Life Drawing

I heard today that the life drawing piece had been cancelled. Actually it was more convoluted than that. The over-all editor said that he didn't want any pictures of naked men in the piece. The art school said that if that (only nude women can be in newspapers) was the reason I wanted to go again then they wouldn't arrange that because that isn't what art is about and thus it got binned.

It's a shame, I thought it was a good piece but I will still get paid so it's not an awful outcome just a disappointing one. Anyway, because otherwise the piece would be lost I'm going to share it here.

I’ve not done a great deal of drawing since I finished school. It’s been pretty much been limited to drawing pictures of otters in boring meetings or scribbling on drunk peoples’ faces while they sleep. Neither of these prepared me for my first life drawing class.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect, apart from possibly some naked people and I wasn’t quite sure how I’d deal with that. It’s not often you are encouraged to stare intently at a complete stranger, especially a nude one.

Thankfully the class was very well run, everyone seemed to be deeply practiced at what you were supposed to do. I just had time to pick an easel and tape some paper onto a board before the model struck his first pose. Luckily it was one where he was facing away from me so I had a fairly gentle introduction to life drawing.

Encouraged by the excellent teacher Gregory Ward (who is himself a very experienced artist – all the instructors at The Prince’s Drawing School are) I set about the paper and started trying to draw what I was seeing. For some reason I had lost all grasp of prospective and while I was trying to capture the primal beauty of a well muscled leg I ended up with something more akin to a melting Twiglet.

Gregory spotted where I was going wrong and taught me how to sight measure using the charcoal provided. This involves closing one eye and holding the charcoal at arms length, you then use it to work out the proportions of everything. This makes you feel deeply arty and also helps keep the limbs in your drawings the right length.

This seemed to work well and while working on my second attempt I started to day-dream about if it was time to invest in a studio of my own. Sadly my second piece while vaguely in proportion wasn’t really up to much either. Instead of a drawing of a man in mid-stride it was closer to an elderly yeti sneezing.

At this point the pose of the model changed and he was sitting in a chair with his body twisted. With a bit of helpful advice from the other students I started again. I really took my time to think about what I was seeing and drew carefully.

It was really absorbing because you start to really look at what you are seeing. I spent ages trying to get the contours of the shoulders just right and found myself marvelling at the line of the muscles down the models back – in a completely heterosexual way of course. After what seemed like an instance (but really two hours had passed) it was time for the final pose of the evening. This would be a longer one where we could really take our time over our work.

The whole experience was really engaging. The room was completely silent as everyone was completely concentrating on what they were doing. It was almost like a state of meditation. You start to notice the interesting things about the human body and then wrestle with trying to get them onto a bit of paper.

As this was the final pose of the evening I spent a bit of time doing some practice sketches of the tricky bits before I tackled the whole composition. The model was lying down on a bed made out of foam cushions and a thick blanket, with one arm thrown across his body and his legs raised slightly. It was a tricky one to capture because everything was at a strange angle and there were shadows everywhere.

I really wanted to draw something I could be proud of so I was almost sweating with concentration as I started on my work. This would be my masterpiece. Using all the vast knowledge of drawing I had accrued in the last two hours I was going to do everything I could to produce something a bit special. I was so enthralled by what I was doing that a couple of times I found myself holding my breath.

This was what it was really about, losing yourself in the moment and forgetting everything else. I didn’t want to be a journalist anymore. I wanted to be an artist, a roguish type living in Paris and sketching out a living while I followed my passion.

Sadly while I did really enjoy what I was doing I don’t think I’d ever make a living out of drawing. My final piece ‘Man on a bed’ would have been much more accurately titled ‘Jellybaby on a lilo’ and I doubt I’ll ever really master drawing anything that has fingers or toes, or a face.

After three hours of working away, I was exhausted, elated and strangely calm. I left the class unable to wait till I’d get to draw again, and while I don’t think I’ll be showing anyone the collection of sketches I left with I am deeply proud of them in a secretive sort of way.

The Prince’s Drawing School was set up because figurative drawing was in danger of becoming a dying skill as the popularity of conceptual arts increased. Instead of actually drawing people or things the fashion was to just put some thing in a tank or on a bed and call it art. Thankfully the trend is moving back the other way as people are starting to realise again how enjoyable figurative drawing is. After having my first taste of life drawing I’m amazed more people don’t try it.

I’ve never been so awful at something and yet enjoy it so much. It’s not just a pleasant way of spending an evening, it changes the way you look at everything. Art is cool.

Tom Cruise

I've always though Tom Cruise is an okay actor. I've never been a massive fan, or avoided a film because he was in it. I'd say I'm neutral on the chap.

I like Mission Impossible 1 & 3 and because I was once a small boy Top Gun made me want to emigrate and join the military but apart from that he is just someone who gets paid a lot of cash for making expressions in front of camera. Well done him.

I say this because on Saturday night I met a proper Tom Cruise fan. We were in a bar, and this girl managed to relate almost any conversation back to how wonderful Tom Cruise was. It was a little bit alarming, but then it was quite fun to see how she would bring Tom Cruise into a conversation about shoes, horses or cocktails.

After a bit of consideration I decided it was probably best not to ask for her number and just politely said goodbye to rejoin my friends. I'm all for people having interests but I don't think I want to be in a love triangle with Tom Cruise.

Mad logic

I was talking to the flatmate and a male friend of hers who is a bit of a rogue. We were chatting away about his current situation regarding women. He is seeing a girl at the moment but has told her that he doesn't want anything serious. This seems fine but the flatmate was annoyed by this.

Her thinking was, that even if a chap says 'I'm not interested in anything serious' and you continue to see them, it is assumed that it will be something serious eventually because you are still seeing each other. So the fact that the chap has said clearly that it's going no-where is not important.

When we both tried to point out the crazy logic of this to her she would have none of it. It's especially crazy because there is no-way she would put up with that sort of deal or nonsense in business.

Girls are mad.

Lot 55

On Friday I went to the grand opening (possibly re-opening) of Lot 55. It was an amazing night. If you aren't aware of Lot 55 it is pretty special night club. It's designed to look like a London Street, the sort of which you only really see in musicals and Disney films.

You can go into the shops on one side of the street so there are lots of tiny rooms to have private conversations or more interesting private encounters. The final twist to the venue is that one end of the street opens out into what can best be described as Henry Higgins' Drawing Room. (from My Fair Lady). It is awash with old leather armchairs and is perfect for having slightly flirty conversations by the candle light.

I can't wait to go back, especially on a Friday where the hosts put on the most amazing shows. Not just cabaret type acts, but also street performers just walking around so you never know if the person you are chatting away to is about to start balancing on their hands or doing magic tricks.

The best way I can think of describing the evening was the dream sequence in Labyrinth set in the Blitz. I am going to try and go every week, and not just because there is a soft-spot in my heart for the party organiser.

