17 blocks of cheese later

Christmas Day began and ended with eggs. Erin and I lined our stomachs with eggs for breakfast, but the tactic didn't seem to work that well as my last champagne-fuddled memory is Erin hurling an egg out the window at the retreating figure of our friend Andrew. 'Don't worry, it's organic!' we reassured the neighbours, before boiling up another pot of mulled wine and bringing out another round of cheese. It's all pretty blurry from there.

It's been a strange Christmas, rather housebound. Housemate Ben suffered a collapsed lung last week and so can't leave the house (he has also earned himself, possibly permanently, the nickname Bung Lung). This has meant a lot of sympathetic sitting around eating, drinking, watching random DVDs we have pulled from the depths of the cupboard - including but not limited to a documentary on obsessive robotic-dog-owners, the entire series of We Can Be Heroes - The Search for Australian of the Year, and (forcibly) The Doctor Who Christmas Special - all interspersed with a hell of a lot of cheese. (Erin and I have just counted 17 blocks of various cheeses in the fridge, including haloumi, smoked cheddar, horseradish, Stilton, Danish Blue and my personal favourite purely for its association with Wallace & Gromit, Wensleydale). Maybe it's because I lived in Holland, but I am still addicted to cheese. Despite this, a few days cooped up and I have been starting to get cabin fever but everyone I know seems to be on an exotic holiday. But it's pretty tropical here, no snow to be seen.

So not much scintillating news from this little corner of London, hoping to up the social factor after a good long bath and another does of cheese - a hangover cure if ever there was one.

Update: I am now feeling quite insane, coupled out, and the cabin fever is unbearable. I'm resorting to some Prosecco and a new Mexican recipe. Unfortunately if I venture out now, it will be alone, and I'm sick of living in my head for the last few days. I'm almost looking forward to going back to work ...

Hitlergate (aka The sordid confessions of Hitler Girl)

[ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR ARIEL AT THE BBC, THEN BBC NEWS, HOWEVER BBC NEWS COULDN'T RUN THIS DUE TO THE DEATH OF MARK SPEIGHT]

Tuesday night at the Doctor Who Christmas Special launch, I felt like Bridget Jones, and I fear that forevermore I shall always be known as Hitler Girl. Since I’m leaving the Corporation soon – and, perhaps to the relief of some people, the field of journalism entirely - here’s the whole story.

I had two missions: 1. Ask a question on behalf of the corporation staff to the Doctor Who crew, since let’s face it, everyone wants to feel a part of it, and 2. At least say hello to David Tennant. Unfortunately, I failed on the latter point, and even more unfortunately, succeeded at the first.

This was no normal press conference – I had to yell my question across hundreds of people – people such as Nick Cave, John Simm, Andrew Marr, and Richard Curtis. Not to mention David Tennant. Heart in my throat, I prepared to ask my question. (Thank you QUT drama, they actually heard me...for those who don't know that I'm a failed actress).

‘I’m from the corporation's staff magazine,’ I began – as I usually do. ‘Oh, what FUN,’ replied exec producer Russell T. Davies slightly disparagingly. To me, he might as well have groaned. Tennant, bless him, fixed his eyes on me, went completely expressionless and did not flinch. Wishing desperately that John Simm would punch me in the head and send me back to 1973, I uttered a rather pathetic, ‘No don’t, us staff really love Doctor Who,’ and then launched dutifully into the question that several staff had sent in from the far flung corners of Lancashire and uh, Victoria Road. ‘If you could cast anyone, living or dead, as the next Doctor, who would you choose?’

Downhill from here, I thought. I thought wrong. ‘I’d choose Hitler,’ said Davies. Oh God, I thought. Why couldn’t you just say Laurence Olivier? Michael J. Fox? Elvis? I saw David Tennant’s mouth drop open and hoped desperately that no-one from The Sun was in earshot. ‘He’d be a great Doctor,’ went on Davies. ‘Stern…sharp…’ My dreams of one day working on a Doctor Who website rapidly evaporated, I doubted I'd ever be working in this town - or Cardiff - again.

As I slunk off to the toilet, I swear I saw David Tennant staring at me in pity. Admittedly maybe he forgot his glasses and was merely watching the dejected blur sliding down the stairs, but I like to think he sympathised. Maybe, I muse hopefully, he was fighting the urge to drag me with him heroically – or at least punch me in the head and send me back to 1973. Sadly, I will never know, as by the time I had steeled myself to face the party, he had vanished like the medicinal glass of wine I proceeded to consume.

I went to tell John Simm how much I liked Life on Mars, but if the fear in his eyes as I approached him is any indication, he knew exactly who I was. ‘Oh my God it’s that Hitler Girl,’ I bet he was thinking. (He was very sweet though and talking to him for a whole 30 seconds was the high point of my night - and mum, he thought it was 'great news' that you loved Life on Mars in China).

I decided to stay and keep a brave face as planned, but had miscalculated my tendency for surreal adventures. Just as I was beginning to feel better, I met a friendly guy. ‘So, where are you from?’ I asked, noting his accent. ‘Germany,’ he replied. Yep, I should have left when Tennant did. The final cue to leave was when I got told off for trying to take a photograph of the exquisite setting for the after-show party. And this morning, after being reprimanded for various aspects of the resulting article, I almost wish I’d gone with the apparently less troublesome Sun’s angle (‘Doctor Grabs Kylie’s Bum’).

The whole night was quite gutting. On the upside, I got some sympathy from a journalist who said at least I’d stayed true to my mandate. I refrained from pointing out that Hitler could probably say the same.

From Tiananmen to...Townsville

Sorry for the delay in posting, it's been a whirlwind tour from teaching small children in China to getting kicked out of a hotel in Shanghai because the French president booked the whole place out, to in a surreal twist finding myself in Townsville, Australia, begging my grandmother to survive a massive heart attack.

China was fascinating but weird - it's like it's talking itself into the 21st century but haven't quite got the hang of it. You can't get banknotes higher than 100 RMB because they believe that will curb inflation, and mum and I never quite solved the mystery of the rubbish bin on the Great Wall itself which says 'Don't Call On Thunder Storm Days'. Evidently, that particular piece of wisdom was well and truly lost in translation. But I'm so glad I got to see it in-depth, the way you only can if you are living there (in my case, vicariously through my mum, but I got an up-close look).

One of my favourite parts was the giant Buddha outside Wuxi. Mum couldn't believe I liked it, since it was constructed a mere ten years ago and is blatantly a tourist exercise, complete with a veritable boulevard of merchandise stalls leading up to Buddha's feet. But I thought it was great. I'm considering conversion to Buddhism - or at least a renewed interest in meditation - despite the fact a certain friend of mine doesn't deem it 'hardcore' enough. He obviously hasn't seen the Chinese merchandise sellers when they whiff a sale.

When we got the call that my grandmother was ill, we got straight on a plane to Australia. I have never seen my nana sick let alone in a hospital with oxygen tubes hanging off her. Four generations were there to drag her through however - including my cousin's four-year-old daughter Mia. Mia, her angelic looks betraying her mischievous nature and tendency to proclaim loudly that fat people are sitting at the next table in Sizzler, became my number one fan. She even gave me some handmade drawings. 'I wanted to draw you some good ones, but I don't like these very much,' she said. 'But you can have them anyway'. I am still trying to convince her brother to try the Chinese delicacy mum discovered to her horror at a market stall - pig noses on a stick (seriously).

The only other news is that I have quit my job at the corporation, and will be moving into a small digital design agency. It's all part of my new three-fold plan: 1. Move into the film industry/a more creative role 2. Move back to Sweden and 3. Maybe do a stint in New York first.

If all that fails, maybe I can start an authentic pig-nose-on-a-stick restaurant.

Behind the glamour

Yesterday I had a taste of real showbiz working on the Children In Need telethon extravaganza. I was given the enviable task of ‘looking after’ John Barrowman for the day (for all you Australians/Swedes - he's sometimes in Doctor Who and stars in Doctor Who spinoff Torchwood.) Although onscreen you could be forgiven for thinking that John waltzed in replete with suit and coiffed hair and casually belted out a tune, in reality he had had a hell of a day, running from interviews to signings at HMV through several rehearsals and a game of musical dressing rooms fuelled only by a couple of extra hot lattes as far as I could tell.

The day wasn't quite like I thought it would be though - I pictured myself hanging out with John, sharing a joke, being his loyal companion and being his first request for next time he needed an assistant. As it was I very much doubt he knows my name, and I spent a lot of time either loitering outside his dressing room feeling like a bit of an idiot or sprinting down the hallways of Television Centre on surreal errands borrowing a CD player from Boyzone or trying to get into Lee Mead's dressing room to locate someone's lost pair of sunglasses. I don't think poor John realises the lengths I went to to make sure he had a nice dressing room and wasn't moved out halfway through to one with no bathroom. But such is the life behind the glamour.

