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I ran in the park yesterday and enjoyed it. Sort of. I'm really proud that I'm doing it still - every time I've tried to run before I've only managed to go about three times before giving up.
And I've already noticed changes in my body. I'm wearing a belt that I bought not long after having Harry and was never able to get on. Yay me!
* A woman shouted this yesterday as I ran past - ha! ha!
I joined blogrolling so I'd get a little 'updated' message for my other pages (Reading, Writing, Running, etc.) but it doesn't appear to be working. Can anyone help?
In the park! 
I've just read an article that claims that you can lose weight simply by doing something different every day. Not eating something different. And not even doing a different kind of exercise. Just doing something - anything - different. I know! Apparently the change doesn't even need to be big - simply switching from Capital radio to Kiss FM will do apparently.
Fifty five people who followed this advice from diet fairy Professor Ben Fletcher (diet fairy?) lost an average of 11lb each in four months; some lost almost three stone in a year. The secret lies in breaking free of routine.
That's what appeals to me about it actually - yeah, losing weight would be a bonus - but I think doing something different every day is a great way to live in itself.
I've got a fabulously mad book called The Wish List which claims to be "a wellspring of 6,000 ideas for things to do, see, taste, learn, and experience". For example:
Oh hurray! it's my favourite episode of Will & Grace. 
The one with Jeremy Piven as Grace's ex-boyfriend (wants her to do a threesome) and Patrick Dempsey (Will coaching Jack in chatting him up). Got some of the best lines ever. If I can type fast enough I'll share ... Ooh, look, I've found a transcript:
(KAREN is on the phone. WILL and GRACE enter in the middle of her steamy phone conversation.)
KAREN: [ON PHONE] Yeah, you're a wicked little schoolboy to be talking to me like this in the middle of a work day. I'm gonna make you stay after school and bang the erasers. Ok, ok, yeah. Yeah, you like it rough. Don't you, you dirty little monkey? Yeah. Next time I see you, I'm gonna bend you over my knee-- [KAREN NOTICES THAT WILL AND GRACE HAVE WALKED IN.] Oh, crap, I gotta go. Mom and mom are home.
I am not going running in snow. No way, no chance, no how!
I've rung the gym and, if I pay £20 for an induction, I can use the gym for £4.05 per session. Birrova rip off I feel, but needs must. I'll look in to it when we take H swimming at the weekend.
Last night I read Whateva Sista and then watched Will & Grace followed by Queer Eye. It was only when I went upstairs and found myself flicking eagerly to an article by Colin and Justin in Trip magazine* (yes, I was in the loo; don't pretend you don't read in there too) that I wondered if I might have a problem.
I've dreamt about Carson Kressley three nights running.
* my eagerness was misplaced; it was rubbish.
Saturday: I never knew five minutes was such a long time. Until I tried to run it on a treadmill. Especially since the gym had a TV programmed to "show" only Radio 4. So I ran to the beat of Jeremy Hardy's whimsical humour. Something I won't be doing again. But I did it.
I walked for 5, ran for 5, walked for 5. Strangely, when I run outside my lungs give up before my legs do, but it was the opposite on the treadmill. I was breathing okay, but my legs were screaming for mercy. At least now I know I can run for five minutes.
I read that the biggest mistake people make when they start running is to try and run too fast. The advice was that you should lean forward a little and sort of 'trot', hardly lifting your legs at all. So turns out the biggest mistake I made was listening to my husband. I should've known. So yesterday I went out taking that advice and ran about twice as far. It was great! Where before I did run-walk-run-walk-run, yesterday I did run-run-run-run-run on the same route!! I know!!!
I was all excited today because there was a Queer Eye on this afternoon that I didn't think I'd seen. I sat down with a cup of tea and one of my lovely chocolates (yay! I got them on Monday and I've still got some left, that's a first) and it was a bloody UK one, wasn't it. Pah! Thank goodness there's one on tonight (they're in London, which is slightly disappointing since I like to see New York, but what can you do ...).