Tramping

Well clearly the fates don't want me to meet Alesha just yet. I didn't make it to her party, I think the first mistake was ordering the second bottle of wine when I met up with a friend at their member's club.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, you know we were having such a giggle and well if you are laughing and you have a seat why go anywhere else? Due to our second wine we arrived at the club some-what late, and it had opened to everyone. The queue outside was so mobbed that I couldn't even get close to the person with the clipboard and gain us entry. So we decided to go to another venue where I was on the guestlist.

This party was extremely disappointing and they even tried to get us to pay for drinks, I mean really. There is no clearer sign that the record industry is in trouble that now guests of their parties are expected to buy their own drinks.

We were so shocked by the concept of having to pay for our own booze that we retreated back to the club we had been at originally and drank more of the lovely wine. It's okay to pay for booze if you get to choose the surrounding but if someone invites you to a bash it seems a bit off if they want you to buy drinks too. It was an excellent evening but one that ended in a way I hadn't imagined.

Although it appears that some parts of the record industry are doing better than others - Alesha was paid £40k (According to my chum) to 'host' the party, and it worked. The queue to get in snaked all the way down the street.

Oh and speaking of musical women. Say you are a troubled yet brilliant singer, lets call her 'Lanie Beershack'. You are celebrating getting a few awards with friends and you decide that you might like to put some things up your nose. If you are going to do this it is probably good to do it somewhere a bit private. You should not do it on the dance floor.

If you do decided to do it on the dance floor don't be surprised if some woman is overheard in the loos trying to sell that story to the papers. And if this is happening and someone who you know a bit comes up to you and warns you that someone is trying to set you up, you shouldn't elbow her in the face and tell her to fuck off.

Honestly, some hypothetical people act in a manner very unbecoming a lady.

Faith and the fop

I'm not a terribly religious sort. For a start I like evolution too much as a concept, it's just so logical. It doesn't just work on animals you can see it in clothes. Look at the early suits and you can see how they changed to fit the purpose of the times. Admittedly as far as I'm concerned fashion peaked at around 1820 but that is a different matter.

What I'm saying is that except from the occasional prayer offered up to the gods of journalism, or the diety of coffee in thanks for a strong brew I don't really do religion.

However every now and then something happens that makes me wonder if their isn't some sort of over-reaching power that has plans. For instance, just this morning while taking a pause from writing nonsense I started to think about women. One of the nice things about single is you can spend time pondering what it would be like to date one woman or another.

Perhaps you would take one on a picnic as a first-date or maybe whisk another off to Budapest? It's all possible in theory because you are single and so you can do anything. This morning as I waited for my mokapot to brew I was pondering what it might be like to date Alesha Dixon who was the absolute star of Strictly Come Dancing just before Christmas.

Once the coffee had brewed I didn't really give it a second thought, that is until my friend who writes a gossip page for a newspaper called this afternoon. She wondered if I would be so kind as to go to a party hosted by Alesha Dixon tonight post-brits and see if anything entertaining happened.

I thought about this for a while, and then said yes. I mean, if the powers that be want me to drink free cocktails with Alesha Dixon then who am I to argue?

Dawn Porter in the nude

I've been messing around with BBC Iplayer a bit. I had issues with it when it first started up being that it was a bit of a pig of an application and that it only had 'Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps' on it. Things have moved on since I last used it and now it is a fairly slick way of catching up all those programs you missed or didn't realise you wanted to see.

I downloaded it originally to catch up with a friend who had appeared on Masterchef. She was brilliant - after seeing her do so well I was inspired for as long as it took me to walk to the fridge and realise I had no food. Now that I have Iplayer I've been downloading all sorts of nonsense just because I can.

One of these programs I downloaded was was 'Dawn... Gets naked'. It turned out to be a rather good documentary about Dawn Porter (who previously lost a load of weight in another documentary) learning about how most women have a horrible body image due to magazines touching up photos and things like that.

It was a bit of a strange documentary. She was really honest about how she felt about her body and was incredibly charming during the whole affair but I don't know if I felt anything happened by the end. She organised a flashmob of nude women to charge around London using Myspace, which seemed really dated - it's all about Facebook these days. The flashmob seemed like good fun, and I'm glad she went an terrorised the offices of Vogue while wearing very little but it's a shame the magazine's press officer wouldn't make a statement. So it didn't feel as if anything had really changed by the end of the show.

The thing is I didn't really mind that it didn't go anywhere because I couldn't help but find Dawn utterly beguiling. She went through a series of adventures and learnt how to burlesque dance as well as posing for a life drawing class. And while the documentary probably won't change the world it probably made her feel good about her body (Which was lovely, honestly some women eh?) so that is at least one good thing.

I'm not sure what they hoped to achieve, I mean apart from filling me with a real desire to take Dawn Porter out for cocktails. Still that is something, and one shouldn't overlook that.

Roxanne

I've been recruited to help the ex-porn star find a new chap. She is currently on a website which is specially designed to allow very rich chaps to meet pretty girls. I'm sure you can guess the name but I won't mention it. Anyway it appears that while the chaps on this website are (apparently) wealthy they aren't very glib, you wouldn't believe the sort of nonsense that my friend has been sent by this chaps in an attempt to seduce her.

Anyway, just put aside the thoughts of how ghastly this website is (and it is horrible) and concentrate on the matter in hand - the poor quality of chaps bothering my friend. In an attempt to try and improve the level of chap messaging her I re-wrote her profile to make it a bit more pithy. Don't ask why, it seemed like a good idea after two bottles of wine.

It seemed to have worked as she has more chaps messaging her now. And they are at least trying to engage in a conversation with her, but she is at a loss over what to say back to them. For some reason she has managed to rope me into helping write her replies.

It's a very strange situation to be in, akin to the situation in Cyrano De bergerac except I don't have a big nose and I'm not secretly in love with chaps my friend is talking to. So I suppose it's not that close really, I just wanted to have a post titled Roxanne because.

1) It's a bit like that film with Steve Martin (which is based on Cyrano De bergerac)
2) The person I'm helping used to be a porn star, so it's a bit like that song by Sting
3) The stage name of my friend was a bit like Roxanne.

Anyway, I must dash because I've got to write an email to someone called Pete who goes by the name 'LoveMachine' about the sort of bands I see in London, or to be exact the sort of bands my friend would like to see if she was really the sort of person who went to see live music but she isn't.

This would all be a bit much if I hadn't had such a splendid lunch with a friend. It was a perfect lunch, I wish I was back there now having lunch right now.

In which we talk about drawing.

Last night I had my first introduction into life drawing. It was on an assigment for the usual paper but this time the art school were delighted by the idea of having a journalist there and were extremely helpful.

The school was in Shoreditch which always has a special place in my heart, so many amusing adventures started off in there. I often walk around a corner and discover a pub that I'm sure I've never been to but strangely I seem to have a memory of talking to a girl in a tiny hat.

It was foggy so the tall buildings of the east end had a marvellous sense of menace to them, it was as if at any moment a devilish jack the ripper type would step out of the shadows and try and set about me with a knife. Luckily this didn't happen and my journey was without incident.

The class was very entertaining, sadly the model was male and he kept positioning himself so that I'd have to spend a lot of time drawing his winky. I've never drawn another man's winky before but now I have a whole catalogue of sketches of it. I'm not to sure I should show them to other people, there are a couple of other good drawings - I managed to do his feet quite well and capture the line of his shoulders but even they are on a page with other winky sketches.