I lived in fear of getting John lost in the maze-like hallways of Television Centre, but he had a couple of sympathetic souls in his entourage who pondered if perhaps half the people in the studios had been there since last year's show and just never found their way out.

Backstage at the media corporation is almost like a giant school concert, albeit one where you are quite likely to bump into Ronan Keating outside the toilets (‘Was that a Westlife?’ I whispered to my friend incredulously. ‘Um, that was Ronan!’ she said scornfully. He’s much smaller and stubblier in real life – that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. I just didn't expect to have to direct Mr Keating to the toilets, but as I have learnt in this industry, anything can happen).

Meanwhile, feeling very unqualified, I was given a crash course in key tv production techniques such as improvising air conditioning (prop dressing room door open with large bottle of springwater and/or suitcase), getting a decent coffee for talent (borrow ten quid off the front desk guys and go to Costa – avoid the instant machines at all costs), getting talent into the studio when their face is not enough (beg/borrow/steal a wristband off someone else – something Pudsey bear would do well to learn since the security team was jokingly asking him why he didn’t have an invite to the charity party), and how to get Boyzone to give John Barrowman his CD back (they denied having a CD player at all but the loud music coming from their dressing room was a bit of a giveaway).

Sadly, I didn’t get to meet my fellow Antipodean Kylie or give her my planned gift of a Caramello Koala (don’t ask - she would have appreciated it), but she did smile at me in the hallway - she turned to look at me as she passed and we smiled at exactly the same time. Maybe she could sense that little Caramello. I also bumped into Dannii Minogue although she was struggling with her giant heels at the time and didn't really acknowledge my existence, and I SWEAR Simon Cowell gave me a very flirty look as he passed in the hallway.

All in all it was an exhausting but exhilarating day, although I have to say I really needed my drink at the end. Unfortunately, I had more than 'a' drink and now I have to drag myself to the airport for my holiday to China where I may be called upon to teach some small Chinese kids English. More soon if this blog is not censored there, and I actually make it onto the flight!

The Emotionally Delicate Person's Guide to Job Hunting

As if being terminally single wasn't enough (tangential update: I have been rejected by another nice guy and am now being pursued by three self-confessed nerds, two of whom are married for chrissakes), I am now voluntarily subjecting myself to the same level of emotional turmoil on the career front - the great job hunt.

I had forgotten the stages of job hunting. They should give you a public service style pamphlet: The Emotionally Delicate Person's Guide to Job Hunting, AKA So, You've Decided to be Repeatedly Rejected. This is especially true in London, where it seems to me that unless you have done the exact same job for the exact same type of company with the exact same buzz words (one recruiter even told me to include certain buzz words on my CV), then no-one will give you a chance.

Here's how I imagine the pamhplet would describe the five stages of job hunting:

Stage 1. Europhoric hope - you've just applied for a job, probably zipped off a cheery email into the ether, and you can already smell the freedom. You start fantasizing about how you'll resign, the great life you are going to have, maybe even justifying a bit of a lunchtime impulse shopping trip to spruce up your wardrobe for your new lifestyle. Yes? Then you're ready for...

Stage 2. Rejection Level 1 - this one is pretty crushing. The job you applied for doesn't even like you enough to accept you for an interview. Was it you? Was it your CV? Was it the incompetent person who read the CV? No, it's probably you - the first tendrils of self-doubt start inching their way around your heart. No, you think. That job wasn't right for me anyway. At this point you either go back to Stage 1 or progress to...

Stage 3. Determination, Rocky-style - about now you get a bit systematic, maybe even a little prolific, in your job applications. Cue 'Eye of the Tiger' and a nice montage of you typing cover letters and chewing pencils thoughtfully as you edit down your CV to that irrestible perfect draft. Once you've applied for one job, hell, copy and pasting that cover letter into a few more seems easy. You might even get a little nonchalant and bang a few unsolicited applications off. You'll show those rejectors from back in stage 1! Excellent. That must mean it's time for...

Stage 4. False Hope Level 1 - Yes! You've scored an interview. You're a shoe-in. This is it, the big ticket to your dream future. If you haven't indulged in impulse shopping back in Stage 1, then you'll probably be well and truly up for it at this point. Armed with your spiffy Stage 3 CV, nothing can stop you now. You take an extra long lunch from work and then prepare to dazzle. Which means, it can only be...

Stage 5. Rejection Level 2 - This is the kind of rejection you get after a long-term relationship. But they loved me, where did it go wrong, we could have been so good together, etc etc. There's only two paths here - back to Stage 3 (although probably a considerably more subdued version of it), or resignation to the fact that you will be chained to your current desk until they give you a cheap bottle of wine and your miserly pension cheque.

I don't know what the happy ending is yet, I haven't managed to get past Stage 5. I'm hoping that I can reach the mythical and rare Stage 6 - Fairytale Ending. Or failing that, Stage 6a - Satisfactory Employment Situation.

Meanwhile I am trying to resist the Impulse Shopping, although most of that lately has been photography-related, which I'm justifying on account of it being a bit of an outlet while I struggle with the emotional trauma of job hunt syndrome.

Oh Three, whyfore do thou stalk me?

I have come to the conclusion that my phone company, three, is schizophrenic. One minute, I am the lost step-customer, trying in vain to reach them through endless menus and long distance calls to India, where poor customer service reps try and convince me they are in the UK by making small talk about Three products which I know they don't actually have in Mumbai.

The next minute, I am seemingly the sole victim of a promotional campaign that sees them calling me, emailing me, messaging me, ringing my work phone and generally living in terror of their 'fantastic new products' that they think 'you'll be really interested in'. Their current record stands at 5 calls and two emails in one day (admittedly about various things, but the mind boggles at how this outsourcing to India malarkey saves them money).

Today, like some kind of Stockholm syndrome, I finally succumbed to the harassment and called them (from my work phone of course - their little tactics can't fool me). Unfortunately, this confused them greatly, and the fantastic new product turned out to be text messages (I think, couldn't quite decipher the accent). 'But I already use messages, I have like a million of them in my contract,' I said. The woman was persuaded to leave me alone - too easily.

Five minutes later, during a meeting, another missed call on my mobile. Hoping it was a fantastic once in a lifetime job opportunity in New York, I excused myself and checked the phone. It was Three.

I am embracing the fact that Three now calls me more than all my friends combined. Maybe this is their new scheme - tying up my phone so I can't actually use it for my own wayward purposes. Clever.

A season of nostalgia

Winter may be the season of our discontent, but autumn seems to be that of nostalgia. Apologies for a vague post, I am battling the flu and am not exactly witty and sparkling (embarking on a whiskey cure shortly). Erin and I have been drinking mulled wine (aka glögg - although the Marks & Spencer version is far stronger than the old Swedish supermarket edition that was a staple of my last autumn diet) and remembering how we felt in autumns past. It seems we're not alone - I have had several notes from Sweden asking when I will be there next, and I've been dreaming of faraway places and plotting travels (China, then Sweden, then Prague). Ben & Erin just got back from New York and have hatched a crazy scheme to move there as soon as possible. I'm kicking that idea around for a while, but it would mean I could see the Chrysler building every day.

I'm also going way back in time to my days as a 'photographer' (don't laugh). Digging out my ancient camera bag (my camera is older than me) I found flyers from university bands I used to shoot (DJ Spooky at The Zoo, anyone?). Erin and I have upgraded to digital SLRs and are desperately trying not to look like amateurs. It's funny, it's awoken something in me I'd forgotten about - at least there is more to life than shopping and Saturday wines (not that there is anything wrong with that). I have also had job opportunities suddenly spring out of the woodwork, and an opportunity to do an internship in another part of the Corporation (sadly, not with David Tennant as far as I know, although ripples of excitement have been pervading my Facebook page upon the news that he is at least single now).

The other night I was on the tube and an old man was blessing everyone at the station and then methodically every carriage on the Central Line. I took it as a kind of sign - of what, I don't know yet, but at least right now I'm happy to wait and find out.

Ode to the Chief (from Get Smart)

I am sitting at home watching Hitchcock's North by Northwest, weirdly, in fact I am up to the exact same moment I just found in this photo I've attached. I noticed to my amusement that one of the actors is Ed Platt, well known to most people who grew up with parents like mine, on a diet of The Young Ones, Blackadder, Monty Python and Get Smart. Old Ed was, of course, the Chief from Get Smart, although I discover now he's been in everything from Rebel Without A Cause to Pollyanna.

Anyway, at first I laughed when he turned up in North by Northwest - he had become a running joke in my family due to his prolific acting career. The Chief was everywhere. 'Guess who I saw today' had to be answered by 'I don't know, the Chief from Get Smart?'. 'Guess who's guest starring on The Simpsons this week?''The Chief from Get Smart'. This was also acceptable as a response if you didn't know the correct answer in a game of Trivial Pursuit. You get the idea.

