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It is with regret that Jack realises she's being forced to have a weekend where she must re-evaluate everything she's ever thought true about herself. Right now, she's not sure if 're-evaluate' is correctly hyphenated, or whether indeed it is 'hyphenated' or 'hyphened'. She is not certain 'hyphened' is even a real word. It looked pretty plausible when she wrote it, but now she's not so sure. She thinks she used to know the answer to these questions once.

I have no doubt she will be back with a rock-solid opinion on something infinately important on Monday when she will deny any of this ever happened. But at the moment she'd just like someone to tell her whether she wants a cup of tea or not.

This evening I was invited by a fellow student to the worst night out I can possibly concieve of. Two hours of speed dating followed by a drum & bass nightclub for which, it was exhorted, I must 'dress street'. I do not even know what that means. I also do not know why she invited me to accompany her on her dating adventures - and what's more am happy never to know, thank you - but I know why she's going. Because she has "realised that I'm twenty one and way overdue to find a man I can settle down with". This is why I am not going.

But what do I know? Much better to follow The Sun's Great Dating Guide to meet the 'fella of your dreams'.

Walk tall and proud into a room. Stop in the doorway to sus out the room and let them admire you. Show you are a gorgeous goddess.

 

If you are after more than a quick fling, tone down the sexy gear and come-on body language.

 

Focus on him and ask about what he loves doing. Make him feel important and he won’t let you out of his sight.

 

You have to let him make the running or he will simply run away.

 

Actually though, I think I could be persuaded to go on an evening where you participate in all the latest dating crazes all at once. So all the women wear padlocks to which the men have keys, and once a woman finds a man whose key fits her lock they have three minutes to eat dinner in the dark only communicating through paper and pencil. Easy to identify my perfect match at such an event. He'll be the one cowering under the bar with the gin.

In a spectacular finale to a week of already nightmarish aspect, my last remaining grandparent has just decided to shuffle off this mortal coil. With timing that has turned me chartreuse with envy and a last burst of cantankerousness that I can only dream of aspiring to, she chose a good day for it.

Me (ringing my parents) : Mum! Happy mother's day!

My Mum: Jack! Your grandmother's just died!

Me: *fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck*

Well, okay then. Not a complete surprise and as I am not particularly close to my extended family I never really knew my grandmother so feel so particular sadness but it has just occurred to me that this occasion warrants attendance at my very first funeral. My other relatives have all been so kind as to kick the bucket when I was still young enough that it was considered unsuitable for me to go and I am lucky enough never to have had to go through the process with any of my friends, but as I feel a twinge of meanness at the thought of not going to my grandmother's (must be getting old...) I suppose I must run the gauntlet of second cousins who have no idea who I am and the embarrassing dilemma at the inevitable Jerusalem - is it considered better manners to hide my strangulated weasel singing voice with a respectful mumbling of the words or belt it out with appreciative gusto anyway and risk frightening the vicar?

Actually, my more pressing concern is over what to wear. I may not have known her well, but all signs point to my grandmother not really being the kind of person to approve of joyous, 'life affirming' Hawaiian prints at her funeral. This means black. And while you may not incorrectly mark me as the kind of person to own more than a few black items of clothing, I don't have many really suitable for funeral wear. I am a student; I do not have cause to own any appropriately sombre work outfits and I am saving the full length PVC gown and fishnets for playing the merry widow in after I bump off my first millionaire husband. I would buy something new, but every fibre of my being is right now screaming out in protest against being the kind of person who owns clothes exclusively for going to funerals in.

So Nan, it's the pinstripe flares, Fifties diner shirt with girl-reclining-in-cocktail-glass motif that I promise I'll keep covered up with a scarf and the black Converse. Unlike most of the people there no doubt, you'd recognise me at least.