The O.C. has been quite disappointing so far. The first episode was okay (especially the end where Seth and Ryan came home and Seth said 'there was a two for one special on brooding young men') but the other episodes have been a bit .. dull .. and predictable .. and I've found myself drifting back to tinkering with my blogs instead of staring rapt at the TV like I did during the last series. Maybe things will improve once Seth and Summer get back together. I can't be doing with that insipid boyfriend of hers and as for that freaky alien woman Seth's seeing ... I'm not too keen on Ryan's bird either (can't remember her name). She's a bit dull, but I did like her Freudian Slippers* and she's an improvement on that whingeing whatsherface from Chino.
Oh and I might have been hallucinating but did Julie Cooper kiss Jimmy? Noooooo! (That explains why they sent Haley to Japan so suddenly.) And is it just me or has Jim Robinson's accent gone a bit weird?
Oh and I've decided to give up wine for the month of March and I thought I may as well start now. So every night there's a disappointment when I realise I can't pour myself a glass. Pah.
*One of my friends once said referred to something as a 'Freudian slit' which is surely the very definition of one ...
We set off to Cartmel after work on Friday, picking up Harry on the way. By the time we got there it was just getting dark, but the cottage looked so cozy (the owner had lit the fire for us already). Comfy chairs, little kitchen, enormous bed, balcony, just gorgeous.
We settled in, David made dinner, we put Harry in bed and then we sat with a glass of wine and read. Didn't even switch the telly on. Bliss. I managed to finish the Jane Austen Book Club and then (finally) the November issue of O magazine (and made a note to pick up some Clarins Bright Plus Repairing Brightening Cream in New York).
Had an early night (10 o'clock) and fell asleep immediately. Unfortunately forgot to switch the alarm clock off so I was woken at 6am. Curses. Then Harry woke up and David fed him while I ate my breakfast (raisin toast) on the balcony.
The view from the lounge. 
Anyway, there's a group of cottages and I would recommend them to anyone wanting to get away from it all (ours was the Groom's Quarters). Have a look at the rest of them here.
I got this from the library as research for my own YA novel (6,000 words written out of a February target of 28,000 - yikes) and I was pleasantly surprised. The story of three 14 year old friends (Les Bambinos Dangereuse) and their attempt to stage their own music festival, it owes a little too much to the Louise Rennison books, but it's well-written and constantly amusing with a couple of solid laugh-out-loud lines.
I'll look out for the next one (I'm fairly sure it's a series).
I've read a lot of books about writing and this is definitely one of the most useful.
Written by the founder of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), the premise is that you can take any month and apply the NaNo theory. I don't think you can (you need the pressure of possible public humiliation) but there's great advice in here just the same.
NaNoWriMo itself was a revelation - writing 50,000 words in 30 days seems impossible, but they were the easiest, most enjoyable and (I'm fairly sure) best 50,000 words I've ever written. This book takes the challenge and adds excellent advice for preparation, for surviving the month, and for editing afterwards.
I plan to do NaNoWriMo every year and this book will make it even easier. Roll on NaNoEdMo (March)!
There is a quote on the cover of this book from Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones: 'If I could, I would eat this book'. I got the impression that, if she could, Karen Joy Fowler would eat herself, she thinks she's so clever and witty and cute. This is a well-written and entertaining book, but it's so intolerably smug. And there's an appendix which consists of critical reaction to Jane Austen. Yes, Jane Austen, not Karen Joy Fowler. Erm, hello? Does Karen Joy Fowler think she is Jane Austen?
There are six chapters, one for each of Austen's books, and six members in the Book Group, one of whom each chapter focuses on. The characters are based on Austen characters, which is a good idea but a bit over the head of anyone who doesn't know Austen intimately (and I include myself in that even though I studied her at university; you'd have to be quite an Austen buff to get all the references, I think).
It's also slightly odd the way it's written from the point of view of one of the members of the Book Group - we did this, the first time we met, our youngest member, etc. - but also as an omnicient narrator, i.e. knowing and witnessing stuff that a member of the group couldn't have known or witnessed. Makes no sense.
It has some nice moments and one particularly good character (Allegra), but I have no idea why it's as popular as it is.
... I haven't posted. But I've been away. For the weekend. So much to blog about, so little time. I'll do it tomorrow, I promise.
Let me just say this: Cruz?