So, smiling to myself, just now I looked up Edward Platt, and was shocked and saddened to read that Ed Platt suffered from depression and committed suicide in 1974 - after two attempts (nearly as shocked as when I found out Jonathan Brandis from Sea Quest DSV, a little watched and frankly crappy show from the early 90s had done the same when he was only 17 - Jeanna I'm sorry to break it to you like this, I know he had a special place in your heart).

Not only that, Platt shared my birthday. (I found this kind of spooky. That means that the Queen of Dumped and the Chief from Get Smart share my birthday.) Maybe there's a curse associated with being born on Valentine's day, because I can relate to these two (not the suicide bit, but the depression bit. And Queen of Dumped speaks for itself).

Hopefully, Ed was not a mere mortal. I mean from what I can see he looked exactly the same from about 1944 - 1974. He must have gone bald when he was about 15.

So here's to you Ed - and I am sorry you went the way you did, but thanks for all the shoe-phone jokes.

Disruption in service

Like the London tube on most days, this blog will experience minor delays (which, also like the tube, could translate to actually mean a temporary suspension, strikes by staff or defective trains - metaphorically speaking of course). Let's just say you're not missing much. I'm afraid I just can't bring myself to write at the moment, it's taking everything to get through the day. Happily, some Team Sweden members are on their way as is autumn, my favourite season.

Crossroads

This week has once again found me at a set of crossroads - I need to decide what to do next because this is just not working. Happily, there are options, but it's like being in the world's best Mexican restaurant and only being able to choose one dish. I had an interview with BBC News Online (Entertainment Reporter, herewith known as the Bridget Jones job). Despite the fact I couldn't remember which film won Best Picture Oscar this year until the minute I walked out the door (damn you, Martin Scorsese), I think I did pretty well.

However, after a stressful week I don't think I really want to be a journalist. So next on the list are a couple of other options - one at a funky design agency based in London and Sweden (yay!) and one back at good old Greenpeace (also in Sweden, yay!). But the problem is I'm not sure whether I'm quite ready to make the move again, even though I miss Sweden and all my friends there like I've left a bit of myself in Irina's cupboard (Irina kindly sent me the signpost above). My final option is a job in Ben's department at the BBC, which I'm going to go and find out about on Friday. It would be good to do that for a year or two, get some money under my belt, and THEN go back to Sweden. But maybe then it's too late.

Hopefully all roads lead to Stockholm...

Meanwhile, I'm off to Glasgow to, of all things, possibly meet the gold-painted lady from Goldfinger. More on that tomorrow!

Meeting a Hero

Despite someone with my name (first name only, how Madonna-esque) on the VIP list, I failed to convince the organisers of BBC Two’s Heroes soiree that I was actually that particular girl. Happily, I eventually managed to get in on my own credentials, albeit with a hand-scribbled badge that had everyone staring at my chest the entire evening. And I’m sure glad that I did (not because of the chest-staring).

Not only was the event held in one of the most stunning buildings in London – The Gherkin – which resembles the depths of Torchwood on the inside, but the cast of Heroes turned out to be intelligent and entertaining for the most part (forgive me for sounding surprised, but I have been to a few of these things now and it was refreshing to hear some spiky, if probably well-rehearsed, spiel - even getting a bit political at one point. My Greenpeace heart was touched.).

After we had cleared the CIA-worthy security procedure (and commented wryly on the dirty glass) the cast fielded questions from journos from publications as diverse as The Guardian to Holy Moly to an apparently very philosophical Polish women’s magazine - no-one could understand that one's questions.

Some of my favourite moments:

Q: What superpower would be best for an American politician?
A: A brain.

Q: Do you find your new status as a sex symbol flattering or creepy?
A: I think it’s smart to find it flattering.

Q: What super power would you like in real life? (insert groan from audience)
A: (From a guy who was on Dynasty in the 80s): I used to think being invisible would be cool, but then I was invisible through most of the 90s, and it wasn't so nice.

At the inevitable drinks I was rather embarrassed to see most journalists trying to get their picture taken with the actors despite pleas from BBC staff to remember the actors were off duty. It was a bit cringy - especially since I had to keep reminding myself 'It's only a tv show for chrissakes, it's not like they've saved the planet'.

I retreated to a corner and attempted to chat to Swedish journalists until I got up the nerve to tell Adrian Pasdar (who plays Nathan Petrelli on the show) that I liked a show he was in years ago - and I mean years, that I think no-one else in the world watched.

Turns out, I was in good company - he said 'Oh yeah, my mum really liked that show too!' I wish at the time I had've known that Pasdar had overcome an accident that threatened his ability to walk, had cut off his thumb accidentally and used the money to put himself through acting school, and is married to a Dixie Chick - I would have had a lot more to say. As it was, after a few vinos, I ended up just chatting about David Duchovny. Suddenly, a bevy of blondes began bearing down on him. I like to think we were both scared.

I turned to go, but Adrian (we're on first name terms now you see) held off the blondes for a second, and reached out and grabbed my arm. 'Hey - thank you,' he said. I turned to go. My work here was done.

In other news, even though now I'm kind of more inspired to move into the production side of things, I am shortlisted to perhaps becoming a REAL entertainment reporter (yes, my life becomes more Bridget Jones by the minute). On the other hand, it's possible I could go back to my beloved Sweden and Greenpeace. I am pretty confused, but just riding this out for a while. I think it's the only way to go right now.

[Photo is copyright BBC]

Night of the Living Weirdos

Sorry it's been so long between drinks, although last night, unfortunately that was not the case. It's Notting Hill Carnival time in North West London and it seems that the weirdos have truly descended upon us. The fact that red double decker buses go past our house now (diverted due to streets full of revellers) just adds to the surreal flavour. The long weekend has given me a bit of time to stop and breathe, but sadly there is not much to report. SHORT BRIDGET JONES STATUS UPDATE: I find out this week if I am shortlisted to move into the murky world of entertainment news - Colin Firth here I come! I am extremely single, and it added to my despair last night when I was frozen out (which is rather annoying since I was the one supposed to be doing the freezing. I had to resort to accidentally not understanding any flirty comments he made, so now he probably thinks I'm stupid AND unattractive).

I feel like writing to Queen of Dumped, who I met last week (weirdly, she has the same birthday as me...and even more weirdly, we both share the most inappropriate birthday of all: Valentines Day. Yes, laugh now while I can't see you). I have just read the Queen's book, and while it's all very well to say 'Go to New York by yourself! Live your life! Be happy and don't worry about being alone!' I've actually done all those things and now I'm just bored and not quite sure where home is any more. Queen of Unrequited doesn't have any better ideas though, so I'm reckoning you could do worse.

On the good side I'm definitely going to get to pitch my program idea to the head of BBC One - I will go in armed with nothing but a large stuffed yellow bear and a hare-brain idea. Unfortunately they tell me it's pretty much impossible to have my desired star, obviously David Tennant, but I've got a few highly amusing replacements in mind.

Other than that, as you can see, things haven't moved much for weeks. At least I'm living with Ben and Erin, although their complete coupleness means that they are unlikely to be out with me until four in the morning like Mia was, or dancing on stage with gay cowboys like me and Irina.

And on a slightly sadder note, I'm worried like hell about my poor sister, who has to have a biopsy done soon. At least she is in Australia though, where despite what she thinks the health care is decent and the cervical cancer vaccination available. I'm in a country where the vaccination is not, largely because some church groups thought it would 'encourage promiscuity'. I know that the yobs on the tube who yell 'England! England' and stab each other (and everyone else) to prove their patriotism wouldn't consider that a serious flaw, but I feel like England has the veneer of modernity but underneath it's really always 1582.

Anyway, this is a rather rambling update due mostly to far too much vodka consumed last night in an attempt to have some fun, in which I am certain I killed a few brain cells, evidenced by the fact I am considering going to see a Stephen King movie tonight (albeit with John Cusack in it, but still).

Bathing by candlelight

...and not by romantic choice, may I add. Due to either supernatural forces or the dodgy electrical work of our Polish builders, the lights in our house have one by one been permanently extinguished. Since we of course have no candle holders, I've had to fill the bathroom with glasses of dusty old dinner candles and waste my precious Danish vanilla candle purely to enable me to achieve a basic standard of hygiene.

In some ways, it's quite aesthetically pleasing: in dim candlelight you can't see how bad your racoon eyes are, your tan looks great, and cellulite is a thing of the past. On the other hand, shaving your legs becomes an extreme sport. How on earth did girls beautify themselves before Thomas Edison? Luckily for me and my beauty routine, it's only two more sleeps before I find myself in the relative luxury of Ben & Erin's.

Unfortunately, that is a bit of a two-edged sword in that I'm losing Mia, who's moving back to Australia. Mia could always be relied on as a single friend to take to parties where I was afraid I might accidentally snog JonJon's flatmate, come celebrity spotting on a Sunday morning at the vegetable market or partake in completely gratuitous jewellery shopping in Notting Hill.

