The Hardest Decision. Ever.

I hate money. I am going to have to give up my dream job because of money, or lack thereof. Take a risk, some people say. Well unfortunately, as it turns out, I have been taking risks for the last 7 years, and that's why I can't take this one. Regular readers of my blog will see the cruel irony, which is that this dream job is one I've joked about for months and months: working on none other than Doctor Who. If I had a tardis in actual fact, I'd be able to check out the consequences of this decision. However I only have the empty box in BBC reception and a manically, mockingly grinning photo of David Tennant adorning my desk.

I had prepared myself for moving to Cardiff, I'd sorted all those decisions in my head. But I hadn't counted on a mammoth paycut. I don't know why - I think I was distracted by the giant Dalek easter eggs adorning the Marks & Spencers at Cardiff train station.

So unless some vision comes to me in the night, perhaps Billie Piper or scarier, Russell T Davies, I will have to let this opportunity pass me by, and hope for fate to intervene at a later more convenient and financially viable date. Cruel cruel fate.

The Birthday Party

Well, despite the lamentations of Valentine's Day and society's general reminder that to be single is to be some kind of aberration, my birthday was surprisingly well-supported. (This was possibly helped by the fact I celebrated it twice.)

Aptly, Nick Cave even made an appearance on the second night of celebrations, at my absolute favourite restaurant in London. I couldn't work up the nerve to thank him for the time he was so kind to me when, as a slightly gothic 16 year old I approached him on the streets of my hometown. 'Excuse me!' I said, and he turned around with characteristic purposefulness. 'Um...are you Nick Cave?' I twittered. 'Yep.' he said. I proceeded to lecture him about Wim Wenders films (cringe) until he actually wrote my name in the book he was reading and gave me free tickets to his concert. I still wonder if he ever opens that book and wonders why on earth my name is in it.

Since he was also present at the Hitlergate debacle, I decided to leave Mr Cave and his enchilada in peace - but I was cowardly enough to snap a paparazzi shot with my phone.

Why I Hate Valentine's Day

I'm sure I'm not alone in hating Valentine's Day, but there are probably very few people who regard it as the annual bane of their existence. The irony is, I should look forward to it the way I did a a small child, guaranteed to receive presents, flowers and adulation - because Valentine's Day is also my birthday.

This used to be quite a boon - in primary school or even early high school, I could always walk with my chin held high to the bus stop, weighed down with flowers and chocolates. No-one ever had an excuse to forget my birthday, or worse, skip it because they had a romantic event to attend, and at this stage I didn't mind cards festooned with Mickey Mouse and a plethora of red glittery hearts. Valentine's was simply synonymous with my special day and I was quite happy to have my presents wrapped in love-heart print paper or pink roses.

But now, the irony of my birthdate has grown to staggering proportions, considering that most men I have had any kind of romantic involvement with seem inexplicably terrified of me - I am convinced I am cursed.

If I dare to attempt to enter a restaurant despite the guaranteed presence of sickening couples, I will most likely be unable to get a table. Not to mention that every smug loved-up girl in town steals a little bit of that birthday sparkle, enhancing special single feeling and making me feel extra-not-very-special at the same time. If I try to go to a bar - in particular, a champagne bar - I will no doubt find that for the evening they have suddenly decided to introduce a burlesque show, or a couples-only policy, or a cover charge ("only 10 pounds for girls!").

To make it all worse, Cupid not only ruins my birthday every year, but bestows his scorn on me for the remainder of it as well. I am the most terminally single person I have ever encountered - including Patty & Selma on The Simpsons. So not only does my birthday remind me very conveniently of what I haven't got (even more so than every single other bloody day of the year), it also makes the date quite a laughable event for most people who know me.

In the unlikely event I do happen to be in a relationship, I will most likely receive a cop-out half-Valentines half-birthday present, probably in heart-printed wrapping paper. A certain ex also decided it was a good opportunity to make me pay for half of my birthday dinner, using the logic that since it was also Valentine's Day, I should be contributing to the festivities. Needless to say, that particular evening ended with a loud argument in the street about his treatment of women.

On the up side, I can provide a welcome refuge for fellow singletons or sane people who reject the Hallmark-induced madness of St Valentine (by the way, I in no way degrade the efforts of the man who was apparently a priest and therefore most likely innocent - most theories blame Geoffrey Chaucer for this whole debacle. Far be it from me to suggest that perhaps it is why he was murdered. But there you have it.)

Other advantages include the easy availability of chocolate, various freebies and an increased likelihood of flowers.

And my dearly beloved loyal friends who, like me, reject Valentine's Day, can join me for a champagne ... perhaps cosily huddled in a grotty pub that the couples have kindly left for us. I have also discovered a surprising number of friends, ever since childhood, who share my pain of being a Valentine's baby. Often we can join forces against the saccharine madness.

This year I will most likely be doing that, and I'm determined to find a bar in London that hasn't succumbed....



Image by MacPhersoon at Deviantart.com

Why Britons are miserable

Welcome to 2008! If I had've written this blog a week ago (which I wouldn't have, being snowed under) I would have been delighted - a new job, which is going really well and even plays MC Hammer remixes in the afternoon, a potential new romance, lots of visits from Amsterdam and Sweden, and a renewed take on London. Well, the new job is still going well, and I have exciting trips to New York and Stockholm planned - if not paid for, more about that in a moment - but the romance has seemingly evaporated and an old English demon has reared it's ugly head: bureaucracy. People think everyone in London is miserable because of the weather and greyness and constant knife-crime. Nope, the answer is: bureaucracy.

We currently have four bureaucratic battles on the go, which has left me with no doubt that inefficiency and thickly-layered bureaucracy is a very typical English trait, finally beating the record previously held by the Dutch.

Excruciatingly frustrating situation number one concerns our gas bill. Upon receiving a ridiculously high bill, we asked the gas company to do a meter reading. They said they would send us a key. Meanwhile, I had paid a third of the bill - which they took off our old flatmate's account, rendering it -60, and sent another bill for the full amount to us. We received an envelope informing us it contained the key to our meter. It was empty.

Second is our on-again off-again internet connection and subsequent long conversations with various Indians who like to randomly subtract amounts from Erin's bank account, without ever actually providing us with the service we are paying for. Third is the ongoing saga with bailiffs who write threatening letters on a bi-weekly basis informing us that our house is to be broken into and our possessions sold to pay our supposedly outstanding council tax. This despite the fact that we have written, faxed, phoned and emailed informing said bailiffs that in fact the council owes us tax.

And lastly - the reason I have not paid to go to New York: HSBC, my former bank, has closed my account. Ok, I did ask them to, but after a lengthy conversation with more call centres, I was told that it would not be closed until next week. Supposedly safe in the knowledge I could access my funds until I called them again, I went to Tesco's to buy some dinner that very evening, and discovered they had closed my account in a highly uncharacteristic burst of efficiency. Of course, this means they get to keep my money and make a few more bucks on it for an undisclosed amount of time. Unable to find out after several expensive phone calls ('HSBC doesn't call customers back,' I was told) exactly when or how I will get my money back, I am now at home glad that Ben is going to cook a roast so that I can eat.

Seriously, the combination of bureaucracy and Jeremy Clarkson has severely tainted my view of Britain as a cosy land of hobnob (biscuits) and Dr Who. The friendly tax forms of Sweden beckon...

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)