P.S. Like the new colours? I think it looks funky.
One of my colleagues (I'll name and shame her - Katy Potts!) said that I'm the "office joke" because I can only run a minute at a time. Now isn't that just the kind of incentive I need to push myself when I'm out in the rain and cold ...
Yesterday I pushed myself to keep running past where I usually stop and on to the lamp post. I ran to there and then on to the next one (but then I really had to stop, it was murderous!). I'm running for 20 steps more in each 'spurt' each week too. I know it doesn't sound like much but it makes a big difference.
I've noticed too that, if I start to flag, lengthening my stride gives me a second wind.
Must check how long I've been doing this for now. If it's a month or more I get a present.
I've set that audioscrobbler deely at the top there because I think it adds a certain frisson to proceedings. I don't listen to that much music on the computer, only a couple of days a week, usually I'm using it in front of the telly.
So that means that I could get stuck with something embarrassing up there for a good three or four days. People will click on my site, go 'Gah! Manilow!' and be gone instantly!
Reminds me of a comedian I saw once saying that at school they used to play Russian Roulette with a packet of Revels and a kid with a peanut allergy. Cruel. And yet funny.
Curses, I missed the The Apprentice UK. I did a deal with David: if I could watch QE at 8 and Desperate Housewives at 10, he could watch whatever at 9. I realised this morning it was on at 9. And D didn't even use his hour wisely! He watched Ideal!
I'm very excited about the Martha Stewart Apprentice. I read that she's going to be doing it under house arrest and wearing an electronic tag. Seriously.
So did you watch it? It wasn't great, was it. In fact, it was pretty awful.
It's kind of nice to still have Joey (the character) but the script blew. I'll probably watch it again (if only to see how he's getting on - yes, I'm that sad) but ... it's no Friends ... 
I ran past a woman on a horse and she said "Good girl!" I was really pleased. But then I wondered if maybe she was talking to the horse ...
Things I like about running:
1. Getting out in the fresh air.
2. I force myself to drink water before I go.
3. And eat an apple when I get back.
4. Therefore killing three of my new year's resolution birds with one stone.
5. And talking of birds, I like to hear them tweeting as I run.
Things I hate about running:
1. Seeing other people.
2. My vest riding up to reveal my flabby, stretchmarked, white belly *cough* I mean, my tanned, toned midriff.
3. Hearing my feet thudding on the ground.
4. Obsessive counting. I need an iPod.
The third in Meg Cabot's New York Journal series of epistolary novels, Every Boy's Got One is the story of Jane Harris who accompanies her friends Holly and Mark to Italy for their elopement, along with Mark's friend Cal. Yes, you can guess exactly what happens, but it's written with such skill and verve, it doesn't matter.
Like the other two books in the series - The Boy Next Door and Boy Meets Girl - Every Boy's Got One is written entirely in e-mails, journal entries, notes, menus and receipts. It's a quick, easy, light and entertaining read.
I've loved every Meg Cabot book I've read and Every Boy's Got One - while not up to Princess Diaries standard - is another gem.
A few years ago I read Literally, a biography of The Pet Shop Boys by Chris Heath. It was utterly compelling. Brilliantly written, totally transporting. So I was excited to see that he'd done the same for Robbie, who I lurve.
And Feel is everything I expected and more. It's not just a biography of a star, it's a meditation on and expose of celebrity and modern culture. And it's really funny:
'The first time Gary Barlow was on TV,' [Robbie] declares, 'he was so unsexy they had to shoot him from the waist down.' He's fond of this statement. He thought of it a while ago. The only thing is, he can't make up his mind whether he'd rather say it about Gary Barlow or Noel Gallagher.
One thing that becomes clear is how gleeful the British press were (are) about Robbie's failure to break America. What also becomes clear is that Robbie really doesn't want success in America. His reasoning being, he is relatively free in the US at the moment, if he was as famous there as he is almost everywhere else, he would have nowhere left to go. But it made me think - why are we so obsessed with our stars 'making it' elsewhere? Do we not value ourselves? Do we think 'yeah, they're famous here, but we'll listen to anything' and demand the validation of other audiences? It's very odd. And then, of course, we love it when they fail. And if they don't try. And if they claim not to want it.