Meanwhile, in a meeting that may cause some kind of disruption in the space-time continuum, tomorrow the Queen of Unrequited Love (that's me) meets the Queen of Dumped, author of Ex and the City, who I am interviewing uncomfortably early in the morning. Of course, Queen's Park being the media vortex it is, she actually lives quite close to me and we are going to meet for a chat over breakfast. I have a feeling we'll get on rather well...

Gonna use my sidestep

Well, this week my journalism career path was a bit more cemented by me accidentally getting a proper news story on a proper news channel. It's a momentous occasion. Yes I know, it's a gratuitous David Tennant story, but hell, it was the most popular entertainment story on BBC News yesterday according to well-placed sources. Actually, I had just told those same well-placed sources that I still wonder how on earth I ended up doing this - don't tell anyone but I'm not actually a journalist. I think I haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up. Not doing too badly at journalism considering I really don't want to be a journalist. Current jobs on the cards include:

- journalist (by default really),
- rich housewife (slight drawback being lack of rich husband)
- famous television producer (totally unqualified)
- web person (odds on 3-1, may also be convoluted route to famous television producer)
- go back to Greenpeace (not ruling that out)
- extra (I reckon I'd look good in BBC Three's upcoming Pramface Mansion)
- unemployed actor (guess I need to be an actor first)
- Mexican food waitress (Pros: Nick Cave as customer, unlimited margaritas. Cons: pay won't cover rent)

You can probably see why I'm not making much headway.

Last night I also met the head of BBC News at a London journalism club (um.... non-journalism club maybe) I'm planning to join. I introduced myself. 'I know who you are,' he said. I stared at him in horror. 'How?' I blurted out, thinking oh my God, what have I done now. 'I've seen you around,' he said mysteriously. It's weird things like these that give me the idea that something is about to happen, that I'm at some kind of crossroads - either very good, like aforementioned Plan A which will bring me fame, fortune and some kind of material assets which I currently have absolutely zero of despite approaching 30, or very bad, like being unceremoniously fired for an unwitting transgression of an obscure British law.

I'm watching Lost in Translation right now, a movie that means a lot to me. It's making me horribly nostalgic. Apart from the memories of Tokyo, which I'd buried underneath a pile of self-flagellation, I feel exactly like Scarlett Johansson right now except for the bad marriage bit. Not that I have any marriage - and on that topic even JonJon's flatmate hasn't even asked me out for a drink. I have been diligently trying to obey the 'He's Just Not That Into You' rules which forbid me to just pick up the phone, but I will most likely throw that book out the window as usual. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

So really, I'm just trying to bide my time before I can move back to Ben and Erin's, as I metaphorically stare out that window at the Park Hyatt, wondering what is going to happen next.

p.s. Queen's Park Celebrity Update: Daniel 'James Bond' Craig residency confirmed, Alex Lloyd Fat Bastard spotted with a cup of coffee (not beer!) heading into what we assume is a recording studio on Lonsdale Street.

Crazy Homies and Not-so-crazy Oxford

Just when we thought Saturday night couldn't get any worse, Crazy Homies came to the rescue. After waiting in the rain for hours and hours for a table at a Mexican restaurant, I finally found something to fill the Pepe's-shaped-hole in my life. Pepe's, for the uninitiated, was the Mexican restaurant where I practically grew up. Cheap, cheerful and my employer for a good five years, it pretty much single-handedly kept me and my student mates alive throughout university. Years and years later, I still crave Mexican on a weekly basis. (In fact, after looking forward to a Mexican dinner all day on Saturday, Erin spotted the washing up and texted me a suspicous message: 'Did you have Mexican for lunch?' 'Just avocado and cheese' I replied meekly).

Anyway, Crazy Homies took us in when no-one else would, sodden and grumpy and in dire need of elderflower margaritas. And it gets better - Nick Cave lives upstairs when in London and apparently eats (or, assumedly, drinks) at Crazy Homies four nights a week. I knew he was classy. I have a feeling it will become a recurring feature in our lives. Once upon a time, Mr Cave did me a great kindness (well it seemed that way for a misfit teenage girl) and so I would love to buy him a burrito to say thanks.

Meanwhile I also went to visit old friend Lachlan in Oxford where we dined genteely upon scones and clotted cream at the university (one of the elderly attendants told us the scones were left over from the floods last week, we weren't quite sure if he was joking or not). Lachie, being an athlete, gave me a brisk walking tour of the town so at least I probably walked off most of the scones. And fish and chips. And burger. And ice-cream. And Crazy Homies.

Lunchlady Doris and the parallel universe

Yesterday my soul decided to take a trip into a few parallel dimensions before being forcefully yanked back into my body, which at that point was sprawled on a doctors surgery floor. Those of you who know me will know my irrational fear of doctors*, in particular, doctors with blood pressure monitors (one of my colleagues informs me that she actually LOVES getting her blood pressure taken... which for one moment prompted the hatchling of an evil plan, but I guess it's just too much to hope that the doctor wouldn't notice a switch after the havoc I caused yesterday morning).

On a routine visit to the doctor they wanted to test my blood pressure. I warned the matronly nurse that I may faint, and that she should have a glass of water to hand. She began to cheerily tell me about her own aversion to needles and various details about her tonsilectomy, which patently did not help the situation. So down I went, and if you've never fainted you might not be able to imagine the strange state between waking and dreaming (Christian I believe I met you in some parallel dimension for a whisky or two). Opening my eyes, my first thought was: Am I in Australia? No. Am I in Sweden? No. Am I in England? Hmm...yes I think so. Only England could have carpet like this in a doctor's surgery... And then I noticed this huge face leaning over me, she looked familiar...then it hit me - it was a human version of Lunchlady Doris from the Simpsons. 'Are you alwrigh'?' she asked in an accent which left me in no doubt what country I was in, but was kind of confusing because last time I checked, the Simpsons wasn't set in East London.

My instinctive response (apart from, 'Oh my God, you're ALIVE?') was, 'Who the HELL are you?' but I kept my mouth shut until I could stumble outside and Mia came to get me and fed me numerous cups of hot tea. I felt literally beside myself for the rest of the day. Mum tells me that when I was a baby (born mind-boggling early) I spent the first two months of my life in hospital, and my heart actually stopped several times. This has quite shocked me - I mean obviously I remember going to the hospital incessantly, but I never knew quite how touch and go it was. So that put a hell of a lot in perspective - a student house and soggy summer are no match for me.

Later I met Simon who I haven't seen since I left Amsterdam. It was strange to catch up, but obviously my soul had left a bit of its alcohol-processing ability in some far-off multiverse (that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) and I fear after a few red wines I blabbed incoherently at him for four hours.

Meanwhile, my brush with oblivion has also put work in perspective, and I am far more inspired at the media corporation. I have even written my first pitch for a tv show as part of a staff competition, and if I get to work on that, then life-changing plan A (national fame, instant new career, famous husband and holiday house in Stockholm archipelago) might just come off in time for Christmas...

p.s. Queens Park update: celebrity resident list now includes Daniel 'James Bond' Craig, spotted last week at the local Starbucks.

*Fear of doctors does not apply to The Very Attractive Doctor Anders (TM)

Oh what a weekend

Today I had my first dealings with the UK health system since 2003 when I took my ex-boyfriend to hospital thinking he was having a heart attack and unfortunately his rather feminine first name made the doctors try and sedate me... but I digress. As a certain singing nun with a penchant for clothing made from drapery would say, let's start at the very beginning.

Last night, Mia and I met the remains of Team London in Notting Hill to 'get out of the house'. This of course turned into a bit of an extravaganza and despite me accidentally kissing JonJon's flatmate again, poor Mia took the cake as far as dramatic evenings go. After a few Mojitos anyone would be a bit tipsy, but suddenly her legs fell out from under her and she threw up prolifically - Linda Blair herself would have been horrified. By this stage, my feet in uncharacteristic heels were killing me, but I miraculously managed to get Mia up the stairs in one piece where we hailed that cornerstone of British life, the mini-cab. My faith in Londoners was further eroded when the cab driver decided he did not want to risk having poor Mia in the car and abandoned us at a service station somewhere in the dark, tumble-weed ridden terrain of north London (ok the tumbleweed is just a special effect). 'Are you REALLY going to be this irresponsible?' I asked him, Greenpeace-interrogation style. "Yes I am,' he said coolly and drove off. Times like that you desperately need a Simpsons scriptwriter to put a biting response in your mouth.

We finally got home via a much nicer minicab driver who even helped me propel Mia inside (heels had gone flying down the stairs by this point). This morning, she awoke in a panic, and told me she thought her drink had been spiked. She had no memory at all of getting home. Erin and I rang the hospital - and this is the bit where I was considering a plane bound for Sydney (or Stockholm).

