Getting ready

My birthday was on a Monday this year, so we celebrated it two days early by going out on Saturday night. Always conscious of time and the burning need to do 'stuff', I've given a lot of thought to what I want to do before I'm 30. I wanted to map this out so I'd have something to reference for the next 12 months. So, on Thursday morning I went to Woolworth's and bought myself some felt tip pens.

I started drawing. There are 10 things on the map for the year ahead:

1) Run a half-marathon (well, I managed the 10K after only 8 weeks so why not keep going?)
2) Finish the book (if only to stop being harassed by people asking 'when'?)
3) Go to a full-on music festival (no camping though)
4) Buy a red sports car (oh. yes.)
5) Go to Africa (even just Morocco. I'd happily wait longer for the five-star safari)
6) Learn to take proper photographs (Love taking snaps, but they'd be better if I were better)
7) Learn to ski properly (thrill seeker seeks part in Bond movie)
8) Learn to horse ride (someone at work went on a riding holiday through the desert to Petra. I said that would be ace and maybe I'd do it next year. She asked: "do you ride?" I said: "Not horses, no." She said: "That might be a problem." I said: "Well, I can learn.")
9) Master sign language (This is a random one. I don't know any deaf people and no one seems to 'interpret for the deaf' on Scotland Today anymore (I'd love that gig), but I figure it might be handy for venting frustration with people but in a such a way that I can keep my job; or if I'm kidnapped and need to send secret messages as to my whereabouts ... you know, if they film me ... OK, it's just random.)
10) Have visited 30 countries (Currently on 25 so would love to tick off another 5 this year).

I also drew out a 'life so far' map of all the significant things I'd done. It made me feel great because there's absolutely loads on it. And, aside from passing my driving test, living abroad for a year, graduating from uni and getting married, I've done it all in the last three years alone. It reaffirmed to me what I can achieve when I stay open to opportunities, jump at everything and put my mind to it. Good work!

On Saturday morning, I ordered some hi-viz running togs in preparation for starting up again next week. I can't wait. Then I took myself of to the hairdressers to get my highlights done (and to ask for big 60s hair for my night out). I always feel great after Emma sorts out my hair, so on my way there I decided that when I was finished I'd take myself up to Harvey Nick's to get my nails done. Well, it was my birthday.

I arrived at the Champagne Nail Bar with my ab-fab new hair and asked if they had any space for a file and polish. Amazingly they did. "What colour would you like?" the manicurist asked. "Oooh ... em... something red." "What kind of red, we have about 8 shades?" I had a look at the colours on offer at the bar. The best red was the Victoriana, but I also took a fancy to the Black Taxi (black nails are very on trend). I couldn't choose between them so the manicurist made some other suggestions. I ended up selecting an amazing dark grey colour.

Manicurist: "Any special occasion?"
Me: "Well, it's my birthday on Monday so we're going out tonight."
Manicurist: "Wow. It's my birthday on Monday too. We're like birthday twins."
Me: "uh-huh."
Manicurist: "I'm going to be 18."
Me: "Ah, that's nice. I'm not. I'm really not."

They gave me a glass of champagne while my nails were drying and I enjoyed it. Then I walked home and started getting ready. After over a week, I was finally allowed to wear eye make-up again - so I went to town with it.

Sinead, Jo and Kerry arrived and I made us all Dirty Mojitos. Kerry asked: "What's 'dirty' about them?" I said: "They've got Chlamydia." But they were dirty cause I'd made the sugar syrup with brown sugar. They checked out my life maps and said I should get them framed(I can't draw for toffee, but apparently my efforts have such "vibrancy" and "humour" as to make them endearing.) We met Mog at the restaurant and she'd handily ordered some sangria. We scoffed the delicious tapas and quaffed a few bottles of Campo Viejo Crianza. It was joyous.

I'm 29 and , surprise, surprise, it feels right.

Staying warm this winter

It's very cold in the flat tonight but I'm refusing to put on the fire or the radiators because it's still only September. Also, if I get into the habit of putting that fire on now, it'll be on all the time and, given the impending financial apocalypse, I really don't need my gas meter to start ringing up numbers with the speed and ferocity of an ambitious tele-sales executive.

