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.