Apparently, the UK doesn't really believe in drink spiking. You see, whenever they test these women, they just have alcohol in their bloodstream. I think I have an explanation for that: namely, they don't test you until you have been in a hospital waiting room for the better part of a millenium and convinced the nurse that you are not in fact an alcoholic or a tramp (despite the fact you may have lost your painful high heels in the process), and you are then shunted off to a police station since the NHS refuses to test you. In Australia you can buy drink-testing kits, call advice lines and go to efficient 24-hour medical centres (...on second thoughts, maybe that says more about Australian men than British ones!) In the UK, you are basically accused of having had a few too many vodkas and given an injection. Admittedly, we finally convinced the well-meaning nurse at the hospital. 'I would put you in a bed for monitoring,' she said ruefully, 'But we don't actually have any'.

But after a large pizza, strawberry Haagen Daaz and a highly therapeutic dose of David Tennant, I think Mia's on the road to recovery. And one thing's for sure, we sure as hell got out of the house this weekend.

p.s. The Mac is back - yay! - life's a bit better (something to do with new shoes perhaps?), and, despite positively apocalyptic weather, London life is at least a lot more interesting - and not only in medical-emergency ways.

Fortuna

Where to start? Forgive my infrequent posts. My beloved Mac, Audrey, is in Mac hospital, leaving bereaved iPod Marvin and me with only an archaic pen to blog with. But that is the least of my woes, I'm afraid I'm going to have to be honest and say my entire life seems to have taken a sharp turn for the worse.

I have been forced to return to what I eupemistically (and that's scary enough in itself) term the Youth Hostel, my six (or sometimes seven) person household, to my tiny barely-furnished room. Upon arrival yesterday, I was greeted by a seemingly mute goth guy forlornly eating pizza in the kitchen. I don't know who he is, no-one has bothered to explain, but his long black hair is all over my bathroom sink, his collection of Metallica shirts hanging in the kitchen, and he is sleeping in the living room. I have a terrible suspicion he was previously sleeping in my bed before I got back.

The lamp in my room has mysteriously disappeared, so although I planned to waste away the next miserable four weeks reading, it will be in the prison-cell-like glare of my ceiling bulb. My room is so small that my bed turns it, appropriately, into a kind of padded cell, which combined with the harsh light is definintely an interior-decorating tip to avoid like the plague.

My clothes (the ones that aren't in Ben and Erin's house, Stockholm, Brisbane or Sydney) are in an impenetrable pile and I have to lean against the cupboard and duck down to see the mirror while I use my bed as a makeup table. I won't use the dimly-lit bathroom to apply makeup since it apparently hasn't been cleaned since I left as I discovered to considerable horror last night, and someone has broken the shower head (I don't even want to think about how...but then again, it could have been the dodgy Polish builders who would turn up without notice and inform us belatedly that the bath was about to go through the floor - an undignified death I guess I should be grateful to have avoided so far) so I have to lean into the slimy shower curtain. I hate my job, but I go there early to escape the house, where I can't even watch tv since there will be random people in the living room or French flatmates who sleep all day complaining about the sound through the paper-thin walls.

The constant moving (countries and houses), desperate attempts to avoid being at home, and lack of routine has depleted my finances. Considering that, combined with the odd combinations of clothing that I am no doubt leaving the house in, it's not really surprising that I'm still hopelessly single (despite rumours of my ongoing secret affair with a certain BBC actor, which will only actually happen if Queens Park vegetable market comes up trumps - not entirely out of the realms of possibility and certainly more likely than someone other than me cleaning the bath tub any time soon). Although the vege market has been a bit deprived of celebrities lately, even Alex Lloyd hasn't turned up. Had champagne with Terry Wogan the other night (no really I did, my life is weird), even that couldn't lift my spirits. And without my Mac even Jake Gyllenhaal can't comfort me.

So...I nervously await the results of last week's job interview and hope that one more country, house and job might bring me some kind of happiness. As my dubious hero Ignatius J. Reilly would advise, I patiently wait for Fortuna to spin her wheel. Midnight is where the day begins and all that. Strangely, I'm not actually that depressed, I'm clinging to the feeling that this is all very temporary and some crazy miracle is about to change everything.

I think I should go back to my padded cell.

End of miserable rant.

p.s. just found out I didn't get the job either. i have no idea what to do next. now i'm depressed.

Living out of a suitcase

Health Warning: this will be a rather haphazard posting for the sole reason that I'm incredibly slack. Still camping at Ben and Erin's and still with belongings strewn across three houses. Not much to report except that temporary flatmate Mia has become addicted to Pacman, Sophie Dahl shops at our vegetable market and I have started ballet again. Yes, Missy M returns to the stage after a 12 year hiatus. Well okay I've just been doing ballet at home but I'm remembering how much I love it. When I feel comfortable enough appearing in front of other grown women in a leotard I will consider a class (that will be never then).

I've been lying low since Sweden and trying to get through the daily grind, which no matter how positive I am or how much Green & Blacks' chocolate I keep in my desk drawer, just doesn't get better. It's become more and more obvious that unless I suddenly get a starring role - or more realistically, a lackey job...and then starring role - on Doctor Who, London is not really the place for me.

But a chink of light at the end of the tunnel - I got a phone call from my dream company on Monday. If all goes well, I may be either returning to Stockholm or moving to New York very soon. I don't actually know many people in New York, unless you count the Soup Nazi. I won't give details in case I jinx it but it sounds like the perfect job: including ski trips, no shoes policy and daily fika (that's Swedish afternoon tea - even in the New York office). If I thought it would help I'd pray but small daily sacrifices and obsessive-compulsive gestures aren't out of the question. If that fails, I guess it's back to finding a creative outlet here. I don't know why they just don't film the farmer's market here in Queen's Park where most of the city's cast and crew appear to live or at least shop for vegetables - Mia and I have taken to donning sunglasses and spending more time ogling stars than onions on Sunday mornings.

But it's not just about the job, I need to find a place where I love living. It will be good to get out of Britain - where the conservatives are about to propose tax breaks for married people (the solution to all of Britain's problems, apparently - force everyone to get married for cash, yes, that will make for a stable and happy society, well done!), Al Qaeda is all worked up about Salman Rushdie and as far as I know John Travolta is still calling up BBC management about scientology (I'm serious).

So...fingers and toes, as they say back home. And I promise more regular updates soon, if anything exciting would happen. Next week promises a meeting with 'The Google Guy' who I have emailed for years but never met in person, and possibly a speed-dating extravaganza with some single pals. I know I know, but never say never...

Sweden: the aftermath

Well, back in Blighty, after some exceptional juggling between airports by SAS (no they don't pay me to say that, but seriously, if I had've been flying KLM today I'd still be in Gothenburg looking for my bag).

Impressively, London is extremely calm despite the near-miss bombings, Heathrow was possibly even calmer than usual. I did however sit next to a strange man on the tube on the way in who, while consuming his 'dinner', consisting of an entire packet of dried spiced peas, told me to seek spiritual assistance. I had chosen the seat in order to chat to the nice Swedish guy sitting opposite, but he wisely averted eye contact and left me stuck with the pea man, who went on to offer me a job as his secretary, and told me that I was better looking than Kylie Minogue and could I please send Kylie back to Australia. Maybe it was a sign of some sort... but I took it as a sign to change tubes three stops early.

This morning, after hankering for American pancakes for three days, Irina and I went to treat ourselves to brunch at Stockholm's Folkoperan. Of course, American pancakes were off the menu this morning, causing much gnashing of teeth. We made do with a rather strange combination of vegetarian sausages, baked beans, coleslaw and sliced oranges. 'Geez, that looks like Pommie food,' remarked Mr Unrequited who had joined us - and was very proud of his Australian vocabulary. I am so glad that against all odds, Mr U and I can actually talk now, I left Sweden feeling calm and happy and am determined to go back for good - as soon as possible. (Anyone out there who wants to offer me a job in Stockholm please do. Preferably not as a secretary and preferably not while consuming a packet of dried spicy peas).

It's been a hectic, liver-damaging week of catching up on life among my Swedish friends. Ludvig kindly invited the Very Attractive Doctor Anders (TM) to a beery event which while I managed to speak a mere three words to him, did restore my faith that there are actually attractive men out there, albeit usually married, unrequited or averting their eye contact on trains and abandoning me to the attentions of men whose mental faculties are slightly questionable.

Meanwhile back in Queen's Park Mia has upped the Celebrity Resident list, which now consists of David 'Dr Who' Tennant, Thandie 'Chick from Mission Impossible' Newton, Cillian 'Guy from 28 Days Later' Murphy, David 'multipurpose tv host' Baddiel and Alex Lloyd Fat Bastard. However Lloyd is probably down at Hugo's restaurant having spicy peas and unfortunately Mr Tennant is still averting his eyes, metaphorically speaking.

