Lady V

Double whammy

2011-04-15T16:49:00.004+01:00

He's out! Nicolo' Giovanni, 03.03.11

And so is this! The Proof of Love, 01.04.11

Great Expectations

2011-02-21T19:27:00.007Z

Tick tock, tick tock.

With one week to go until the forecasted arrival of the firstborn, time is moving slowly. As a distraction, we have been throwing ourselves into a frenzy of preparation, like the good little Boy Scouts that we are.

1. Cot assembled by the Man of the House: tick!

2. Suitable (and enormous) artwork affixed to nursery wall: tick!

3. Birth pool inflated, creating an ambiance that I like to think of as Californian Vacation. Mojitos in the hot tub all round: tick!

4. Hard core drugs stashed in fridge (and rapacious flatmate instructed on pain of death not to take them): tick!

5. Birthing equipment purchased and stashed next to pool: tick!

The latter including, of course, a couple of fetching black rubber sheets from an establishment in Old St, known as Expectations. On hearing that our midwife had suggested Ikea shower curtains as a preventive measure against leakages, the lovely Uncle Monty shuddered, then rallied to take matters into his own hands. A couple of days later a discreet brown paper package plopped onto the doorstep.

Apparently, if ‘You like it moist or really wet…. You can really get going with the Wetgames sex-sheets! Splash sex and massages with oils creams and all other liquids, e.g. champagne. With Wetgames you can live out your fantasies without any morries!’

When I called Monty to thank him, his attitude was, as ever, refreshingly practical.

‘My pleasure, dear Lady V. We couldn’t have you giving birth on a shower curtain. If those sheets can withstand people jizzing all over them, they can surely cope with a bit of amniotic fluid. And remember, they’re machine washable, so you can use them again.’

Er, quite, Monty, quite…

2010

2010-12-31T13:19:00.005Z

An intense kind of year, and one that I find difficult to remember, even though I wasn’t drinking for most of it.

The end of 2009, as dear Tot A has recalled, was a horrid one. This time last year I was driving through the snow to Cornwall, my belly still sore from the operation that I’d had ten days before, hoping that no-one would see me crying in the dark. Things went on in pretty much the same vein for the next 4 months, when we hauled ourselves off to the basement room at the hospital to start all over again. I can only apologise for those dark days, especially to my Tot and DJ S. I don’t think I was very easy to be around. But as he points out, we learned things from it, not least the importance of each other in our lives, and that this leap in the dark is one worth making.

May saw a return to form, with a weekend in Maremma with seven ladies, a lord and a licky little dog. Our exploits were extensive. I hadn’t laughed so much in months. Once back in London, we embarked on round two, a regime that forced me to get over my lifetime fear of needles, as I mercilessly plunged one into my belly every night. Again, as Tot says, the details will be divulged in our forthcoming joint blog (slash new memoir to be commissioned by my publishers), but it all ended up with me, legs akimbo, naked to the waist, as my faithful Tot sat by my head as a nurse brought in a tiny embryo on the end of a pipette and popped it into me.

Seven months later that little embryo is still inside - the boy that will become Nicolo’. I can’t wait to meet him.

What else? Well, the house, the house. They say that moving house, bereavement and having a child are the most stressful things in life (oh, and divorce - we managed to avoid that one). We kind of did them all this year. It’s hard to moan about the house, because it’s wonderful and I know how lucky we are to live there. But.... Broken promises, missed deadlines, builders everywhere, the smell of paint permeating every room, packing up possessions every two weeks and finding somewhere else to sleep. This was not the time to be incapable of carrying things. DJ S deserves a medal for lifting my bags and soothing my frustrations at not being to get out there and get on with it.

Like Tot says, though, it’s finally becoming home, and maybe in the New Year I can finally indulge those nesting instincts. The boy needs somewhere to sleep!

And in the meantime, I wrote a book. I don’t really know how that happened. I do know that amongst the hoo ha, and the running around between house and hospital, the library was, as ever, a haven of peace and tranquillity. The Albanian café next door fed and watered me. The internet worked. And so Spencer and Alice will be making their way into the world about a month after Nicolo’, between the covers of The Proof of Love.

All’s well that ends well, indeed…

Baby’s First Gaga

2010-12-19T14:28:00.003Z

To the O2 arena for what I insisted on referring to as a ‘pop concert’, causing DJS to look at me with mild pain and panic in her eyes. Yes, as part of my unrelenting campaign to expose the unborn child to as diverse a range of pre-birth experience as possible, we braved the snow and ice to attend Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball.

And what an experience it was!

On arrival I was overjoyed to be whisked into the VIP queue and spirited upstairs to our hospitality suite complete with bar, snacks and - most important of all in my condition - lavatories complete with Molton Brown ginger and cinnamon handwash. Blessing DJS’s rock connections I settled down happily into my seat to watch the show.

Lady G was, of course, marvellous, biting off the head of a stuffed Santa between songs and peaking in a bikini that emitted sparks from her nipples and vag. The baby badger loved it, obeying her instructions to jump to the music, flipping around inside me like a 90s raver on speed.

We took the tube home, mulling over the possibility of some pregnancy pix wrapped in police tape a la our heroine in the Telephone video. Yah.

Photographic evidence

2010-09-27T16:01:00.003+01:00

Well, summer’s over, and what a summer it was…

So frenetic that only now, fortified by a steaming cup of autumn tea, do I find the time to record it.

There was the traditional Maremman romping at Porno! the Party, a quick dash back to Blighty for The Great Move (to be re-enacted all over again in 3 weeks’ time, for reasons too tedious to explain), the obligatory Summer Wedding at Cliveden and a hop over the pond for Vermont Revisited. Whilst all this was going on I found the time to do the edits on the next book. Exhausted Marjorie!

Obviously I forgot to take any photos. Except one. I like it a lot.

Out on Monday

2010-07-02T18:08:00.003+01:00

Trip to Chinatown with Crunchie and Squiggy to be arranged forthwith to procure photos of said book in front of shops to justify their trip to China last year "to help launch Lady V's novel." Gina requires photographic evidence!

Seven ladies, a lord and a licky little dog (woof!)

2010-05-18T19:35:00.018+01:00

Ah, a Maremma meadow. How delightful. How serene.

Arriving late at night, as tradition dictates, we congratulated ourselves on far-sighted purchase of produce and the perfect lesbian fridge.

Dominata did some nifty work on some Roman tomatoes and Borough market walnut bread, coming up with some fabulous Greek-style bruschette, which we gobbled with gay abandon, washing it down with some last minute additions from a roadside stop.

In the following 48 hours we left the house precisely once, to forage for booze in nearby Scansano. Squiggy (Italian spelling at all times!) applied her not-inconsiderable tasting skills to the job in hand.

DJ S was simply overwhelmed by choice.

Back home, surrounded by swirling fog and driving rain, we applied ourselves to Making Our Own Fun. My mother would have been proud. It sort of went like this.

Prosecco swilling in profusion, combined with copious weeping at matinee viewing of A Single Man.

Constant grazing on salty snax and finger food (thus alleviating the need to sit down at table but rather, drift in and out of kitchen, drink in hand, food in other in style of glamorous-cocktail-party-slash-health-spa)

Fencing practice with various kitchen items, to burn off above-mentioned snax and release any spare aggression.

Hilarity at Misterpackit clingfilm, leading to ribald discussions on length and girth and near assault on the boi.

Prom night! A small misunderstanding led to half the party bringing slut-frox and tuxes, the others forced to rummage around in drawers for old favourites, but no matter! We all rose superbly to the occasion, aided by a small collection of Cuban cigars that we found tucked away in a box.

The main fun was, as ever, getting ready.

We groomed and picked and combed at each other like the good little primates that we are.

Although I did wonder who that young filly was in the jailbait outfit.

She seemed to get on rather well with Lord Leng.

FKJ put up a damn good fight as resident House Daddy, styled by yours truly in the style of Helmut Newton.

Although I’m still not sure what she did with that cigar.

Whilst Sherlock Squiggy (copyright Sicily) played it cool on the terrace,

And DJ S and Lady V played nicely in the kitchen,

There was a Sicilian stand-off on who got to use the potty.

Ah, making one's own fun. How wholesome. Cannot WAIT to do it all again at Porno!

Thanks to Leng for the snaps. Obviously I never got round taking any of my own....

Round Two - Ding Dong!

2010-04-29T20:14:00.005+01:00

Well, here we are again.

This time Tot A and I are bringing out the big guns. We mean business.

Not only shall I be injected nightly with the urine of post-menopausal women - now we're making the cocktail a little more interesting by adding a hormone produced by genetically engineered Chinese hamster ovary cells. That's right, hamsters.

I don't know why they have to be Chinese. It seems somewhat overly specific. But hey ho, what do I know? I am simply a vessel.

Chanting as we speak...

A triumph of our times

2010-03-22T20:47:00.008Z

Some of you may remember stories from about a year and a half ago, when I dutifully accompanied Tot A to his posting on The Continent to set up something that none of us really understood very well - Ze Hub.

Imagine my pride, therefore, when I nipped over to Milan this weekend (successfully evading BA strike action - I am a travel scab) for the opening of said venture.

We arrived to a throng of Milanese notables, nibbling on light snacks and quaffing prosecco. Pleased at our decision to dress only in black, we joined right in, quaffing with the best of them and making like models.

Sort of. Inner poise at all times, that's us.

Leaving our hero surrounded by an adoring throng, we nipped out for sustenance at a nearby pizzeria, marvelling as we left at the queue that snaked around the corner. Desperate social entrepreneurs begged for entry, dropping Tot A's name like tabs of acid at an illegal rave.

We missed the swing band but made our way back in time for a bit of jigging about to the DJ. By this time most of the Milanese were outside smoking furiously. We left at 2am, the party was still rocking, and a certain third sector networker from Bologna was licking his lips at the sight of a buff young Swiss man dipping a cucumber into a tub of cream cheese.

Next morning we left A to his hangover and tidying, and trotted up to the top of the cathedral in the sunshine.

The rest of the weekend was spent eating raw fish with Sicilians (am still not convinced it's right for a pregnant woman to eat raw prawns), a day trip to Genoa and its splendid aquarium and even more splendid pesto, more munching in a restaurant that delighted me by playing Edith Piaf, and moving A's sofa bed up from the vaults to the much brighter glass mezzanine level so he can imagine himself as living in a New York style loft apartment rather than as Quasimodo.

Terribly proud of my tot. I think the post-it says it all.

Country pursuits

2010-03-14T20:05:00.007Z

The purchase of new swimwear is an activity guaranteed to strike fear into my heart. And into those of my nearest and dearest, forced to witness tears, tantrums and on occasion, full-blown and prolonged depression.

This year, however, we are spared. Yes, DJ S bypassed the whole traumatic process by presenting me with a marvellous black costume, which not I not only liked the look of but which actually FITTED.

She is in charge of my leisurewear from now on.

Suitably equipped, we skipped off to Hartwell Hall, a delightful country house hotel somewhere in the Home Counties, to sample their spa facilities.

Imagine our rapture on being told we'd been upgraded. To a room with a four-poster bed.

Which was of course perfect for....

Porking down smoked salmon sandwiches and slurping Sauvignon Blanc, swathed in robes at all times.

We lounged by the pool reading Vogue.

Piqued our appetites with a selection of delightful amuse-bouches.

Battled at after-dinner backgammon in the library.

And avoided the Mother's Day crush.

I tried to get her to dive into the lake for a Mr Darcy moment, but she wasn't having any of it.

Am seriously thinking of buying a twinset and tweeds.

Bouncy bouncy

2010-03-08T17:53:00.004Z

DJ S doing her bit to promote 'LGBT community involvement' in this year's Sport Relief.

The drag queen appears to share my feelings about going to the gym...

Spotted in Brixton train station

2010-02-25T22:05:00.004Z

The OCD side of me wants to give it a jolly good iron, natch.

The rest of me is just feeling rather pleased.

All things come to she who waits

2010-02-10T00:33:00.015Z

I do not usually give good wedding. They seem to provoke bad behaviour (topless posing on Cadillacs, sleeping with the priest, crushing feet under stiletto heels, diving topless into swimming pools, that kind of thing).

But this time I like to think I did my best for the lovely Diana, partner in crime from when we were seventeen.

She waited 20 years for this, and so I therefore:

Wore high heels and edgy folded grey silk frock. Tick!

Burst into tears when she walked into the castle drawing room (stopping short of looking like unrequited-obsessive-lesbian-best-friend) Tick!

Did reading of obscure yet accessible poem without breaking down or stuttering. Tick!

Wept lightly at rendition of I dreamed a dream by male voice choir. Tick!

Drank champagne with my mother and refrained from telling her off for wearing fur. Tick!

Piled onto a miniature railway (ONLY for you, Le Duc), into the bridal carriage, and poached Diana away from new husband with new gay best friends, singing show tunes all the way up the valley. TICK!

Arrived at station buffet for reception into mildly nervous arms of DJS in a suit and tie, the only obvious lesbian in the village.

Munched down vegetarian option dinner (macaroni cheese pie with sauce and mashed potatoes).

Talked nicely to farmers from my youth who seem to have taken up skiing in Gstaad on the strength of their EU subsidies.

Marvelled at mother's skill at sniffing out homosexual men to dance with (relentlessly).

Sympathised with father's sudden attack of hiccups.

Gave up all pretence at decorum and danced exhaustively with old school friends to man-and-guitar playing Spandau Ballet's Gold (punching air)

Followed it up with Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer (with actions)

Attempted to get DJS to Join In Nicely.

Assaulted her in the toilets.

Danced the last dance to Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf.

Remembered why I left the Lake District.

......

Woke up to DJS calling me a drunken monkey.

Remembered nothing.

Something of the night...

2010-01-26T13:07:00.001Z

So I didn't win a Costa prize. Hey ho.

But I did get a mention in The Telegraph today from a certain Mrs Howard, one of the judges.

"My husband read one or two. He hadn't expected to enjoy a book about lesbian love in wartime (DoG, by Catherine Hall) but it hooked him at once."

What a nice man, I thought to myself.

Then I realised who her husband is. Yep, that's right. Michael Howard, former leader of the Conservative Party.

A Tory politician is my biggest fan. Who knew?

Merchandising

2009-12-10T09:59:00.005Z

Now adorning every fashionable publisher's Christmas tree...

Winter weekends

2009-12-08T19:56:00.007Z

Ah! December, deep mid-winter. This year I’ve decided to combat freezing temperatures by wrapping up warm, making soup and staying by the fire.

With a few exceptions for festive functions, naturally.

This weekend being a case in point.

On Friday night I found myself driving a small car up a big motorway to sunny Wakefield, ancestral home of DJ S, whose brother-in-law was celebrating his birthday. Arriving a mere 4 hours late, around 10.30, we blended in marvellously. I popped on a pair of heels and a frock and gave good girlfriend. The next morning we behaved nicely at the breakfast table, chatting to aunties and asking about the best place in town to purchase Christmas decorations.

Twelve hours later I was sticking up said decorations around the ticket booth of DJ S’s fabulous monthly club night in Camden, biting off sellotape with my teeth and trying to avoid being hit by the door as the thrash metal band who’d hired the venue beforehand made their exit. Who says being a rock widow isn’t glamorous?

Two hours after that I was grinning with delight at the burlesque charms of Miss Kitty Bang Bang and her fabulous Christmas medley. I’ve never seen a bottle of champagne put to better use, or in such an interesting manner, I must say!

The next day being one of rest, that is precisely what I did. After five years of shilly-shallying, I have finally got round to having my hearth reinstated. A hundred kilos of eco-coal have been delivered and kindling purchased. Which allowed me to indulge in one of my favourite winter pastimes ever – a nice bit of crumpet in front of the fire…

Two girls and a paddle

2009-11-23T21:54:00.009Z

I know I was there just a couple of weeks ago but sometimes I just can't keep away. And thus it was that DJ S and I found ourselves on a plane in order to revisit those balmy summer days when we first met on the side of a Tuscan hill.

It was not balmy. But we did have a marvellous time, in the company of some of my favourite Sicilians, one of whom added to the general mood of celebration by taking her first steps (staggering into the arms of DJ S, wise child).

And picked many a bagful of olives in record time (efficiency ever the Sicilian watchword, no?).

At which Tot A, DJ S and I extracted ourselves from the family fun to head off for the delightful little town of Massa Marittima and a boozy lunch.

We identified a new location in which to sample suckling pig (Le Duc being never far from our thoughts), climbed a phallic c[l]ocktower, and, in an little shop somewhere up a back alley, purchased a genuine antique pizza paddle, beautifully worn and wrought out of the finest Tuscan oak.

This despite the absence of any actual pizza oven in Maremma.

I was reminded of Eddie and Patsy flying from London to New York in search of the perfect door handle.

But in a very good way, oh yes.

Bliss

2009-10-27T20:55:00.004Z

Another wonderful weekend in that little Tuscan hideout, despite the best efforts of Ryanair to wreck it (they hadn't reckoned on FKJ, who, on news of cancellations, swung into action with a wrath that can only be described as Valkyrian).

There is little to report.

We sat around the table drinking wine, eating wholesome winter hotpots and having mildly salacious discussions (the length of the average woman's, er, internal bits, the mating habits of attractive youngsters, how to have gay phone sex whilst evading the Singaporean morality police, fisting for beginners...)

We transferred ourselves to the sitting room and lit the fire, sporting leisure wear.

We parked ourselves on the sofa and got out the blankets.

We sat for hours, transfixed by the antics of teenage Americans, joining in showtune hits with gusto.

We cheered at a refreshing Sunday morning Nevada lesbian romp.

We resolved to buy pyjamas for those who do not already own them.

We went home, rejuvenated and resolved to do it all again, very soon.

The End.