So I chose to pass a grim, rainy few hours this morning giving blood - or more accurately, mostly sitting on a plastic chair watching Des and Mel seeing as I idiotically forgot my resolve of not four months ago never to go again to the West End centre at lunchtime because it's always full of groups of office workers press-ganged into donating by some cultish company scheme and the queue is inevitably horrendous.

Today, there are three main groups present.

One small gaggle of giggling office girls all in shoes so pointy the toes were a millimetre away from curling up into goblin (trying to wangle some kind of 'haemogoblin' joke here, can't) footwear. Sample conversation: "That Mary gave me such a dirty look right, and she really like treats me like shit, and I've only taken like three pens in like the whole year".

One group of four casually dressed, overly enthusiastic, overly middle class colleagues of indeterminate profession alternating between laughing heartily at Joe Pasquale on Des and Mel and flicking through a stack of bridal magazines one of them has brought with her. Sample conversation: "...yes, but I simply can't decide whether sugared almonds as wedding favours are fashionably Seventies or just naff Seventies".

Three florid-complexioned loudly braying men in navy pinstripe suits and bouffanted hair sitting legs splayed, displaying tantalising glimpses of what may or may not have been sock suspenders. Sample conversation: "...well no, you know, Charles was being such an old woman about coming down today and I just told him not to be ridiculous, I mean, how big can these needles they use be? I've had massive ones stuck in me before, didn't feel a thing, straight down the pub afterwards har har haaaarrrrr".

My turn comes. I reassure the nurse when lights and whistles start going off on the machine that yes, my blood flow is always this sluggish, not to worry. I was under the vague impression that the speed under which your blood comes out was down to blood pressure or similar, but in response to my question the nurse informed me that it's actually down to the sturdiness of your veins and how quickly they can cope with blood flow, but that I was not to worry because I was still within the maximum fifteen minutes allotted for a donation. I wanted to ask her why fifteen minutes, but she had begun to look at me like I intended to pass this information on to terrorists so I didn't.

Eventually it was over, and I went for my cup of tea and Jam Ring. They used to give out touchingly subversive 'I gave blood for a custard cream' stickers, but now all they have are ones with a child's drawing of a stick woman in triangular skirt with 'My mummy saved a life today' scrawled underneath so I made do with snaffling a key ring bearing the legend of a blood group entirely different from my own just to fox potential future attending paramedics. While I was doing this the three pinstriped men came out from their donation. Very slowly. And all very, very pale.

Two of them reach the armchairs in time, one does not. Before you can say shortcake finger his legs have given way from under him and he's in a extremely undignified pile on the floor, bouffant askance. He spends the next half an hour lying on the floor sipping sugary squash through a straw with a nurse fanning his face with his copy of The Mail and muttering occasionally and indecipherably to his colleagues. Something to do with Charles, no doubt.

Har har haaaarrrrr.

Horribly busy. Terribly sorry.

Do talk amongst yourselves.

Today's topic: What I did in my summer holidays

I do not normally post things like this and doubt I shall ever do so again, but today is a one-off at the behest of a friend who has threatened to release particularly unpalatable secrets about me into the wild if I do not.

...........................................................

His scent went too quickly from the pillow, so she now keeps the shirt she removed from his bag before he woke wrapped in clingfilm and buried at the bottom of her wardrobe. Every time she removes it and presses her face into it she is sure she can see traces of him dissolving out into the air and is terrified of the day when the last remains of him will vanish completely. She briefly considered investing in a vacuum sealed container, but woke one night in fear at the thought of his smell disappearing irretrievably into the machine so now she rations her time with the shirt to when she's been good, when she deserves it. Occasionally she would like to shake it free from its wrappings, wind it around herself, use up all of its power in one intoxicating burst of remembrance. Her self-restraint amazes her.

There's a hair on the shirt, too. Not one of hers, the wrong colour. She is almost certain it is his, but it has been so long since she saw him that the picture of him in her mind has grown loose, fuzzy. She tries to remember how he looked when she was with him, but as soon as she fixes the smile in her mind, the eyes slide out of focus. Her stomach cramps with the idea the hair might belong to a girlfriend of his; she is sick when she thinks she might be so carefully preserving the claim of another woman.