Midsommar Madness

I'm too tired to write much after getting to Stockholm and finding myself on stage on a boat/gay bar singing 'I Will Survive' with Irina and Jack, and then last night meeting pretty much everyone in Stockholm for successive beers.

So here's a small sample of the craziness that ensued on Midsommar courtesy of the lovely Angelica.

Nora

Nora, my six year old surrogate daughter - her choice - wants me to call this blog entry 'Nora'. So I did. That's us on a night time flower hunt over a small island in Sweden trying to find seven different flowers to put under our pillows (because we are at sea-captain Papa Pelle's place, we had to do this properly with torches strapped to our heads). We are then supposed to dream of our future husbands, as I mentioned last year. However, I have now been told that not only did I get the wrong day (again!) but you are also supposed to jump over seven fences, and various other far too physically exerting things. After meeting the lovely Mads in Copenhagen for a decadent beer yesterday then making the trek over to Sweden, I think I'll leave my fate to serendipity rather than attempt outdoor athletics. Nora may have dreamt of her future husband but if so I think it may be a small cat named Starboard. I have already been in trouble for feeding Nora Nutella for breakfast, so I guess I'm not the best person to guide her in nutritional OR romantic choices.

Anyway the preparations for Midsommar Madness have been somewhat stalled by the rain so we are all cooped up inside like a mini Glastonbury festival. It's just so good to be 'home'. Christian offered me 5 quid to drink a bottle of gin before 12 then retired to bed himself, so I might go and set Nora onto something productive and send her off in Christian's direction. Ludvig only just woke up and Hansi hasn't even appeared yet. More when the midsommar party is over and the incriminating photos have arrived...

Johnny Gash

Andy and Ben have released a special Father's Day song from Andy's alter-ego, Johnny Gash, and this is probably a world exclusive ...or something.

Dad I know you never really liked Johnny Cash, well you sure as hell aren't going to like Johnny Gash. But this is for you (open in iTunes).

The Farter's Day Song

'If you want something to happen to you...'

Another weird day at the Corporation. Today I finally found out what the Secret TV Controller was referring to. In my attempt to move careers away from the desk and into production I discovered (despite being offered a role as a humble runner at the Princess Diana Memorial Concert and imminently on Doctor Who.... maybe...at least as a Dalek mechanic) I had to do a Production and TV Studio safety course. And oh my God. Look what happened to the last person (Anthea Turner) who obviously didn't pay attention.

"Are you alright love?"

...I'm scared.

This was seriously in the video training. Twice.

The Dalek's ear

In a weird moment of synchronicity, not only is Doctor Who my neighbour, but today, someone gave me a Dalek's ear (that's him in the picture - the Dalek that is, not the good Doctor).

We have a pet Dalek in one of the cafe areas downstairs. Recently, it suffered a horrific tragedy when someone ripped one of its 'ears' off and took it home as a souvenir. Today as I was innocently working away, a guy from the IT team came up to my desk. 'I hear we're missing a Dalek's ear?' he said. I stared at him as he placed what looks like the tail-light from a Morris Minor on my desk. 'I found it at a garage sale on the weekend,' he explained. 'The guy who sold it to me asked me what kind of car it was for. I told him it was for a space robot. He was not impressed'.

I went downstairs before to see if I could fix the Dalek (or have a great excuse for phoning David Tennant). Unfortunately, the ear I have is red, and the one the Dalek needs is white - although considering how much he scared me as a kid, he's lucky to have any ears at all right now.

So for the foreseeable future I am in possession of one Dalek ear, unused, free to a good home (preferably a home not focused on the annihilation of the planet). Any takers?

Fame, fortune, lack thereof, and Queens Park

"This one's a goner". That was the remark Andy, our Mancurian friend, made last night as he carved up the lifeless body of Ben's carefully roasted chook.*

Happily he was not referring to the snot-faced, sobbing American girl we had to rescue at 2.00 in the morning. Andy, Ben and I were having a glass of wine or three in the living room when we heard someone crying uncontrollably downstairs, on a mobile saying 'I don't know where I am' over and over again. Racing downstairs heroically, we then attempted to call her a cab. She just kept swearing at us and spilling great deals of cash into the road. "I just want to go home, why is that so fucking difficult!" she said. The taxi driver was distinctly unimpressed by the time he did turn up, as were we (largely because we suffered abuse for twenty minutes with no cash reward). Andy woke up early this morning in the hope that a stretch limousine would be outside and a large Texan with a Stetson would be knocking on our door saying 'Thanks for saving mah daughter. Y'all get $10,000 each.' I noted that the girl was hardly in a state to recall where we lived. Andy was extremely disappointed.

Meanwhile summer in Queen's Park rolls on with Pimms and G&T all round. Yesterday we discovered that David 'Doctor Who' Tennant lives around the corner, a piece of news I was incredibly excited about. But despite my strolling about the park alluringly in skinny jeans, aviators, Scottish-radio rock star tshirt (he's Scottish, guess he can't help that) and messy hair... he has failed to materialise.

I have also embarked upon OPERATION: CAREER CHANGE and am eagerly awaiting a rejection notice for my application to work as an Assistant Producer on BBC drama 'Waking the Dead', which would be an exceptionally appropriate project for me (and my career). If that fails, I will study filmmaking in the autumn with the Monty Python filmmakers (no seriously, they support young Londoners, particularly those suffering at the hands of a boss who is deluded that he works at The Times and phones at 6.30am to ask why The Guardian has beaten us to a story -- something the Guardian journos think is quite funny), and my world domination or at least, Hollywood superstardom, will proceed from there.

Meanwhile it's back to Sweden this week (thank God), and I celebrated today by meeting Sven for a huge smorgåsbord brunch, whereupon we managed to meet the King of Sweden's former drinking buddy and hear lots of gossip from 1965 about all his model girlfriends. Unfortunately I don't think the King will be attending Pelle's midsommar party in Sweden but you know, the way fate is treating me lately I wouldn't be entirely surprised.



*Chook - noun - Australian for chicken, also used to affectionately describe a female as in 'Cheer up you silly old chook'.

Madame Z

:(

The grapevine doesn't lie. I guess now I have to answer annoying soul-searching questions about babies. And did I want his babies?? I could do what my friend did and buy two dogs. Yep, that'll do the trick. I don't think I actually even want babies, at least not for a good couple of years...maybe not even then (although I remember my cousin said the same thing about being too selfish and now she has several). So why has this made me so uncomfortable? Maybe because Erin and Mia have been hitting the microdermabrasion creams this week to stave off wrinkles- neither of them need to.

I know that there are some of my friends who would be incredulous that I even care what my ex does. I know that some would be heading straight for the Eurostar with a large stick to beat some sense into me with. But it's ok, there is no need to instigate an emergency rescue operation (Team Sweden, you can put the rescue-horse-costume away)...Operation Oslo made me realise I probably still love him somewhere - but it was pretty clear I was still below pool, blondes and lads on the priority list. Which is fair enough, I know, I'm not his girlfriend any more. Still kind of bites somewhere though. So instead of doing anything stupid, I went and got my hair cut - Erin and I actually are both lovely blondes now.

Anyway, this is all getting a tad bit personal for a blog that 100 people a month now read! (Who ARE you all?? Especially you at the University of Oslo... I now have traffic from Canada to Germany via China and even a mysterious return visitor in Sri Lanka or somewhere. Sweden is on the top of the league table though. I suspect a lot of readers are just Crowded House fans looking for the webcast. It's not here people!!)

Yesterday I was edging towards stupid and wrote a letter that I should have written back in January, but my friend and colleague known as Madame Z physically put it through the office shredder, pranced past my desk and dropped the pieces in front of me saying 'PROOF!', kidnapped my phone (for my own good, apparently) and then proceeded to get me exremely drunk. (She has also kindly offered to lend me 'He's just not that into you', a book which I have actually bought once, had given to me once, and had someone lend to me once. What does THAT say?!) Weirdly, we discovered that our benevolent workplace has drivers who will take you where you need to go at night, which in our case was a nightclub in Shepherd's Bush with copious amounts of reasonably priced wine.

Madame Z is right. I REFUSE to be Duckface from Four Weddings and a Funeral...no hang on, it wasn't Duckface, it was Kristin Scott Thomas. Didn't she end up with Prince Charles in the end of the film? Lord save me...

Jake Gyllenhaal movie tally: 53, with a few Tim Tams thrown in for good measure.

Unexpected (first) life

That's Blix there in the picture. She's my alterego in Second Life, which, due to the fact my first life is so boring yet confusing at the same time, I've become quite addicted to (Ludvig will you please sign in for once!!). Blix, whose hair I am extremely jealous of, has even applied for a job at the Swedish Embassy (that's where she is in the postcard). But then today some very weird things happened, some good some bad, that reminded me that life can take some unexpected turns.

