'Two shags'

is what John Prescott has been re-christened following the revelation of his two-year affair. This was one of two things that made me laugh out loud this week. The other was a Chinese takeaway menu that landed on the carpet beneath my letterbox on Saturday morning. Alongside the always amusing photographs of extravagantly yet unappetisingly displayed food (when was the last time your chow mein arrived in half a pineapple? And would you ever want it to?) were the words 'Alcoholic Takeaway' - brilliant. "I'll have one jakey in stained clothes and two neds 'oot their heids' on buckie please."

Following on from Jeff & Dev's Sunday lunch, Keith & Ashley hosted us last Sabbath day. Dinner was delicious and dessert was the most amazing banoffee pie I've ever tasted. My enthusiatic critique caught Keith's attention and he spent the duration of dessert apologising for his inappropriate comment. It really was good pie though.

Another heavenly pudding was sampled on Thursday night at
Black Bo's with Leanne. It was chocolate and chilli brownie with vanilla and hazelnut ice cream. Oh, it was class. Catching up with Leanne is always good. Whereas I give advice by way of endless analogy, Leanne can put things immediately in perspective with one sentence; and it's never a patronising one either. I don't know why, but I'm always surprised when my friends say something that makes clear just how well they really know me. It was like this with Leanne on Thursday when she said: "I don't think you'll get any answers from it. In fact, I think it'll do you more harm than good. But I know you're still going to do it anyway." Bang on the money.

I had a half day at work on Friday and took myself off to the gym at 1pm. I feel compelled to go every day since the instructor assessed my body fat situation and looked like she was amazed I'd managed to squeeze out the door of my flat. Needless to say, I could hardly move for the first four hours on Saturday morning (this was made worse by another visit to the gym). Mog and I had lunch in the sunshine followed by a big ice cream and a little walk.

At 7pm we caught the train through to Glasgow to celebrate Katie's birthday. It was a most ambient affair with generous helpings of curry and an excellent crowd. Around Midnight, we headed, quite literally, round the corner to a club. We walked straight in - sans entrance fee - and proceeded to have a cracking time. A night in da club wouldn't be the same for Katie and I without at least one dance-off. This time the tune was 'Don't cha' by the Pussycat Dolls and my demure wrist-flick sent someone's bottle of beer raining across the dance floor. Bonus points.

We headed home around 3am and Mog and I headed straight to bed. I was truly knackered and my muscles were truly aching by this point. The rest of the party stayed up chatting until 6 or so which meant Mog and I were annoyingly bushy-tailed the next morning. A truly scrumptious brunch of French Toast, bacon and Maple syrup was scoffed before Mog and I caught the train home.

Good times.

Gillen's the name ...

... good old-fashioned hilarity's the game.

My busiest and most successful week yet in my new job meant I was on a bit of a high as I caught the 1600 to Liverpool (via York) to spend the weekend with Jennifer.

Our group presentation (the Big Brother spoof) at the departmental away day was extremely well-received, my knowledge of Bond films meant my group got all the answers to the energiser quiz, and my personal presentation on a Rough Guide for Chavs in Edinburgh went down a storm in the afternoon. In addition, the real work moved along at pace and I feel like I'm really starting to understand things. Nice one.

The social side of life was better yet with Sam and I enjoying a Bon Voyage meal at the Grain Store on Monday night, Mog and I enjoying an 'I need a rant' meal at the King's Wark on Wednesday night, and the dizzying combination of after-work drinks and the Tiny Monkey gig on Thursday. Thoroughly knackered, I stayed just long enough to applaud Keith and his fellow monkeys at the end of their set. Reading about the trials and tribulations of TM on Keith's blog over the past few months meant I was more nervous for them than I ever needed to be - they did indeed rock! Go the Monkey!

Friday at work was a bit of a joke as I turned up at 10am, went for lunch at 11.45, returned at 2.15pm and got a taxi to the station at 3.30. Various comments about allergies to pieces of office equipment, and work in general, ensued.

It took 4.5 hours to get to Lime Street but the wait was well worth it. A woman in an outrageously short, sparse and tacky outfit asked me a question as I was walking along the platform. I told Jen about it and she replied: "Oh yes, the fetching green number. I swear, until I moved here last month, I didn't realise that Atomic Kitten were actually classy and sophisticated." Oh how I've missed my friend.

Jennifer had a shocking cough. I'd always put her down as someone who's bite was every bit as bad, and probably worse, than her bark, alas, on this occasion she was reduced to a cliche. We enjoyed a Thai takeaway and some wine as we caught up on the immediate stuff. Jen showed me to my room, apologising for the fact that this was the only room the owners had neglected to decorate. The next morning after a fantastically comfortable night's sleep, I told Jennifer that the only thing the room was missing was a kitsch picture of the Virgin Mary above the bed. There was an unused picture hook in the correct place and I suspect this may have been the one item the owners took with them. I'm not sure if anyone else gets what I mean here, but some rooms just feel so Catholic. This was kind of how I imagine a priest's bedroom might look, only with Stargazer lilies for decoration as opposed to young boys.