Gay's the Word

2009-10-01T16:54:00.005+01:00

Almost twenty years ago, on a school trip to London, my teenage self stumbled into my first gay bookshop, blushing furiously as I bought a copy of Jeanette Winterson’s Oranges are Not the Only Fruit.

Today I went in to say thanks for putting my book in their window display. The nice man behind the desk gave me a big smile and got me to sign a stack of copies.

This was a good day.

Postscript

2009-09-28T21:01:00.006+01:00

I just read the leaflet that came with my medication.

Apparently it is "obtained from the urine of post-menopausal women."

Great. My girlfriend is injecting me with old women's piss. That is too kinky, even for me.

I've got you under my skin

2009-09-27T00:30:00.004+01:00

Well it’s all very much back-to-school in September, innit? Books to write, weight to lose, and, yep, that other little project we’ve been working on for the past year or so.

So far - as most of you know - my body has been refusing to play nicely and thus it was that this week I found myself in a hospital basement learning how to inject myself in the stomach with a cocktail of drugs:

Human menopausal gonadotrophin
Follical stimulating hormone
Luteinising hormone
Lactose monohydrate
Polysorbate 20
Sodium hydroxide
Hydrochloric acid

God knows how they work but the idea is to make me pop out a decent number of eggs (thus increasing the likelihood of twins or triplets but there we go, moderation has never been my strong point).

When I say I was learning how to inject I am in fact lying. Actually, I can’t face it. So I take DJ S along. She is much braver than me, and as I point out to the nurse, good with her hands.

Lady V: My husband’s away in Italy on business so I’ve brought my friend instead. I’m scared of needles you see.
Nurse: Ah, lovely! That’s so kind. What a good friend. Will you be able to stay with her overnight, just in case there’s any side effects?
DJ S: Oh, ok then.

There follows a twenty minute demonstration of mixing vials, snapping ampoules, drawing liquids in and out of tubes, swapping needles, and the tap tap tap on the side of the little glass bottle to make sure there’s no air bubbles left inside. It’s all terribly English Patient.

I had thought the needle would be some sort of punchy thing like diabetics use, but no. It is a proper one and it ALL HAS TO GO IN.

Nurse: You have to approach at a 90 degree angle.
DJ S: Uh-huh.
Nurse: And don’t worry if you hit a vein, it’ll bleed but she won’t die.
Lady V: ?!?!
Nurse: Are you sure you want to do it in your stomach. You could do it in your thigh. Anywhere there’s a bit of, er…
Lady V (through gritted teeth): Fat?
DJ S: Snorts

Afterwards we sit in a coffee shop porking down pastries (am fat anyway, so who cares?)

Lady V: I’m guessing you didn’t bargain for this when you fancied a bit of slap and tickle on a Tuscan hillside. Soz.
DJ S: Raises an eyebrow.
Lady V: Stick with me baby, I’ll show you a good time…

Summer loving

2009-09-06T17:17:00.016+01:00

Well. Gosh. Another summer at its end. Others before me have blogged more and blogged better, however, it would be bad form not to scribble down a little souvenir of what was, as ever, a fabulous 6 weeks on The Continent.

As you know, my memory is not what is was. But from what I can recall, for posterity's sake and because everyone loves a list, are some of the highlights. I took no photos so all featured here are thanks to the paparazzi.

Week 1: Milan/Sardinia

Tot A birthday celebrations in Milan: 1 (drunken. extensive)
Shopping trip for Tot C birthday outfit: 1 (swanky. thanks boys!)
Ferry trips to and from Sardinia: 2 (seventies lounge, spades, bouncy bouncy!)
Weddings attended: 1
Pan-African dance performance viewed: 1 (wincey wincey)
Midnight trips to Cagliari airport: 1 (hairpin bends. pukerama)
Belgian ex-mercenary/tobacco baron encountered: 1 (charming host, mildly woman-phobic)
Shamefaced uncovering of 36 year old flesh on beach: 3 (gravity has not been kind to this woman)
Obligatory birthday strop including tears/mourning lost youth and firmness of thighs: 1 (shortlived, banished by lunchtime mini-bottle)
First ever snorkelling experience with A: 1 (magical)
Shamefaced pushing of car out of sand on beach: 1 (errrr)
Consumption of seafood: excessive but delish

Sweating: profuse
Weight-gain: not-as-yet-thank-god

Week 2: Maremma

Ecstatic gambolling in Tuscan retreat: extensive
Grand planning for EP party: aiming high
Discussions over finding landrover/aeropane to plant in field: over-optimistic
Action re above: nil
Switching beds to provide self with room befitting 36 year old lady dowager: yay!
Design and construction of bedouin tent: masterful
Pick up of DJ from Grosseto station: intriguing
Discussions under the stars: entrancing
Lady V seduction technique: cheesy (Quattro Formaggi)
Pretence at resistance: disregarded
Romping on hillside: enthusiastic
Walk of shame over hillside: public
EP party: EPIC!
Hours spent in bed: 36
Interruptions: plenty
Flights changed: 1 (thanks Tot F!)
Dash to Rome: 1 (reeling slightly)
Dinner with tall Americans: 1 (drunken and delicious)

Sweating: profuse but, I feel, not unattractive
Weight gain: still ok (celebrity diet of sex and booze effective)

Week 3: Cote D'Azur

Gruelling dash along Cote D'Azur in baking heat with throbbing head: 1 (13 hours)
Jolly lunch in Antibes with 3 roguish old French sailors: 1 (they paid, I entertained)
Jolly afternoon drinks toute seule in Marseille: 3 (pastis, feeling no pain)
Lies told to sensible friends as to why I was a day late: many (far-fetched)
Lies believed by sensible friends: none
Delightful children ranging from 3 months - 7 years: 5
Hours spent dancing to Jump Little Bunnies Jump Jump Jump: 675
Hours drinking rose and reminiscing over university glory days: 789
Joy at finding rogue packet of Marlboro lights on top of fridge: unparallelled
Time spent to pork down the lot between us: 15 mins
Cheese consumed: EU mountains-worth

Sweating: garlicky
Weight gain: see cheese mountain ref above
Phone calls to DJ S: 367 minutes (roaming charges apply)

Week 4: Maremma

Ecstasy at being reunited with my Tot: infinite
Guilt at having abandoned the group: vast
Lunchtime prosecco: de rigeur
Adoration of Francesca: heart-bursting
Broody moments: at all times
Adoration of PDF's physique in and out of sarong: unparalleled
Paul and Molly: fabulous
Mankini moments: 2 more than was decent
Attempt to tape Tomasina into said mankini: 1 (an intimacy never to be repeated)
World-class cuisine: every meal (cannot claim responsibility)
Attempt at making pudding: 1 (failed)
Exercise: quick hike from car to shrine
Ladies' lunch with S & F at L'Ultima Spiaggia: 1 (perfection)
Bottles of beer consumed with S in sea discussing life, love and existence: can remember
Pre-festival panic attacks at 5.30 am: horrendous
Discussions re soft furnishings with French uber-homosexuals: hilarious
Compensatory fags smoked: 153 million
Four in a bed romp with F, J and Mom: 1 (rah!)

Sweating: with fear
Weight gain: comfort-eating took its toll
Phone calls to DJ S: many. soothing. exciting

Week 5: Edinburgh/Maremma/Brescia

Vomiting attacks: 3
Stages shared with famous writers for Amnesty reading: 1
Authors' hospitality yurt abused: 1 (extensively, post reading, free prosec with the Poet Laureate!)
Internationally acclaimed author performance: 1 (sold out,yeah!)

Book signing: 15 (yeah!)
Adrenalin rush: coursing through veins
Evening with publisher: alcoholic, on the house
Drunken outpourings of love and appreciation to above: 3 am, embarassing
Intoxicated photo shoot in posh Edinburgh gardens: 1

Naked photo shoot a few minutes later: unfortunate

Early morning dash of shame to airport: 1 (shaking lightly)
Texts of reassurance from editor: much appreciated
Midnight dash from Fiumicino to Maremma: 1 (thanks Uncle Luigi!)
Joyous welcome to bosom of Tots and Tom: 1 (bottle of wine, 10 fags)
Guilt at abandonment: profuse
Discovery of lake and delightful swim with K & S & Clementine: 1
Hot and bothered vineyard tour in Tuscan hills: 1
Cases purchased: 2 for the road
Afternoon dash up the peninsula: 1 (conversation delightful)
Weekend at Tot ancestral home picking out chaise longues for River St

Fags smoked with Mommy D: 697 million
Badger scratches to soothe my Tot: various

Sweating: extensive, from carrying furniture in midday sun
Weight gain: starting to show
Phone calls to DJ S: uh-huh

Week 6: Marseille

Trains from Milan to Nice: 1 (air-conditioning ferocious)
Trains from Nice to Marseille: 1 (air-conditioning non-existent)
Nudist beaches ogled: 1 (men only, bah)
New husbands encountered: 1 (charmant!)
Old friends catch up time: not enough
Boat trip around Les Calanques: 3 hours, beautiful
French spouted: fluent, at all times
Ladies' lunch in Aix en Provence: 1 (extensive, rose-ridden)
Hours spent in beauty salon impending hot date: 2 (painful)
Emotions at seeing flesh flop on waxing table in post-summer splurge: indescribable
Resurrection of spirits with well-judged bottle of rose: swift. (thanks girls!)
Late night son et lumiere around Marseilles: delightful

Hot date in Clerkenwell with DJ S.: aaahhhhhhh (thanks Sicily for the flat)
Another train trip to the Lakes for triple-fisting family christening: why? why?
Renouncement of evil as fairy godmother to Baby Daisy: because I had to
Bottles of wine consumed to block out the shame: 556

Sweating: not in the Lake District
Weight gain: oh god oh god oh god
Phone bill: oh god oh god oh god

So there it is. The summer is over. Thanks to all for making it, once again, a marvellous romperama of delight.

But no winter of discontent for me - au contraire!

Girlfriend found: 1
Lunatic grinning: extensive...

Method writing

2009-07-17T17:13:00.008+01:00

It’s all very well setting my new book in the Lake District, but having left the godforsaken county as soon as I possibly could, I actually have very little memory of it. So this week I hopped on the train to Penrith to do a bit of research.

This involved feeding my parents copious quantities of wine and grilling them on farming techniques in the 1970s (checking sheep for foot-rot and maggots and cutting off lamb’s testicles, anyone?), listening to a radio programme about my father called From Pythagoras to Pigs (cue Dad clipping piglets’ teeth and merrily commenting ‘I don’t think animals feel pain’ to a background of furious squealing) and looking through the family albums for pictures of agricultural implements and myself aged ten.

I took a trip back to the ancestral family farm.

Spent an hour or so with my godson Billy, climbing trees.

And then set off on an excursion. My hero lives in an old sheep hut on a mountainside so I decided to take a tent up to the top of the fell in order to experience true solitude and find out what noises you might hear in the middle of the night.

Rucksack firmly strapped to my back, I climbed the fell, sweating lightly and bashing my way through the bracken. Within an hour and a half, I was at the top, looking down on Blea Tarn. The last time I was there was aged 16 with my friend Eddie with a bottle of vodka and twenty Marlboro Lights. This time it was just me, a bottle of Evian and an egg sandwich. Times have changed, indeed.

I put the tent up in record time, then kicked off my shoes and went wading into the lake to gather stones to put around a fire. Collected sticks from the old hawthorn bushes on the other side of the mountain, built my fire and sat next to it, watching the sun going down, munching on my sandwich and congratulating myself on marvellous Scoutish preparedness and survival technique.

Then realised I had forgotten to bring a pen and so had to make all my notes by writing laborious texts on my phone and saving them to drafts.

My hero also is an insomniac and spend his nights wandering over the fells, so at around 9 o’clock I went over to the other side of the lake in search of all-time Tot favourite animal, the badger. Sitting up-wind of the setts that have been there as long as I can remember, imagine my delight when, after about an hour, Big Mama Badger and her baby badgers came snuffling out of their hole. They frolicked around for a bit, then went off in search of food. I sat there for a bit longer, looking over the lake, and feeling enormously pleased.

Back in the tent, I got into my sleeping bag and read a bit more of Ray Monk’s biography of Wittgenstein. Empathised with his need to remove himself from the object of his desire in order to achieve in logic. Wondered if I too was a misunderstood genius who must disdain true love in favour of my art. As my torch began to dim, quite overcome with feelings of loss, loneliness and despair, I tapped it against the ground. The fire was gone now, and I was horribly cold. Coughing piteously in my wretched tent, I closed my eyes and wondered how long is a day in the dark...

Happy fourth of July!

2009-07-07T12:18:00.010+01:00

Every Great British Summer requires a seaside holiday, and so this weekend I headed down to the picture-perfect little town of Deal, on the Kentish coast, to celebrate the 4th of July with a couple of my North American friends and other favourites.

At the last minute, The Producer pulled a great one out of the hat – a fabulous Georgian house right on the seafront, decorated in airy shades of white, with enormous armchairs for flopping in and shelves of the latest hardbacks to devour. I was in heaven.

The sun shone. Everyone played to their strengths.

Sparklemotion played nicely with her assband’s ball on the beach. It looked like rugger to me but what do I know?

Said assband garnered points towards his British citizenship by taking off his shirt and drinking lager like every good Englishman should on a sunny Saturday.

The Producer checked his nether regions for ginger nuts.

Marjorie produced toothsome snacks which we gobbled down before we could take any photos.

We went for a walk along the promenade looking for my future wife.

We found pirates.

We toyed with the idea of buying our very own Cinema Paradiso and screening Behind Convent Walls on a loop.

And I spent a happy hour or so practising the English Patient bath scene in preparation for the upcoming event. Almasy behind the camera at all times, natch.

Hard sums

2009-06-21T21:05:00.005+01:00

God knows what possessed me to make the hero of my next book a mathematician specialising in logic. But there’s nothing a bit of research can’t fix, and so this weekend saw me scampering off to Cambridge to talk to my friend U.

When I first rocked up there in 1992, U was a top Barbara Cartland combo, the product of a passionate love-match between a Nobel-prize-winning mathematician from Pakistan and the daughter of an English Duke. Educated at Eton – natch - he was not only frighteningly clever but also one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen.

I was a Cumbrian pit pony, still stunned at the fact that they’d let me in.

We bonded IMMEDIATELY over cheap fags, red wine and a shared love of Leonard Cohen.

Late at night, after all of the above, I used to plead with him to explain the theory of relativity, just for the pleasure of watching him speak. Of course, I never remembered the explanation in the morning.

U. never left Cambridge. Luckily he was saved from becoming too much of a crusty academic when, he accidentally impregnated the Head of Gender Studies with twins.

Said twins are now aged 2 and delightful, if somewhat hyperactive. On arrival at the house, he answered the door looking haggard and muttered ‘We’re going to the pub. Now.’

And so we did, leaving the Head of Gender Studies holding the babies.

Over a pint of lager, he asked the very question I’d been hoping he wouldn’t.

‘Why are you making this character a logician?’

The one thing a Cambridge education does is teach you how to bullshit at short notice. I banged on about Lewis Carroll and Alice in Wonderland, Bertrand Russell, romantic poetry, Greek tragedy, Wittgenstein, cause and effect and probability for a good minute of so.

‘So it’s not about your dad, then?’

‘Er, Lewis Carroll, Bertrand Russell, Wittgenstein, Aeschylus, lager, lager, umpf’

Clearly I am no better than I ever was on the bullshit front. But the great thing about U. is that he always takes questions very seriously, and usually knows the answers. We spent the next 3 hours discussing all the above, chucking in a bit about probability, the paranoia of maths departments, the difference between good and important, the difference between profundity and cleverness, and why most of the best maths is done before you’re 40. Well, I say discussed. He spoke, I took notes, and said yerrrs a lot, nodding sagely at appropriate moments.

When it was time to go, I asked him to explain the theory of relativity one last time, for the road. He kicked me under the table and told me to bugger off.

We left, laughing at our own pretentiousness.

This time last week

2009-06-21T20:07:00.001+01:00

Sometimes this is all you need.

A little night music

2009-06-10T00:26:00.000+01:00

Have not been to the theahtah for years Marjorie. But tonight I dolled myself up in my cashmere hoodie and trotted on down to The West End to see A Little Night Music. A meditation of life, love, and the passage of time.

There are musicals. And then there is Stephen Sondheim. Anyone who dares to base a musical on a film by Ingmar Bergman can't fail in my book. Ah! my days of hammering out piano duets in a Cumbrian vicarage. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik a deux! Happy days, good times.

This time I had the best seats in the house. There are definite advantages to knowing the cast.

Maureen Lipmann stole the show as The Countess, natch. Favourite line that I'm sure she pinched from my autobiography:

'I don't despair of the immorality, merely the sloppiness of your life.'

Yah.

Baby Daisy

2009-06-08T22:24:00.010+01:00

A joyous weekend, as, hot on the heels of her elder brother's tour of the capital a couple of yours ago, Baby Daisy hit town.

We all played to our strengths.

Ze producer used his powers of gentle persuasion to make her nibble on strawberries as daintily as any leading lady.

Ze stand-up comedian made her giggle

Paolo wore a funny hat and allowed her to pass out in his arms.

Sicily and Michelle provided light relief for Bad Aunt V including light cocktails, lashings of lesbians and glittery nipple tassles. As I watched them twirl I realised that this was the second Saturday in a row that I have been captivated by semi-naked burlesque cavorting. I'm so post-feminist these days, it's positively Darwinian.

Am completely enamoured of my little niece. Please forgive Auntish outpourings. Shall be back to normal forthwith.

Where is she?