One of the headlines is a quote from Louis Walsh HE'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO MAKE IT IN AMERICA. 1) This reinforces what I've just said - how come he's good enough to sell millions of albums elsewhere then? Have Americans got more sophisticated tastes than the rest of the world? And 2) This leads to one of the most exciting moments of the book when Robbie bumps into Louis and confronts him. It's fabulously cringeworthy and very admirable. Bet Louis wishes he hadn't opened his mouth now.
Chris Heath's description of what it feels like to be very famous these days is brilliant:
It may not seem much measured against all the favours that fame grants you, but imagine it like this. Imagine if, when you walked down the street, one person gently threw a small, light foam ball at you - not hard enough to hurt you, its impact barely enough for you to feel it. Who could possibly complain about that? But now, instead, imagine that, as you tried to get on with your life, every single person you met threw a foam ball at you. Imagine if, for nearly every moment you were outside the sanctuary of your home, these balls continuously cascaded upon you from all sides. Nothing that each ball-thrower was doing could possibly be said to be so bad, but all together, the incessant soft pelting might seem unbearable. And if some people would have the temperament and constitution to ignore such a barrage, it's easy to imagine that others wouldn't.
But maybe even that doesn't quite capture it. Imagine that, instead of everyone you met throwing a foam ball at you, you could see a foam ball in every single one of their hands, but that only one person in five actually threw them. And you could never tell which of them it was going to be. So, almost worse than the impact of the balls themselves was the way you were always tensing for a shot that sometimes didn't come. Flinching at nothing as often as you failed to flinch at something. Forever trying not to jump the gun and blame those who didn't throw for the actions of those who did. Forever trying to pretend that none of it was happening, as each new incoming salvo reminds you that it always is.
Maybe it is just a little bit like that.
The above is a perfect example of how this book made me feel. Vulnerable. Hyper-sensitive. I read it for an hour on the train and when I headed into the crush of the station I felt afraid. Quite a feat.
One of the guests reviewing this book on Richard and Judy was Piers Morgan, ex editor of the Daily Mirror. His attitude was entirely one of 'Robbie asked for fame, he should put up with everything that goes with it'. But why? If someone's job is a celebrity, why does that mean people can wait outside their houses (speaking as one who has done that very thing), break into their houses (I haven't done that) and have quite staggeringly unreasonable expectations of what the celebrity 'owes' them. What does someone like Robbie 'owe' his fans apart from music? What else can you reasonably ask for? But a section of Robbie's fans once waited around a corner for him (and Nicole Appleton) to come out of a restaurant and simultaneously let their camera flashes off in their faces. This was in protest because he'd told them not to wait outside his house. How is this justifiable? How is it acceptable? It's staggering.
Piers Morgan did highlight one of the contradictions of this book. If Robbie values his privacy so highly, why did he agree to a journalist spending a year with him and writing a book which includes intensely private moments and emotions? But Robbie is totally contradictory. He claims to hate everything about his fame, even his music, but he clearly loves it too. I've said before, if he hates it so much he could stop. But he doesn't stop, even though he threatens to repeatedly.
This is a brilliantly written, thought-provoking, gripping, funny book. Whether you love, like, hate, are indifferent to, Robbie Williams, I recommend you read it.
(Just as an aside, something that really drives me deranged in books is factual or spelling errors. Chris Heath writes that Robbie got Shaun Ryder to sign his Toshini jacket. It's Tacchini. Really, with the internet, there's no excuse.)
One of the best things about Blogexplosion is that you get to steal learn things from other blogs.
I've been meaning to thank Jon for introducing me to audioscrobbler - now I can see exactly how much I listen to Robbie Williams (too much), and now w.bloggar (which I'm testing by writing this very post) and Rebecca for the subscription link thingy.
Which reminds me a stranger - yes, a stranger! - has subscribed to this site! If it's you, drop me a comment and introduce yourself!
Just realised it's less than 100 days until the Run. Oh god. I'm going to have to step things up a notch. Which I did on Thursday but not today.
On Thursday I ran for longer than I have before. I mean, where last week I ran - walked - ran, this time I ran - ran - ran. Only once though (one spurt, I mean) and I was knackered after. And it was only then I realised that that was how knackered I felt after running for a minute at first. I hadn't realised how much quicker I was recovering.
And - and this is the most exciting bit - I got a twinge of adrenaline when I thought about running. Just a twinge, but - hey! - that's real progress.
Today I only managed a couple of spurts (and only on the way to the paper shop) but it was freezing. I much prefer running on Tuesdays and Thursdays anyway. I'll have to find some way around that because I'm definitely going to have to three good runs a week now.
Watched Shallow Hal last week. I've been torn about seeing it since it came out because I love Jack Black (although not in a special way) but I didn't like the idea of it. I didn't think that, with the Farrelly brothers at the so-called helm, it would be thought-provoking. But it was. You know, in a minor, Farrelly Brothers kind of a way.
The first thing that struck me was how ridiculous it is to judge someone based on their looks. Now I know this isn't startling, but seeing Jack Black treating the Gwyneth character, Rosemary, normally and then seeing how everyone else treated her really highlighted this. Sometimes it's easy for the bleeding obvious to drift out of your consciousness.
One problem I did have with it though was how all of the women were supposed to be pathetically grateful for any male attention. Just because they were supposedly fat or ugly they were supposed to be moved almost to tears when Jack Black asked for their phone number. I mean, it was only Jack Black.
Basically the conclusion was that, because Jack Black (sorry, can't remember the character's name - oh, yeah, that'll be Hal) loved Rosemary he was able to "overcome her appearance". Now, I've got a problem with that. I can't say I wanted him to love her because she was fat but basically what they're saying there is 'he loves her so he can get over the fact that she's fat'. Just how patronising is that?
Basically though, I found the film sweet. It's heart was in the right place and I thought the joke was more about the foolishness of men. I mean, it was called Shallow Hal, not Fat Rosemary.
Look at the lovely flip clock I got in Debenhams for our front room. If only we could be bothered to decorate it, our front room would be fantastic. Once we get round to it (don't hold your breath) I'll post QE-style before and after pics. 
We went to see Sideways, then for dinner, and then we went on this:
Just discovered that the audioscrobbler thingy
started working during this morning's Robbie Williams frenzy and it pushed the whole sidebar down to the bottom of the page. Thus making my site look stupid. Gah. Fixed it now (hopefully).
David (non-celebrity husband) claims that I wouldn't really say yes if David (Beckham) came a-calling.
Becks, if you're reading this, wanna settle a bet?
Something else that makes me happy is boring, functional things being made beautiful. I had to buy a heater for the spare room. I wasn't very excited about it ... until I saw this
Usually I get to run on a Tuesday because my mother-in-law looks after Harry. But my father-in-law's not well so she's looking after him instead. Which means no run. But this morning it was so beautiful that I took Harry to the park and ran a bit with the pram. I managed three spurts and it was hard.
It was funny, as I started to run I thought 'ooh, I like this, this is much easier' but then it suddenly got much harder. My shoulders ached! And I got tired much quicker. So won't be running with the pram again.
Yesterday I did a bums and tums sesh which was really good and painful. Missed my Sunday run though (visiting my dad for his birthday) so I'm not feeling very ... well-run.
Ah, Richard and Judy. I would never have read this if it hadn't been for you. And that would've been fine with me. I don't know what it is about this book. It started well; there's a prologue that is so well-written I would defy anyone to read it and not feel excited to read on. But then the rest of the book ...
It's ... interesting. But there are loads of problems. Most of which are the kind of things that go wrong when an 'older' author tries to write dialogue for 'young' people. For example. He sticks 'like' into almost every sentence. But very rarely in the correct place (when he does get it right, it's probably more good luck than management).
"Mum, I don't know. I've tried to find some explanation but the only one I can think of is so cheesy that like I can't believe it."
And then there are a couple of cultural references that don't hold up (one, in particular, to Friends) and a woman apparently in her twenties describes something as "mega-cool".
As for the story, well, it's good. It's compelling. It must be otherwise I would've stopped reading it. But have you ever read a book where you feel that the author is thinking about what an 'important' book it is as he's writing it? I find that quite intensely irritating. As were the constant references to Betjeman.
And plagiarism passed off as ... I don't know. I'll give an example. Something happens and then a character points out that the same thing has happened in a Woody Allen film. Just because you've pointed out that you've ripped it off doesn't mean you haven't ripped it off. And this happens more than once. I've just thought of another: stating 'don't you hate novels who compare characters feelings to the weather' when you've just done exactly that isn't post-modern and clever, it's just lazy. He does the same with cliches writing 'painfully thin (as they say)'. Argh! (Whenever I think about cliche it reminds me Janet Fitch, the author of the author of White Oleander being interviewed for Oprah's book club. She said a cliche isn't just something you've heard hundreds of times, it's anything you've ever heard before. And she spent god knows how long thinking of totally original descriptions for everything in her book. Imagine.)
Even though there are so many problems, it's not a bad book, it's just nothing new.
Sorry, I'm doing it again, aren't I. But there's a valid reason this time, honest.
I've been thinking about joy. And bliss. And glee. I think I wrote about joy a while ago (then again, who knows?) but it was something I never thought about until the Joy edition of O Magazine. I always thought about being happy (or not) but never about types of happiness. Until I read that. Then I started focusing on 'moments of joy'. I think a moment of joy is when something makes you feel so happy that you laugh out loud. In the magazine I'd written that playing with my nephews and watching ducks playing in the pond (you probably had to be there) were examples of 'moments of joy' for me. (In O there's sometimes an info sheet that you can fill in ... oh, never mind.) I'd add Queer Eye (of course) and making Harry laugh (practically everything to do with Harry actually) to that list now. And lots more.
Then I read this and started to think about bliss. For me, bliss is like chilled out happiness. Like drinking wine in a bubble bath. Or curled up in a chair with a cup of tea and a good book. Or lying on the sofa drinking hot chocolate and watching The O.C. (Hmm, drinking seem to be important for me to experience bliss - add some champagne to that Clooney bath!)
And then I read the word "glee" on Karen's site. Glee for me is silly happiness. Tickling, joking, messing around type of happiness. Like when I caught David mixing some batter with the two inch whisk I got in a hot chocolate set. I laughed so hard I nearly had an accident. That, for me, is glee.
So what's my point? My point is: how often do we experience joy, bliss and glee? Daily, weekly, monthly, never? I've decided that one of my new year's resolutions (what? it's still the new year!) is to make it daily.
The lovely view from my home office window ... 
Yay! Two years. Two years!! Oh, how time flies. When I think about what this blog was like when I started: it was called "contains mild peril", the template was bleurgh, I didn't know how to do anything but ordinary links, I didn't know how to add pictures (but then I didn't have a digital camera either). And look at it now! So pretty ...
Now I don't want this blog to become a place for me to drool pathetically about Men I Fancy (maybe I should set up another page ... er, no) but last night I dreamt about David Beckham and woke up in love with him. I don't mean I woke up fancying him or feeling quite fond of him, I woke up pondering whether (if the opportunity arose) I could leave my husband for him (you'll have to guess the answer to that, but I'll give you a clue: it begins with 'y'). I haven't stopped thinking about him all day. Now, I know he's foxy (if you ignore the voice) but I've never really had very strong feelings for him. But the dream was so vivid and so ... lovely ... and ... yes, I know I'm tragic.
Maybe that Johnny Depp picture has unleashed something scary.
I haven't been swimming since towards the end of my pregnancy (i.e. eight months ago) and I'm not that good at swimming anyway, but we took Harry today for the first time and I went off for a swim by myself. And, oh my god, I was awful. I swam a length and I nearly didn't make it back. Yeah, there were little boys leaping in from every side and there was a wave machine on, but even so, I really struggled.
Need to go more often I think to get my stamina up.
Now I know how important it is to drink water (although not swimming pool water, which Harry seemed to enjoy). And I know I feel better when I do. I find it easier to get up, I don't have so many cravings, my skin's better. But. I don't drink anywhere near as much as I should. And I don't know why. I like water. It's no hardship to drink it, but I still drink tea or coffee or wine or juice when I should be drinking water. Why? Why? And how can I get into the habit of drinking more?
