Strange. After a few weeks where my virtual cyber-existence seemed to be taking me over somewhat, good old Real Life suddenly jumps up and bites me (hard, yet playfully) on the bottom. Frankly, I needed it. Badly.

Consequentially, the old blog has had to suffer a bit this week – but hey, the competition’s over, so who cares?

Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know I do it all for you. And only you.

Anyway. Without going into unbloggable specifics, the past seven days have shaped up as something like this:
Saturday. Big important family stuff.
Sunday. Day of rest. I chilled on Sunday.
Monday. Oh my God! Wednesday is going to happen!
Tuesday. Clearing the decks in readiness for Wednesday.
Wednesday. Yes, well. Wednesday…was Wednesday. Nuff said. I'm not Craig David. Heh.
Thursday. Recovering from Wednesday.
Friday. Catching up from Wednesday and Thursday.

The full Troubled Diva experience will be coming back atcha in full effect next week. Until then, here are some wilfully obfuscational (pace Vaughan) fragments from the past seven days, which won’t make much sense to anyone else but me. Maybe you can construct your own story from them.

Yes, do that. Let it be your creative writing project for the weekend. On my desk by 9am Monday morning, please.

Just a quick plug for Martijn's promising sounding project, which resides at onephoto.noipo.org. The concept couldn't be simpler: send Martijn a photo and an accompanying story, and he will publish the results on a weekly basis. Full info is here.

"That's seven pounds forty-five, please."

I rifle through my notes - one £5, one £10, one £20 - and hand one over. Then I start rummaging through my pockets.

"Oh, and I have the 5p", I add, in a helpful tone of voice.

She goes to the till and comes straight back again.

"No, that's seven pounds forty-five."

"Oh, sorry." I have another extended rummage through my pockets. "I'd better just have the 5p back again."

"No, that's seven pounds forty-five." She is holding up my five pound note, with a polite and patient smile. "I think you need that coffee."

My midweek Real Life Break was quite extraordinarily fabulous from start to finish, but it does seem to be taking its toll.

I am now debating whether or not to publish an entirely gratuitous (but tasteful) pin-up pic. He said I could. In fact, he was rather keen on the idea. Not the done thing though, is it? Which, I have to say, is all the more reason for doing it.

He's a bloody good bloke, that Rod Liddle, isn't he? I read his elegantly considered, witty column in this morning's Guardian and thought: I'd quite like to be your friend. Hmm, I seem to be in an uncommonly benign mood today. Hope it lasts.

Due to the sudden (and somewhat unexpected) intrusion of that old devil called Real Life, I probably won't be blogging for the next couple of days.

A bientot. Bis bald. Later.

Update: No, nothing ghastly has happened (if anything, quite the reverse). Sorry - I should have made that more clear. Didn't mean to alarm anyone.

71. I've never stayed overnight in a hospital (the hand surgery was outpatient).
As a child, I was actually rather keen on the idea of spending a night in hospital. It all looked rather jolly: there would be friendly nurses, and lots of toys to play with, and new friends to make, and Rolf Harris might pop by and give us all a song, and I could even send off for a Magpie badge for my troubles. The state propaganda of 1960s children’s television was clearly doing a fine job.

72. I don’t spend enough time exercising.
Enough time? Any time! Apart from walking, that is – I’m a strong, fast walker who has to make a deliberate effort to slow down when in company.

73. Guilt plays a very large role in my life.
Although not as large a role as it used to. I am either becoming more self-forgiving, or else I’m screwing up less. Or both.

74. I change my mind a lot.
Or maybe I am still constantly plagued by guilt after all. Fancy not being able to decide. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. No I’m not.

75. I don't like criticism.
I can become horribly defensive when criticised – which doesn’t stop me taking even the mildest criticism to heart, and obsessing over it thereafter. For this reason alone, I shan’t be signing up for David’s promising new venture: What Not To Blog.

76. Not a cook. I am a microwaver.
I am, in fact, a microwaver par excellence. No-one else can ping those buttons with quite so much panache.

For an amusing tale of culinary incompetence, which haunted me for several years afterwards, take a look at this.

77. If I had to choose a religion I would chose Buddhism.
Mainly because it’s not overtly doctrinaire or proscriptive (at least in my limited understanding of it). I like the lack of Thou Shalt Nots, and the laidback attitude towards self-improvement. (Try just a little bit harder in your next incarnation, and work your way up the ladder of enlightenment at your own pace. There’s no hurry. Have as many re-incarnations as you like.)

78. I love my barber. He's wonderful and extremely handsome.
Ant has been cutting my hair for maybe 12 years or so now, and we have developed a great rapport over the years. There’s something about his manner which encourages total frankness from his clients; sometimes, it feels like I’m attending confession as much as I’m having my hair cut.