2009-05-31T16:43:00.004+01:00

Well. This weekend I took myself off on a little excursion to the Hay Festival of Ideas - the world’s biggest literary gathering - in the charming town of Hay-on-Wye, in Wales. 10 days. 700 writers. 70,000 visitors. Although I was of course thrilled by the prospect of attending lectures by some of my favourite authors, I had an ulterior motive: to find the woman of my dreams. I had booked tickets for the Sarah Waters reading on Saturday night, followed by a burlesque performance by Immodesty Blaize. The hottest ticket in town for any self-respecting literary lezzer, surely.

Arriving on Friday evening, I felt like I’d found my Nirvana: a town where every other building is a bookshop or a bar. Grinning inanely, I made my way to my B&B, The Chestnuts, to be welcomed by my gracious hosts and introduced to their two rather dashing Italian greyhounds, Stanley and Luigi. I nodded sympathetically as my hosts recounted the sad story of Stanley’s cancer, which explained why he was missing an eye. I managed not to look shocked as I was told there were ‘some toys for you to play with’ in the top drawer next to the bed. I giggled to myself when I opened said drawer to find a book of half-completed Sudoku and a pair of dice. Then I got changed into a fab frock and made my way to the festival.

The Hay Festival is a bit like being at a rather posh country wedding. All the marquees are connected by tented walkways with nice green carpets. There are lots of older ladies in floral frocks. The toilets have flower arrangements in them and are spotlessly clean. The whole place is awash with Pimm’s and champagne, and organic nibbles. I trotted over to the wine bar and bought myself a mini-bottle, then found a deckchair in the main courtyard and settled down with a book. From time to time I heard applause rippling through the summer air. All was well with the world. I was in bed by 9.30 and slept the sleep of champions.

Next morning I was up early, wandering the streets. There are only two, so it didn’t take long. Then I settled back into another deckchair with the newspaper to await my first lecture: Alain de Botton on the philosophy of work. As the morning wore on, the festival filled up with an odd combination of Islington intellectuals, men in Panama hats and linen suits, jolly women on daytrips from Manchester and beautiful girls wearing summer frocks and reading books on the grass. I began to experience a profound sense of contentment at the prospect of lectures and lechery: two of my favourite things. I wandered over to a pub for lunch, deciding that as a grown woman of 35, I should be able to sit in the garden on my own and not feel guilty about taking up a table.

But as the afternoon wore on, I began to remember the trials of attending weddings on your own. My back got sunburnt from not being able to reach it with the suncream. I had to drape things all over my chair and table to make sure no-one took them when I went to the loo. I realised that all the pretty girls were with their boyfriends. I drank too much white wine.

I made an effort for the Sarah Waters reading. I put on lipstick and changed my frock. I smuggled in a mini-bottle of champagne and two glasses in case anyone wanted to share, then waited for the cliterati to arrive. But they never did. I sat in front of 3 girls who were discussing Jeremy Paxman, whom they’d just seen:

‘He’s handsome isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Being under him would make you feel so petite!’

I shuddered and drank all the champagne myself.

The last time I went to a wedding in Wales I ended up posing topless on a Cadillac and shagging the priest. But I am a reformed character these days so instead I stuck to making resolutions and observations.

1. The only way to pull at Hay is to be on stage yourself. I have given myself a deadline of 2 years.

2. A festival is all about the people you’re with.

Caligula would have blushed

2009-05-18T17:22:00.012+01:00

You know, there's nothing better than a weekend trip to the eternal city to boost the spirits. And boosted they certainly were, by a gathering of old favourites to christen Ze Terrace and bask in the sunshine.

I arrived late on the Friday night into the arms of my charming host, here pictured the next day, cool as a cucumber in the midday sun.

I wandered the streets of the ghetto with three of my favourite homosexuals and lunched on delicious carciofi.

We dropped in on the most glamorous party in town, on the biggest terrace in town. It was almost like being in the Colosseum in the old days, as an 360 degree audience looked down on our sport from their balconies. And sport there was, umpired under the beady eye of one of our stylish hostesses.

As darkness fell, the ping-pong stopped and dancing began. People started to fall out of hammocks. The laughter grew louder. Ashtrays filled.

Swigga Jackson and I decided to experiment with some arty shots.

Then ended up as might have been predicted, suckling happily on the tits of the she-wolf.

At which point the boys decided it was time for us to head home. Via a trip to a chic little snack bar.

Ah yes, la Dolce Vita. I feel infinitely restored.

The winner takes it all

2009-05-10T22:08:00.018+01:00

Well. It’s almost summer. Which means social engagements . So this weekend I trotted on down to gin & jag-land for a barbecue with old friends from my days in the Raj.

Arrive late, mildly hungover, forgetting to bring anything but myself. Everyone else has brought homemade muffins and a husband.

Who cluster around the barbecue. Wives flutter around children. I loiter near the fishpond swigging rosé and wanting a fag. Make a new best friend, Spike, aged 4.

The children eat. Are praised for getting down their fruit and veg. I polish off two portions of grapes.

The table is laid.

‘Oops. We’re used to even numbers. Darling, get Lady V an extra chair.’

I perch on a stool. The women all refuse a top-up. I abandon all plans to be good.

The conversation turns to schools and loft conversions.

Spike and I go to play on the trampoline. We bounce extensively. He falls over.

‘I feel a bit sick.’

‘So do I’

‘You’re not like a mummy are you?’

‘No darling.’

I push on through the afternoon. As I leave, Spike is confused.

‘Are you a lady or a girl?’’

I repair to my boudoir to tart up for friend’s husband’s fortieth. Theme: eighties. Me: Jackie

Endure excruciating tube journey in fishnets, leopard skin frock, bling jewels, red nails, stilettos, feeling like a hooker.

Arrive at the party. All men are dressed as Rocky IV or Don Johnson in Miami Vice. Girls are hot as Toyah Wilcox and Anneka Rice. Everyone says yah and talks about how naughty they are to be out without their kids.

I wonder what kind of 80s party it is without piles of snow powder. Ski on through with a white wine spritzer. Decide I am on the piste.

Two hours later I am limboing under a broom with a woman in an Alice Band and a taffeta strapless frock.

Two hours and thirty minutes later I am lurking in the garden chatting about IVF to yummy mummies. Apparently it's very chic in Wandsworth.

Three hours later I am doing an impromptu karaoke to this and feeling Agnetha's pain.

Twelve hours later I am doing the walk of shame.

Lucky bitches.

Bzzzz...

2009-04-24T20:55:00.002+01:00

Well, the good news this week is that these lovely people in the Netherlands have bought my book. Yes, the exploits of Nora and Grace shall be translated into Dutch. I am most excited to share a publisher with my old fave, Virginia Woolf, hurrah!

Mon dieu

2009-04-23T18:53:00.004+01:00

Some people, when they’re feeling miserable, fixate on raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Stuff and nonsense! This afternoon I took my snivelling self out of the sunshine and into the depths of the Renoir Cinema, stopping only to dash into a corner shop for a mini-bottle of cheap red wine. I sank into a nice velvet chair, and settled in for an afternoon of the Nouvelle Vague.

No-one does misery like the French. I’ve loved Truffaut’s Les Quatre Cent Coups since I was a teenager, when I would close the curtains and slump in front of the VHS videoplayer for entire afternoons at a time, emerging only for light snacks and to moan about the unfairness of being born in a small village in the Lake District instead of the Left Bank.

I can safely say, that as the level in the mini-bottle sank, and I ran out of tissues, I was as gripped as I was all those years ago. Poor old world. Poor old Antoine Doinel. Poor old moi. Quel cafard!

I came out an hour and a half later thoroughly refreshed. There’s nothing like seeing the misery of a teenager to put your problems in perspective. Especially a French one.

More compulsory fun en famille

2009-04-21T21:37:00.009+01:00

It was with a mild sense of foreboding that I caught the train on Friday up to the Lake District for my mother’s 60th birthday party.

The two things she hates most in life: surprises + references to ageing.

So my sister decided to throw her a bit of a do, pretending that it was a housewarming party and inviting the entire family plus hangers on.

Dad and I have been sweating lightly for months.

The day dawns, beautifully spring-like, at which point Mum orders Dad to single-handedly lift 6 sofas into a trailer to take to my sister’s house so we can sit outside in comfort. Pre-saturated with guilt, he doesn’t put up a fuss.

I drive off into town in search of champagne (miraculously turns any nasty shock into a celebration).

Before we set off for my sister's, I ask Mum if she’s going to get changed out of jeans and walking boots. ‘No,’ she says, defensively, ‘I’ll be picking up small children all day. I need to be comfortable.’

We arrive and arrange sofas in garden. Throw sheets over tables and find fold-up chairs. It all looks, as Sicily would say, delightfully bucolic.

Dad and I are somewhat tense as Sally began to sing Happy Birthday. But we deal with it by handing Mum a bottle of champagne IMMEDIATELY. Followed by a baby.

She doesn't kill anyone, although she looks scary with a knife in her hand.

Although the first thing she says is ‘Why didn’t you make me change my shirt?’

I take a deep breath and wander off with Bruno to look at what he likes to call the Lamborghinis.

Then watch him play with a mallet. Everyone scoffs when I mildly suggest this might dangerous.

By the end of the afternoon we have moved the sofas around 5 times to follow the sun. I have talked nicely to Uncle Geoffrey about his days in the Raj. Again. The adults in the family have slid into louche drinking behaviour and are neglecting their young.

Next day, everyone decides that the best way to conquer hangovers is to go for a jolly walk. I am assured it’s not very far, and even Bruno is going to walk it.

We go halfway up Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England.

At which point my sister and I lie down and refuse to go any further.

Lady V was born in the Lake District in 1973. She lives in London.

Inhale and..... relax

2009-04-20T18:21:00.004+01:00

As I’m not drinking at the moment, I welcome any opportunity to relax in other ways.

I’m wondering if this new installation by Bompas & Parr, the creators of Scratch and Sniff Cinema (now there’s a thought, Le Duc, hmm?) is allowed or not?

Alcoholic Architecture is the UK’s first walk-in cocktail – a bar in Soho filled with a mist of gin and tonic that you inhale. About 40 minutes is enough to give you a mild buzz.

Snorting gin. I knew it was one of those things that would come to me sooner or later.

I shall be taking The Quiet American and The Italian Stallion when they are next in town. Those boys will appreciate this, I know.

V Day

2009-03-30T20:26:00.003+01:00

I know, I’ve been rubbish. A whole month since I wrote anything. Heartfelt apologies. I’ve been running around being busy and important. Finding a house. Slash mooching around the British Library in an old cardigan, trying to think of what to do next.

In the meantime, the nice people at Portobello sold the book to these other nice people. Which made me very happy.

Next? Time to get going on that other little project I’ve got going. You know the one. As per, I am throwing myself into it.

So far I have:

- Undergone keyhole surgery to check out my bits, and blue dye squirted through my fallopian tubes, leading to interesting Monet blue-green effect across lower abdomen and wonky scar just below the bikini line.

- Endured marathon session with Russian nurse giving encyclopaedic instructions on pills and procedures, Tot A at my side growing ever more bilious as we go into detail about bleeding, oozing and squelching.

- Been poked about by consultant with large metal implement with said Tot luckily not at my side but behind a floral curtain, merrily chirping ‘not to worry dear, I’ve seen it all before…’

- Indulged in an odd but nevertheless delightful hour of ‘breast massage’ with the lovely Rebecca – guaranteed to soothe the nerves, get the old blood circulating and produce oestrogen (she promised, so I know it’s true)

- Purchased and consumed large glass jar containing vile mix of seaweed, spirulina, sprouty things and other stuff, all ground into a horrid green powder that I sprinkle over my morning muesli. It looks (and tastes) like mould.

- Popped a course of hormone pills in pursuit of ‘super-ovulation’, resulting in transformation into a menopausal woman (hot flushes, cold shivers, obsession with the novels of Georgette Heyer and cosy knitwear) slash sex maniac (almost resulting in ill-advised tryst with dodgy casino croupier, but that’s another story).

However, all this pales into insignificance compared with today. For the past month I’ve been spending an hour a week with the lovely Danny, who specialises in sticking needles into various parts of my anatomy, thus ensuring a good flow of qi. When we started the sessions he told me he’d start with the ears and head, and arms etc, then moving to the belly, and then a bit further down and then, when I was ready, (whisper it), the vag. Usually, of course, I would have told him to steady on, but needs must, and so I decided that the only thing to do nod briskly, keep calm and carry on.

And thus it was, dear reader that at 3.30 this afternoon, I trotted along Harley Street (nothing but the best for me and my ovaries), freshly bikini-waxed (standards at all times) and sweating only lightly - a coiled spring. This is what followed:

3.40: Found myself starfished on the couch, lower portions modestly covered by a paper blanket, sweating rather more profusely as Danny told me how important it was to breathe deeply and that it wouldn’t hurt.

3.45: Became absolutely fascinated by the mouldings on the ceiling and started to ask questions about whether or not they were original.

3.46: Blushed furiously as the paper blanket came off.

3.47: Shrieked as the first needle went in.

3.48: Yelped as he twisted the needles to find the right spot.

3.49: Reflected that I’ve had more men poking about between my legs over the past 6 weeks than a cheap whore in Liverpool docks.

3.50: Danny withdrew, to leave me on the couch with the needles still in and a heat lamp directed onto my bits, like a sunbathing hedgehog.

3.51: Passed out, oblivion my only available strategy.

Nobody can say I’m not Giving This a Good Go…

Fan mail

2009-02-20T16:17:00.010Z

It's been a strange week. Most of it filled with the excruciating completion of interviews in which they make you complete a list - not the good to-do kind but the 10-best ridic sort, where you have to lie about everything in order to build up a picture of yourself that people might like and so buy your book.

Virginia Woolf-Burgers, anyone?

So this morning, nursing a brandy hangover, thanks to the Polly scamps (Courvoisier and Prince, (couldn't possibly, oh go on then, one for the road) and reading The Tiger Who Came To Tea to baby Agnes, it was an extraordinary relief to see something from the heart, which came through the post from an old vicar, who lives, judging from the postmark, somewhere Up North.

'I read your article in the Guardian last Saturday and was greatly moved by it. Thank you for writing it. These matters are very difficult for the Brits. I have had the privilege of listening to what I suppose I would call 'people with confused sexuality' many times. Until I read your carefully and beautifully written piece I was the confused one. It really helps if people are prepared to be honest and open. In the present time of relationship insecurity we need to know how people feel and to understand their deepest needs. I suspect yours, in spite of what seems to be an incredibly understanding family, has often been a lonely journey.'

My daughter, at the age of 39, is now pregnant with twins following IVF - first go. It is an exciting and worrying time for us all - please God all with go well. They are due in June/July. My son, O, married J some ten years ago and she had a child conceived in a lesbian relationship with the help of a homosexual friend. It has not all been plain sailing for them as J fell in love with O and the previous partner, who had shared legal custody, was hurt. Nevertheless, R is an amazing, understanding teenager, and doing fine.

My sister, S, has a daughter W, who has a stable relationship with her partner B and two homosexual men, one of whom, J, has parented the wonderful G. Now 11 and incredibly bright, he is fantastic, not spoilt but reared lovingly by two fathers, two mothers and a host of grand parents.

My wife and I hope that you and A. will be able to have a baby and we know that if that is that case he or she will be a very fortunate child.'

I'm not posting this because I'm trying to show off. It actually made me cry.

Ze launch

2009-02-18T20:46:00.003Z

Well, chaps, it's an absolute disgrace that it's been a whole week since one of the most emotional nights of my life and I haven't even bothered to thank you all for coming.

I have no photos, which is perhaps as it should be (after all, the whole thing was about words, not pictures). But you were there (with two important exceptions, but the Atlantic Ocean is an acceptable excuse, plus Le Duc had a terrible stomach ache), so you know what happened, and so all that remains for me is to thank you, my agent, my editor, my parents, my public, my stylist, my exes, and my cat.

Wait! I did all that on the night. So all that remains is to give out some awards to:

Sicily - for managing to achieve a World Record for flogging the biggest number of books on a launch night, like, EVER (101, just so you know). The publishers are thinking of taking her on as their marketing manager.

Beth and Dave - for making like the paparazzi and making me look busy and important

Michelle - for appearing every 5 minutes with a wine-bucket full of prosecco

G - for charming my mother off her feet

Molly - for making people think that I hang out with models

PDF - for toasting like a true Russian

Heidi - for dealing with pre-launch Lady V shoe trauma

Man of The House (MOTH) - for suavely causing the entire 30-something hormone-raging female staff to swoon and give me top marks for genetic choice

FKJ - for managing to whip up a bit of the old green-eyed monster from the object of my affections : "have you really cried on her bosom so often? what was wrong"

Not last but by no means least, Mike-the-bike - for inappropriate advances

M: "I've just met your father"
V: "Uh-huh"
M: "Oh, yeah"
V: Suddenly remembering M's fetish for older men. "No! You didn't"
M: "Oh, YEAH!"
V: "Don't be ridic. No-one's found my father attractive since 1963 at least."

Next day. FKJ, MOTH and Lady V sit together at lunch.

FKJ: "Tots, I think I've got a kind of hag-fag girl-crush on your dad."
V & MOTH: SILENCE

I LOVE my friends...

Muff Monday

2009-02-03T11:16:00.004Z

It’s all luck, luck, luck this week for Lady V. First, my appearance on the shelves of all good bookshops; next, a hospital cancellation, offering me the chance to skip the 6 months’ waiting list.

Naturally, I jumped at the chance. And so it was, dear readers, that I found myself waking at 5.30 yesterday morning, starved of food and water, facing a journey through the worst snow for 20 years to UCH.

It was actually rather beautiful, making my way through the dark, deserted streets. Even Camden was pristine. I trudged on, wrapped up like a Russian babushka, listening to The Smiths. Girlfriend in a Coma. I thought of John Malkovitch in Dangerous Liaisons after the duel, and imagined a trail of blood in the snow.