Anyway, I really enjoyed it. The art students were very amusing with a massive sense of their own self importance and ability which caused the poor teacher to have to work quite hard to get them to accept any sort of advice to improve their work. One of the chaps resisted for what must have been twenty minutes saying his style was more conceptual.

The experience was very engaging it's amazing how you really look at people drawing life drawing, so that you forget everything else. I can't wait to go again.

Time travel, madams and the curfew.

The weekend was full of strange events. After collapsing into a heap on Friday I awoke on Saturday rested and positively fizzing with vim and vigour. A friend has told me about an event being run in Trafalgar Square that I thought could be jolly good fun to join in on.

The co-ordinated thing was a mass freezing. Another group had run one of these events in Grand Central Station in New York. If you hunt around on YouTube you will find a very charming video of it going on and all the people who witnessed it being bemused, delighted and a little bit scared by people suddenly freezing for five minutes.

I cycled over to Trafalgar running a little late as I made rather slow progress on The King's Road because of the Chelsea game. Any time Chelsea play football at home the whole of Chelsea and Fulham falls to pieces. Luckily the Terror bike (brought on the day of the London terror attacks so I could get home) allowed me to whoosh past various grumpy types in their sports cars and I made it to Trafalgar Square with moments to spare.

I quickly struck a suitable pose and when the chap played the trumpet, froze. I couldn't see much as my head was down and my floppy hair was covering my eyes but I could definitely hear people being shocked. After a couple of minutes some children posed with me for a photo and a German couple had a loud conversation about what was going on.

When they time was up there was a round of applause and we all went to the pub satisfied that we had made London a little bit stranger. I had a couple of pints with a friend who was wearing an excellent green skirt and then bimbled back home.

The evening was a quiet one, I was supposed to go to a party but my flatmate has requested that I'm home by 11 because she needs her sleep so it makes going to social events somewhat challenging. Deciding that a two hour commute to spend five minutes at a party was a bit of a waste I read a book instead.

On Sunday I had a friend over for coffee and cake and then went to have a meal at my friends house, we haven't seen each other for a while and I discovered she has become an up-market Madam. I'm not a big fan of pimps, being that they are violent horrible men who are definitely not paragons of style but I'm not sure what I feel about Madams. Especially high-class ones who girls seem to enjoy what they do and seem to be paid to go to Monaco quite a lot.

Nice work if you can get it, but I'm not sure I could become a gigolo when I've got a curfew.

The Ice Queen Melts

Well I did the gig. It was extremely scary. I've never seen a gig with such an angry crowd. Two acts couldn't actually tell any jokes because the crowd were talking back so much - one of them just did a dance while his time ticked away.

The MC had to tell the hecklers off, I mean a proper telling off. Why do people do that? I mean really? These weren't even funny hecklers, just sort of depressing.

Anyway. I did my set, the final act in fact. Which was a first, sort of accidentally becoming a headliner. It went okay, I'm probably being more critical on myself than I should be. I mean once ditched anything even remotely high-brow I got a very reasonable amount of laughs but it was a shame. There was no sparkle the sort you get - in my limited experience - when you are really getting on with the crowd.

It was recorded on a camera but I'm not sure I want a copy of that. Also doing the set were two very funny female comedians, one of whom I've met before. They are both extremely pretty, extremely funny and extremely nice and yet. Extremely single. It's baffling. The flatmate thinks this is due to most chaps being afraid of not being good enough for single girls. It sounds possible.

Oh and I spoke to The Ice Queen, she has a proper boyfriend. One who sent her flowers and took her out for a meal. I know the chap she used to think of him as just a friend but she has seen the light. Now she has a lovely boyfriend who thinks the world of her and that is very nice.

French toast and destiny

I spent a lot of the day moping about, I'm not entirely sure why. It should have been a good day, I paid in cheques (now only one thing remains unpaid) went for a walk and then did some work.

I think I was feeling a little bit blue because I piece I wrote for another newspaper that should have appeared today didn't. The editor says it is lovely and they are going to use it, just not this week. Ho-hum. As I was feeling a little strange, I made some French toast and went for a stroll.

Walks are good for improving one's mood, I think because the maximum speed of 'the blues' is quite low so just by walking moderately fast you can outpace it and then leave it behind.

I did feel much better after the bimble and I brought some more flour so I could make some bread. I introduced the flatmate to the wonders of home made bread last weekend and it was so good she was witness to the introduction of the bread dance. Which is a bit like the chocolate dance but with more pointing of toes.

I had no real plans this evening, but as always I thought I would trust in fate and let it decide what will happen. Fate has decided that I should do some more stand-up as someone I met briefly a few weeks ago will phone me out of the blue and offer me a comedy gig. So that is what I'm going to do tonight. So I've got to choose my waistcoat now, and practice my ding-dongs.

Brakes, Pamela Anderson and Gorillas

I picked my up bike from work today. I had to go into Soho for the meeting (which went extremely well) and because I was hungover I thought it might be a spiffing idea to cycle home on a lovely crisp winter's afternoon. It was lovely but my cycle needs a bit of work and the brakes aren't a strong as they should be.

This means slowing down requires a bit of forward planning. Quite a lot of forward planning. So if you are on the King's Road and the tiny star of Baywatch steps out in front of you while putting expensive shoes in the back of her limo then you have to swerve quite violently to avoid her because there is no way the brakes will stop you in time.

Luckly I didn't hit her, or the bus and she probably will never know how close she came to a fop-related accident. All she saw was a chap on a bike wobble a bit while saying 'blimey' before disappearing into the distance. Her trousers were extremely low slung and she really should wear a belt if she is going to bend over like that in the street. Still I suppose not every chap has seen most of Pamela's bum while commuting home.

Fashion week makes London go very silly, and it's amazing who you bump into, or almost run over. The only thing I thought as I wobbled off into the distance after my near miss is a gorilla is never going to believe me.

I've gotta be a macho man

I am hungover. Actually that isn't entirely correct, I am still drunk. I am ruined man, who has had about 20 minutes of sleep of sleep and will have to go into quite a serious meeting this afternoon. I didn't mean for it to end up like this but it did. Let me start at the beginning.

If I'm being honest it probably started to get dangerous around lunch time. For some reason it seemed like an excellent idea to skip any real food and just have a coffee. This would come back to haunt me later when the idea of some sort of starchy ballast to absorb drink would be terribly welcome.

Post work I met up with a friend in a cocktail bar for a quick drink before she went to some style awards. She was very much looking the fashion part and was resplendent in silver, her dress even had a cape. It was a small one, so perhaps technically it was a caplet? I'm not sure but capes are good.

After a brisk cocktail with my friend I ambled over to the bar that was hosting the Mr T thing. Sadly it was revealed that Mr T would be joining the event via satalite link rather than working the room. He was in good form and answered some piercing questions from me. I can exclusively reveal that the animal Mr T would least like to fight is a grizzly bear.