Saturday afternoon was spent at the Docklands where Richard and Judy used to film, and the giant floating weather map was moored. Sadly both Richard and the oversized wobbling items have moved on. The former Miss Gillen and I enjoyed the offerings of the Tate while she told me about her lukewarm relationship with her married name. She is now Mrs Sloan, but doesn't like having to say it and is pretty convinced that when she booked a table for an upcoming meal the woman recorded her name as 'Slod'. Unfortunate.

Jen and I share a contempt for the pretentious wankfest that is modern art, but I have to admit the upper two floors of modern shite were an absolute Godsend after enduring the Turner exhibit on the ground floor. Jen overheard a couple discussing the merits of one of Turner's paintings: "The light in this painting is exceptional," said the woman. "Yes," agreed the man, "it has an almost ethereal quality wouldn't you say?". Shite! In my opinion, Turner and Constable are pretty much the same in that their paintings are dull, dreary, depressing and generally quite pish. Don't get me wrong, the art upstairs was 90% pish too, it's just that most people will actually admit it's pish while they seem to have to pretend that Turner and Constable are excellent examples of arty wonderfulness.

An early dinner of top notch tapas was thoroughly enjoyed before we headed off to Oddbins to stock up for an evening in front of the TV. As we drove back to Jen's, I noticed that the names of shops and bars in Liverpool were appallingly bad and difficult to fathom. There was McHale's Irish American Bar complete with a smog-rotted replica Statue of Liberty. Jen asked what made it Irish-American as opposed to just Irish. I had no answer other than perhaps they put pretzels rather than peanuts on the bar. There was also a shop called Kut-A-Bill. I have no idea what service it offered but did deduce that whatever it was, it was offered cheaply. Just in case the lame play on words didn't impress the idea of cheapness strongly enough, they opted to spell cut with a 'K'. Klassy. There was also some construction work going on under the banner of 'considerate construction'. Jen and I pondered what was so considerate about it and came up with the idea that perhaps the builders wore their belts tightly enough to keep their jeans from sliding half way down their arses.

Copious amounts of wine meant that our witticisms on Saturday night TV came thick and fast. Of course, with Celebrity Stars in their Eyes featuring Jade Goody and Charlene Tilton we couldn't fail.

On Sunday Jen showed me some pictures she and Derek had taken whilst living in Africa over the last couple of years. The scenery was truly stunning and the Rhinos were up-close and massive. A leisurely stroll through Sefton Park with some general musing and pondering of life was the perfect end to a much anticipated and enjoyable weekend.

It took 4.5 hours to get home on the train, but some quality time with a much admired and cherished friend was well worth travelling for.

Ask and you will receive

What an unexpectedly fab weekend!

Once upon a time, I dreamt of a more interesting life. In recent months this has been working out nicely. My life seems to have fallen into a pattern whereby I am booked up every night of the week and totally 'free' at weekends. You'd think this might make my weekends a little dull and boring, but it's just the opposite. What usually happens is that on Friday night I get at least one call to say "well do you, do you, do you, do you wanna go ...". The offer usually involves alcohol and chat, so I tend to 'wanna go' more often than not. On Saturdays, I get to the gym before heading off with the Economist (that's the paper rather than Gordon Brown or someone of a similar ilk) for a few coffees.

This Friday I called my mum; who told me that she and my dad were coming over to see me on Saturday afternoon. I was most pleased about this as I have some trousers that need to be re-hemmed and some bed covers that could do with an iron. I also enjoy my parents' company. After that I called my Gran to wish her a happy holiday; she's off to Zambia for a month. By the time I got off the phone it was rather late, so I decided not to go out and opted instead to purge my wardrobe of clothes that were a)too big, b) far too small, c) hideous (and, thank God, unworn) and d) the wrong colour. This stems from the fact that I had a colour consultation last week during which I was told that I am light, cool and apparently sporting the wrong hair colour. Having just spent a small fortune having my hair done the week before, this isn't what I wanted to hear.

On Saturday I was waiting for my parents when I realised I had managed to read the Economist cover to cover. It followed that I had been there for quite some time. I called my mum to find out where the hell they were, only to have her tell me that they'd been diverted at the Forth Road Bridge and were on their way to Kincardine. Why didn't she call me to let me know you may ask? Alas, she had no credit in her phone. This is a regular thing. I refused to get annoyed and stemmed any rumblings of rage with a trip to Harvey Nick's where I bought a new perfume.

After an enjoyable (and rather hilarious) dinner with my parents, I bumped into Keith, then Jeff, then Sam, then Katie. They were all on their way to the Blind Poet to drink to Jeff's birthday and asked if I wanted to head along. I promptly did so and had a rather excellent time chatting, drinking and arm-wrestling.

I got to bed around 4am. Mog sent a text at 8am asking if I fancied doing something. I begged off until noon and we ended up going on a little jaunt to North Berwick (oooh, how elderly). We consumed copious amounts of food, bought some sweeties and had a walk along the beach before driving back home. An already fab weekend became fabber still when my Grandad called to 'give' me a car; a decent one with a year's road tax and MOT.

Sometimes life really does work out just as you'd imagined; sometimes it's even better.