Speaking of financial doom, I went out for cocktails on Friday night at The Scotsman and on Saturday night at Harvey Nick's. Lots of people were doing the same; you wouldn't think there was a credit crunch. It reminded me vaguely of those paintings depicting the Gilded Age of American excess just before the Great Depression kicked in. Uh-oh.

I have a date this week with someone I actually feel quite excited about. (I'm not looking for a relationship but since I'm not putting the fire on, I could really do with something to keep me warm.) I know, who'd have thought it? The last time I felt like this about someone I was 14, so it's a lot of fun. Even if it comes to nothing, it's good to know that I can still get excited. I was beginning to wonder. (p.s. 'Dave' and I have gone back to being 'just friends'. He accepted it with good grace and humour and said: "Yeah, you're much cooler when you're not going out with you." 'Dave', on the other hand, was exactly as cool as when he wasn't going out with me. I feel he has a lot to learn about women and I need to be more honest with myself.)

A colleague from work was telling me about a guy she's just started dating. He sounds hot and she's pretty excited. All excellent news. However, she was telling me about a dinner he'd cooked the night before. He made lobster. She was suspicious that he hadn't made it himself as cooking is 'neither a great interest nor skill' for him. "What does it matter whether he caught the lobster with his teeth or whether he scooped it out of a can, it's the thought that counts." "Oh I know, and it was really good. I just wish he'd be upfront if he didn't make it himself."

"Did you have a good night though?"
"Yeah, it was great. A really nice evening."
"Excellent."
"Except..."
"What?"
"Well, it was getting quite late so Steve offered to give me a lift home. And I said: 'Well, maybe I'll just stay'. He looked a bit startled and said: 'Erm... the thing is ... my mum's here'. I said: 'What? You're kidding!' I mean, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of his mum all night. 'Where is she?' 'Erm ... she's through in one of the bedrooms. She's visiting this weekend, but she didn't want to get in the way.' 'Right, well I'm not staying if your mum's here.' 'Yeah, I'll give you a lift.' So he gave me a lift home. I still don't think he cooked that lobster himself though. I wish he'd just say."
"Oh my God. Who cares about the fucking lobster? You're dating Norman Bates."

In other news:
1)I've got my race number and champion chip through for Sunday's big race. Very excited and nervous.
2)I received a text from Careth to say she and Mark are "expecting a 'bundle of joy' in March '09". Jen said she felt the '09 part was unnecessary unless Careth has turned into an elephant since we saw her last. I clearly missed the point as I thought their insurance policy was paying out.
3)Leanne is due to deliver baby number two any day now.
4)Sinead is loved-up and she and Saul are acting like Jonathan and Jennifer Hart. I don't just mean they're being all romantic and cosy, they're actually undertaking investigative assignments in and around Kirkcaldy.
5)My ex is getting married, again, (the fool) and wants to chat through some 'unresolved stuff' from our spectacularly short-lived attempt. I'm not doing it."

I'll let you know how I get on in the big race.

I carried a watermelon

I am on holiday this week and enjoying it.

I was badly in need of it. The late nights and stupidly early rises had taken their toll. I never realise how stressed and run down I am until my body does something to spell it out for me. Sometimes it makes me vomit, sometimes it throws my cycle off kilter (sometimes it does both those things at the same time, which is really scary and even more stressful), sometimes it gives me an eczema-type thing on my knuckles, but this time it gave me red blotches up my neck and behind my ears. Strange but true.

At work I was furiously trying to get everything tied up before I went off on holiday. This included contract/cost negotiations with one agency and two agencies who moan about the slightest change of plan. Honestly. When I invite agencies to pitch for me in future, one of the things I'm going to be looking for is someone who is as cool under pressure as I am. Yes, I may be a blotchy-necked stress-head, but no one would know it from speaking to me.

The social side of things was frantic too, though considerably more enjoyable. Mog and I had dinner and cocktails at the Dome last Wednesday and I tried to convince her to start wearing an orthopaedic shoe. I toyed with the idea of leaving my car on George Street and having a few more, but I'd have had to get up ridiculously early to move it so I was sensible and resisted.