She worries constantly that he'll notice the shirt is missing and contact her for its return. He has not been in touch since, but she watched him taking down her number and is sure that he knows how. She frets partly because it would mean the loss of the shirt itself, and partly because she is not sure how she could make speaking to him again equal the painstaking scenario of their next meeting she has crafted in her head. Sometimes the threat to this scene so distresses her that she takes the parceled shirt from its hiding place and sleeps next to it. On those nights more than others she wills herself to dream of her fingers laced through the spikes of his hair brushing his collar, cuffs pushed back from his wrists turning this way and then that, but she does not.

Via Feministe, the spectacularly self-indulgent Match.com Attraction Test!

This test is the absolute first of its kind, based on a 15-year multi-million dollar study on what uniquely draws us to each other physically. This test will help you discover physical preferences you didn't even know you had!

How could I resist doing something like that? The report came back thus:

In the test, you picked a very small number of men as attractive. The choices you made in the test suggest you have strong, automatic preferences for certain types of men. You made your choices quickly suggesting you have clear physical instincts.
...or that the test specifically said to be as quick as possible with responses...

You seemed interested in dating a man at least 30 or older
....not particularly....

Sometimes however you like younger men, by a good gap
....dear God and Christ no, never again....

You are drawn to men with pointed chins and Roman noses
....I don't think I've ever noticed....

You seemed especially interested in men with hazel eyes
....I didn't once observe the eye colour in any of the pictures I was shown, but perhaps that conclusion is by default considering the next item...

Medium length, deep black hair really catches your eye
....quite possibly, actually. I once was very disturbed to have it pointed out to me that I've never had anything whatsoever to do with anyone fair...

By a huge margin, you've shown that you're attracted to men who wear glasses

You prefer a more unique than 'mainstream' appeal

A type of body you seemed to especially like is scientifically called an 'Ectomorph', which is a fancy way of saying you like 'skinny' guys
...okay, bang to rights on these last three...

You're not one to judge people based on their looks. In fact, you're genuinely drawn to men that others might dismiss. Maybe it's because you don't buy into society's checklist for "mainstream" attractiveness. Instead, you notice unique features that make some men special in your eyes.

Looking at over 10,000 women in your age group who have taken the test, about 6% are attracted to the same types you are.

Do you suppose 6% a good or bad level of opposition to have to scrap it out in the marriage arena with?

Ah well, the previously untapped mine of blue-eyed, square-chinned, hairy-backed blonde surfers must remain a mystery to me, it seems. The test didn't tell me much I didn't already know, but it has goaded my nosiness curiosity - straining at the leash at the best of times - as to what other people consider physically attractive. Do the test or draw your own conclusions and tell me in the comments.

I belong to all manner of curious mailing lists for objectionable right-wing organisations. There's nothing that gets my day off to a better start than a spot of healthy righteous indignation first thing in the morning, and between these twenty or so lists there's always something guaranteed to get me spluttering tea across my keyboard with ire.

Today I get an email announcing the very first Society for the Protection of the Unborn Child Europe-wide conference, to be held in London over the 26 - 27 March, entitled "Defending human life in the enlarged European Union from conception until natural death".

I don't know about you but I think any kind of workshop that better teaches me how to defend human life from conception is fifty quid well spent, and I positively encourage the spread of such knowledge amongst the new EU member states.

But if you only pay attention to one militant anti-abortion group, may I recommend the mailing list of the UK Life League as providing the most early morning entertainment (though if you're at work, turn your speakers down so your boss won't hear the mournful bells tolling for the millions of babies butchered this year...)?

Over the years abortion has been reduced to an intellectual argument. (Heaven forbid!) The aim of the UK Life League is to focus the debate as follows: Abortion = Deliberate Killing = Murder

In complimentary addition to this however, if you have a spare twenty minutes be sure to check out their publication on Sex Education - The Final Plague.