First the bad news... I heard on the grapevine that my ex-boyfriend is pregnant. Well not him personally of course, but most likely that girl who was bringing over IKEA furniture in Oslo. Looks like she had a backup plan. For some reason, this has quite upset me, and I was sneaking down to the Tesco's to get a very illicit packet of cigarettes which I have not touched since Sweden, when I saw a familiar face in the foyer from the misty depths of yesteryear (no Jonathan, it was NOT Stephen Merchant. Dammit. It was a girl for starters.).

I stared at her. She smiled politely at me. I kept staring. A look of recognition dawned on her face slowly. We both felt like we were in some kind of surreal reality tv show. Sally, my flatmate from nearly ten years ago on the other side of the planet, is working in the same building as me. In fact, directly above me in the department where I was loitering yesterday and yet we still managed to be completely oblivious to each other's existence.

I've known Sally since my days as an actress when I was an innocent young sixteen year old constantly subjected to curfews who would attempt to hide at Sally's parent-less house and hang out with the thespian Goths who frequented the local arty venues.

Who knows what this random meeting will bring, but hopefully it's a little signpost that London doesn't have to be quite so empty from now on.

Jake Gyllenhaal movie tally: 2

Insulting Jimmy Nesbitt

Another misguided foray into the world of celebrity. I was feeling a little worse for wear this morning after attending the press screening of new BBC drama Jekyll at the incredibly swanky Mayfair Hotel last night - and the inevitable free wine and canapes that accompanied it.

I'm no tv critic, but I made the mistake of freely offering my production advice over canapes (incidentally, they were mini packages of chips whose fat content probably made this morning far more bearable for many of us than it otherwise would be). I boldly commented to my new journalist friends that the main change I would make to the program would be not to show the 'Hyde' character's vampiric teeth - even going so far as to say 'it's a bit tacky'. Heresy! And they'd given us free wine and everything! Unfortunately, this came back to bite me in the... well let's just say I regretted it.

At the end of the night after probably one too many glasses of said wine my new friends from a certain women's magazine and I went to chat to the cast. As the journalist introduced me to the star James Nesbitt (who Irina and I used to watch in an Irish detective show all the time), the journo's mind went blank (she told me later). 'She doesn't like your teeth,' she blurted to him. He took it hard. 'My teeth?' he said, looking extremely crestfallen. I protested that I had meant Hyde's teeth, not Nesbitt's personally, but he was having no excuses. 'I have to text my wife now,' he said and the conversation was clearly over. I was hoping he was one of the group that a little birdie tells me was drinking at Soho House until 3.30am, so he won't remember - or will at least have drowned his sorrows. But alas the birdie has updated me and told me he left shortly after we did. Oh dear. Well he was a bit wobbly, perhaps he won't remember anyway. I am officially the worst celebrity liasion person ever. Thank God I never got that interview with Stephen Merchant.

The real star of the night was veteran executive producer Beryl Vertue - my new hero. She was what I believe can only be called The Consummate Professional - even chatting and introducing herself to nobodies like me. She worked the room with the assistance of a much-coveted Chanel handbag (judging by much younger women's envious glances...not mine though, those handbags always remind me of bed linen) and you felt you could ask her pretty much anything and get a straight answer.

I was too shy to ask her advice on how to break into the industry (my current job doesn't count). But at least I wasn't stupid enough to share my toothy opinions with her.

Alex Lloyd, fat. b*stard.

A few weeks ago, on my way to the shops in Queens Park, I saw a familiar face. A guy who looked uncannily like Australian singer-songwriter Alex Lloyd was talking loudly to a builder about the renovations on his house. I stopped and stared - could it be Alex Lloyd? Could he have followed me from Sydney where last I heard (from a glossy Sydney Morning Herald magazine) he was happily ensconced in an expensive house with a wife and kids? There *are* an unprecedented amount of Australians in Queens Park, comprising of about 97.3% of the clientele of the war-zone Sainsburys but this was getting ridiculous.

A long time ago in a university household far away I used to know a lot of bands, and manage a lovely singer. I was at a gig once where Alex Lloyd was playing, and my very English friend Andrew was commenting on the lineup. The first in his sights was a techno band called Sonic Animation. He scoffed at the musical talent on offer. 'Sonic Animation - knob twiddlers, Alex Lloyd - fat. Bastard' is how he summed up the entire show. Someone in front of Andrew turned around. 'What did you say?' he asked - it was Alex Lloyd, reducing us to fits of giggles and meaning that no-one could ever call him anything other than Alex Lloyd Fat Bastard from then on. My only other encounter with him was when my friend's band was supporting him and Mr Lloyd was singularly unconcerned with whether or not I could find said friend after the gig, looking at me as if I was a groupie. So he only earned a more persistent use of the ALFB nickname.

Anyway, this Lloyd-a-like was wearing a horrendously British tracksuit - you know, matching blue polyester Adidas a la Del Boy in 'Only Fools and Horses'. I rang Erin. 'Erin, I think I just saw Alex Lloyd in Queens Park,' I said. 'But he was wearing this horrendous polyester tracksuit... could it be him?' 'It's weird you say that,' Erin replied. Apparently she had started singing an Alex Lloyd song to herself for no reason while walking down Salusbury Road and realised now it was because she'd seen a Lloyd-a-like too.

We forgot about this, but yesterday I was at local jazz joint Hugo's having a vino or two with an Australian friend Mia and, like some kind of scary clone, the Lloyd-a-like complete with blue tracksuit walked out of Hugo's with a cold beer - despite the fact he didn't seem to have walked in at at any point - and besides, who* goes to a restaurant to get a cold beer when they sell it at the corner shop, I ask you! Smacks of rockstar lifestyle. This time I had a witness. After paying our bill we set off around the corner to see if we could gather more evidence, but like the Terminator, Lloyd had melted into the urban landscape. 'He moves pretty fast for a fat bastard,' remarked Mia.

So we repaired to Ben and Erin's where we did a bit of google stalking. The headline on his personal site was 'Look out London'. Yes, it turns out - Alex Lloyd has moved to London. It seems you can run but you can't hide, Sydney is following me around the world.

BoBAR

Bored. Beyond All Recognition. Why haven't I written for weeks, oh demanding readers? Because I have absolutely nothing to report. Nothing. And I'm not one of those people that says nothing and in reality just means 'nothing that is scandalous enough to make Heat magazine'. I MEAN nothing. I'm starting to doubt the whole meaning of my existence.

I have not been this bored since the International Whaling Commission meeting at 11pm on a Friday night last year, where I had to sit in the office (or rather, outside the door smoking and looking melancholy in the hope that Mr Unrequited would take pity and stay - he didn't, but he did give me a cigarette to while away the next three hours) waiting until some godforsaken hour so I could post the results on the Greenpeace website. I remember that night looking ahead to the same empty calendar, seemingly for the next twenty years. Funnily enough, that was pretty much exactly a year ago - hopefully it's cyclical.

I miss my heady days of flitting off to Tokyo on a romantic whim or booking trips to New York to see horrendous cheap daytime tv filmed (oh yes and attend the MoMA of course), or even getting bundled off to a toxic waste dump in Korea. I miss Stockholm summers with a variety of friends to call on for brunch, impromptu wine, or an inevitable thousand beers, usually starting in the sun after work and ending in the sun in the early hours of the next morning, probably with a midnight swim on the way. I miss having my life socially engineered by Team Sweden. Irina was right - how long do you want to be on the way to somewhere else? she asked. Good bloody question.

But since leaving Sweden, and despite the best efforts of Team London (I rather suspect that Team London's stamina is not quite up to Team Sweden's especially after a rather unfortunate evening of drunkenness and debauchery involving a bank holiday weekend, kebabs and 'shenanigans,' as Jonathan would say), I have struggled to do anything more exciting than eat, work and sleep (in my tiny tiny room). Too much of my own company is actually starting to drive me a little bit crazy - I'm afraid I'm going to start muttering to myself on the tube and hanging out at the local Sainsburys (the one that makes you feel like you're in a war zone...more about that later) yelling at the kids.

Sure - I could go to the all-night Alien-fest at the British Film Institute, I could go to see Swedish band The Concretes or The Sounds next week, or I could even go get yelled at by celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay at his new gastropub - but... I would have to do all those things alone.

This is the worst thing about moving cities/countries, and even worse when you know you left something good behind and just can't see how to build it again. I have a feeling I'm going to be watching a lot of Jake Gyllenhaal movies and single-handedly keeping the manufacturers of Green & Black's vanilla bourbon ice-cream racking up a healthy profit for quite a while yet.