On Thursday night, I met up with Cat, Cabey and Alan from work for the pub quiz. When I arrived, Cat pointed out that the rest of the people looked quite geeky and clever and the only hope for us was that I flashed them. I told her that she was sorely underestimating my pub quiz skills. Alas, I never got a chance to wow them as the quiz never happened. We made up for it by making our way through some chili nachos and a significant amount of alcohol. We tried to come up with a team name for future, but struggled. Cat suggested we choose one word which is always in our team name and then the rest of it changes every week. Alan suggested we use the word 'bint'. So I suggested we replace a word from a famous movie title with the word 'bint' every week. We tested it out on some James Bond films to see how it would work (Dr Bint, Bintfinger, On Her Bint's Secret Service, The Bint with the Golden Gun (or The Man with the Golden Bint), The Bint who Loved Me and Bintpussy).

Friday night was Anne and David's leaving night. I managed to get there before eight o'clock. I spent most of the night talking to Angela and Susie whilst fondling the lining of a guy called Harvard's jacket, which was hanging on the back of the sofa we were sitting on. Sometime after midnight on Easter Road I was amazed that, as merry as she was, Anne was still able to dismiss a guy with a very cool one-liner. Impressive. I told her this and she said 'yeah. I like how your way of handling it was just to edge yourself away from the situation and leave me to deal with it.'

It's true, I am rubbish in these situations. I normally get stuck for ages trying to politely tell someone to get lost. Drunk people scare me though and being smart in these situations reminds me of growing up in Fife and saying the wrong thing to a girl who accused me of flirting with her boyfriend at Jackie-O's. I pointed out to her that her boyfriend didn't have any teeth so he wasn't really what I considered to be 'a catch' and surely she must be mistaken. She told me that she was going to 'rip the fiss aff' me, which translates as 'rip your face off'. I spent the rest of the night in fear for both myself and my Jaegar mini-dress.

Since then I've come to rely on my friends to help me out of awkward situations. Sinead is classic with her no-nonsense approach. In San Francisco I got stopped by two guys asking where I was from and what I was up to and whether I'd like to go for a drink. Sinead had kept walking, turned around, shook her head, walked back to us and said: "Lis, do you have any intention of having sex with these guys?" The three of us were totally shocked. "No, of course not ..." "Well come on then."

On Saturday I woke up when I heard someone leaving a message on my answer machine. I looked up at the clock. 2:22pm. I don't think I've ever slept in that late in my life. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself and slightly anxious that I might be ill. Anyway, it made for a very weird day. By the time I'd showered and got dressed and had breakfast, it was about four o'clock. I had just enough time to run down to the framers to collect my pictures. I hurried round Sainsbury's and bumped into a guy from work.

I hate bumping into people from work in the supermarket. It's always awkward and it's always when you're buying tampons. (And now that I know I buy more than the average woman, it makes me feel even more weird. When Sinead and I did a communal toiletries shop for our RTW trip, Sinead asked if I was planning on having a hemorrhage.) So anyway, he said: "Hi Lisa." And I said "Hi" back. That's all you really need to say isn't it? But because he probably felt awkward, he clearly felt he had to say something else. So he said: "Doing your weekly shop?" What, in the supermarket? I mean, what are you supposed to say to that?

Well, you could help him out - even if it means lying - by saying "yes". At which point he would probably look at my basket (if he hadn't already) and see that it contained only tampons. Then he would probably say "bye" and I'd say "bye". So our full interaction would have consisted of:

Him: Hi Lisa
Me: Hi
Him: Doing your weekly shop?
Me: Yes.
Him: (On scan of basket he sees tampons) Bye
Me: Bye

How pointless and shit is that? Why didn't he just leave it at "Hi"?

Now in these situations, my head is always running a bit further ahead and I'd have known that the 'yes' answer would lead to a pointless and shit conversation and he'd get out to the car park and start banging his head off the steering wheel repeating "Doing your weekly shop?" like it was the 'watermelon' line from Dirty Dancing. So I wanted it to be less awkward somehow.

The thing is, when I feel awkward I respond by talking far too much and telling people way more than they want or need to know. For example, when I was last at the doctors having a smear test, the doctor said "you have excellent muscle control", which freaked me right out. I mean, like it's not embarrassing enough for the patient, they now feel they have to add commentary. I manically said it was probably on account of my pilates classes and proceeded to tell her absolutely everything there is to know about pilates. I must have gone on about it for almost 20 minutes.

Meanwhile back at the supermarket check-out, instead of saying 'yes', I decided to launch into a big explanation that went a bit like this: "No. No, I just popped in to get a few bits and pieces. Well, you know, like tampons (now throwing them over my shoulder onto the conveyor belt). I get my shopping delivered cause, you know, it's better for the environment and I'm quite busy, and the delivery guy is a hottie. I mean he's really young, but he's quite hot. But he's not that young because he drives the van so he has to be at least 17. Ha ha ha."

So then I went out to the car park and banged my head off the steering wheel.

It Gets Cold in the Desert

About an hour outside of Vegas, I was sitting on the plane's emergency chute storage box rotating my ankles and looking out of the window at the land below. I've never seen anything like it before. The landscape was just so different, I felt a million miles away from home. Result!When the plane landed I couldn't contain my giggles. The Las Vegas strip was in plain view and it looked mental. A pyramid, Eiffel Tower, New York skyline and a rollercoaster. Brilliant!

We caught a cab to our hotel and the driver pointed out some good eateries, bars and shopping malls. Bring it on. He also told us we could drink cocktails in the street and in cabs if we wanted to.

Our hotel, the Flamingo, is in a prime spot - just across from Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio. It's also hilariously kitsch. Faux marble and gold circa '62. We queued to check in and checked out the guests. People were dressed very casually - in jogging suits and pjamas - and the staff really weren't wearing much of anything. The women serving drinks and cigarettes were walking about in suit jackets, flesh coloured tights and stilettos. And nothing else! "You'd have to be really confident to walk about wearing that," Sinead offered. "I mean, they must know they're just wearing jackets. It's not like you'd ever leave the house, get to work and go 'oh look, I've just come out in my tights!"

We got to the front of the check-in queue where we met Michelle. "Would you like 2 queen beds or 1 king?" Michelle asked. "2 queens please," I said before turning to Sinead and saying "sorry". Michelle started laughing, but Sinead had been unprepared for my mischief and looked stunned. Michelle suddenly stopped laughing, obviously thinking poor Sinead had been unceremoniously dumped in reception. As we walked off to our room, Sinead said "you're a total bitch. Michelle thinks I'm some kind of bunny-boiling lesbo now." Mwa ha ha ha! Though I'm now holidaying in fear of retaliation from Sinead.

We opted to stay up and try to go the distance rather than falling asleep. Feeling refreshed after hot showers, we got dressed and went out for food. We immediately became aware of a number of things:

• It was absolutely baltic!!! like 6 degrees!!! Totally didn't pack for that and had to go to Gap to get a hoodie and a scarf. This also meant that I could pretty much only wear this for my whole time in Vegas. Nice!
• Nobody dresses up (no bad thing considering I'm too cold to take my hoodie off. "Hello Vegas, here are my nipples."). The slot machine junkies all wear velour jogging suits or pjamas. The hotels encourage this by selling them in the gift shops.
• The hotels are massive and it's impossible to find your way out. We regularly spend 20 plus minutes just trying to get out of the casino areas.
• We're so used to there being no smoking in public places that we take some sort of chemical reaction to it. Gambling and smoking seem to go together so we spend most of our time coughing and squinting our way through the casinos looking for an exit.

Anyway, we headed out to the Fashion Show Mall as we both fancied steak and I'd read about a good place called the Capital Grille (it's fancy cause they've added an 'e' on the end). We found it - eventually - though I could no longer feel my hands or feet. My medium-rare fillet mignon was perfection and a bottle of Frog's Leap zinfandel was smooth as you like. By coffee, we were both wilting and needed some sleep. "I can't walk back without a coat, hat, scarf and gloves," I said. "Me neither, let's get some clothes in the mall." It was 10pm and the shops we all still open. I love this place. I got a massively thick Hollister hoodie but we decided to get a cab back anyway.

We got up at 7am the next day and headed to the Bellagio for a buffet breakfast. We stocked up on loads of fresh fruit. I got a made-to-order omellette, followed by more fruit. Thoroughly stuffed, we set off. First stop was the Moroccan-themed mall where I bought a big man's scarf from Gap. I added this to the Hollister hoodie I was wearing. At least now I was able to go outside. Sinead saved me from foolishly buying a new camera by suggesting it was probably the batteries on their way out. So I bought new batteries instead. Whadda ya know, it now worked fine.

We went to New York New York - one of the hotels further south on the strip. It's hip and funky and it has a roller coaster. We paid our $15 and waited for the front seats. As the safety harness came down I said: "I've just realised it's five years since I've been on one of these. I feel older. I feel like I'm going to have to scream." "Don't be a woose Lis. No screaming OK?" As the car started its ascent I looked around. All I could see was mountains and desert - how surreal. Then came the massive drop. Suddenly Sinead started screaming and I couldn't stop laughing. There was a loop, a hang, a barrel-roll and a vortex. Excellent.

From there we progressed down the strip, going into all the hotels. We found it difficult to take it all in. Everything is huge and sumptuous and busy and noisy and totally fascinating. We realised that neither of us get the gambling thing. Maybe if I could play poker or black jack or something, but definitely not sitting at the slots constantly feeding coins in and hitting random buttons. Some people are literally plugged into the machines (they have little cards on extendable chains). I don't get the appeal but millions of people do so maybe I'm missing something.

We got half price tickets and went to see Legends in Concert. Free cocktail on arrival - quality. Ray Charles, The Supremes, Tom Jones and Elvis. The guy playing Elvis was totally hot and the guy playing Tom Jones was a sleaze and grossed me out, but not as much as a picutre of the real Tom Jones squatting in a pair of black speedos that they showed on a big screen while the guy was singing. I'm still having nightmares! Put it away Jones.

Get this, we took an early morning helicopter out to the Grand Canyon for a champagne breakfast. The most amazing experience of my life (and I've done a lot of drugs). We landed beside the Colorado River and took in the views. I can't even begin to do it justice. Awe-inspiring, spectacular, humbling, mad ...

Also went for a luxury spa at the Paris Hotel. Crazy experience which I will write up in more detail when I get a chance. Went to see the dancing fountains in front of the Bellagio. Totally beautiful. They did it to 'O Holy Night', nice and Christmassy.Went to the Celine Dion Shop. Hilarious. What a lot of shit. I can't believe that anyone buys any of that trash.

Loads more to tell you but in short it was totally surreal. I loved it. Not a fan of the gambling or casino stuff, but thought everything else was ace and had a blast.

Oh Henri!

I spent the week before Christmas in New York. It was a gift from my parents - not that they were banishing me or anything (although, at times I'm sure that would have been preferable for them), it was a family holiday.

It was my brother's first time in NYC so we did the Empire State and Statue of Liberty thing, but the weather was much nicer than last time so I didn't mind too much. We went to the Top of the Rock too, which was really good. I finally made it to Katz's Deli for pastrami on rye and a cherry soda - unbelievably good, and generally got to know the place much better than in previous visits.

In my experience, when faced with the New York welcome the trick is to maintain a poker-face and resist the urge to lash out while the rudest person in the world checks your passport. I swear, if they'd used staff from New York's airports as immigration officials on Ellis Island, most of the immigrants would have turned right around and sailed 12 weeks back across the Atlantic.

On my last trip, I encountered Sherrondah. She works behind the Ground Transportation desk at Newark. Upstairs, I'd purchased my ticket for the bus into the city and was told that Sherrondah would point me in the right direction regarding which stance to catch the bus. I made my way downstairs and asked Sherrondah my question. This is what happened:

Sherrondah: "They told y'upstairs."
Me: "Er... no. They didn't."
Sherrondah: "Yess dey dit."
Me: "No, they really didn't."
Sherrondah (with the irritating snake-neck popularised by the Riki Lake show): "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "No ... they ... did ... not."
Sherrondah: "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "You're clearly mistaken Sherrondah because if you really did have such powers of insight you wouldn't be stuck sitting on your fat ass behind the Ground Transportation desk at the FUCKING AIRPORT!!!"

This time I flew into JFK and was hoping things would be different. Not so. Enter Lapuzzo, the immigration officer. I swear he took 20 minutes to check four passports and take our index fingerprints, treating us like complete morons in the process. "M'am ... I nee-eed you (pointing at me) to place ... your (pointing at me again) RIGHT ... INDEX ... FINGER ... HERE (pointing at the touchpad)." I did so. After 20 seconds, Lapuzzo nodded - slowly - and said: "Goooood".

Oh ... my ... God!!!!

On our last day in NY, we all went our separate ways: my mum to Macy's, my brother to Bloomingdales, me to Fifth Avenue, and my dad to the Celtic supporters' club.