In fact, Ant is probably privy to most of the juiciest gossip in Nottingham. He never breathes a word of it though, to everybody’s amused annoyance. He just smiles his inscrutable smile and carries on clipping. Which, of course, is the secret of his success.

79. I love to dance.
…and what I might lack in formal technique, I more than make up for in unbridled enthusiasm. I’m one of those lyrics-mouthing, air-punching whoopers.

80. I am not a morning person.
Do you know the real reason why I could never sustain a heterosexual relationship? It’s that whole Morning Thing. How can most women be so goddammed chirpy and fully functional at that time of day, whilst I can barely pour the tea or squeeze out a coherent sentence? It’s not natural, I’m telling you.

Next 10.
Previous 10.

Labels: 100things, myself

It’s good to see the return of three of fine bloggers, who I thought had disappeared for ever:

1. The Search For Love In Manhattan is now back in full flow, as entertainingly neurotic (and yet entirely self-aware) as ever.

2. After the demise of [turnstile], Kyle Whelliston is now back in business with its natural sequel, Intersection. As before, the design is clever and beguiling, and the writing is an utter pleasure.

3. One of my earliest readers has gone underground, assuming a mysterious new identity, and is now journalising as a latter-day Anna Karenina. I rather like her new direction, and the subtle yet noticeable change of voice which it has brought about.

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Just when I thought I must have read them all by now, two recent discoveries have pointed the way to yet more UK blogging constellations, of which I had previously been unaware. There seems to be no limit to the ever-expanding blogging universe. Where will it all end?

1. Gert clearly has quite a knack for discovering interesting new reads (where “new” means “I haven’t heard of them”, of course). She was one of the few people who had linked to Scary Duck before last Thursday’s excitement kicked off and made him into a star, and I also have her to thank for first bringing my attention to Green Fairy.

2. The Yes/No Interlude is a terrific new read from a exiled Brit in Texas, with an intriguing clutch of previously unheard-of linkees. I particularly liked The Church Of Me (music only), Mr. Crump and Heyoka.

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It’s only two days old, but I can already see that You Say Tomato is going to be My Sort Of Thing. I have a horrible feeling that June (another former Brit gone Stateside) is quite right about Norah Jones, who was distinctly underwhelming on last Saturday’s Parkinson: superb on technique, but weak on emotional depth and range.

Hugs and kisses go out to the anonymous well-wisher who has brightened up my Monday morning with a copy of the new Soft Cell album, as plucked from my Amazon wishlist. Perhaps they would care to make themselves known to me privately?

Update: for an instant reaction, first-impressions mini-review, take a look at the comments.

After an extraordinary run of in the first week of the tour, we are now in the middle of a comparative dip. For the second day running, most of our time is spent on the bus, where most of the group alternates between sleeping (Gabriel Byrne continues to astonish us in this area - but then, he is on his honeymoon), reading (will I ever finish White Teeth?) and gazing out of the window at endless lush plains of rice fields.

Presumably because they have all been planted at a slightly different time, each small field is coloured a slightly different shade of green. The landscape thus becomes a vast patchwork of differing shades of green – more greens than you ever thought possible - interspersed with water buffalos, workers in coolie hats, and the occasional herd of ducks. Sometimes, you will see several dozen ducks being herded across the road in a tight pack, as directed by their very own duck-herd. It is a vaguely comical sight.

We take lunch at a beach restaurant, watching the afternoon catch being dragged up the beach in huge nets, and observing the elegant wedding party who have stopped off for photos. The restaurant owner, a former social worker, gives us a couple of particularly finely made coolie hats and asks us to pass them on to anyone in Nha Trang (our destination) who we think looks particularly deserving of them.

In Nha Trang, at the bottom of the Cham Pongar temple complex (underwhelming, for by now we are all templed out), we spot the ideal recipients. The two aged, wizened, teeth-blackened beggar ladies are absolutely delighted with their smart new hats, trying them on and posing for each other with incongruously girlish, almost coquettish grins. The years roll back, as we catch brief glimpses of former lives.

We check in, and head off en masse for the mud spring baths. Here, we gleefully slosh about in communal pools of thick brown gloop, pouring it over ourselves with plastic pails and savouring the eucalyptus-like aroma, before washing it off under hot jets of salty spring water. This gives us a new toast (Here’s mud in your gusset!), which becomes our catchphrase for the rest of the trip.

There is dining and dancing at the yacht club (not quite as grand as it sounds), where we end up lurching about to insipid Euro-trance with a bunch of pissed-up backpackers and enthusiastic Vietnamese hookers, or else sitting out on the beach front with lethal pina coladas, gazing on with wry amusement at the young couple shamelessly writhing on a beach lounger in the semi-darkness, to an audience of entranced onlookers.

Oh, look! Over there! It isn’t! It is! Fraulein Dings-Bums and party are in town. Cordial greetings are exchanged. Perhaps next time, we should break the ice and make proper conversation.

We never see them again.

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam