as I expect it attracts the 50-something ‘let off the leash after 25 years’ divorcee too.)

‘Ooooh, look! Sex accoutrements!’

Cue: glass shattering shrieking; high speed elbow flapping; passing out in oversexed/underexperienced fug.

Oh, and the underwear falls apart in the washing machine. It’s not a patch on M&S. Then again, I don’t suppose it’s meant to stay on long enough for you to actually have to wash it. Which perhaps says more about me than the garment quality.

Ho hum.

My friend Richard sits opposite me in the office. (He’s the Affiliate King, doncha know.)

We both have long legs.

This has given rise to much hilarity from colleagues who suspect we only bother to come to work so we can play footsy with each other.

This is not true. Much as I think he is top, it’s more accidental kicking and shifting around. Put it this way, as plain old buddies we would not pick each other out of a line up of potential footsy-candidates. Thankfully we’ve not seriously cracked a shin yet. I imagine the screeching from his side would be bone chilling.

It’s alright though. He’s going on holiday next Wednesday, first to Bar-tha-tha-tha-lona and then the US of A. Which means I get to streeeeeeeetch out as much as I like for a whole four weeks.

I will be Queen of Under The Desks. Overlord of the Sub-Table World. I shall be the iron hand in the velvet glove to all I survey (an empty A4 lever arch file, a textbook called PHP and MySQL, and a lot of wires and cables).

It’s the small victories people.

Soon I will be Queen of Fucking Everything, and then you will snigger no more.

Mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha… mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha…

*Passes out in megalomaniacal stupor*

I am confused.

I don’t normally feel like this. I’m more of a black and white person, me. Not for I the tenure of a life spent balancing precariously and more to the point, uncomfortably, on the fence. My bottom simply won’t stand for it, so I leave the perching to the pinko liberals.

However, what brings me to this jumbled juncture is GMTV, or rather the interview conducted last week with Heather Mills on GMTV.

Here’s the thing. I’ve found myself feeling just a eensy weensy bit sorry for her.

*Gasp, shudder*

I know, I know. Fantasist, liar, media-courting whore, etc. Probably all true and I’m sure that after last week’s round of interviews you can add unhinged and self-pitying to that list. But she’s getting a right old drubbing in the tabloids and I really don’t think that’s fair. And with a face like cystitis, I’d rather the papers put someone else on the front pages, than that grizzled old vegan.

The seed of her undoing was to marry Sir Paul McCartney: ex-Beatle, national treasure, filthy rich. Millions adore him and herein lies the rub. I have it on good authority from a source that used to work for EMI back in the day, that Paul McCartney was a total and utter cunt. Now, that’s one person’s opinion, but I’m confident that others within the music industry will say the same.

Think about it. He may have been a Beatle but he is also responsible for Wings, allowing his musically talentless late wife onto the keyboards and percussion, and flicking the peace sign everywhere he goes. If that’s not naff, then I’m the frickin’ tooth fairy.

So it seems to me that Heather and Paul were a pretty evenly matched pairing. (And did anyone else notice how some photo angles showed them with suspiciously similar facial features, a la the doomed Pitt-Aniston pairing?) The only difference is Heather is a slack-jawed banshee and Paul is playing the role of reticent, saddened divorcee. No prizes for guessing who’s going to come off better from that well worn piece of role play.

Despite this, I dislike them both, but harbour a small nugget of compassion for Heather. Talk about conflicted.

Whatever. A more pressing question has just cropped up. If McCartney doesn’t eat meat, but he married an (alleged) porn star, does that mean their marriage is an oxymoron?

Answers on a postcard.