Luckily I soon arrived at the hospital, where I was met by the lovely S, my chaperone for the day, who cheered me up by talking me through his outfit (3 layers, one cashmere, one merino wool and one merino-cashmere mix) topped off by a Harris Tweed jacket which, according to Vivienne Westwood, is the very best thing for keeping out cold.

I talked him through my outfit: a vest, a Top Shop t-shirt and an over-sized hoodie. Unchic, but comfy.

Eventually a nurse arrives to let the day patients in, telling us that it was her first day and she doesn’t know anything and there are no other nurses because of the weather. As the morning wears on, some patients decide to go home. Others are sent home because their surgeons hadn’t turned up. I dig in my heels and refuse to go anywhere.

The surgeon arrives and does a double take.

‘Yes, it’s me again. You saw me on Friday with my friend. My turn today.’

We christened that day Fanny Friday. Today, we’ve decided, is Muff Monday. But I don’t tell the surgeon that. She tells me that they’re going to do three operations, all fairly routine but there is the risk of bursting the bowel, lifelong infertility and that they might need to cut all my stomach muscles. I nod and sign everything.

She leaves. I feel sick. Put on gown with sense of doom. Pull on hideous thigh-length surgical stockings.

The Guardian phones to tell me they want to publish my article on Saturday and can they do a photo-shoot. I tell them I’m in hospital but out by the evening. They suggest sending a photographer to my house tomorrow afternoon. I say yes, hoping that I’ll still look pale, and resolving to recline on the sofa like La Dame Aux Camelias.

I do a little dance of satisfaction. Swap scurrilous stories with S, fondly believing that the closed curtains around my bed mean that no-one can hear us. We are just in the middle of doing a mini photo-shoot of our own, me trying to look sexy in said stockings and gown, when the nurse comes and sternly tells us that I can go for my anaesthetic. I follow her along the corridors, not realising until I get to the room that I am flashing my ass through the back of my gown.

There is no anaesthetist available so I read National Geographic for an hour or so. By the time I am wheeled in, I am ready for an hour or two of oblivion.

I wake up and ask where A. is. The nurse says he is probably in my head, since I was mumbling about him, plus somebody called Tots, another called Maude and another called, er, Marcella, when I was coming round from the anesthetic. Apparently I also rambled on about an oak tree, a dog bone, a party, a patient and a library….

‘Are you in pain?’
‘Yes’
‘Would you like some painkillers? I must warn you, they’re opiates.’
‘Mmmm, well, that's ok’ (coughs piteously)
‘On a scale of 1-3 how much pain do you have?’
‘Er, 3?’

I drift off into a highly enjoyable state. Next thing I know, I’m in the ward and awake, feeling appalling. The doctor comes in and talks me through what happened and what they found. She tells me that my stomach will be bloated for a few days because they blew it up full of gas, I will bleed profusely and the blue dye they squirted through my fallopian tubes will come out too.

I can’t think of anything to say. It all sounds vile.

S strokes my arm.

‘Cheer up. Think of Picasso. We shall call it Lady V’s Blue Period.’

I snort and immediately feel somewhat better.

Today I am walking like an old lady and porking down painkillers in profusion. Soon I shall get up and wash my hair in preparation for the Guardian photographer. But before then I have seasons 1-3 of The L Word to watch. Bliss.

At last...

2009-02-01T17:17:00.003Z

Tipped off by the ever-vigilant Sicily I trotted off to Borders. And shed a small tear as I spotted D-o-G in the New and Bestselling section.

This was a good day.

Everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place

2009-01-26T21:43:00.004Z

Thursday

9.00 pm: Lady V arrives at Testaccio High, laden with baggage and sweating lightly, to rapturous greeting from Swigga Jackson and The Horrid Hound.

9.03 pm: Decide to pop to local dive bar for quick one before gala screening of new season of L Word on Big O projector.

9.07 pm: Install ourselves on vertiginous bar stools and order round of vod poms.

9.15 pm: Order another.

Proceed to spent the next 3 hours DOWNING vod poms, RANTING furiously on vital topics of life and love, GUFFAWING at our own cleverness and SLAPPING thighs. SCOFF at bemused barman’s excuse that we have drunk bar dry of grapefruit and move on to lemon as mixer.

12.30 am: Return home. Pork down pizza standing by breakfast bar. Change into comfy jim-jams and snuggle into bed, vastly excited at prospect of lezzer film fest.

12.35 am: Big O begins to emit noxious smells. Film refuses to load. We refuse to believe it but efforts to resuscitate prove useless.

12.55 am: Pass out, muttering crossly

Friday

7.30 am: Wake up and congratulate each other on feeling GREAT! Swigga J INCANDESCENT with rage at double whammy on broken projector front and says sternly that we shall not leave Rome without one. Lady V mildly suggests it could be sparking socket, not projector, at root of problem.

7.45 am: Swigga plugs in projector in sitting room. Seems to work. Projects classic B&W film onto wall and instructs Lady V to watch and test all the way through

8.00 am: Jax goes to work. Lady V turns off film and crawls back into bed.

8.15 am: Vile hound leaps on Lady V’s face, forcing her to face the day.

The next few hours are spent with anxious questioning from Swigga, reassurance from V, searching for Mitsubishi dealers and Smeg engineers. V knocks off batch of Mondadori editing in record time whilst Swigga strides off to Vatican for press conf.

2.00 pm: Agree on gmail chat that this hangover is a CREEPER and that we both feel EXECRABLE.

In an attempt to recover, Lady V takes Maude on epic walk around Rome, revisiting morning-after Trastevere bar and reliving fond memories of Oddone High naughtiness.

5.00 pm: Jax texts to say we shall NOT be leaving Rome tonight but instead going to look at potential flats and then have QUIET NIGHT IN with movies and broth. The next morning to be spent buying FRESH PRODUCE from market and running errands. Lady V gulps down disappointment and agrees. Pours a glass of red.

6.00 pm: Arrive at condominium in San Lorenzo. Both fall deeply and devastatingly in love with beautiful flat with terrace and pizza oven and room for V to stay. However, is vastly over budget so see two more, smaller and less luxe. Pout at cruel pricing.

6.45 pm: Call Little J to report back. Jax incoherently mumbles about pizza ovens. Lady V put on phone to be grilled about size/light/aspect. Both confess to not knowing which direction terrace faces.

6.30 pm: Decide to check out local hood. Enter nearest bar and order prosec. Gush about housing.

7.00 pm: Decide food is essential to early night. Prowl streets in search of pizza. Pizzeria says no bookings until 8. Retire to another bar for more prosec. Rant about soft furnishings and Georgia O’Keefe.

8.00 pm (on the dot): Rock up to pizzeria and order 1 large steak, 1 large pizza, ½ litre red and ½ litre white. Pork down the lot. REFUSE to acknowledge hints to leave as restaurant gets busy and INSIST on finishing wine before moving a muscle.

9.30 pm: Unable to find a taxi, cross Rome on foot in pouring rain. Eschew gay street but on arrival in Testaccio, decide to pop into traditional wine bar for quick one. Stand outside congratulating ourselves on non-smoking. Have 3 for the road whilst discussing potential celebs for impending book launch. Agree on Miranda Richardson, Annie Lennox, Jeanette Winterson and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

12.30: Pass out.

Saturday

7.30 am: Lady V woken from slumber by insistent and irritating alarm. Puts in earplugs. Noise continues at 15 min intervals for next hour. Puts pillow on head.

8.30 am: Swigga Jax opens beady eye. Throws dog across room and stalks off, clad only in strange cricket shorts to turn off alarm in other room.

Peace reigns.

Check blogs. Agree that we feel GREAT. Internet breaks. Curse loudly and stumble into bathroom to cleanse for 10 am meeting with landlord.

10.20 am: Landlord has still not arrived. Ravenous, decide to go down to bar for coffee and cornetti. Meet landlord in hall and take him with us. Discuss feminism, New York and dogs. Swigga spirits him off for negotiations whilst V takes Maude for pee.

11.00 am: Get cab to Little J’s neighbourhood to find car. Driving rain. Roads closed. Driver lost. Eventually manage to locate Mina and CROW with triumph. Dive from cab to car. RECOIL at vile stench emanating from within. Swigga reaches into enfer, pulls out bloodied bone and chucks onto street. Lady V retches. Drive off quickly with widows open.

One hour later, lost in streets of Rome. End up outside Swiggs’ flat. Leap into bar for sustenance. Drive off, porking down pizza. Swiggs spill tomato on trousers. V dabs ineffectually with scented tissue. Decide to draw onto hard shoulder and eat our deep fried balls of rice with dignity and pose. Agree we may have another creeper on our hands.

12.30 pm: Eventually leave Rome. Lady V takes the wheel, expertly navigating the Aurelia.

3.30 pm: Turn off the crossroads of death, heading for the hills, trying to ignore ominous darkening of skies.

3.45 pm: Arrive at Marcella’s to greet and deliver cheque. Maude deposits turd just outside front door. Mommy congratulates her.

Arrive at house to discover stabbed freezer full of decomposing fodder. Lady V retches again. Swigga takes the helm, mopping furiously. Put on kettle for tea.

4.30 pm: Lady V constructs fire. Jax sorts out projector. Realises vital plug has been left in Rome. V backs off in terror. Luckily we realise we can make do and mend. Congratulate ourselves on Best of British Wartime Spirit.

4.35 pm: Decide we need a proper drink, not poxy tea. Open a bottle each. Remember we forgot to buy fresh produce but discover jar of porcini risotto. Lady V knocks it together, Milanese fashion, nodding smugly as she expertly stirs.

4.45 pm: Light candles in honour of missing Tot. Settle down in front of ROARING fire to film about Canadian lesbians, porking down 5 portions of risotto each. Both admit to feeling a bit hot under the collar. Decide Lady V must find girlfriend IMMEDIATELY.

Perch in fireplace nodding sagely. Decide we should have done this years ago (Marjorie).

Pop on Picnic at Hanging Rock and tremble at schoolgirl eroticism. Giggle at blatent line-stealing from Swigga in everyday life.

Lady V decides to bake potatoes in fire.

8.00 pm: Swigga unearths potatoes, charred and somewhat reduced. Tosses on table. Undeterred, V opens tin of tuna and mixes with shards of potato. Swigga declines and opens another bottle.

Short musical interlude whilst we dance wildly to Abba classics, featuring impromptu karaoke renderings followed by serious discussion of Belle and Sebastian lyrics slash nostalgia over geekish schooldays.

10:00 pm: Decide to watch Clueless. Halfway through, Jax passes out. V decides Alicia Silverstone is future wife. Blows out candles assiduously, remembering past admonishments and rouses Jax. Stumble downstairs. Quick rant for the road, then retire to our rooms. Pass out for 12 hours.

Sunday

Midday: Civilised coffee in Tot A’s old bed, rhapsodising about density of mattress. Plan lavish lunch of roast chicken and salad. Realise shops will close in half an hour. Throw on clothes, jump into Mina and race to Roccalbegna, Swiggs congratulating V on Alain Prost-esque rallying skills.

12.55 pm: Arrive in Roc. Congratulate ourselves on timely arrival, drooling lightly at thought of lunch. Find that all shops are closed. Remember that it’s Sunday. Curse foully.

1.30 pm: Brighten at thought of making soup with scavenged items and decide to KRAUSE the kitchen. Ruthlessly tidy, banishing items to cupboards and rearranging shelves. Swiggs declares slash and burn policy re laundry. Hours spent folding and sorting. Declare ourselves Unsung Heroes and Domestic Goddesses.

3.30 pm: Pop on depressing but marvellous documentary about children of prostitutes in Calcutta’s red light district, home to Lady V’s RAJ experience in late nineties. Weep uncontrollably at plight. Pledge to adopt Indian babies. Decide that filmmaker is Lady V’s future wife.

5.30 pm: Have a little grappa.

6.00 pm: Pop on Kristin Scott Thomas’s latest masterpiece, in the ORIGINAL, about a woman who has killed her child. Take deep breaths and weep silently at French tragedy. Congratulate ourselves at French language skills. Marvel at KRS’s ability to smoke with elegance and poise. Decide she could be Lady V’s future wife but not sure if she’s still married to fat French doctor. Decide to adopt French babies.

8.00 pm: Hit the road. Drive furiously, stopping only to pee and have another quick grappa for the road (Lady V congratulating herself at knowing every toilet in every bar between Maremma and Rome).

11.00 pm: Arrive in Rome, traumatised by sudden and noxious chemical fog forcing us to crawl along hard shoulder in terror. Decide to watch quick episode of Gray’s Anatomy. Marvel at scene in which someone breaks a penis doing a Twist and Shout. File in Bad Lesbian memory bank.

12.20 pm: Pass out, congratulating ourselves on a weekend well spent.

I'm not missing you yet

2009-01-23T15:44:00.009Z

Well. Another day, another train, this time the high-speed Frecciarossa (Le Duc would have been beside himself) down to Rome for my last weekend of this little Italian winter sojourn.

Feeling slightly weepy at the thought of it coming to an end. But there it is. There is the reproduction of the species to get on with. Plus transformation from scruffy and slightly alcoholic pit pony into immaculately groomed world famous novelist.

I sit in my window seat, clutching my gin and tonic (craftily mixed at home and disguised in a San Benedetto water bottle) and think about the things I’m going to miss. They are many:

- Peaceful afternoons in the Design Library, myself the only person at the stainless steel table

- The piped music that plays in the library on a loop

- Early evening prosecco whilst waiting for A. to finish being Busy and Important

- Aperitivi

- The twinkle in A.’s eyes after the second Negroni

- The hospitality of Elena, who never minded coming home to find that we’d taken over her flat

- Camping in our flat, with only three plastic mugs and a couple of forks

- Remembering to weigh my fruit and veg at the supermarket

- The sneaking pleasure of being mistaken for a local and asked questions in the street

- Looking out of my window at night and tasting the Italian air

- Stumbling through the streets at night, seeking cigarette machines that didn’t ask for identity cards

- The packing and unpacking of suitcases

- Recognising metro stops

- Friday nights on the Autostrade

- Searching for Lifegate Radio

- Being stuck with Radio Maria

- A.’s disgust at the weakness of my bladder

- Terrible Autogrill sandwiches

- The smell of turdette sausages en route

- Roman Pines

- Weekends in Maremma with a cast of thousands

- The shock of my reflection in Grosseto station toilets after said weekends

- Lombard fog rising up from the plains

- My satisfaction when I had said 10 things in Italian in a day

- Mastering the trapassato prossimo

- The gym where the receptionists call me darling

- The fact that the gym had a bar

- Meeting so many lovely new people

- Pretty people in the streets

- Glimpses of Milanese courtyards

- The glow from computers reflecting on our faces at night

- Composing a Life in the Day of...

- Laughing at our own cleverness

- Squinting at ourselves in the lift mirror

- Ranting with Guido about his lovelife

- Ranting with Enrico about poetry

- Ranting with A. about everything

- Knowing that F is in the same country

But most of all, I will miss A. - my Tot, El Presidente, Man of the House, olive picker extraordinaire, live-in muse, scrupulous editor, gin and tonic mixer, prosciutto-muncher, self-appointed manager of women, faithful travel companion and partner-in-crime.

Thank you for always knowing when to leave the country. And for taking me with you. Make sure you get back to London as soon as you can.

Nature or nurture?

2009-01-06T21:12:00.003Z

Well, I took no photos of New Year. The paparazzi were talented and in profusion. However, trawling through the family archives for publicity purposes, I came across this little gem. It sums up most social occasions of my life and set a precedent for this New Year as many before. Everyone else minding their own business, drinking tea. Lady V, naked, grinning inanely and raising a glass.

Ten years later,aged fifteen, sober as a judge and getting on with the serious business of Creating the Masterpiece. Doctor Marten boots and striped blazer. Brideshead Revisited meets the Cubbyhole.

Never let it be said that I am not consistent.

Gobble gobble nibble nipple

2008-12-20T17:51:00.003Z

Image courtesy of Flavia, who has been researching her forthcoming tableau role (see below) with GUSTO and COMMITMENT. Let her be an example to you all...

Calendar girls

2008-12-15T14:25:00.003Z

It’s very cold here in Milan. The nights are long. Tots and I have therefore taken to passing the time by making our own fun. In the manner of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, we open a bottle of wine after dinner and settle down to composing philosophical treatises of a literary bent. How we love to bicker over particularly difficult phrasing, or to argue furiously over the precise meaning of a word, furiously smoking unfiltered Gitanes and shrugging our shoulders, gesticulating wildly as we make our points.

Errr…. The wine and the fags remain extant. But our literary endeavours are a little less highbrow than those of the Sartre-De Beavoir household. And usually take the form of composing lengthy lists of future frolics to be had.

So. Here’s the latest. We have decided that 2008/9 is the year of the TABLEAUX. To be posed and shot in Maremma 30 Dec – 4 Jan. And then flogged on the internet in the manner of Women’s Institute/Pirelli calendars thus making much needed £££.

January – Jackie O

Log fire. Fur coats. Jackie O spex. Louche lounging on white leather pouffe to frame a naked and glistening (with home pressed olive oil, natch) Thomasina von Falconbury. A’s head to tastefully obscure genitalia.

February – Fags

Disco dollies. Studio 54 (memo to self: ask Germans over the road for white horse). Campari. Crostino. Cocaine. Cigarettes. Cox.

March – Matilde

Re-enactment of Matilde di Canossa’s wedding banquet. Flavia to play Matilde, naked on kitchen table, garnished with sushi. Little J poised to nibble nip. Maude frenzied and lactating.

April – Asino d’Oro

A Romanesque lavish feast of excess. Think togas, think centaurs, think wine. Think vomitoria. Think acqueducts.

May – Moses

A still life of God’s most beautiful-slash-horrendous (depending on sexual preference and point of view) creation. Olive tree on fire with female participation in widespread positions. Volunteers welcome.

June – Juana La Loca

Spanish Inquisition meets the Spanish courts. Dwarves (Catherine and Heidi). El Greco-inspired priests (Albert and Luigi), crucifixes, wax, rosaries, auto de fe, auto fellatio. Torquemada. Rioja as beverage of choice, slash light sherry post crucifixion. Tapas.

July – Jason and the Argonauts

Sheep! Tom! Tots! Baaaaa! All run naked in direction of pecorini, tossing baby human hither and thither (memo to self: conceive IMMEDIATELY, pref. male. Sacrifice is worth it for Art.)

August – Arty Filth

Re-enactment of ‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore. Renaissance romps in Carthan setting (guest appearance: Elena). Swirling fog, moody music, flagons of mead, bare-chested Tom riding big black stallion (memo to self: paint Alberto black). Food: sausage

September – Swedish design

Heidi in plaits. A Viking re-enactment of discovering the New World. Think Pocahontas meets Brunnhilde in hot-tub. Mooses, smorgasbord (wedding banquet sushi recycled), smoked salmon, Sven and cosy knitwear. Slash 1970s catalogues. Slash Ikea.

October – The Osbornes

A goth-fest of drug-induced self-delusions of grandeur. Maude to play family dogs. Dave to play Ozzie. Annalisa to play Annalisa. Michelle to play Kelly’s lesbian lover. Everyone to play air guitar. Sausage on menu here too.

November – Necrophilia and Nuts

First: bury Marcella in shallow grave.
Second: run for the hills
Third: exhume body before it starts to smell
Fourth: portray Pieta. Alberto to hold. Some talc required
Menu: chestnuts

December – Dirty Dogs

Cruella de Vil in a Disney deranged setting. Maude to star. Hideous hounds from next door to suffer. Doggy style at all times. Hound of the Baskervilles as star appearance. Dog sausage on menu. Leashes all round.

We expect full participation and Compulsory Fun. Everyone to bring costumes and props. Profits to be shared by all.

Dilemma of the week

2008-12-05T13:48:00.004Z

Well. We're all at it these days, aren't we? Rushing from meeting to meeting being busy and important. Saving the world from financial collapse. Penning articles about the state of the nation. I was struck with awe at The Quiet American's provocative piece on Obama and thought it only fair to share with you my own musings on my own topic of specialisation: myself.

I have spent the entire week huddled in my beloved spiritual home, The British Library, sweating lightly over pitches to the press. These days I have a publicist, whose job it is to get people to buy copies of The Novel. This involves me writing articles for Sunday supplements about my life. Be brutally honest, they say. Reveal something about your life. This has led to an excruciating 5 days of inner turmoil, my innate distaste for exposure in battle with my secret show-pony self. I have written serious pieces debating how we as a generation are redefining the notion of the family. I have put together a Valentine's Day article on the death penalty for homosexuals. Anything to avoid what they actually want.

In despair I turned to everyone's favourite press hound and Agent Provocateur, FKJ. 'Be funny' she said.

So I sat down and knocked out this pitch:

-----------------------------------

How do you conceive a child without having sex? Perhaps it’s being a vicar’s daughter that attracts me to the idea of an immaculate conception. Or perhaps it’s just the fact that I’m a lesbian.

I’ve recently moved to Milan with a friend. He is setting up a business whilst I intend to learn the language and get pregnant. So far, so expat wife. But not quite. We're both gay.

This is an article about the absurdities of trying to conceive a child without having sex, about the differences and similarities between our situation and that of straight friends who are trying to conceive and about the differences between Italian and English attitudes. I will talk about the embarrassment of going to buy syringes at the pharmacy in the UK (suspicious looks whilst the pharmacist decides whether or not I am a drug addict), whilst in Italy they offer a vast selection of sizes; of how the romantic lighting and a bottle of expensive wine the first time we tried soon turned into a prosaic reality to be fitted in before people come round for dinner. I will describe the oddly communal nature of it all – a friend wandering into the bedroom for a chat whilst I’m lying with my legs up against the wall post conception attempt and lighting a cigarette in a strange echo of the classic post-coital fag. How the attitudes of Italians to pre-natal care is worlds away from the North London regime of vitamins and yoga – “My gynaecologist told me I should cut down on cigarettes, maybe to 5 a day. Trying to stop completely would be too stressful for me and so might harm the baby. And wine is good for you. It strengthens the blood.” And how, if this whole thing works out, we will have to confront the next hurdle – our combined horror at the thought of the baby-daddy seeing me naked during labour…

-----------------------------------

I pressed save. Then I pressed send. Then I began to panic.

I went for a walk around the library. I looked at the great stack of leather-bound books in the central well. I asked myself what Virginia Woolf would do.

I went back into the reading room and wrote a note to the publicist. I told her I thought I should retain some gravitas, at least. I told her to ignore the pitch.

Disaster averted. I need a stiff gin. And then I shall leave the country.

Marie Antoinette and friends

2008-11-11T23:33:00.019Z

A little photo essay of last weekend’s diversions, in which a stalwart group of Italians, Lady V and a small dachshund undertook the very serious business of gathering ze olives.

The day begins at 8am, with the Man Of The House and I assembling a hearty lasagne to fortify the workers at lunchtime. I pop a couple of loaves in the oven. Put on loud music to wake everyone up. The mood segues from Country Vicarage to Disco Inferno.

10am. Only two of said workers seem to be alive. We push on through, beginning with the first tree. Eschewing Marcella’s instructions to store said olives in garish plastic containers, we decided to go rustic and use wicker baskets. If you’re going to do it, you do it right. And we’re living in Milan. It’s all about the look.

11.30 am. Still only four of us. We push on through, Guido still managing to look butch whilst holding his girly basket.

The M.O.T.H. follows his lead...

11.45am. MOTH goes all Wolfie on us and rouses other workers. They stumble out into the olive grove.

12.00. Swigga Jackson arrives, poised to pick. She and I go to ‘check the loaves’ pausing only to mix a refreshing tray of G&Ts.

12.30pm. Stumble back to groves, grinning inanely and feeling fortified for the job in hand. Jackson immediately climbs tree in true BL tomboy fashion.

1.30pm. Break for lunch. Splash of wine. Or two.

2.30pm. Work like Karen Blixen’s sweaty coffee pickers until the sun goes down, panicking lightly as we get to the last trees but refusing to lower our standards. The men are still looking, er, manly.

5.30pm. MOTH and workers dash off to the frantoio with olives, leaving Lady V, Maude and Swigga with a bottle of white wine and a bucket of chestnuts to fashion into a hearty soup.

7.30pm. MOTH and workers return to almost assembled soup and cheery BLs.

9.00. All collapse around table with various beverages and soup. Proceed to slurp like Sicilian truckers.

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

Next day, workers are taken to train station. Swigga and Lady V recline on sofa to watch French film in the original, fortified by vod, gin and pieces of cheese. Congratulate ourselves on extensive grasp of French language and letch lightly over a young Emmanuelle Beart and Daniel Auteil.

MOTH returns to bosom of rapturous BLs. Sit around table and plot next steps. Raucous laughter ensues. Evening peaks with a truly terrible teen crud starring Lindsay Lohan, during which Swigga sneaks off to bed (early morning drive to Rome looming). MOTH forces a quick episode of Dexter on Lady V, ensuring that she creeps to bed slightly traumatised and imagining murderous rapists lurking on the stairs.

Next day we gather the fruits of our labours. 23 litres of the FINEST olive oil, a light and gorgeous green in hue, with golden highlights. We bottle it, feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

Baby Daisy

2008-11-04T00:27:00.019Z

Long hours spent by the fire holding a tiny sleeping thing. I adore her.

Long hours spent entertaining Bruno, now two and who calls the new baby Daughter. I worry.

My mother and I take Bruno to feed the ducks on the lake. A gaggle of Japanese tourists insist on taking his photograph. I wander off and mindlessly chew stale chunks of wholemeal.

We go for a cup of tea in the Lakeside Tea Rooms, which have been there since Victorian times, or at least since I was young, which practically amounts to the same thing. Everyone in there is over 70 and wearing Remembrance Poppies. The room reeks of Yardley’s English Lavender and wet anoraks. The tea rooms’ USP is a white Yamaha piano that plays by itself. When we enter it is churning out Rhinestone Cowboy to a rhumba beat.

My mother has a cup of coffee. Bruno and I have orange juice with straws. He is mesmerised by the piano.

After his orange juice he starts to fidget.

V: What is it? What do you want?
B: Want to get under the table.
V: That’s my boy….

…………

We walk through the town. People keep stopping to congratulate my mother.

V: What are they talking about?
Mum: The new baby, of course!
V: Oh.

Silence

Mum: I’m sure they’ll do the same when your book comes out!
V: Yep.

…………

The extended family is gathered around the table for lunch. The conversation is punctuated by various grunts and squawks from the various children around the table. I am trying to talk to my father about Very Important Things.

V: So Dad, I've got a great idea for an investment.
Mum: The most important thing is to get your nipple right at the back of her mouth.
Bruno: Pussy!
V: Gosh, it’s almost like being back in London!

Silence.

Dad spits out his Guinness.

Victorian slums

2008-10-19T22:16:00.002+01:00

One act play:

C & A: lying on the bed surfing channels

A: Negroni?

V: Rude not to

A: Yah. Let me tell you about my weekend.

V: Go on then

A: rgnreoangrosgnriongriognriognriosngrio!

V: Totally understand

A: I HATE women

V: Uh huh.....

A: Not you, natch

Both stare into the distance

V: Do you think our friendship is dead?

A: Yep

V: Fag?

A: Yeh, but the unborn child

V: Oh yeah

Several hours and a hundred camel lights later. Watch Tina Fey/Sarah Palin/Gossip Girl.

T calls

Lady V falls off bed. Smashes glasses.

V: Yes. Yes. Am a little mouse. Chat. Don’t mind me. Shhhhh....

Peace reigns.

A: Coming sternly back into room. Lady V listening to Prince in discreet manner on ipod

V: Little Red Corvette?

A: We are going to the gym tomorrow. And stopping smoking. I hate you.

V: Moi non plus

Moving alla Milanese

2008-10-19T15:23:00.003+01:00

Some of you will have heard/read of my travelling companion’s angst at our cramped living facilities, and his desperate need for Just a Little Bit of Space. Last week the situation came to a head. Yes, it’s a sad day when domestic violence rears its ugly head. Sigh.

Ok, so not really. This was Tot A masked and bespectacled and ready to wage war on the ferocious woodworm-slash-termite that has chomping down on the beams of his bedroom in Tuscany. The horrid little thing has terrible table manners and eats with its mouth open whilst making a hideous (and loud) clacking noise that prevents our Tot from getting a good night’s sleep. This of course cannot be tolerated and so he spent a morning wobbling around on various and dangerous contraptions painting toxic liquid onto all wooden item in the room. I basked in the unseasonal sunshine outside whilst watering the olives, hoping that he wouldn’t get any ideas about doing the same to his flatmates.

However, the lack of space really has been somewhat of an issue. I, as someone who has chosen to live On My Own for five years, and picked a profession where I get to sit all day in silent libraries wearing earplugs, can feel my Tot’s pain. Although I hate to quote Martin Amis, a writer is someone who’s most alive when they’re alone. And it is mildly disconcerting to wake up and find a man snoring gently next to you. Especially when you’re not hungover and it’s someone you actually know.

So whilst A popped off for a weekend to visit his mother, I volunteered to help his sister pack up her things into boxes ready for The Move, which is planned for next weekend.

When I move house in the UK, I get up and put on my oldest clothes, scrape hair back into a ponytail and go off to hire a truck, which I secretly rather enjoy driving around London, packet of Marlboro tucked into my t-shirt sleeve a la James Dean, and feeling rather butch.

Not so in Milan.

10.00: The day begins with a trip to Pam, our local supermarket where E flutters her eyelashes at a surly young man and asked for some boxes. He tells us to come back at 2.30.

11.00: E goes off to the hairdressers whilst I wander around looking for somewhere that sells packing tape. My vocabulary stretched beyond its limit, I am reduced to muttering about Scotch.

13.30: Looking radiant and groomed, E rocks up to meet me on via Savona, one of Milan’s fashionable streets (where what I like to think of as my office, the Design Library is based). We go for lunch with some of our friends.

14.45: Panicking lightly about the boxes, I nudge E towards the supermarket. We stop at the street market on the way to buy some nibbles for an aperitivo later on. At my suggestion, we also purchase a case of Sicilian red wine.

15.15: Arrive at the supermarket. More fluttering results in the manager giving us not only a huge pile of boxes but suggesting that we take a trolley to transport them in. I am beginning to see the point of this flirting thing.

15.45: E and I begin to pack things into boxes. The ensuing chaos is somewhat overwhelming but we push on through.

16.00: Start to wonder when helpful friends might be turning up.

16.45: Friend turns up with cake. Stop to consume said cake.

16.50: Friend begins to bang on about the previous night’s club conquests and kissing boys. I escape to bathroom and start putting make-up into boxes.

17.10: Other friend arrives. Friend 1 begins to retell kissing stories. I suggest mildly that they may like to pack away summer dresses.

The next 45 minutes is spent commenting on said dresses, discussing clothes and shoes etc. I take refuge in the other room, filling boxes with books. Wonder if it’s too soon to open the wine.

18.00: The girls decide that we’ve worked hard enough for one day and must go shopping IMMEDIATELY. Follow them out into the street of Milan, feeling slightly dazed.

20.00: 3 pairs of earrings, a necklace, a skirt, a dress and a bag later, we come home and consume wine + nibbles. All agree that we’ve Done Very Well.

20.30: Go out to dinner.

Boxes packed: 8
Items left still to be stowed away: 653

I love my little sister

2008-10-01T19:47:00.003+01:00

Some of you may remember Gloria, the 75 year old ex-stripper who I go and visit from time to time to try on wigs and take polaroids. I forgot to see her before I left the country. Last night she phoned my sister. Who reported back thus:

Hello big bad sistah of mine.

How’s tricks? I’m large and pregnant with no house and end of month accounts to contend with. And I have to get info onto the new computer system which I’ve calculated will take around 100 hours. Not sure if that will get done by the weekend. Poor me.

Anyway, while I was grappling with big numbers Gloria called in a panic because she hadn’t heard from you. I said you’d gone to Italy for the winter. She said that her answer phone hadn’t been working well and that you’d probably tried to call. I agreed.

Then she told me her life history and said she’d call at the end of October to see how things were going with the baby. I said that you’d drop her a postcard because she asked me to. She asked why you’d gone to Italy so I said it had all been last minute but a friend had offered you a flat there and you thought why not.

She said that she’d tried your mobile and I said that it was possibly not working what with you being abroad and all that. She said she could have gone to Hollywood but she doesn’t like travelling.

She’s getting her house re-wired now that she doesn’t have a boyfriend trying to control her every move. That’s barristers for you – control freaks apparently. Her other boyfriend drank himself to death. Her husband was probably the best.

I managed to get three statements written and send out a couple of thousand pounds worth of cheques to various people during the conversation. Then it was time for tea so I had to go. The end.

Lozza love S x

So now my sister is dealing with my septuagenarian stalker. I ADORE her.

Lady V: the Italian years

2008-09-30T18:57:00.006+01:00

Gosh! It’s almost 10 days since, following the tradition of Byron, Shelley and other literary giants, I left England’s fair shores for the delights of Italy.

We almost didn’t make it. A 5.30 am start at the King’s Cross in order to beat the crowds clamouring to get on the Eurostar following the fire the week before meant that your intrepid travellers were too tired even to avail themselves of their traditional G&T on the train and could only slump in their seats, surrounded by broken luggage and vague fears that they hadn’t Sorted Things Out before departure. On arrival in Paris, we dragged said broken baggage across town to deposit in a locker whilst we attended to far more important things - ie, lunch.

After our first kir royale and a small snack in a café in the Marais, we felt fully rejuvenated and ready for the next leg of the journey - an 8 hour journey to Milan. During which we sang along to Bollywood classic Bride and Prejudice, consumed a couple of mini bottles of EXECRABLE vin rouge and vile croque monsieurs, then fell asleep again, dribbling lightly. We arrived at 11pm, to be picked up by the lovely Elena, quivering gently after a traumatic experience with her sat nav system, and taken to our new abode in the centre of town. Saving the environment is EXHAUSTING.

Since then we have been consumed by a whirlwind of activity, which I shall summarise thus:

Epic car journeys up and down Italian motorways, Tot A trying not to flinch as Lady V just misses another enormous truck: 4
Hours spent loitering in Autogrills on said motorways, munching focaccia and knocking back espressos: 36
Joyful reunion with Tot F and Little J, involving copious amounts of gin and tonics: 1
Attempt to hold civilised dinner in the manner of 30-somethings on Tuscan holiday: 1 (failed)

Impromptu horseback riding sessions through brambles and thorns: 1

Accidental drinking of souvenir water from Lourdes after one too many proseccos: 1 (sorry Elena)
Trips to the ancestral tot home: 1
Games of Trivial Pursuit played at said home (and won by Lady V, natch): 1
Melanzane pillaged from mother’s vegetable patch: 24
Melanzane now rotting in fridge: 23
Aperitivi swigged and munched: innumerable
Language classes attended: none (v bad, must improve)
Early morning trips to gym to counterbalance abovementioned porking out on aperitivi: 2
Proofs of book cover received from grumpy doorman: 5
Hours spent on Joint Literary Project with Tot A: 12
Hours spent laughing at our own cleverness: 36
Tears spilled in overwhelmed pleasure at being back in Italy: many

I shall be updating you all with future adventures as they happen. In the meantime, unpacking my mackintosh square as we speak…

The Ballad of Molly and Paul

2008-09-15T14:29:00.003+01:00

Well, I took no photos.

The stories have been told.

But I wrote a poem, performed by my good self at the infamous bachelorette do on Brighton Beach. I suspect most of the group were mildly intoxicated. So here is a little reminder.

A bit cheesy. A few dodgy rhymes. But written with love.

The Ballad of Molly and Paul

In the beginning was the word
And the word was Eritrea
A cosy little restaurant
A dinner just for two

And afterwards they walked a bit
And talked a bit
And kissed a bit
Now here I am in Brighton Beach
Reporting back to you.

So he said:

I need you like vodka needs a tonic
A little splash of something just to make the drink complete
I need you – it's a condition that is chronic
Like some of us need cigarettes and some of us need meat

I need you like Fela Kuti needs his dancers
Although the difference between us is that I need just we two
I need you like music needs an audience
A wise discerning audience that even gets Tatu

I need you like Hedwig needs his angry inch
I need you like a fireman needs his hose
I need you like wearing latex needs some talcum
Someone to make me comfortable
Someone who really knows

I need you like Obama needs a victory
Will you come with me to C.A.R or even Kazakhstan?
We'll change the world together
If we just have each other
Shall we do it ? Do you want to? Can we do it? Yes we can!

And she said:

I need you like yoga needs a downwards dog
Basic but essential to the way my body moves
I need you like sushi needs wasabi
A little something extra to make the rest improve

I need you like carbon needs offsetting
Like trees need air and water and flowers need the sun
I need you like paper needs recycling
So none of you is wasted and there's more of you for fun

I need you like a Wiki needs contributors
One who's adding to me, building who I am
I'll give just you the password, so no-one else can do it
We'll build our own Webb2.0 with Lawrence - extra RAM

And he said:

I need you like Donnie Darko needs his hoodie
A warm and cosy hoodie I can huddle up inside
One that fits just perfectly
One who's with me constantly
I'll love you til the end of time
So will you be my bride?

-

So now there are two words
And the words are Paul and Molly
The two words go together
Tripping lightly off the tongue
Let's make a toast
And say three cheers
Hurrah from everyone!

Moving to The Ritz

2008-08-20T21:30:00.005+01:00

Those of you who know me will be aware that delayed gratification is not my thing. If I want something I want it IMMEDIATELY.

However, this August seems to be all about toiling away and being sensible. Laying the foundations, toiling and saving. I know it'll all be worth it in the end, but for now, it has put me in an extremely Bad Mood.

In the past seven days I have:

- Proofed the novel
- Carried out photo shoot and sent off images to publisher (only 3 months late)
- Cleared copyright for quoting 4 lines of a Cole Porter song in book (and paying £550 for the privilege, grr)
- Re-coded and edited 856 pages of a BBC website (dull, dull, dull)
- Converted advice leaflets for refugees on sexual health into 17 languages (photoshop)
- Taken on responsibility for a highly-strung cat (miaow)
- Fought with estate agents and finally managed to put flat on market (lying bastards)
- Moved worldly goods out of flat and into storage unit (soulless)

Am EXHAUSTED!

As I was packing up my things, I thought of what William Morris once famously said: “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

That’s all very well when one is a master craftsman and all your friends are major pre-Raphaelite artists.

I looked around at my belongings (seventeen bin bags filled with, amongst other things, a top hat from the 1860s, a seventeenth century wench frock, a ginger wig and a baby’s travel cot) and marvelled at how, aged 35, I still:

- Own nothing of any value, except sentimental (confirmed by copious tears over old photos and letters, holding up the moving process by some hours, Marjorie)
- Have no decent luggage (although plenty of baggage – as evidenced above)
- Haven’t learned to bring newspaper to wrap things up when moving

Perhaps I’ll just throw away the key to the storage unit and go and live in a hotel.

Yes, I think that would be best.

This one's for Anne-Marie

2008-08-16T04:32:00.013+01:00

A tale of two turrets

2008-08-11T20:15:00.011+01:00

Homage of the week goes to the lovely Beth, who whisked me off on a belated birthday mini-break to Kent, which as my devoted readership will recall, is the setting for The Nov.

The main attraction of the trip was to be a visit to Sissinghurst, the home of Virginia Woolf's lover Vita Sackville-West, renowned for her stunning gardens. We hoped for a bevy of literary ladies (for me) and some strapping but sensitive gardeners (for Beth).

Having dumped our luggage at our charming but chintz-ridden 16th century oast house, we arrived at the castle in the middle of a downpour.

Resisting the temptation to retire to the nearest pub, we pushed on through to the nearest hayfield where Beth's army background was put to the test in fashioning a bivouac out of a bale of hay, an umbrella and a mackintosh square.

Whereupon we indulged in a light picnic and a bottle of Macon-Villages. We started to feel rather jolly. A Spitfire circled overhead in wartime fashion, the proof of The Nov was presented to Beth for approval, and we banged on about the pleasures of the English countryside. I haven't had such fun in a haystack since 1987.

Coming to our senses a few hours later we proceeded to my new spiritual home, the turret. On purchasing Sissinghurst in the 1930s, Vita immediately claimed it as hers, banishing her husband Harold to the modest cottage next door. She furnished it with wall-to wall-bookshelves, a writing desk and a chaise longue. On the desk was an ashtray, a picture of Virginia Woolf and a painting of the Bronte sisters by Branwell. I decided to move in forthwith.

Imagine my surprise when, in the National Trust exhibition room, no mention was made of Vita and Vag's twenty year affair. Letters between Harold and Vita (they wrote to each other every day when apart) were proudly on the walls. Virginia was pictured, as 'Vita's lifelong friend', sitting moodily next to her own husband Leonard, accompanied by the stern note that 'SHE NEVER STAYED THE NIGHT.'

I thought of the chaise longue and resolved to write a short memoir entitled 'Scissoring at Sissinghurst'.

Early evening was spent with a packet of crisps and a G & T in bed watching Saturday night TV, then we took a taxi to Benenden (home of the famous girls' school) to the pub. Unfortunately it was school holidays so no teenage totty was to be found.

The next morning we woke early and set off to Scotney Castle. On arrival we were overjoyed to find a sheep trial, in which sheepdogs compete to herd sheep into a pen. We laid our the trusty macintosh square once again and spent a happy couple of hours watching ruddy-cheeked farmers managing not to lose their tempers at stupid animals. It brought back so many childhood memories that I was forced to indulge in another mini-bottle (English and organic so almost as healthy as Beth's elderflower cordial)

As luck would have it, Scotney also had a turret, although not as impressive as Vita's. But I am now resolute that that nothing less will do if I am to come up with inspiration for the next book. I have communicated the same to my partner in crime, who is touring the Italian countryside As We Speak in search of suitable locations.

On return to London, we decided to end the weekend with an epic viewing of Brideshead Revisited. Quite simply the perfect ending to a very British weekend. With yet more turrets. Bliss.

Lady V makes her comeback (again)

2008-08-07T23:57:00.004+01:00

Well I am tearful, and tits out, and, oh, well, quite frankly EMOTIONAL. And I make no apology for it.

After a vile day of data entry I return to my barren spinster shack for a light ovary nourishing salad and a session of mild self hatred.

Whereupon I happen on a padded envelope,

Which retains no less than the proof copy of THE NOV.

Yes, dear reader, after YEARS, MARJORIE, of waiting, the proof copy was waiting to be ripped apart and DEVOURED.

Here it is.

Chaps only in the long bar!

2008-07-15T12:25:00.004+01:00

I have been neglecting my brain recently and am in dire need of mental stimulation. Last night I decided to address matters by trotting down to the South Bank for a talk about Literature.

Never being one to pass up the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, I had selected a discussion on ‘the urban experience in queer fiction,’ or why gays and lezzers come to cities. I thought there might be some nice ladies there for me to talk to. Always multi-tasking, me.

Imagine my despair when, on arrival at the Purcell Rooms, in full make-up and plunging top, all I could see was gay men. I think I spotted a woman but I can’t be sure of it. It was the first time I’ve been to an event at the Queen Elizabeth Hall and not had to queue for the toilets.

My spirits sank. I groaned inside.

But then I began to rather enjoy myself. There was an octogenarian lesbian writer, a senior police chief, two Welshmen talking about life in the valleys, the gentlest muscle Mary you’d ever hope to meet, an ex-punk who looked like an accountant, a sexy blonde novelist and a biographer in possession of one of the finest bosoms I’ve seen in a very long time.

There was an interval. I decided to celebrate Bastille Day with a thimbleful of fine Bordeaux.

The evening improved even further. It ended around midnight with Lady V clapping her hands above her head as a hip hop artist rapped about homophobia to the tune of – would you believe it – that fine disco classic Ring My Bell. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.

Come to my bosom!

2008-07-04T21:46:00.011+01:00

What better way to resume normal service than to hurl oneself back into familial duty?

Fortified by my travels on The Continent (good times, Marjorie, happy days!), I packed a light picnic hamper and took the 12.45 Express from Paddington to the dreaming spires of Oxford.

Whereupon I paid a visit to Isla Marie Anne, born last Sunday morning, just as her spinster aunt was to be found diving semi-naked into a swimming pool full of known homosexuals, somewhere in the south of Italy.

Come to my bosom!, I shrieked in auntish fashion, smirking as I remembered the last time I had uttered the command. Young Isla seeming almost as perplexed as the previous recipient of my attentions, began to wail in somewhat tiresome fashion.

Retiring to a deckchair I assembled a still life with the doll that I had brought the new arrival and other sundry objects found to hand, as taught at my art summer school in Florence by Miss Charlotte Bartlett, circa 1928.

Oops, I did it again

2008-06-26T00:23:00.006+01:00

Well, there is a lot I could say about my last few weeks in Italy.

I could tell you tales of models in milan.

I would recount some stories of happy days and good times.

But instead, I think pictures tell a thousand words.

And so.

Four of them.

FKJ and Lady V have some light cocktails, according to height

And then...

And another thing...

Narcissists. Nous?

That's it. Will try harder next time.

You know who you are...

2008-06-08T19:27:00.001+01:00

B. Naked.

Suckling pig.

I won't stand for refusals.

Back to work, back to neurosis...

2008-05-23T21:10:00.001+01:00

Oh God. Is this what's in store?

Chaps only in the long bar!

2008-05-19T23:09:00.001+01:00

Well, I mean... Gin and tonics. KEEEEENYA!

Detox starts tomorrow

Transatlantic totting

2008-05-19T20:27:00.008+01:00

So. Back from 3 marvellous weeks of scampering in New York and the Dominican Republic.

There are many stories, natch. See my partner in crime and co-author Fast Times for the details, composed by our good selves on a Santo Domingo balcony.

There was more but I am EXHAUSTED after a night flight and so must get myself into my bed.

To keep you going, and to show off a bit about our simply fabulous sojourn, a few pix:

Our beach

Our beach at night after a few gins

Our tots at night after a few gins

The girls in fetching frox and aprons making candles (someone has to keep the Maremma fires burning, no?)

I feel entirely restored and ready to take on whatever the summer has in store.

Because I can when I want...

2008-04-28T23:31:00.001+01:00

Spot the difference?

But the hierarchy of it almost killed me....

Mina: These foolish things

2008-04-26T01:29:00.001+01:00

Am feeling sentimental and hopeful old thing....

This one's for me. And for you.

Songs of Love

2008-04-24T00:36:00.001+01:00

You know who you are, you two....

Stop press!

2008-04-22T19:49:00.010+01:00

The newswires were buzzing, maternal reactions thus:

Corriere della Sera - Mamma M-Z: "He's grounded for the next 50 years."

Bloomberg - La Titz: "Götterdämmerung!"

The Church Times - Mommy V: "I taught her everything she knows..."

Oh, Heathcliff!

2008-04-16T12:32:00.004+01:00

Oh! The life of a spinster lady novelist.

Returning from an epic run on the Heath in a last-ditch attempt to firm up thighs before impending bikini debut on Caribbean beach my thoughts naturally turn to those other writerly vicar's daughters, the Brontes.

Pulling an edition of the girls' letters from my bookshelves, I find an account of a shopping trip. Charlotte reported it thus:

'Tempted by the colours of some beautiful silks, I had not the spirit nor the means to launch out at the rate of five shillings per yard, and went and bought a black silk at three shillings after all. I rather regret this.'

Emily, on the other hand chose a fabric 'patterned with lilac thunder and lightning, to the scarcly concealed horror of her more sober companions.'

The crème de la crème of Strong Female Leads

2008-04-14T20:39:00.014+01:00

Imagine, if you will, my delight when, idly flicking through the latest edition of Têtu (the iconic French fag-mag, beloved of my various partners in crime for its, er, unique blend of existential Gallic angst and men with their bits out), I came across the following article. For the benefit of my non-European readers I shall translate:

The American actress Julianne Moore will be playing a lesbian novelist in Rebecca Miller’s next film, 'The Private Lives of Pippa Lee'. Pippa Lee (Robin Wright Penn), a woman ditched by her husband for a younger woman (Winona Ryder) begins to explore her buried sensuality in the company of Julianne Moore. Filming will begin next April.

I predict a world premiere in the countryside. I predict lashings of booze and Gauloise Blonde Légères, specially imported via Tot Homage Trip to Paris. I predict torrents of tears from the Bad Lesbians. I predict full attention from the heterosexual American boys. I predict mild tutting from the Italian homosexuals who shall - kindly but firmly - put to better use making dinner for the group. I predict Le Duc reclining in pleasure on the sofa, flanked by his bitches.

[Commercial break for moment of reverie]

It really doesn’t get any better. Arthur Miller’s daughter, wife of Daniel Day Lewis, (and Artiste in Her Own Right, natch) joins the ranks of the BLs in top totty celluloid triumph. And Winona, to boot. Tickets for that red sofa available to the highest bidder.

At last

2008-04-10T14:27:00.006+01:00

I am pleased to be able to inform you, dear readers, that all those years of tears and traumas are officially at an end. AGC is to be published in March 2009.

Let me record for posterity the past 24 hours.

11.00: Stumble about the changing rooms of various clothing emporiums wondering what one should wear for a first meeting with publishers, cursing ricotta texture of thighs and wondering how exactly I got those bruises.

2.15: Give up, eat egg sandwich and return home, resolving to borrow clothes from fashion-forward friend for whom I am catsitting.

2.30: Phonecall from agent requesting author photo. I tell her I haven’t got any. She says ‘aren’t there some nice ones of you in Tuscany?’ I reply bleakly that I am drunk in all of them. She thinks I am joking.

2.45: Frenzied emailing to friends requesting photos. They kindly oblige. I am drunk in all of them.

4.00: Emergency trip to reflexologist who tells me about a new healing technique called breast massage.

4.10: Pass out under her expert hands.

19.00: Shrink appointment. Bang on about body image issues for the whole hour.

22.00: Emergency photo-session with the endlessly patient Beth. She handles me beautifully. Struggle with intermittent flash. End up jumping in and out of light on doorstep to keep it on long enough for her to take snaps.

Midnight: Cab back to catsitting house. Taxi driver says ‘You look tired. Have you been with your boyfriend. Eh? Eh?’ I tell him no. He says ‘How can I get more intimate with you?’

24.15: Extricate myself from cab, paying needlessly large tip to get rid of him.

24.30: Smoke fag and drink small sherry in garden.

1.00: Attempt sleep. Fail.

7.00: Wake to find that cat has left dead mouse outside my bedroom door. Not sure whether or not this is meant as gift or punishment but suspect the latter.

7.10: Retch violently in sink.

9.30: Shrug on mahvellous cream Marc Jacobs jacket over black frock. Feel almost like Jackie Collins.

9.45: Brief identity crisis.

11.00: Meeting with publishers in fabulous Holland Park mansion. Orchids everywhere. Books in profusion. Ushered into a room by editor, sweating lightly (me not her). Almost trip over chair. Blush. Blush deeper as eight other people arrive, from the big boss to the PR person. They all say incredibly nice things about the book. We talk about covers. Feel somewhat overwhelmed and stare at the floor.

11.30: Someone asks ‘so what was the inspiration for the book?’ Stammer. ‘Er, I like old ladies…’

12.00. They tell me that I shall be their main news item at the London Book Fair next week. They’re taking it to the US the week after. They think I could be big in Australia (?). They ask me to approve the following announcement:

‘A guilty secret about a passionate war-time friendship is dangled just beyond the reader’s grasp, right to the very end of Lady V’s tautly-plotted debut, AGC. Nora is a girl of twelve when the war breaks out and she is evacuated to rural Kent to stay with the Rivers family. As the spitfires roar overhead, Nora and Grace grow as close as sisters – and then closer still. But what happens next will gnaw away at Nora for the rest of her life, and it is only decades later – when she is certain that the end is near – that she can begin to tell her story…. An atmospheric coming-of-age novel that combines sustained intrigue within a contemporary narrative and a powerfully filmic evocation of 1940s Kent and bomb-battered London, the novel has already excited considerable pre-fair interest among book and film scouts. US and translation rights are on offer right now.’

12.05: Agree to everything.

12.30: Leave the offices after being kissed by everyone. Blush again.

12.32: Agent and I turn the corner and give an unladylike squeal.

12.35: Agent goes off to next meeting. I light up fag. When no-one is about, I do a little dance.

NB. The above picture is not one of Beth’s masterpieces. It is of course, my mentor, Lady B, who wrote 534 books in her lifetime, mostly dictated from her pink chaise longue, whilst nibbling petit fours.

What to do when you're waiting?

2008-03-12T21:51:00.005Z

I have new eyebrows.

Now I have to lose weight from everywhere else to match...

?!?

2008-03-10T12:46:00.003Z

Returning from a bracing walk on Hampstead Heath (fitness, as ever, my watchword), imagine my surprise and delight on finding that someone has sent me a gift.

'Before Bridget Jones, Carrie Bradshaw and the Shopaholic, it was a world of Fabulous Nobodies.'

All hail to my mystery benefactor! If you would care to reveal your identity, I shall prostrate myself at your feet, forthwith....

The V Day Massacre

2008-02-15T00:02:00.003Z

I thought a bit of my old friend Byron would suit. Don Juan, always a favourite of mine, the little scamp.

Alas! the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone,
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring.
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet, as real
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.

They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,
Is always so to women ; one sole bond
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust
Buys them in marriage—and what rests beyond?
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover,
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over.

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,
Some mind their household, others dissipation,
Some run away, and but exchange their cares,
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station;
Few changes e'er can better their affairs,
Theirs being an unnatural situation,
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:
Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

Cheering, no?

La Vie en Rose at the Baftas

2008-02-11T20:39:00.001Z

Best actress.
Best costume design.
Best make-up.

Best MUSIC.

I'm not the only one who loves Edith.

Feel thoroughly cheered.

Champagne and cigars

2007-11-27T21:26:00.000Z

Ho hum. A month has passed since I last updated you on the life and times of Lady V. Soz. Nothing of note seems to have happened.

Luckily some people have been busy.

Early last week came Sebastiaan...

... then Agnes...

... followed by news of the latest addition to the Vestibule dynasty, to arrive in about 6 months.

Young BS reacted to the end of his reign with grace and inner poise...

... and Aunt V wetted the babies' heads with a case of Morellino di Scansano.

Guilty pleasures

2007-10-26T22:29:00.000+01:00

I’m fairly convinced I’m not Vogue’s target audience.

Nevertheless, it’s been my magazine of choice ever since I was thirteen and barricaded in my Lake District bedroom, listening to Leonard Cohen, trying to ignore the smell of pigs from the barn and the strains of evangelical Christian guitar-playing from the sitting room.

It’s like a porn habit. I’m sure editor Alexandra Shulman would not want her classy mag to be put in the same bracket as, say, Penthouse, Playboy or, at a pinch, Razzle, but all the signs are there:

1. Buy magazine in far-off town, out of sight from gossiping family friends: check
2. Smuggle magazine into house, past mother/sisters/flatmates/girlfriend in depths of rucksack: check
3. Experience feeling of rising excitement whilst tearing off the cellophane wrapper: check
4. Suffer angst at exploitation of women whilst unable to stop looking at half-naked bodies in slightly fetishistic outfits: check.
5. Pretend to like it for the articles: check
6. Have slightly dirty but satisfied sensation when latest copy is stashed under the bed: check

It is sort of post-feminist, though. Gotta love the way that, unlike Cosmopolitan or Elle, it never has articles on, say, '21 Ways to Give the Best Blow Job.' The Vogue Woman is so hot that men will fall at her feet whatever she does in bed. Anyway, she doesn’t care. The Vogue Woman is too busy checking out what the other girls think of her outfit.

I’m supposed to be at a lesbian arts festival in York. Instead, I buy a copy of said magazine on the way back from the library along with a 100g slice of organic goats cheese, a mini bottle of good Bordeaux, and ingredients for carrot soup. It’s been a shit week and my intentions are good. No partying. Moderation. Bed by ten. No drink and dial. No ill-advised Facebook entries. Start the weekend on a good note. Possibly go to the gym. Hot yoga.

6.15: I make soup, phone Mother to enquire about recent dentist trip (she was happy, managed to bully them into giving her hardcore drugs to ease the pain. Like mother, like, er…..).

6.45: Clean bathroom, file six months’ worth of bills, wince at mobile charges, check blogs, all the while listening to worthy Radio 4 debate on abortion.

7.45: Radio 4 off. Ella on. Settle down to eat soup and other aforementioned comestibles with Vogue propped up in front of me.

8.00: Read article on “What men really think about women and their weight.” Feel pleased to be a homosexual.

8.15: Suddenly gone off soup.

8.30: Move on to '50 chic ways to survive the winter'. Cashmere underwear is the way forward, apparently. Suspect not if you sweat as much as me.

9.45: Vogue advises to “experiment with a dramatic Russian colour palette, as seen at Ferragamo." Vogue loves “Boris & Natasha” and “Midnight at Moscow.” Decide this is the way forward. After all, am named after a Russian Empress. Get out crusty box of make-up and apply liberally.

9.50: Realise that I look more like Morning in Middlesbrough.

9.55: Emergency trip to the off-license for 20 Marlboro Lights and cheap bottle of Chianti.

10.05: Pour half the bottle down the sink (maintaining control and half-arsed attempt at moderation). Read that “there’s something about propping up the bar in a classic London hotel that has particular appeal in winter.” Now we’re talking.

10.15: Next suggestion is to “host a dinner party and see all your friends without having to brave the weather.” I must stock up my freezer with "stilton, pear and rosemary tartlets, braised venison with red wine and juniper berries and baked cinnamon apples with fresh vanilla custard.” Check freezer, which contains a piece of ice and an unidentified furry lump of what might be pitta.

10.20: Peel off sachet of Dior Extreme Wear Flawless Makeup from advertisement and apply randomly. Pout in mirror.

10.23: Switch off bathroom light. Get candles. Pout again, better.

10.25: Put Missoni scarf on Christmas list.

10.35: Let nobody say that Vogue is behind the times. “Internet style has moved beyond click and buy sites. Today, online communities are comparing fashion notes across continents.” I am pleased to know that “Users can get instant feedback on their day to day wardrobe from anyone, anywhere.” Resolve to utilise the facility forthwith.

10.36: Lust after a Martini.

10.42: Read Miss V, Vogue’s 'fashion spy', on shopping in Venice. Experience brief moment of sisterhood and well-being.

10.50: Scan article about Sophie-granddaughter-of-Roald-Dahl’s debut novel (“beautifully written”). Feel slightly sick. Swig down another glass of red. Smoke 2 fags.

11.00: Flick through photo story on Angels and Insects. “Like a modern-day Titania, this fairy queen’s regalia is the iridescent glitter of otherworldly beetles and bugs.”

11.10: Dress up in 18th century wench frock and trusty green stilettos. Put on Edith. Totter about.

11.30: All gone tits up. Wonder about licking sink to excavate last drops.

11.32: Slightly sheepish at composing whole blog entry in tired old Bridget Jones format. Resolve to write next in style of The Female Eunuch, or, possibly, War and Peace. With personal pronouns and everything.

Another birthday

2007-10-24T18:32:00.000+01:00

Bruno Sebastian is 1 today.

I phoned this morning and sung Happy Birthday to him but I’m not sure he knew who I was.

Lady V: BS, this is your Aunt V calling you from London on your birthday.
Bruno: Aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgh!
Sister V: He’s being a complete pain in the arse
Lady V: Well, not as painful as this time last year, old thing
Sister V (darkly): He was a novelty then….

Anyway, in doting and sentimental aunt-like fashion I shall proceed to post the following picture of the little fellow taking his first steps.

He'll thank me for it later. These things must be documented after all.

BAD lesbian

2007-10-23T23:00:00.001+01:00

I forgot an important birthday.

I am rubbish.

Do you like Fischerspooner?

You know who you are....

Chim chiminey, chim chiminey, chim chim cheroo

2007-10-19T08:35:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I had my chimney cleaned by a nice man called Austin.

“I’ve got a 9 foot rod,” he told me proudly.

Attached to it was a spiky brush. He said I should go onto the balcony, watch for it appear out of the chimneypot and make a wish. He said it would definitely come true.

I need all the help I can get at the moment. I climbed out of the window and wished, eyes closed and everything.

He took away 4 bags of soot and a dead baby bird. I snivelled a bit when I saw it but managed to divert his attention by making a cup of tea.

My chimney flue is now honeymoon fresh. I am looking forward to a winter of sitting in my armchair, feet up, eating toasted crumpets with lashings of butter, reading Dickens and quaffing port. I may even take to smoking a pipe and wearing tweed. Find a lady companion called, possibly, Agatha. Hell, I might go so far as to develop a mild case of gout.

Bourgeois by name only

2007-10-13T19:32:00.000+01:00

So, lost for something to do on a Friday afternoon, and feeling the need for inspiration, I tottered down to the Tate Modern to see a retrospective of French artist Louise Bourgeois, now 95 and still sculpting.

The blurb describes her work as ‘characterised by its obsessive subject matter’, exploring her ‘core themes of femininity, sexuality and isolation.’ She focuses in particular on her difficult relationship with her father, who made her English governess his mistress, and her mother, who refused to acknowledge it.

Of course I was going to love it.

A 30’ spider entitled 'Maman', a ghastly last supper/family dinner table/half eaten body called 'The Destruction of the Father', a bright pink knitted seven-in-a-bed romp… What’s not to like?

But it wasn’t the art that moved me most. In 1947 she produced a set of engravings, 'He Disappeared into Complete Silence', writing short stories to go with them. This is the text from Plate 9:

'Once there was a mother of a son. She loved him with a complete devotion.

And she protected him because she knew how sad and wicked this world is.

He was of a quiet nature and rather intelligent but he was not interested in being loved or protected because he was interested in something else.

Consequently at an early age he slammed the door and never came back.

Later on she died but he did not know it.'

Mistaken identity

2007-10-09T18:29:00.000+01:00

I’ve been driving a large white van around North London. At first I felt rather butch and fabulous. I rolled the sleeves of my t-shirt up over my shoulders. I would have stuck a packet of Marlboro Lights in it if I hadn’t given up smoking again this morning. I cruised the streets, effortlessly navigating the Tuesday traffic. I entertained fantasies of a new life as a truck driver, leaving a string of broken hearts behind me as I roamed from town to town.

Now my back hurts. All I want is a nice gin and tonic and a scented bath. I guess it was never really going to work...

It's all a bit of a blur....

2007-10-06T13:30:00.000+01:00

So…. A little round up of the past few weeks, spent in the country that I love with proper weather, fine wines and cheap cigarettes.

Whistle-stop tour of travel companion’s birthplace featuring maternity clinic, school, roundabouts, dog and well-stocked bar: 1
Ensuing hangover: severe
Train journey next to drooling newly-weds, heightened by said hangover: 1
Tot-tastic night of debauchery in Roman nightclub: 1
Dodgy polaroids taken: 7
UN conferences attended by very busy and important Tot A: 1
Bars sat in by not very busy and important Tot V whilst Tot A saving world: 6
Afternoon walks with miniature daschund, pretending to be a local: 4
Babies held whilst mother goes for waxing: 1 (medium-sized)
Radio stars created: 1
Ancient monuments visited: er... 2
Food poisoning incidents (entirely non booze-related): 1
Broth consumed to overcome the above: copious quantities
Shots consumed in local dive (once recovery achieved): 75
Old friends reunited: 1
Visits to hardware stores: 3
Rooms painted in fabulous colours: 4
Items of furniture lacquered, chinoiserie style: 3
Lamp sprayed: 1
Tortellini shaped by hand: 834
Bad dancing until the early hours: extensive
Flying visit from ex-colleague: fabulous
Seventies fondue dipped: 1
Dodgy movies watched: 5
Life-affirming conversations in ladies-who-lunch-location: 1
Paintings purchased under influence of above: 0 (shame, shame)
Hours spent in bathroom showrooms: 6
Negronis consumed: 653
Camel Lights smoked: 750
Fun had: serious amounts

Ah well. Back to reality. Detox. Yah.

Thank god that's over....

2007-09-13T15:54:00.001+01:00

Yep, the final draft of the masterpiece has been handed in. To be sent to publishers next week. I shall now get on with reclaiming my life.

No more angst.
No more mini-bottles.
No more 10-packs of Marlboro Lights.
No more anguished late-night texts to long-suffering friends.
No more British Library sandwiches.

This is the start of some SERIOUS fun.

Gotye - Heart's A Mess

2007-08-30T23:05:00.001+01:00

Dark. Legs. Yah.

Suffering for my art

2007-08-04T20:47:00.000+01:00

Am wallowing in a deep and childish sulk, prevented from attending the party of the year and frolicking in the sun because I have failed to do my homework.

I haven’t felt like this since 1983.

Luckily, I am now a grown-up lady. I have access to various tried and tested forms of solace.

Half bottle of fine wine (plus one, just in case)

Fags (but only ten - moderation, as ever)

Carbs (in wheat form, for maximum glycaemic absorption)

Edith (natch)

Fine literature (er…….)

With these at my disposal I can’t fail to cheer up. Or at least pass out.

Glorious Gloria

2007-07-10T22:41:00.000+01:00

Shattered, after paying a birthday visit to my favourite septuagenarian stripper, Gloria, who I met four years ago in a late night drinking hole in Camden. Once a child star, her latest venture is Hollywood look-alikes, including Marilyn Monroe, Dolly Parton, Pamela Anderson and Caprice, which is not an easy thing to pull off at seventy-three. She lives just off the North Circular, together with several dozen Barbie dolls and various large stuffed toys.

I ring the bell. She comes to the door in her usual outfit of hotpants and housecoat.

‘How marvellous to see you, my darling! You’re so exquisite, it’s not normal! I couldn’t leave the house like that, without a scrap of make-up. They’d take me in for questioning!’

I blush lightly and hand over her present, a dozen red roses and a copy of Vogue. Gloria is thrilled. She leads me into the kitchen.

‘I’ve got a card for you too. But I haven’t written in it yet. I thought it might be nice to do it together. You could tell me what to put.’

‘Lovely,’ I say.

I sit at the table and she perches on a small stepladder. She has made me dinner, vegetarian spaghetti Bolognese, followed by jelly and ice-cream, washed down with Nescafe coffee.

‘I’m so pleased you don’t eat meat either,’ says Gloria. ‘We’re so alike.’

‘?’

‘We don’t eat meat, or drink, or smoke, or take drugs, or sleep around, do we?’

She gives me an enormous wink.

‘Well, not any more….’

I keep quiet and munch on my spaghetti, which is somewhat beyond al dente, whilst she tells me stories of her husband, Harry and her lover, Joe.

‘Problem was, babe, they were both a bit boring, God rest their souls. Joe went on about boats all the time and Harry could only talk about taxis and chiropody. Men! But what can you do? They didn’t want me for my conversation. But you know, they were wrong. I didn’t just do the modelling and what not. I did classical too, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Lady Godiva, in Stratford. I had a horse, and everything!’

‘Stratford-upon-Avon,’ I ask, trying to imagine Gloria at the Royal Shakespeare Company.

‘Durr! No, silly, in the East End. It was some sort of festival thing. I wore a wig of course. Anyway, I’m going off on a tandem again.’

I go to the toilet, trying not to giggle at the thought of Gloria on a bicycle made for two. When I come back she is looking at the pictures in Vogue through a magnifying glass and tutting to herself.

‘All this size zero nonsense. We’re never going to look like that, thank god, you and me. Of course, they all have that procedure, you know, that cleans you out, like Diana.’

One of the problems with Gloria is that she talks about celebrities in the same way as she talks about her friends. Luckily, I’ve known her long enough to understand.

‘Colonic irrigation?’

‘Yes. Didn’t do her any good in the end though, did it, poor thing, even if she was a princess. Shocking.’

There is a small pause, whilst she looks off into the distance, misty-eyed.

‘Speaking of which, I’ve got something for you. Come upstairs.’

I follow her to her bedroom. 15 polystyrene heads, each with wig and full make-up are staring at me.

‘Have a seat, babe, ’ Gloria says, flicking a switch. A picture of a Mexican desert scene lights up so that stars appear to be twinkling in the sky.

I sit on the edge of the bed whilst she rummages through some bin bags, finally pulling out a leopard print top with a plunging neckline.

‘I thought of you as soon as I saw it!’ she says. ‘Try it on.’

I know from past experience that it’s easier just to say yes. I take off my t-shirt and replace it with the top. Gloria is delighted.

‘I knew it would suit you!’ she shouts, clapping her hands. ‘I’ve got to have a Polaroid of that.’

She takes a picture and holds it under a lamp until it develops.

‘Hmm, you need to be holding something,’’ she says, critically. She puts a toy gorilla in my lap. I hang onto it for dear life while she takes another photo. This time she’s ecstatic with the result.

‘Know what?’ she says. ‘If only you were wearing a fur bikini you’d look just like that girl, you know, in that film with that monkey.’

I think hard. ‘Er, you mean Fay Wray? In King Kong?’

‘That’s it! That’s exactly it.’

‘Nobody’s ever told me that before,’ I say truthfully.

No more rats

2007-06-19T10:30:00.000+01:00

So, sitting at my window with the baby gurgling contentedly on my lap I check my emails. I see one from the agent. I convince myself that because she emailed not called it's a no. I decide not to open it. Tears drop onto baby Bruno's head. He turns around and gives me a puzzled look.

V: What? Your aunt is a failure. What?
B: Dazzling smile.
V: Oh bugger it, I'll look then.

I open the email. She's read the first 100 pages. She likes it. She wants to meet.

4.30 next Wednesday in Soho.

I am wetting myself in anticipation. Bruno has given me an enormous celebratory fart. It's a family thing.

Schrödinger’s mouse

2007-06-08T14:41:00.001+01:00

Oh, misery, misery, as I sit, wracked with tubercular coughing amidst the dust of my little garret, bringing you the next instalment of my sorry existence….

Er…. Oh alright then. Slightly pissed off at having developed bronchitis due to weekend excesses, I am safely installed on the sofa at my friends’ lovely house where I am looking after David, their cat, and twenty-five tomato plants. So far the tomato plants have presented little trouble. David, on the other hand is high maintenance. Too much or too little attention brings the same punishment or reward – a mouse, brought to my bed in the early hours of the morning.