I was searching for a pic of Adam Brody (I know, I'm obsessed, it's wrong) and instead I came across this (and, no, that wasn't a Freudian slip).
I've always known he was beautiful, but - yikes - this picture went straight to my hoo-haa. (What? Too much information?)
The subscription thingy is working beautifully. I urge you to sign up! Urge, you hear?!
We've just watched Supersize Me. Gah. No more McDonald's for me. Not even when I'm hung-over. (Not that I really get hung-over anymore. I'm so boring.)
Ooh, just seen a trailer for a film called In Good Company which looks purty (I'm such a sucker for New York set romcoms). Have to look it up and see what it's all about. And it stars this Topher Grace person. What kind of a name is Topher? Hm?
Sure I had something else I wanted to write about, I just can't think of ... erm ... was it something to do with ... oh, dear. No, it's gone. Oh! I've remembered! You know how I bought the teenage magazines for "research" but really because I wanted the sparkly scarves? Well the sparkly scarf with ElleGirl was lovely. Green and lovely and really good quality. And with Bliss there were two. I think it was a mistake, it certainly only mentioned one on the front of the magazine, but there was a gold one and a black one. Result! Except they weren't very nice. Boo.
The amazing thing was that there is hardly any difference between these magazines and the 'women's' magazines I usually buy. Well, New Woman and Glamour anyway. But I was shocked - shocked! - to learn about 'toothing' and 'upskirting' and some sort of date-rape drug cigarette thing (oh god, that's going to bring some unpleasant visitors). I mean, what's the world coming to? Really? Bring back Jackie that's all I can say.
It was easier today. I know! I was dreading it because it was a really miserable foggy day and I kept thinking I wasn't going to go and then I forced myself (along with my mother in law and son in his pram) and it was really good.
We walked for a while then I ran and it was *gasp* easy to begin with. I ran for longer than I normally do (not much longer, I'm talking another few seconds) and then back again and I did that four times. And I was definitely recovering quicker too. The third spurt was the hardest and I didn't think I was going to bother with a fourth, but then I remembered that we're going out for an Indian tonight so I thought I'd better had and that one was as easy as the first.
Cor, progress! So exciting!
DruidX blogmarked me (thanks!), mentioned the quote I've got on my header and credited it to 'anon'. Which is when I remembered that when I moved it I'd forgotten to credit it to Benjamin Franklin. DruidX mentioned it because, she wrote:
I realised what I load of crap I write in this blog. I don't know why, but I don't write about anything interesting in my life any more, I just write when I feel the need. I know there are some people out there who actually read what I write, and to those who read my mundane blahings: I'm sorry. This is my effort to give you something interesting to read.
I too feel like a fraud sometimes because I don't feel like I'm living 'something worth writing'.
But then I got to thinking about what constitutes 'living'. Really living, I mean, as opposed to just existing. When people talk about 'living' and 'getting a life' or whatever, I always think about travel or excitement or adventure. I feel like, to be really living you need to be jumping out of planes or going into space or .. I don't know, something exciting. But how many people go into space or jump out of planes (or sky-surf)? Not very many. Or hardly any.
So I've come to a conclusion. Living must be more than existing but less than my extreme definition. And I've decided that it's joy. I feel alive whenever something lifts my heart. And I've decided I don't care if that's a magazine, a sunset, a TV show, a rainstorm, a blog, a waterfall, chocolate, the Brooklyn Bridge, Starbucks, making my son laugh, going out without a coat in February (yesterday!) ... whatever.
I'm doing stuff. I'm writing a novel (or two), I'm learning to drive, I'm going to New York, I'm doing something stupidly ambitious. No, it's not climbing Sydney Harbour Bridge, but it's not to be sniffed at either.
* remember that? Opus. Gah, I'm old.
This is just a test to see if that subscriptions deely works ...
Don't sign up to it yet though, I'll let you know when I see what you get ...
Also looking forward to 
.
Lovely picture. And I've been listening to 
a lot too and it's surprisingly good. Seriously. I wasn't expecting much, I have to say, but I really like it. Some of the lyrics are quite excrutiatingly cheesy: A gangster or a spiritual leader/A ragamuffin or just a believer/Be a realist, be a dreamer/And always try to have a cool demeanor (that "cool demeanor" line makes me laugh every time), but then some of them are really sweet: Like fallen leaves that cover beautiful flowers/So many words is what silence implies/Remember me as the man that loved you pure/And always know, you're the one that I adore.
Ah, I still love him.
One thing I don't love anymore is ER. I'm going to have to stop watching it. Much like The West Wing, I didn't realise how much ER had declined until I watched some old episodes (and the decline has been much more gradual than The West Wing's). It used to be funny and uplifting along with the misery and trauma. Now it's misery and trauma all the way. I thought Romano's death was the last straw, but then I kept on watching. But then this week, as I sat sobbing over the mother who threw her daughters to their deaths out of the apartment window I thought - why? Why am I watching this? I couldn't remember the last time I'd enjoyed it. And I don't even fancy Kovac or Carter anymore. So. Goodbye ER. It was good while it lasted.
The new Doctor Who
Ah, Christopher. I'll be able to drool over you on a weekly basis. Bliss.
The Life Aquatic
The trailer looks amazing. Bill Murray and animated fish. It's like Lost in Translation meets Finding Nemo. Probably.
Don't Eat This Book
Still haven't seen the film, but the book should be good too.
Jamie's School Dinners
Ah, Jamie. He might be a fat-tongued Mockney, but I can't help loving him. But not in that way.
Ocean's Twelve
Lord knows why. I didn't think much of the first one. Too shiny. No tension. Apparently this one's a bit of a mess so I think I might like it better. And there's always Clooney to look at.
The new Nick Hornby
It sounds a bit high concept, but it could also be amazing.
The UK version of The Apprentice
Can't be as good as the original, no The Donald (and no Evil Omarosa - do you know, I dreamt she kidnapped my baby?) but, you know, I'll give it a go.
Sideways
Everyone loves this and I love Paul Giamatti (he'll always be Pig Vomit to me). But then again everyone loved About Schmidt and that was a yawnathon, frankly.
Blink
Loved The Tipping Point. Love Malcolm Gladwell's hair.
So today was a lovely day. But every time I thought about running I felt ... despondent. So I decided to trick myself. I thought:
I'll just go for a walk, it's a lovely day for a walk. Yes, I'll just go for a walk in this lovely late afternoon sunshine and maybe I'll *whispers so own brain can't hear* run a little bit.
Yes, I'm plotting against my own brain. What the ..? Worked though. (Stupid brain.)
I'm actually managing four "running" "intervals" (sorry, couldn't help myself) which is progress (I started with two and then three). Still, no idea how I'm going to build up to running for five minutes. At the moment I run for what I call a minute, but I know it isn't because when I walk I count my steps and I count in the same way when I run and I assume I'm running quicker than I'm walking (although this isn't guaranteed ..). Anyway, so I'm running for less than a minute at a time and it's taking more than a minute to get my breath back for the next running spurt (oh, I like "spurt" much better than "interval").
It's a good job I've got almost four months until the big day, that's all I can say.
A collection of Charlie Brooker's Guardian TV columns, Screen Burn is acerbic and hilarious.
Brooker mainly reviews things he hates which makes for fantastically vicious and entertaining reading. His description of Jonathan Wilkes replacing Lisa Riley as presenter of You've Been Framed is a perfect example:
'... like substituting a lump of sick for a lump of snot: equally bad yet somehow worse.'
I have to admit I used to scan the columns, only reading about shows I had watched, or planned to watch, myself. And then I read this ...
'If I worked on Bo' Selecta, and my parents asked me what I did for a living, I'd lie and say I sat in a dustbin giving blowjobs for pennies. Just to retain some dignity.'
... and I was converted.
I can't recommend this highly enough. Yes he's violent (frequently suggesting, fantasising about and delighting in stabbings, massacres and the beating of children) but he's always hilarious and there are so few books which provide a laugh-out-loud on every page. And how can you not love someone who calls mediums 'corpse whisperers'. Put it in the loo and you'll look forward to going.