Scientologists and sushi

It's been a strange week. It started with a YouTube war between Scientology and the BBC. On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I came out of the tube thinking that some benevolent FM radio station had decided to bestow the humble media workers of West London with free breakfast. Smiling girls in shiny black bomber jackets were standing the length of the street. Feeling quite peckish, I eagerly approached them, only to find that they were handing out DVDs called 'Panorama: Exposed' (Panorama is the name of the BBC documentary that so offended the Church of Scientology). I handed it back faster that a hot potato, especially when I noticed the logo on the bomber jackets was not for a radio station but for one FREEDOM TV, which is actually owned by the Church of Scientology. Weirdly, the girl didn't flinch when I handed back the DVD, but merely continued to smile vacuously at me as if she was handing out something pleasant like free Glastonbury tickets. I've already seen Panorama: Exposed and it is complete propaganda. (As I write this, I worry that somewhere a little alarm is going off and two Tom-Cruise lookalikes in sunglasses and menacing black suits are being dispatched to my door to reprimand me). Anyway, I was telling a journalist this on Tuesday night and ended up making The Guardian - my first small taste of UK fame (rather pathetic I know).

The rest of the week wasn't quite as exciting as on one evening I discovered that however nice people are, there are some people who may like to fill their diaries with visits to the theatre, buy memberships to the National Portrait Gallery, and have invaluable tickets to the latest hot rock act, but really can only talk about shoes, Excel spreadsheets and financial takeovers. Maybe my old friend Demis was right - there are two types of people in the world. These people, well-meaning though they were, were not mine. To top it off, I ended the evening - which did at least provide an authentic Japanese meal and brought back memories of Tokyo - with a nasty bout of food poisoning. It was enough to induce a rather stupid shopping spree today in an attempt to revamp my wardrobe into something more Kirsten Dunst-like. (Unfortunately I forget that I don't have her credit rating.)

And the dubious week was rounded out by the people who organise the BAFTA Television Awards denying me a press pass (to add insult to injury, it took about ten phone calls and an email to get that denial. Don't they know I was in The Guardian?). Weirdly, they did offer me a red carpet pass, but I couldn't bear the thought of getting all dressed up, fighting a scrum of professional journalists for the chance to yell something incoherent at Stephen Merchant, and then have to go back on the tube in my fancy dress and high heels while everyone else got to go inside. I declined, and plan to instead write a scathing blog about how unprofessional their publicists are.

No longer Swedish

Last night I got a letter from the Skatteverket - Swedish tax office - you know, those guys with the super friendly forms. It's like a door has been slammed in my face. Against Team Sweden's advice I told the tax office that I would not be living in Sweden for at least a year. I figured it would be kind of like temporarily suspending my membership in the H&M Shopping Club or something. (Considering that every institution in Holland seems to still be under the illusion that I live there, I figured that extracting yourself from European society is quite difficult. I forgot about the firm and friendly efficiency of the Swedes). I opened the letter, which basically said 'Fine then, we've removed you from the register'. I was heartbroken - it's kind of weird, it was like the final proof that I've left, the final proof of the blindingly obvious fact I don't live there any more. I feel so terrible about it I almost want to ring them up and beg them to keep me on the list 'just in case'. There goes Calle's theory that I secretly work for the Swedish government as a propoganda machine.

Well Sweden, you may have rejected me, but I am still going to vote for The Ark on tonight's Eurovision contest and there is nothing you can do to stop me.

An evening with Queen Victoria

I've just got back, exhausted and slightly hungover, from a two day training course. Unfortunately, my primary memory from the whole experience is an encounter with a woman who I at first thought reminded me of Queen Victoria (our whole conversation dominated by my mental images of a huge head with a tiny bitter face in the middle, as if she was peering at me through a monocle from above a ski-slope of a nose with her lips pursed disdainfully at me...which wasn't too far from the truth). However upon reflection I think she also reminded me of the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland (the Disney version) - a kind of deranged pompous Britishness that left me flabbgergasted and wondering if Kafka had taken over my life as a scriptwriter.

This woman was the most snobby, colonial-minded person I think I have ever met. I don't even want to repeat some of the things she said but basically all of you Australians (and indeed, anyone who doesn't live in England) is completely worthless. Oh and by the way Australians - you are also singlehandedly responsible for all of the colonial acts of horror perpetrated by Australians who had been in the country for five minutes (and were, in fact, English, but that fact is a little too inconvenient for our royal friend). When I tried to point out that I had in fact lived in Australia (and I'm not the most patriotic person, since I now refuse to live there) as well as Sweden and the Netherlands and in fact I don't think England has higher living standards or a better approach to multiculturalism than any of those countries, she looked at me sympathetically and said in her most patronising voice 'You know, you're kind of annoying. I'm going to go and talk to someone else'. I sat there gaping like a fish, which those who know me will realise is rather unlike me especially in the face of gross injustice. Luckily a friendly Northern Irish guy sitting next to Queen Vic, who'd had a growing look of puzzlement on his face, chose this moment to rescue me.

I really am surprised that this empire-mindedness still exists, especially when Channel 4 is currently producing a show called the Seven Sins of England about the violence, hooliganism, xenophobia, binge-drinking and, I quote, 'slaggishness' that have always been present in English culture.

I'm not saying England is all bad, but I do think that Queen Victoria could do with a bit of Clockwork Orange-style exposure to other cultures before looking down her nose at us mere colonials. Hopefully, however, I'll never have to see her again. I'm off with Ben and Erin to enjoy some nice sides of English culture that may or may not invoke the sin of binge drinking or at least a nice Pimms with fruit.

Bomb Scare

Typical. After a hectic week of travel, and withdrawal symptoms from Sweden, I decided to cheer myself up by having a sneaky manicure on my way home from work. The househunting (I'm staying put until a room at Ben and Erin's comes up, but the stress of looking as well as living in a student house where the oven explodes is not helping), the uncertainty about my career and the utter singleness have been weighing on me. Recently I also confided to Ben that I thought there might be something wrong with me, since everything I eat seems so tasteless these days. He replied, 'That's just British food'. So today, apart from shoes, a manicure was the next best thing.

As I approached the store I noticed that one entrance was taped off, but determinedly found another one. Just as I sat down and put my hands on the counter, a woman approached and asked me to move about two seats down. 'It's because the store front is made of glass,' she said, somewhat cryptically. Suddenly I realised that there was potentially a bomb outside and the woman was implying that an extra 30 centimetres would give me that much-needed distance from shards of glass flying at supersonic speed. Of course I shouldn't interrupt my consumption habits just for a bit of life-threatening terrorism!

The manicurist tried to comfort me. 'We had a fire here last week and they evacuated us, so I'm sure this can't be serious,' she said.

I was having none of it, and left for the slightly inferior but infinitely safer home manicure option. I am wondering if London is becoming like it was (apparently) during the days of constant IRA bombings - half jumpy, and half almost-unreasonably serene.

I guess I'll get used to this but after the peace of Stockholm it's a shock. Even in Sydney I would probably be sceptical of a bomb threat, but in London right now I am not keen on taking chances, no matter how scruffy my nails are.

Return to Sweden

It's been four days of adventure in Sweden, with Ben, Erin and I going on an all-shopping, all-drinking, all-pagan-festival rampage through Stockholm with the able assistance of our Viking friends. As soon as the plane touched down I realised how much I miss my adopted home (not least because the air is breathable and the water not caustic), and vowed to return more often -- and eventually, for good.

The pain was helped by a 'spontanfest' on Day 1, with Drakenbergsgatan once again the scene of much instant 'welcome home' partying and our guests subjected to the very selective and reptitive playlist of Irina and I, who apparently held the party at our mercy and forced everyone to listen to The Sounds and Sahara Hotnights as we reminisced over our traditional 5am dancing sessions. (Neither of us were surprised to hear this. There is also an embarrassing video to prove it but so far it has not surfaced on YouTube).

On Valborg we attempted to see Ludvig's girlfriend Emma sing in the firelight before enjoying a nice bonfire. Unfortunately, due to an over-eager consumption of tapas, we were too late to hear anything but one song (I tried to take the blame so that Ludvig didn't get slaughtered but Emma was far too smart for that) and there was no bonfire, only a series of large candles. So once again we resorted to the spontanfest, where at least 10 people showed up with various delights, including a bottle of mysterious Thai whiskey called Hong Thong (see Anders and Ludvig's enthusiastic reaction above). Mysterious but not distinctive - when the Hong Thong ran out, Carl (of Sailor Party and Cocktail Party fame) and I replaced it with cheap brandy and yet still the fervour continued.

The other great hit of the evening was Kaisa, a dog who strangely and suspiciously resembled Carl's previous dog although the former had only one eye and three legs...I will leave that mystery unsolved...

By the time we reached the airport, Ben, Erin and I were seriously considering throwing our boarding passes in the bin, faking our own deaths and starting a new life as humble Swedish cafe-owners. But we had to make do with a large bowl of noodles upon arrival in London, and the promise of many more Scandinavian adventures - with or without Hong Thong.