Once the presentation was over there was more booze and an arm wrestingly contest to win some dumbells. The chaps lining up to enter were big stocky chaps and they clearly didn't consider a foppish chap in a waistcoat to be much of a threat. Now I grew up on a farm so I'm fairly strong. So I entered the contest and did rather well.

I won, I even got a bit cocky on the final match and took the time to sip a cocktail while mid-wrestle. I've never won weights before in an arm wrestling contest but it's possibly the most macho thing I've ever done.

Flushed with victory we stumbled on to a members club in East London to join in a fashion week party. I started drinking gin at this point and bumped into some old friends, someone I used to work with a million years ago and Amy Winehouse.

This caused more drinking, I think. My memory is a bit hazy really. I got home at about 7am. Now I've got to arrange picking up my prize and try and get less drunk in time for a meeting this afternoon.

Mr T and the brain

I am tired, so very tired. Yesterday should have been spent prancing about feeling triumphant and possibly winking at pretty girls on the tube who were reading the feature I wrote. Instead I spent the morning fretting over needless things and the afternoon frantically working.

The piece has already opened doors for me, and I've been given a new assignment by an entirely different paper as well as being allowed to do something interesting by The Royal Family for another paper because the feature I wrote clearly gave them the impression I must be an okay sort of chap.

So because of this sudden influx of work I spent the whole evening down in the library frowning at my laptop and trying to squeeze out 2000 more words, when I really should have been drinking champagne and cocktails. I've got to hand it in an hours and I've looked at it so much that I just can't tell what is good or bad anymore.

Of course a chap can't just give up. It's stiff upper-lip time and as I'm a freelancer I should always been glad of the work. I know how to deal with this, it's time for coffee so strong you could cut it with a knife and some French jazz.

I can't fade now, I've got too much work to do and this evening I'm going to a party with Mr T. Well that makes it sound like I've got a hot date with the member of the A-Team. I've not. He will be there, but I'm going with a girl.

So I have to finish this piece, and then set about my wardrobe to decide what to wear today. I pity the fool that doesn't match his shirt and socks.

Is a pound a pound?

Is it okay to work for a paper you don't really approve of? It's sort of like that age old question. 'Did good people work on the construction of the Death Star?'. I've had to think about that a bit today.

Also is important is 'what would you do for money?'. I often talk to my friends in the adult industry about how they ended up doing what they do, not in a preachy way just trying to understand the steps you have to take to get there. It seems that it's a gradual process. First you do one little thing because someone pays you, and then you do something else as well for a bit more cash and so on.

I say this because I'm doing a photoshoot in oh about 10 minutes. This is a shoot for a feature about, well women. Women not being very spiffing. I will try and make it light-hearted and things but they do want the details. The little sordid facts of the matter and suddenly perhaps I'm revealing more than I should to a wider public.

Although now that I think about it, it's nothing more than I would say on this blog, and in this instance I will get paid. So while I don't think I'll be doing topless photo shoots for hardcore magazines where people like to look at Fops and Dandies. I am starting to understand the steps one goes on to get there.

And well, perhaps if the shot is tasteful, and important the piece I could undo a button or two.

Uncomfortable silences about winkies, calf implants and flowers

The dinner party was excellent. Most of the people there were single which is probably why the event bubbled away happily with out any talk of mortgages or improving kitchens. My friend was in extremely good form and spent most of the time whooshing in and out of the kitchen while she served food pausing only to tell a funny story the sort of which you can only really do if you have worked in that industry.

Because the room was full of giggling women who knew each other very well there was quite a long silly conversation about winky size and shape. The women found this deeply funny and the men all looked uncomfortable. We were quizzed if we had any preference when it came to lady-parts but we just decided to blush in unison which caused more laughter by the women and things went on.

It was an excellent party and it was if anything a shame to leave it but a chap must when he has a busy day ahead of him.

Yesterday I was having a conversation about plastic surgery - a friend is about to launch a magazine about it. And while I mocked the subject she was very serious about what she would get done. I should preface this with the fact that she is extremely good looking with a body of almost Barbie doll proportions.

Anyway, she wants to get calf implants, because her ones aren't currently shapely enough. I can't see anything wrong with them and to my, clearly untrained eye they seem very nice but she is not happy with them. At the party last night we talked about surgery a bit and all of the women had something bizarre they would change. I can't decide where I stand on self improvement. If there is something that you really don't like and you can get it changed, why not? But also when do you stop?

V-day is fast approaching and with it the difficult task of picking the right sort of flowers has now started. I am going to be getting a bunch delivered to two women I work for, which is fine but the amount of flowers is proving tricky. One of the women has given me an awful lot of work and the other one, only one bit. That is one piece so far, so should her flowers be less impressive than the other ones?

I know they should be different, and that the note should make little of the flowers being sent, but should there be a relationship between bouquet and commissions?

It's a minefield and one I hadn't expected. Perhaps I should just get them some calf implants instead, evidently that is what all stylish women really want.

Volauvents and the nude lady.

Can an adult actress throw a decent supper party? This is the question I will be finding the answer to tonight. I'll be going to the new house of an ex-girlfriend. I remember her from her 'wild days' when she was an actress of some renoun. We dated for a while - when she was taking a career break - and although things didn't really work out we have stayed friends.

She wasn't the most domestic of people, she lived in a strange world of sports cars and properties around the globe. You find a lot of adult actors and actresses invest in property (the ones who don't get messed up by the experience) because they earn so much in a short time and then the place you buy can provide a steady income when you retire.

I have very fond memories of our dates, we always had some sort of adventure. Some slightly worrying but others very entertaining. Once ended up doing a photoshoot with her, by accident but that is a story for another time.

I'm glad that she has completely got out of that world before she got to messed up by it and she has found a nice chap who clearly adores her. I still can't imagine her making volauvents but perhaps there is a happy ending for us all?

Huzzah!

I went for a walk today to meet an old work mate for lunch. On the way there I saw a classic DB5 in silver and a DB9 Vantage, also in silver. As I've mentioned previously this is a sign of good luck.

And it was right, about five minutes ago I got the email. I've got my first ever piece appearing in the Daily Telegraph next week. I'm so excited I feel a little bit sick.

Stand-up, reunions and badly dressed women.

Last night was my second comedy gig ever. I think if anything it was a more challenging than the first one. The venue was about six times the size of the previous one so I was performing in front of an awful lot of people. I was also on second, so I wouldn't be talking to a lovely, warmed-up happy crowd but a group of people who were slightly angry and waiting to be amused.

The crowd were actually quite angry. The MC had almost started a fight with someone before I went on, and there had been more than a little heckling. Even worse my old boss from my first, hated job had decided to come along. While I don't really give a damn about him, I didn't want to look like a prat.

So I took the stage with a touch of the nerves. The proper set up of the lights and speakers and things meant that I had no idea if people were laughing, or even smiling. I couldn't see or hear the audience.

Luckily I didn't get heckled, and I definitely heard a few laughs, especially when I said the line about the fox. Actually it went swimmingly, and I left the stage with an pleasantly meaty applause and the crowd wanting more so that is good. Afterwards quite a few people (mostly women) came up to me to say the enjoyed my act which was very nice of them and I will buy them all drinks or make them cakes at some point in the future.