This plague has now reached pandemic proportions in the UK. The effects are so apocalyptic it is worthily identified as the FINAL plague. It is far more corrupting for a child to be taught about sex in the classroom from a trusted teacher than to learn about sex behind the bike sheds. For thousands of years the human race has multiplied itself without reference to manuals, sex skills or teacher instruction. The mystery and ideal of married sexual love was something to be protected as deeply personal and private and not something for examination and dissection in the classroom.

Highlights also include opinions on homosexuality (under the marvellous heading 'Sodomy Rampant', the best porn star name if ever there was one) and the quite wonderful, frothing reaction to the thought of a cock ring...

By reasons complicated, Brodie has questions for me that cannot be answered through the usual procedure, so I'm putting them here for his edification and for your own.

1. What music, if any, was playing when your virginity was lost?
If I remember correctly, it was the sound of the ice-cream van pulling up outside my house. Years later I can still get distracted at equally crucial moments by the same noise.

2. As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? When you finally do grow up, do you still want to be that?
Doctor. I have less than no idea why exactly I settled on that, but it was never anything else. Aged nine I had a complete set of issued-fortnightly-periodical-thingies-with-binder (those things have proper names, don't they?) all about diseases and medical procedures and could tell you more about Denge Fever than any other child of primary school age in Colliers Wood. However when science at school stopped being about colouring in pictures of bacteria and turned to the hardcore GCSE stuff I realised quite quickly that any medical career of mine would be up before that GMC before it had even begun, and started to quickly favour an arts, humanities and general ambitionless approach.

Hold on, what do you mean when I 'finally do grow up'?!

3. Coke or Pepsi?
I cannot tell the difference, and I am mightily suspicious of those who claim they can, believing that such overdeveloped taste buds must be having a depleting, detrimental effect to some other bodily function.

4. Where are you going?
Well, I was considering popping down to Safeway for some ice cream.

5. What will you do when you get there?
Get distracted by the fizzy pop display, think 'Oooh, ice cream floats!', buy seven bottles, struggle home with them and make myself the most enormous drink, forgetting all the while that like my similar Ready Brek affliction, I don't actually like ice cream floats. This realisation will hit be about half way through my first big gulp and I'll spend the rest of the evening in bed with the rest of the ice cream tub, despondantly trying to fight off the return of the nausea I've been struggling all weekend with and only just vanquished.

The last two days have given me potential blogging material for a fortnight. But as I still can't face the word 'jelly' without feeling a little queasy, I thought I'd better review that which fills me with glee rather than bile.

So. The Darkness. Camden Barfly. Just now.

Highlights of the evening include:

The delightful Justin's pubic flame tattoo.

The magnificent Justin being carried aloft through the audience, piggy back and still playing guitar.

The amazing Justin's solo rendition of Wham hits when the bass broke down.

The delectable Justin getting his mother and father to teach the crowd how to say 'motherfucker'.

The stupendous Justin firing ping pong balls out of his mouth into the crowd.

The splendid Justin's black mesh and pink glittery spandex catsuit. With devil's tail. Unzipped to the crotch.

I think that's it.

Oh, and the lovely singer Justin, of course.

For the past two days I have the very worst case of ants in my pants. Tonight I am completely restless. I have spent the whole afternoon pacing around my flat, sitting down, leaping to my feet and repeating the entire process over again. It's not excess energy; I tried the Keith Richards Imitation Test for this earlier on and could only manage Paint It Black and half of Honky Tonk Women before collapsing, so this is most definately a mental disorder.

It's not as though I don't have anything to do, God knows I've got a dissertation supervisor to whom the thought of an entirely vacant afternoon would bring the words 'overdue chapter summaries' rushing to his lips with glee, but I cannot concentrate. I have a pile of books I am simply longing for the free time to read, the Hirst/Fairhurst/Lucas exhibition that I must see soon or die and a new, virginal Radiohead rarities CD as yet unlistened to but I've no inclination to do any of these things.