I visited Henri Bendel to buy some presents - mostly for myself. It's the most perfect place I've ever been. I floated around in a state of pure bliss. I stocked up on some M.A.C items, got a gorgeous grey merino cardigan and a Lotus home fragrance candle for Mog. I took Mog's pressie up to the third floor to have it gift wrapped and experienced a moment of unequaled pleasure. I used to think women who said shopping was better than sex just didn't know how good sex could be. Henri changed my mind.

Too much sun

I hate moving, but I do love the new flat, which hopefully means it'll be a considerable amount of time before I move on. I think the bathroom is my favourite room. It's bright, cool, airy and very tidy (thanks in large part to my half-price cabinet from John Lewis). Sam was back from the States a few weeks ago and stopped by for a visit. He gave it the thumbs up and, since Sam has just about the best taste of anyone I know, I was very, very pleased.

Work has been going well and I've made a very good impression on my boss. I got a big old gold star for being 'pro-active' and have accepted the praise with good grace and a (slightly) guilty conscience. As with most stories, there's a whole other side to this one - which I won't go into here as it's positively scandalous.

On Friday, we went out to Tonic for drinks in celebration of Kelly's birthday. I think I recall my gin & tonic costing me £4.20. After a couple of rounds of cocktails we moved on to Ablo, then the Outhouse before ending up in Pivo. It was one of those really great nights where nothing especially exciting happens but everybody is in a constant state of mellow bliss.

I got a taxi home at 3:30am, decided I was a bit peckish and could also do with a nice cup of tea. I made myself a slice of toast and a brew. Sometime later, I discovered that I was watching 'Murder She Wrote'. It was 45 minutes into the programme, the toast and tea were long gone, and I suddenly had the clarity to ask myself what the hell I was doing watching Murder She fucking Wrote at 4:30am. I instructed myself to "get to bed" and promptly did so.

After a largely sleepless night (someone had decided to do step-training in the stairwell, in stiletto heels - at 5am) I got up with a bit more of a hangover than I'd bargained for and decided I needed some form of carbohydrate. I decided to walk to The Manna House on Easter Road for one of the best almond croissants in the city. On my way there I was looking at all the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs when I realised I was struggling to read/understand one of them. I got a bit closer and could clearly make out the letters, but still couldn't make sense of it. I had a mini-panic and began to think I was still drunk or perhaps suffering from sunstroke. Alas, I finally worked out that it was written in Polish (a good example in illustrating why capitalisation is important). It was in English on one side and Polish in the other, which I found remarkably helpful for a nation largely unable to offer help in any language but English. Go us!

The remainder of Saturday was spent shopping (I bought the perfect pair of blue sparkly sandals), walking/lying in the sun and generally making the most of my weekend.

Teeth, hips and sips of tea

So it is true that the only thing harder to find these days than decent help is an NHS dentist.

My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!

At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.

Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.

We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.

I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.

One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.

Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.

As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.

Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.

By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.

Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.

As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).

On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.

Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.

I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.

I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.

The art of ... choosing a toothbrush.

I'm pretty sure you're supposed to buy a new toothbrush every three months - at least that's what the manufacturers and their lap dogs the British Dental Association tell us. Although, I think I can stretch a few more months out of my toothbrushes as, despite the fact that I brush my teeth about four times a day, they remain pretty much in pristine condition. Some people's toothbrushes seem hell bent on giving us their own special interpretation of the parting of the Red Sea; the bristles lying almost flat out in anticipation of Charlton Heston's crossing. But not mine.

Anyway, buying a new toothbrush had been on my list of 'Things I need more urgently than a Mulberry handbag' for a few months now. It was number 632, I think. Having been somewhat sidetracked in my endeavors thus far, i.e. kept forgetting, didn't visit supermarket for three weeks as had enough tins of baked beans to survive, etc, etc, I eventually got round to it this weekend. Whilst ambling round Sainsburys I remembered and made a sudden 90 degree turn into the dental hygiene aisle. The other shoppers were not impressed and looked like they were fighting the temptation to commit a bit of trolley rage.