I was followed by The Urban Woo who was amazing. Her confidence is astounding and it really showed me that I've got quite a bit to learn. Still, it is only my second time and perhaps if I was wearing a skirt that excellent I would also have a loquacious ease.

The lovely people organising it have said I can do some more work and two of the other acts have asked me to go to their club nights so it looks like I'll be doing more shows, and fox jokes.

After the gig I went to a leaving party for someone I used to work with which caused a re-union of another sorts with my old boss and even more surprising A whom I wrote an awful lot about in 2006. It was fun seeing the old crowd and strange seeing A. We were polite to each other in that terribly English way, but nothing more than that.

When the pub closed we went to a nearby club in Chelsea, a friend works for the company who owns it so you get to swan in to the VIP area and drinks are supplied with out having to do anything as vulgar as pay. It was fun, but it made me realise how people in Chelsea really can't dance and most of the women can't dress themselves. While I may be drifting back into the dating scene there are some standards a chap has to maintain and I think the first of those is to not be seen with a girl who looks like she has dressed herself in the dark, while drunk.

Perhaps I should have dragged The Urban Woo along with me to the club so she could show the jiggling trustifarians how a real lady dresses.

Art rage

People aren't rude to me that often, perhaps because mostly I write about lovely things happening to people and how lovely they are. Or perhaps because well, I don't live the most challenging of lives. That isn't to say it doesn't have it's tricky moments but rarely someone takes the time to be unpleasant. Yesterday was an exception.

I had been given an assignment to go life drawing and write about it.

I often go on adventures for a paper and then record what happened. Every piece so far has been a glowing review of the activity and has noticed a significant upturn in business after it has been covered. I say this so you can understand that me writing about something is a good thing. I've even covered, somewhat sensitive groups who are very protective about their privacy and they were happy with the result.

Last night I appeared at the art drawing place in Islington with a photographer and was treated like a criminal. I had arranged with the person giving the class to go and we had even got permission from the model to be featured, but the owner of the building or at least some berk in charge was having none of it.

He was of the opinion that I was going to write some sort of sleazy, lad-mag account of life drawing. Nothing I, or the photographer could say would change his opinion so we left. The chap said I could I do the course but I had to pay and I couldn't take any photos, but if someone has been that unpleasant to me I'm not going to give him the free publicity.

Living with girls

Living with girls is tricky. They are complicated sorts with things one has to take into consideration - there are places that knives go and places they don't go and sometimes a cup of tea is exactly what they need and sometimes exactly what they don't and how dare could you suggest that.

It makes me go misty eyed about my old flat shares at university. I lived with a chap called Pricey as a sort of old couple. There were other people in the flat, a constantly stoned Geordie and a tiny chap who technically lived there but actually spent most of his time at his girlfriends. The shower was in his room so this worked out well. He had a giant telly with sky so you could watch television while having a shower which was an interesting experience.

Anyway, back to Pricey and I. We quickly became a proto-couple. While we both had various girlfriends we cooked for each other if we were about and would often just to to the pub to talk nonsense. It was very nice, the closest we ever came to a fight was what sort of sauce would we make for pasta. My tomato based one or his cheese based one. We both enjoyed cooking so it was more of a 'no it's my turn to cook' in a very polite way.

Because we cooked so much - from raw ingredients - we lived like kings at university. I don't think I've ever eaten so well since. I'd bring up game or ducks from my mothers house and he would get all sorts of interesting supplies from the supermarket he worked at in the evenings.

We liked the same stuff, would go to films and have a nice time. Girlfriends would drift in and out of the flat but not disturb the manly harmony. Sadly I left Scotland to go to London and Pricey couldn't leave his beloved country.

I suppose any future flatmate or girlfriend is going to be compared against the gold standard of Pricey and, well they tend to fall rather short.

The assignment dance.

I was given a new assignment yesterday. It's a feature, 800 words on spec but what makes it interesting is that it is for a major newspaper. A proper one, one that people have heard of and possibly even read.

I was so thrilled when I got the call (and yet baffled how the chap got my mobile number) that I danced around the room for about ten minutes. After the dancing had finished I celebrated with a cup of Earl Gray.

Now I have to write it, and I can't think of anything interesting to say. Maybe a bit more coffee will help. Argh.

The linen of change

The last weekend was restless, perhaps it was because it was the last week of the Chinese New Year. I always find the Chinese calendar is much more agreeable to make changes around. For a start the Gregorian New Year's Eve is far too close to Christmas so you don't really get to look forward to it.

January is ghastly and should be avoided at all costs so it seems much more suitable to start things in February. Historically all the exciting changes in my life have been in February and so I've come to rather look forward to it. The year of the Rat starts in only a few days and I should be prepared. It's customary to clean the house when facing the New Year which I think is an excellent tradition. Also one can gain extra luck by putting up lucky phrases and the like. Since my kanji is a bit rusty these days (really should revise it a little bit) and really the auspicious words should be in a language you understand I've written 'spiffing' and 'jolly good show' and celotaped it to my door. I'll report back if they have any effective.

As part of 'Operation New Life' I've recently got some new bed linen, I'm undecided about the colour, it's a sort of coffee/caramel that I would normally stay away from the shade but under the flatmates advisement I went with it and it does fit in with the colouring of the rest of the room. My bedroom now resembles a stylish hotel room, albeit one with a pith helmet in it and far too many shoes.

My bike fever has if anything got worse. I spent all weekend reading bike magazines and books so now at least I can make a passing stab at the lingo. I've even been remembering things from my childhood spent surrounded by hundreds of bikes. Plus it appears that a gentlemanly cravat is actually a useful thing to wear to keep out the chilly spring winds. It's not just dapper, it's essential.

Also I'm working on a bike related writing project with a friend, if my dad knew about that I think he would be very chuffed.

Unsettled

The weather report for Louche at present is unsettled weather with feelings of listlessness and the occasional spell of melancholy. Things should brighten up towards the afternoon as we expect to see some hats.

In which we talk about motorbikes and death

I went to the London bike show yesterday. H had some tickets going so I thought I might as well bimble along. If you have never been to the Excel centre pack lots of food, it is unbelievably far east, it's practically in France. I've never been that far East and stayed in the country.

After about two days of travel on the tube I finally arrived. I had some initial confusion and nearly walked into the toy show by mistake but after that I was safely in the world of motorbikes. H was there for work so we had to take photographs of exciting bikes and note down their details.

Occasionally I'd spot a bike I'd really quite like and then email Piqued for his view on it. Most of the ones I liked the look of fell into the 'you won't live to be 35' catagory, but this was a bike show so it was full of the most rediculous bikes.

After a bit of a stroll around I bimbled up to a bike magazine stand and had one of the weirdest conversations I think I've ever had.

L: 'Hullo, Who should I talk to about doing freelancing for your magazine? I'd love to get involved'

Chap: 'You can talk to me, I'm the deputy editor'

L: 'Great, I've just inherited a couple of classic bikes and I'd love to write about them for you. They are very special'

Chap doesn't look massively interested

C: 'Yes? What sort of bikes are they?'