I've already soaked the bathroom carpet to saturation by turning on the shower, leaving the cubicle door open and forgetting about it, made seven cups of tea in the past two hours which are now lying dotted around my flat completely untouched and have broken my treasured, orthodontically-customised pair of chattering teeth by obsessively winding them up and watching them go across the kitchen lino until the spring went ping. It's at times like this I decide home haircuts are a really good idea.

I'm going to go and bounce on my bed.

Had to change the colours; suddenly noticed that blog had exactly the same decor as lavatory.

I have spent the afternoon engaged in market research for fun and profit. Fun, because I like to mess with advertiser's heads and profit because if you pick the slightly delicate assignments you get paid enough for a Agent Provocateur bra (the universal standard by which my finances are calculated). Thus I have been discussing the optimum width of a tampon for the past two hours (Just Wide Enough, in case you were wondering).

It turns out that I have been labouring under a delusion, however. Today I have learnt that contrary to long-held opinion, not all women laugh themselves stupid at blue water being used as a blood substitute in sanitary pad adverts. And in fact, when said water is replaced with a wholly more suitable-for-demonstrative-purposes thicker dark inky substance instead of noting appreciatively the more realistic way it gets absorbed into the special lockaway core, some women turn positively squeamish and shriek "What next? Real poo in nappy adverts?"

I was tempted to say something, but after the reception my requested alternative strapline for maxi pads with wings that involved the words 'gush' and 'brand new white sofa' recieived I decided truth in advertising wasn't really what they were after.

Today I wake up to How to Reduce Your Chances of Being a Terror Victim, by the ever thoughtful Fox News.

Spend as little time at the airport as possible; avoid heavily glassed areas.

Pay attention to someone paying an usual amount of attention to a prominent landmark

Stock "safe-haven" rooms in office and home with duct tape, plastic sheets, and cloth to fill gaps in doors so harmful agents don't seep in

Never stay in a hotel with an underground parking garage and never park in such a garage - terrorists love car bombs.

And most importantly;

Don't become complacent; never let your guard down

I woke up to something else today, too.

"Go back to bed, America, your government has figured out how it all transpired, go back to bed America, your goverment is in control again. Here, here's American Gladiators, watch this, shut up, go back to bed America, here is American Gladiators, here is 56 channels of it, watch these pituitary retards bang their fucking skulls together and congratulate you on the living in the land of freedom. Here you go America - you are free to do as well tell you! You are free to do as we tell you!"

Don't become complacent; never let your guard down.

I have nearly two thousands words left to write of an essay due tomorrow morning and as such I find myself inexplicably interested in doing the washing up, picking fluff out of the little holes in the speakers of my computer and otherwise unthinkable memes.

This one - seen everywhere all of a sudden but no particular place I can remember - to list the first twenty songs that come out of a shuffle of your playlist. Okay.

(...please let them be cool...please let them be cool...please let them be cool...)

1. Smashing Pumpkins - Ava Adore
2. Portishead - Sour Times (live)
3. Xpress 2 - Lazy
4. Toy Dolls - Nellie The Elephant
5. Morrissey - Speedway
6. Radiohead - Nobody Does It Better
7. Me First and the Gimme Gimmes - Country Road
8. Wildhearts - TV Tan
9. The Donnas - 40 Boys in 40 Nights
10. Nine Inch Nails - Sin
11. Radiohead & DJ Shadow - Rabbit In Your Headlights
12. Regina Spektor and The Strokes - Modern Girls and Old Fashion Men
13. Buckcherry - Crushed
14. Guns N Roses - Look At Your Game Girl
15. Mudhoney - Touch Me I'm Sick
16. James - Laid (live)
17. Living Color - Leave It Alone
18. Him - Wicked Game
19. Therapy? - Screamager
20. Queen - Fat Bottomed Girls

Shit. I was doing so well up to then, too.