Arriving in front of the toothbrushes, the first thing I noticed was that there were millions of them. I'm not kidding. They took up almost half of the entire aisle. Trying to remain calm (muchness scares me), I began to scan my options. I could go by brand; Sainsburys, Oral B, Reach, Colgate, Aquafresh, Sensodyne, and probably Nestle too if I read the small print and followed the audit trail; or by price: 99p to £6.99. £6.99? £6.99? For a toothbrush? £6.99 for a toothbrush?; or by features 'n' functions; plaque control, whitening, gum stimulation, tongue scrubbing, tooth-picking, pulsating; or by colour, firmness or good old lucky dip.

When did it all get so massive? I felt like shouting out 'I just want a toothbrush. Why are you making this decision so hard and time consuming for me?' I think it was the first time I'd ever wished I lived in a Communist country. But saying these words out loud would render me a total fraud because I don't just want a toothbrush. The souless marketeers have me right where they need me. When faced with all this choice, of course I don't just want a toothbrush. I want a life-enhancing, oral hygiene product. And I want it to be firm. And I want it in pink, but not that pink, no no, I want it in that pink. Yes, that's right. Thank you.

In the end it came down to a choice between two almost identical brushes. Each had thickened rubber gum massaging bristles (in pink) on the outside. Three different types (and with different purposes) of bristle in the inside as well as a 'whitening circle' of bristles at the head of the brush. Each also offered a built-in tongue cleaner. The only difference was in the price. The Oral B option was £6.99 and the Reach one was £4.50. This is the kind of decision I like.

'Lisa, you can have this item for £6.99 or you can have the same item for £2.49 less.'

Duh, even I in my brainwashed consumerist state can work this one out.

I felt rather pleased with myself, and life in general, as I walked home with my Reach toothbrush nestling inside my shopping bag. Then I experienced mild anger as I reminded myself that I'd just spent £4.50 on a fucking toothbrush. Four pounds fucking fifty? On a toothbrush? Then I brushed my teeth, for like 12 minutes, and my new toothbrush was really, really good.

And after all, I always squeeze an extra couple of months out of my toothbrushes anyway, so I'm the real winner right?

Right? ... Hello? ... You guys? ... Right?

Adventures in babysitting (part 2)

I really must be getting more responsible in my old age; this is the second time in as many weeks that someone has entrusted their kids to me. Mog and I babysat for Moranna's two boys who were so lovely they actually took themselves off to bed at 9pm. At first I was really chuffed that they were so well behaved, but then I started to worry that it was because I was so boring. I kept checking with Mog and saying: "Do you think they had a good time though?". Mog pointed out that it wasn't a date and maybe I should just shut up. So I did.

Week two in the new job vastly improved upon the first. I definitely feel like I'm getting to grips with the various systems and processes. My creative streak was invited out to play when my team started discussing our presentation for the department away day. After brainstorming some (very good) ideas, one of my colleagues told me I was born to do this job. "Yes", I replied, "if there was a job entitled 'Director of Fannying-about' it would be mine." I'm even starting to enjoy the whole 'finance' aspect of my job and was thoroughly engrossed in a presentation on inheritance tax and trust funds on Friday. I can't believe I just shared that with you - how sad am I?

On Tuesday night I went to a 'fashion event' at John Lewis. It was a seasonal update from the same woman who told me my hair colour was 'wrong'. I enjoyed a preview of the latest fashions for the season, champagne (in a plastic cup, because I was late) and an hour to peruse the shop floor. Although I had promised myself I wouldn't buy anything - I came home with 2 (adorable) skirts and one very pretty top. I felt guilty about blowing my monthly budget until half-way through my second G&T with Moranna afterwards.

Hooked up with Sinead on Friday night for more tapas. She had a conference over in Edinburgh and attended in the stead of one the local councillors. Hilariously, when she called to explain this to the conference organisers they assumed she was a councillor herself so she had to go out and buy a cheap shiny suit and some big bling jewellery to carry off the duplicity.

On Saturday morning my hair was dyed darker and, therefore, closer to my natural colour in an attempt to cut my 6 weekly maintenance costs. It got the thumbs up from both Sinead and Mog. On Sunday, I went to look at some flats and saw one that I really like. Fingers crossed, it gets a seal of approval from the surveyor.

Irritatingly, one of my former colleagues called to say that the dodgy guy from 'Networking?' (see below) had called to ask for my new contact details. They didn't pass them on but he said he'd "track me down himself." Every night, when I leave work, I have a look around; half expecting him to be lurking suspiciously in a Milk Tray man gone to seed kind of way.