L: 'My dad made them, so they aren't any make really. He designed them to look like pre-65 trials bikes but they are completely original'

Chap starts to show interest and takes some notes.

C: 'What engine do they have in them?'

L: 'Again a custom job, my dad made those too, hand machined.'

C: 'Blimey' (I don't think he really said blimey, but he did say something like that.)

L: 'Actually my dad was featured in your mag a few months back, jumping his motorbike at Eton'

Chap says my dad's name.

L: 'Yup that is the one, I'm Louche, his son.'

C: 'Your dad invited the editor to come and see the bikes, but he never arranged it'

L: 'Well he has passed away so it is a bit late now.'

C: 'I'm very sorry. Those bikes sound really interesting and if you are a writer you can write them up for us. I'll tell the editor about this and get back to you'

L: 'Marvellous'

Exit Louche stage left.

After that I looked at some more bikes, sent some more emails to Piqued about bike ideas where he said 'no you will die'. Even though he said the bike would kill me I entered a few competitions to win a couple of ridiculous bikes including a beautiful Ducati 848.

There is a bike display thingy at the show where a selection of very silly people do things on motorbikes that should really kill them. Stuff that makes your knees hurt just to watch it, there was a bit with a chainsaw and I think that probably says enough.

Oh and before I forget. The stunt bike people had to treat the floor to make it have more grip in some parts. What did they use? Coca Cola, weird eh?

After the show I went to my Viking friend's leaving party. He is finally abandoning London to go and live in Devon with the love of his life (he first fell for her at the age of 14). As expected he was very jolly about this, and it couldn't happen to a nicer chap.

You know driving down to Devon to see him would be an excellent thing for a chap with a motorbike to do.

The View from the vale

I've managed to find one of the cables I was looking for so I can plug my camera phone into my computer. This means I can share photos with ease now but I'd still like to know where that other pesky cable is hiding.

Anyway, here are some photos of my grandmother's house for those readers who enjoy looking at almost sickeningly twee places. This photo was taken from the front garden which is mostly used for games of croquet and playing 'What's the time Mr Wolf?'.

The house has good gardens for playing all sorts of games that involve chasing cousins around or hide and seek and there is a pond on the other side of the house where whole generations of newts have been closely examined by family members over the years.


When you go in the main door you will notice the stick basket. Inside are a collection of mallets, shooting sticks and various other paraphinala. Most of the walking sticks are fairly pockmarked as they have been used as they have been involved in more than a few pirate style battles and rescues of princesses.

There is an archaic pair of wooden tennis racquets for use in the tennis court. The courts are grass ones and are played on perhaps three or four times a year. They used to be played on even less because my grandfather decided that around the tennis courts would be an excellent place to put some bee hives so any balls going out of play would result in an army of angry bees joining in the fun. The hives are gone now , but tennis always plays second fiddle to bothering newts.

This is a picture from the small drawing room that leads off the kitchen. I always liked this room when I was small because it was where you went to draw pictures of dragons and play with glue while still being comfortingly close to the adults talking in the kitchen. The Piano was only for accomplished players, amateurs were made to play the less good piano that lived in the barn. The barn isn't actually used for any farming related things, it's for having parties in and running around whooping. It's also full of cobwebs and scary pictures so it's excellent for making yourself scared on halloween.

The bear brings back lots of fond memories for me, it is a ride on bear with a cable you can pull to cause it to make bear noises. This pre-dates computer chips, and it looks like it pre-dates the British Empire. it's so old so I have no idea what produces the strange 'Wrough' noise it makes, it's probably some special device made out of ivory and panda hearts.

For some reason all the books in this room are French. I'm not sure why you would put only French books in a room where young types are allowed to play around with scissors and pens but there you go.

Anyway I hope you have enjoyed this little tour down memory lane and into Dorset.

Battlestar Galactica, taxes and motorbikes

I'm not really one for going out with blondes. Sure I experimented with a few things at university but who didn't? It's not that they aren't beautiful but brunettes are the ones that really get my cravat into a twist.

I have a 'type' that is fairly well known to the point where my friend N says there are 'Louche Enabled' girls, in the same way that you get computers that can work with specific operating systems. Which makes it sound a bit creepy but what he is saying is that I have a type and mostly I stick to it.

Anyway, if you haven't seen Battlestar Galactica and you have at least some latent nerd genes you probably should as it's deeply enjoyable. If you are a high-brow type you could probably get away with watching it as a study how the paranoia of American socity is shown through it's science fiction.

Or you could watch it just to see the lovely Tricia Helfer be an evil robot lady. She wears lovely red dresses and swans around being dastidly. I don't think I really fancy her, but I do find her naughty character strangely compelling in a way that is against all the rules.

I don't normally ding-dong at blond ladies, but for her I do.

I'm trying to pay my taxes today, I really am but I've got some how caught up in the cogs of the system and I'm at total jam. Oh dear. I think I might try and get a sensible job again just to avoid this sort of nonsense.

Today is the day of the motorbike show. I would really like to go so I can go and look at bikes and possibly hassle the tired looking people at the stands for various bike magazines for work. Alas I will probably have to stay here and talk to people on the telephone about how I'd really love to pay some taxes and they can give me lots of different numbers to call so I can repeat myself endlessly.

Mushrooms and I

Mushrooms and I are no longer friends. We had a bit of a to-do before Christmas which caused me to miss out on a few lovely parties. On the day I was dumped by T.P. I ate some mushrooms which really didn't agree with me, and continued to argue for a few days.

I've not really had them much since then but for some reason after returning from the pub (more on the pubbing later) it seemed like an excellent idea to cook up some suspiciously elderly mushrooms and have them on toast. This was an extremely bad idea, because of those dastidly fungi I spent slightly more time in the bathroom than my bedroom last night and I awoke with a fairly serious handover and aches in strange places.

It was sort of worth it though, not the mushrooms but the pub visit. I scampered down the road to Wimbledon to go drinking with Piqued and his lovely ladyfriend. It was an excellent pub visit. We talked about genetics, obsessives and large amounts of nonsense. Afterwards I was buzzing with good humour and so the walk back seemed fly by, which is probably why I thought that having some dodgy mushrooms would do me no harm.

I awoke this morning in pieces - absolutely ruined - but after a cold shower, a fresh shirt and a summer hat I feel like a new chap. One with a slightly fuzzy head but a new chap all the same.

Amy Winehouse (redux)

One of the nice things about being single is you get to muse on any girl you see and what it would be like to go out with them.

It's fairly well documented that I have a bit of a crush on Amy Winehouse. It probably started from a great house party where I listened to her album while extremely hungover. Actually it started before that.

I brought her album because I fancied her and then luckily her music turned out to be rather good. Incidentally I think the Amy on the right is definitely the sexy one. Just looking at that picture makes me feel like Robert Crumb and I have to go for a long walk, or possibly a cold shower.

Anyway, through luck I have a couple of friends who know her (or used to know her really quite well) and I spent a lot of time hassling them for an introduction but for some reason they wouldn't do it. Oh how history could have been different if they had eh?

I'd like to think that she would have drawn strength from my baking skills and stayed away from those ghastly drugs. I could have been her rock(cake).

Instead I'll just be a chap she met ever so briefly in a pub once when she appeared to have a terrible cold because she kept sniffling and disappearing to the loos.

Victory!

The great flapjack experiment was a roaring success. Vanilla and Honey flapjacks are amazing. I'm eating them with a cup of tea right now.

Incidentially my flatmate has introduced me to a type of tea I'd never encountered before Earl Gray with Lavender. I can't imagine a more camp flavour, can you?

So yeah, fuck you companies who don't pay. I've got flapjacks. Or put another way, unlucky in money, lucky in oat based Scottish snacks.

Cakes and bakeability

Yes, I'm aware that pun of a title only works if you squint, give it the benefit of the doubt and are in a good mood.

I'm in a stressed mood. Various companies have decided that paying me isn't terribly high on their list of things to do and so I'm enjoying that special terror that freelancers get when you do a lot of work and then don't get paid. I'm sort of paralysed by it all, I can't write because I'm so stressed and currently I can't afford to go on a course which I would then review for a paper.

It's not just the papers fault, the publishers are being positively sluggish on the second part of my advance and another company who owe me a sizable chunk of change are being a bit crap with talk of 'Christmas messing up invoicing'.

Talk to the cuff links because the Louche ain't listening.

Since I'm so stressed I can't really do anything - I'm baking. This is an interesting form of baking because my ingredients are very limited at the moment. I have some oats so I thought I'd make some hardy flapjacks. Sadly Golden Syrup and any form of normal sugar are sadly lacking in the flat at the moment so they have been replaced with some strange honey I found and some vanilla sugar.

I'm hoping that these last minute changes to the recipe will improve it rather than destroy it. I hope so, I'm not sure I could take anymore stress right now.

Who will buy this wonderful morning?

A friend is launching a new club night that sounds very interesting. It's called Chopin Scores and it is held in the most amazing venue I've seen in a while. The inside of the nightclub is a studio representation of a London Street. Yup, I'm bringing you chaps an exclusive of a night club. What ever next eh?

This is an actual picture from the inside of the club, the organiser tells me that there will be live poetry readings, one-to-one cabaret and all sorts of strange happenings. It's partly run by my favourite party organiser so I have no-doubts that it will be an amazing experience, I'm already planning what I'm going to wear - something dark perhaps in velvet

Man of the month

It's been a while since I've done a man of the month, so here is a new one.

Alber Elbaz the artistic director of French fashion house Lanvin. He gets this award for his bow tie and pleasantly eccentric appearance.

Wouldn't you just love to have him over for tea?

New Moka life

One of the additional nice things about going to Devon for a little mini break is that it gave me the chance to pick up my Christmas presents that I had to leave behind. I couldn't take them with me before because I was a homeless bum and homeless bums aren't going to get much of a chance to use a lovely, beautiful moka pot.

I must say that previously I found people who fell in love with objects a bit strange. I've got friends who have named cars, bikes and even clothes. Yes, they are all male. I had that opinion simply because I just hadn't met the right object. Which is a round-about way of saying I don't just like my new moka pot, I adore it.

Of course I can't tell it that because I've got to play it cool.

It's so beautiful, I mean it's really stunning. The polished metal and sharp yet perfectly measured angles make it look faintly reminiscent of a woman or perhaps that is just my frame of mind at the moment.

It doesn't just look lovely, it brews amazingly strong coffee in the most thrilling way. The liquid that comes out of it is fiercely potent so that you should really only have one serving of it, and that should be in the morning when you have a whole day to ride out the effects. It's proper coffee, bitter with subtle tones that race around the pallette and that makes your whole body tingle. It also reminds me of my time in Italy when I nearly died and as a result reinvented myself. The way it makes the coffee is very exciting too, but that has to be witnessed to be understood.

My little brother gave me two lovely cups to use with the moka pot, they are tiny espresso cups in classic off-white. They even have saucers, I don't think I've owned saucers before, they give me a lot to live up to. Oscar Wilde had the same thing about his best crockery and once said

"I find it harder and harder every day to live up to my blue china."

Even if I can't quite live up to my coffee making equipment it is perfect if I should have a guest staying over and I want to impress her with the perfect cup of coffee in the morning.

Not that I'm having guests over at the moment, I don't want that sort of antic at right now. I thought I did but guests can turn into regular guests and regular guests can turn into relationships and I really don't want one of those.

After all I'm already seriously involved with someone - my moka pot.

Oscar Wilde and the family shoot

Well that was quite a weekend. First on to the important business of my Grandmother. Despite having something rather wrong with her kidneys she seems okay at the moment. Like an episode of House she has some sort of virus that is making her kidneys rather unhappy but the exact nature of it is unknown.

When I visited her she was rather jolly this is because her three favourite things are available in hospital

1)Drugs. My grandmother loves taking drugs, in a 1960s housewife sort of way. When the doctors offered her sleeping pills she could barely contain her glee.

2)Eaves Dropping. The woman opposite my grandmother in hospital is having a to-do with her daughter. Listening to this drama unfolding was making my grandmother's eyes positively sparkle.

3)Nice Beds. It is traditional for my grandmother to receive guests while propped up in bed surrounded by the papers, radio 4 going on quietly in the background and ideally a dog and a cat lounging around like cushions. The latter two are not available in hospital but the bed adjusts so matriarchs can sit up and read about the situation in Kenya (which she pronounces Keeen-ya).

The nurses in the hospital were amazed that at the age of 88 my grandmother was hosting dinner parties and going for long walks with her dog so while the doctors still don't know exactly what is wrong with her she did seem in very good sorts.

This weekend was also the event of the family shoot. It's a mass gathering of the family more than a serious sporting event. Every bird that is shot (and they are very few - there are only about two shots of note in the family) will be turned into some sort of delicious meal. It (the bird) will have had a terribly nice life of scampering around the Dorset hills in specially grown crops designed for it to live in.

The shoot was the smallest it has been for a while, various parts of the family were off doing things in other countries but as always it was a joy to catch up with cousins, second cousins and various 3rd and 4rd cousins who have now been absorbed into the fold.

The day is split into three main parts, in the early morning the hills are covered in cousins as they beat, or shoot depending on their position in the family. After about four drives across various hills everyone has a mid-morning snack of hot soup (wild mushroom this time) and sausages. It's the thought of these hot snacks that keeps you going as you stumble through fields of kale or over hedgerows.

After the snack there is a final drive through woodland that is extremely tough going and like being in the Great Escape. You stumble over trees and things while gun-fire goes on around you and various surprised animals - including deer - scamper in your wake. After this long and exhausting 'walk with guns' everyone returns to the house for a lovely meal made up by various members of staff.

It was on the way back to this that my Great Uncle Rupert accused me of looking like a Wildian figure in my tweeds and tie, which in turn caused another distant uncle called Tom to remark that it was probably genetic as we were relatives of a Mr Oscar Wilde. I wasn't aware of this connection previously but it's a pleasant surprise.

The day was finished off by visiting my grandmother in hospital, after causing myself a cracker of a head injury as I managed to prang my head on the door of the Range Rover and made an awful lot of blood come out of it. Thankfully it was only a flesh wound so after a bit of bleeding and a sort of bandage I'm fine although it does appear that TCP is now my new fragrance.

Devon and Dorset

I've rushed off to the West Country. Not just because it's time for the yearly Family Shoot, but because my Grandmother is deeply unwell.

She is in hospital right now giving the nurses lectures on the correct way hold a fork which I'm taking as a good sign.

Anyway the shoot is tomorrow, so I have to go bed now.

Unexpected Tuesday, operation popinjay and rollerskating with dominatrixes

Tuesday was a day of surprises, the day itself wasn't a shock but the events were quite surprising.

Sadly the editor I was supposed to be meeting cancelled on me because she hadn't been to bed the night before and was in pieces. This is a very honourable reason for cancelling, and she has promised to make it up to me so that is fine.

Now that I no-longer had to be sparkling with foppishness in my best waistcoat I changed into a pleasant but unassuming jumper and trotted off to work. This trotting took longer than planned because for some inexplicable reason I got on entirely the wrong bus and I ended up seeing parts of West London that I doubt any outsider has seen for thousands of years. After seeing dinosaurs and packs of proto-humans I managed to finally get on a bus going in vaguely the right direction and made it to Soho.

The office was it's usual fun place, although the main woman was a bit subdued because we are being sued for saying something that is true but the person who told it to us has disappeared. What makes it even more annoying is the person we said it about appeared on T.V. a few days ago and the presenter said even worse things in the same vein but that was okay because the presenter is a shouty chef.

Oh and my piece appeared in the newspaper but sadly the word Popinjay had been removed. On the plus side they had let me include a big plug for my next stand-up show but I shall miss Popinjay. Perhaps I'll get it in some other time.

After work I went with my colleague for a couple of cheeky cocktails at a members club on Shaftsbury Avenue. I had the vodka espresso and she dabbled with the lime Margareta, after those we saw off most of a bottle of champagne while plotting revenge on the person suing us and then came up with an idea for a travel show. Which reminds me I should be writing that right now.

Plinking with merriment after a good dose of nonsense and champers we spilled onto the street and went our separate ways. I decided that I would walk home from Soho as it was a good clear night and I wanted to get to know London again. The stroll was very pleasant. I took in Sloane Street and the King's Road which have both changed a great deal since Chelsea was my stomping ground and this time the walk home passed in a flash. Perhaps thanks to listening to the Mighty Boosh radio show.

When I got home I was still a little bit drunk but it was time for some more moving so I helped my flatmate unload more things from her car and then take the bins out.

Just before I lowered my head on the pillow I got two text messages out of the blue, both offering adventure and excitement.

1) H asked me if I wanted to go camping in the Arctic, sponsored by some car company

2) A Dominatrix I know, the only one I've ever got on with asked me rollerskating for her friends birthday tonight.

It's a new dawn of a new day...

Today feels a bit like spring. It's still jolly cold but the light has a lovely clean quality of the sort that makes artist go all weak at the knees and other chaps go and check their picnic gear to see if it is still in working order.

I tend to picnic a bit too soon in the season because I get so excited by the prospect of eating outside, so when the proper picnic weather arrives I've had enough and I'll do anything to avoid a glass of Pimms and a cucumber sandwich. Perhaps this year I'll learn to pace myself.

A plan has already been formulated for a picnic with my flatmate. it will be 'jolly spiffing' the likes of which hasn't been seen since Gatsby was last spotted hosting a bash on the West Egg. Boaters or Trilbies will be a requirement for chaps, ladies must have a parasol. I just hope that is enough of a temptation to lure people south of the river.

I've got a pleasantly busy day ahead of me. I'll spend my usual morning in the library frowning but in the afternoon I'm going to go into one of the places I work in Soho. I've not been in for what seems like an age so this will be very pleasant to catch up on the nonsense going on.

The evening will be absorbed by meeting up with the editor who gives me most of my work. So I need to be on my best behavior. Actually not just my best behavior but the sort of behavior that says 'You should get a regular column talking about shoes and girls as well as your usual nonsense.'

Speaking of nonsense this afternoon I'll find out if I managed to get the phrase 'feckless popinjay' into the paper or not. If I have succeeded my next challenge will be to get embonpoint into print.

A biscuit day

I've been thinking about food a lot recently, especially raw food. Food you can pick of the vine and stuff into your mouth. Food that is so tasty you can't just go 'hmm' you have to sing about how lovely it is while doing a little 'this is tasty' dance.

This might just be because I'm drinking less, or just living a healthier lifestyle. Or perhaps I spend so much of my day frowning at a laptop or pacing around trying to squeeze thoughts out that even the slightest distraction becomes terribly exciting.

I think It's Australia day tomorrow and there is some sort of bash going on. I wonder what I'll make of the cocktails after this mostly puritan lifestyle. I'm hoping that even the most megre Sea Breeze will be exiting now.

In other news my poor flatmate has just been told today by a chap (the chap she has been having an on-off thing with for the last ten years) that he never loved her. This was done in a way that implied that he was entirely blameless for messing her around for the last few years and if anyone was to blame it was her. Honestly people can be such shits sometimes.

She was of course rather upset by this but after sorting out some other aspects of her life and a decent cup of tea she seems to be okay. It really should have been a cup of tea and a biscuit but we don't have any in the house. We probably should, for emergences like this where a person just really needs a biscuit. After all you never know when you are going to have a biscuit day.

Naughty...

I had a feature appear last week, I was learning to be a cowboy for a day. I wrote this feature a while ago but it only just appeared.

It has been pointed out to me by a couple of people that I managed to use the word naughty in the feature five times (and sneak it past the editor) which considering it's only a couple of pages long is pretty good going.

And you know what I'm rather proud of it, it strikes me as rather well, naughty.

This week I'm trying to get the word popinjay into a newspaper but who knows if it will sneak past the editor and sub-editors.

Sunday

Sunday's are a tricky day, do too much and you start the week tired. Do too little and a strange sense of guilt haunts you and ruins your evening of watching light entertainment while eating comfort food.

I'm not sure I got the balance right today. I finally sorted out my room so I feel decidedly more moved in but I have a sort of listless feeling, like I should be doing more. This is surprising because over the last few days I've done a lot, sorting out all sorts of elements of my life. So maybe not more, but at least something else.

This would be an excellent time to do a bit of baking, perhaps some biscuits but I'm awfully low on the specialist ingredients for them. In the time between me leaving my old flat and collecting my stuff all my baking supplies disappeared. I don't think this was malicious, just a mistake. Still there will always be more baking powder and cake cases.

Perhaps a bracing walk is what I need, nothing like a good stroll to sort out the mind and centre the spirit.

I've just noticed that the apparently pointless ornaments in the library have lids you can take off and spaces that are perfect for storing secret notes to be read by someone else in the manner of spies. I wonder who I can use them to communicate with?