Yesterday I thought I had the balance right. Light tummy tickling for fifteen minutes, quick scratch behind the ears and then I went to bed to listen to Radio 4 with the door firmly closed. It was as if we’d been married for years.

At 2.30 am I am woken by a scrabbling noise, followed by the sound of something running very fast up and down the stairs. I put the pillow over my head. David starts to fling himself at the door. I realise that he is trying to bring me a mouse.

I am terrified of rodents. I start to sweat with horror. Not daring to turn on the light, I get a chair and wedge it under the doorknob. I sit, hunched in bed, trembling.

‘If you had a girlfriend,’ I think crossly to myself. ‘This wouldn’t be a problem. There would be someone to go and sort it out. Why haven’t you got a girlfriend? Why? Why?’

The mouse issue has become a symbol of my single status. I begin to sink into a pit of despair. The thudding gets louder.

‘Maybe,’ I think, ‘it’s not David. It’s the mouse. In fact, it’s not a mouse, it’s a huge RAT. Maybe David wanted me to save him and I failed him. Now the rat's going to break in and devour me.’

I am drenched in sweat at the thought of the killer rat. I begin to calculate how long I would be able to stay in the room. I unearth a bottle of water from my rucksack and a packet of throat sweets. I decide that I could stay for days. I decide that, in fact, I might rather like to be trapped in the room. I could hide in it. I would never have to find out what the agent thinks of the book.

The mouse has become a metaphor for the reading (and judging) public.

Suddenly the noise stops. After a moment of relief, the fear returns. The sound of silence is even more oppressive. I become convinced that the mouse/rat is waiting quietly outside the door to make me think it's gone away and then when I come out it'll pounce. It's lulling me into a false sense of security.

I sit for the next two hours trying to work out whether or not there is a mouse behind the door, dead or alive, victim or predator. If it’s dead then perhaps I could just wait for it to rot away before I come out. If it’s alive, then I can't leave.

The situation is brought to a head when I begin to need to pee. What begins as a slight, uncomfortable sensation quickly turns into pain. I begin to hop around the room, trying to distract myself but it doesn’t work. I think I’m going to wet myself. I realise that I would be absolutely rubbish in a hostage situation.

At last, I have no choice. I remove the chair from under the doorknob. I put on a pair of shoes. I open the door, poised to run.

David is sitting on his own, looking forlorn. He lets out a small miaow. I give him a hard stare.

I told you I was going to need careful handling...

Teutonic totty

2007-06-05T20:03:00.000+01:00

So, now that I have been released from the British Library, I am available for less high-minded pursuits. And thus it was that I found myself on a lesbian stag weekend to Cologne.

Sicily, M and I arrive at around eleven pm and trot off to the quaintly named Bastard Bar to meet the girls, who are downing tequila shots, smoking furiously and shrieking in true, er, stag party fashion. We then take cabs to another bar, which is very dark and very empty. I try to make conversation with one of the group.

Me: So, what do you do?
Her: I’m a media lawyer. I specialise in defamation.
Me: Oh, so if I publish a book and I get famous and someone says something libellous about me, I could hire you?
Her (tossing her head): You wouldn’t be able to afford me, darling.

I decide in that case I probably can’t afford to buy her a drink, either.

The second night we regroup in a strange shopping mall-type place where we are going to eat and whose menu appears to be built mostly around white asparagus. We frisk about under a giant glitterball, posing for snaps and confusing the other diners, who are respectable middle-aged couples. By this point I am feeling somewhat confused myself. This is probably due to the shots of melon schnapps that appear every few minutes, mixing uneasily in my stomach with the buckets of white wine that preceded them.

On the way to the Elle-Word, the club night that, we have been told, will be attended by 1000 women, I catch sight of the nails of the wildly glamorous French opera singer who has just joined us.

Me: Oh my god, you’re wearing Chanel Rouge Noir!
Her: I know. I had to go on the waiting list to buy it!
Me (excitedly): Yes, it sold out in two weeks, didn’t it? I’m wearing Rouge Peche on my toes.
Her: Cherie, are you REALLY a lesbian?
Me: Er, not a very good one…

We arrive at the club, somewhere on the side of a large roundabout on the outskirts of the city. On entering, we are enveloped in a fog of smoke and hormones rising from the dancefloor and I remember why I don’t go to these places in London. Sicily, M and I decide to have a nice, cooling glass of prosecco, and stand at the bar drooling in anticipation of longstemmed champagne flutes. Imagine our despair when we are handed three small cans of warm fizzy wine. With straws. Sicily is almost apoplectic with wrath. I just drink mine as quickly as I can and move on to gin.

In Cologne you don’t pay for your drinks as you get them. On entering you are given a small piece of paper like an old-fashioned dance-card, and the barperson ticks off boxes as you get your drinks. Dangerous. The bar staff are all male and loving the power as a thousand drunken women crowd about the bar, brandishing their dance-cards as desperately as Jane Austen heroines at a ball.

At three-thirty in the morning, M and I decide that one of the barmen looks a bit like Zoolander. We get thoroughly over-excited. He looks slightly nervous.

M: Can we take your photo?
Barman: Uh, ja, if you want
M: Can my friend stand next to you?
Barman: Er, ok, then.

And so it was that, in the middle of what was supposed to be teutonic totty heaven, I end up with my arm round the barman, grinning inanely and having my photo taken.

I give up on myself.

He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence

2007-05-27T17:20:00.000+01:00

A cheery little quote from Blake at the start of a cheery little novel, just sent to the agent.

All God's Children: 93,000 words on unrequited lesbian love, war, religion, sex and terminal illness. Plus a few dead babies thrown in for good measure. It can't help but be a bestseller, surely? I have 35,000 words spare in case it needs to be longer. Film rights available.

I shall require careful handling in the next few weeks.

A sentimental education

2007-05-08T08:30:00.000+01:00

There are tales to be told of the Bank Holiday weekend but I won’t, lacking the energy for a family saga.

Instead, a picture of The Boy, now six months old, up a mountain by the bluebells.

He squeaks with delight whenever his Aunt V talks to him. She surreptitiously wipes away the odd tear.

The road to self improvement

2007-04-25T21:55:00.000+01:00

Mindful of a recent drunken promise made as the night train rumbled its way across Europe, and uncomfortably aware that, despite having spent almost two months of last year in Italy my vocabulary is still limited to swearing, various sexual practices, parts of the anatomy and a range of food items, I have taken the plunge.

From now on I shall be spending Wednesday afternoons in the rather grand surroundings of the Italian Cultural Institute, a fine stucco building in the heart of Belgravia, learning the language and customs of that ancient civilisation.

By July I shall, according to the syllabus, be able to ‘understand and use everyday expressions and simple phrases, ask and answer basic questions and interact if the other person speaks slowly and clearly.’

Hah! By then I intend to be reading Dante in the original and chatting up raven-haired beauties in backstreet bars.

Oh yes. Or rather, si.

Which reminds me of one of my favourite Dorothy Parker lines:

‘That woman speaks eighteen languages and can't say "no" in any of them.’

Hell, why would you want to?

Turf Wars

2007-04-20T23:19:00.000+01:00

I have written before on the importance of location in literary endeavours and so I know that my readership will understand the hideousness of what I have been forced to suffer this week.

The obvious travesty of having to leave our Tuscan idyll behind at the beginning of the week was alleviated only by the knowledge that I would be returning to my other spiritual home, the reading rooms of the British Library.

And so it was, dear reader, that I found myself trotting happily though the highways and byways of Kentish Town and down to King’s Cross, singing along to Nancy Sinatra and dreaming of my little seat in the corner of Humanities II, one of only very few not to face anyone else. All one can see from it is the Year’s Review of English Studies volumes 1 – 73, which suits me fine. Once installed, I planned to wrap myself in my Florentine cashmere blanket and sit out the spring, finishing the masterpiece, emerging only for light snacks and the occasional sherry.

Imagine my horror when, the first to enter said reading room I sashayed towards Seat 3662 only to be faced by a small sign that said ‘No computers allowed in this area.’

I felt a surge of emotion, the like of which I have not felt since being forced to sit next to Alexander Sibbald in primary school. I let a small but audible snarl. I was cast out of my habitat, exiled, forced to wander like Odysseus himself, in the wastelands of Rare Books and Manuscripts or, heaven forbid, Science and Business Studies.

Immediate action was required. I moved with the speed and instinct of a cheetah to find another place. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a seat and bounded across the room, just in time to park my ass on Seat 3180. Sweating lightly, I set out my computer and prepared to get down to work.

It was not long before I felt the weight of a stare on the back of my neck. I recognised it well. I have been known to distribute such looks myself on the rare occasions when my seat has been poached (unwavering and vicious, with a soupcon of homicidal mania). Someone was looking at me. And someone was looking at him, And so on and so forth. Everyone was shooting dirty glances at each other. And not in a good way. Humanities II had been disturbed like a kicked over anthill and we scurried hither and thither like angry insects, our worker instinct turning sour.

This is how revolutions begin. On the advice of Le Duc, a veteran of the art of Dealing With Authorities, I shall be writing a stern letter to the powers that be, forthwith. And as I know that you will be waiting with bated breath for the outcome, I shall post news as soon as I have it, hopefully that I have been restored to my rightful throne, in the corner, under my blanket, typing like a demon.

The future of modern English literature, as I may have mentioned before, depends on it.

Another Top Totty Tuscan Triumph....

2007-04-16T20:58:00.000+01:00

.. slash travesty, depending on your point of view. Fresh from my latest travels to The Continent, I thought it only fair to share with you some of my finer moments. The full and unexpurgated literary text can be found chez top journalist Testaccio, so I have decided to break with tradition and offer a pictorial representation for your viewing pleasure.

There was my ever-trusty and dare I say it, snazzy travelling companion, La Moss

There was the old tradition of grinding-one's-foot-into-the-bull's-bollocks-to-bring-good-luck in Milan (observed by bemused-looking tourists, natch)

There was new guerilla-garden-wear for the Israeli to sport whilst tending her Occupied Territories

The Thai rent boy put in another appearence, this time with gloves (mmm...)

So we put him to work with a handy North American, chopping wood (nice chainsaw boys)

Luckily, however, just as it we were about to descend into moral oblivion, our favourite rebel nun emerged from behind her convent walls to dispense some firm but fair instruction and save our sorry souls.

Nice work, kids. Bring on the summer.

In The Sanctuary a woman is always a lady and a smell is always a fragrance

2007-03-01T00:49:00.000Z

I know I’m supposed to be a starving writer, eking out my days in some godforsaken garret, but frankly, sometimes the only way to deal with a problem is to hit it hard with your chequebook.

Which is why I decided to take the day off and cocoon myself in a warren of small dark rooms full of half naked women. No, not that sort. I took myself and my existential crisis off to The Sanctuary in Covent Garden. Mens sana in copore sano and all that. Uh-huh.

The last time I had been to this particular spa was in 1996, when I stood outside trying to summon up the courage to go to a ‘lesbian pamper evening’ (a contradiction in terms, in my experience) but ran away because I was too shy to remove my clothes. Happily, I’ve moved on since then and this time stripped off, decanted myself into a hot pink bikini, shrugged on a bathrobe and strode forth to the Koi Carp room, which, as the name suggests, was decorated in Japanese style, complete with large fish and willow pattern walkways.

Once there, I installed myself on a wickerwork lounger, opened a copy of Vogue and ordered a glass of champagne. Sometimes it has to be done.

I spent the next few hours in a semi-prone position, ordering more champagne and the immune-system-boosting-salad-lunch (high on chick peas, low on carbs) then getting acrobatic, albeit slightly self-consciously, on a swing over the swimming pool, channelling my inner Lolita-slash-70s-pornstar to the max.

Fortified, I made my way to the ‘colours studio’ where 25 ladies lay on sleek black loungers in front of five panels that lit up in time to the sounds of the rainforest, which I found rather trippy but marred somewhat by the barking of a supervisor who looked like Eva Braun and who kept ordering us to 'start ze relaxation process.' I lay under my cashmere blanket and obeyed orders, but was pleased to return to the fish.

Lessons learned: it may be true that money can’t buy you happiness or love but it can buy you 50 minutes of the lovely Vishti rubbing aromatic oils all over your body in a candlelit room. Which amounts pretty much to the same thing.

Cinderella

2007-02-18T01:21:00.000Z

I've spent the day driving a white van

I've got no carpets left

I've been dancing to Edith

V dynasty update II

2007-02-08T23:19:00.000Z

And whilst we’re on the subject of nudity, Bruno Sebastian, now three months old and on his first trip to the fleshpots of London. It was all going marvellously until he pissed on my head, which led to stern words from his Aunt V and is perhaps why he’s looking slightly scared.

Expanding my portfolio

2007-02-05T22:23:00.000Z

Having been the very essence of moderation all January, I am in need of diversion. My somewhat delusional attitude towards budgeting means that I am also in need of cash.

I am therefore embarking on a new career path. Academic qualifications are unnecessary and I need neither update my CV nor dress to impress, although good presentation skills would be helpful.

I am going to take up modelling. Not that size-zero catwalk nonsense, but good old tits ‘n’ ass.

No photos: I might be President one day. Nothing less than oils will do. Yes, dear reader, Lady V is about to be immortalised, in the manner of goddesses and great ladies of antiquity, on canvas. The British Public has been crying out for such a vision. I shall no doubt become known as one of the great muses of the 21st century and a beauty of my time. Art-lovers will flock to the Royal Academy to feast upon the sight of me in all my glory, naked apart from a couple of strategically placed grapes and a bunch of coriander.

How did this giddy ascent into the world of High Art come about? I hear you ask.

Yes, well.

I am in the British Library lunch room (scuffed carpets, broken coffee machine, lone diners eating unidentifiable leftovers out of tupperware) when my phone rings. In a panic (chatting is frowned upon in these surroundings) I answer without checking to see who it is.

‘Hi, this is Tim. We met at Simon’s wedding in the summer.’
Ah. THAT wedding. There is absolutely no way that this conversation will ever lead to anything good.
‘I don’t know if you remember me?’
I make a non-committal, strangled sort of sound.
‘We talked about art for a long time.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And you said that you’d be interested in doing some modelling for me.’
If people are going to start holding me to the things that I say in the early hours of the morning, I am going to be in trouble.
‘Uh, did I?’
‘You seemed to quite like the idea.’
‘I like most ideas after that much booze!’ I snort, then remember where I am and stare down at my congealed pasta. ‘What sort of modelling, anyway?’
‘Well, nude.’
‘Nude! I squeak, and knock my fork off the table. I drop to my knees and scrabble about underneath it, wishing I could stay there, away from the eavesdropping academics. I have just said nude in the British Library lunch room. I want to die.
‘You seemed very relaxed about it. I think you’d be a natural.’

I can hear him smirking as he speaks. My face is now the colour of the pasta sauce. I do, unfortunately, remember my downfall that evening, draping myself, intoxicated and semi-naked over the bonnet of an open-topped Cadillac in the middle of the dancefloor. It was hardly surprising that I was relaxed, having spent the day fulfilling my duty as best man by keeping the groom (and myself) topped up all the stimulants that we could get our hands on in an attempt to get through the occasion. I wasn’t relaxed, I was semi-catatonic.

‘So what do you think?’ Would you be up for it? I’d pay you, of course,’ and he names a sum of money that is roughly twice what I earn doing worthy but rather dull work for charities.

I have a brief but heated debate with myself. I bet Virginia Woolf never spent her lunch hours in the library arranging to take her clothes off for cash. On the other hand, I’ve always quite fancied being an artist’s muse. When people ask me what I do I could say I'm a writer-turned-model and give off an aura of being brainy yet chic.

My inner radical feminist asks me sternly how I can even consider objectifying myself by pandering to the gaze of the patriarchy for money. Her slaggy little sister hitches up her bra strap, lights a fag and tells me it’ll be a laugh.

I am torn, but then, in a moment of inspired clairvoyance, see myself as an old woman taking my great-granddaughter to the Louvre to see the lovely portrait of Granny in her prime and I feel suddenly reckless.

‘Oh alright then,’ I say. ‘Why not?’
‘Great’ he says, and tells me to come to an address in Brick Lane at 2pm on Friday.
‘And, uh, should I wear anything in particular?’ I ask, trying to sound professional.
‘Nothing tight. It’ll leave marks when you take it off.’
‘Right. No tight clothes,’ I repeat, and write it down in my notebook.

When I put down the phone, the old man sitting at the next table peers at me over his spectacles.

I have booked an emergency bikini wax and embarked on a crash diet. My reputation in London’s art world depends on it. My reputation in the library is, however, sadly, lost.

Ballerina assoluta vestibulata

2007-01-22T22:54:00.000Z

Last night, a trip to Sadlers Wells to see Mathew Bourne’s version of Swan Lake, the one in which the swans are played by hot semi-naked men instead of anorexic chicks in tutus. I am no expert on ballet so will spare you any critique, apart from to say it was stunning and moving and made me cry.

Whilst I was being stunned and moved and, like, so identifying with all that fabulously tragic, forbidden love going on all over the place, my mind was wandering at the same time back to my days as a young girl in the Lake District.

Yes, dear reader, I spent every Monday night between the ages of 4 and 13 in a working men’s club next door to the Sellafield nuclear power station, prancing in pink net. My pointe shoes were always sticking to the beer that had been spilled on the dancefloor over the weekend but as far as I was concerned it was the height of sophistication.

So far, so Billy Elliot. Except that I was rubbish at ballet. I could recite all the positions in a perfect French accent but I couldn’t make my arms look graceful. It didn’t help that from the age of 5 onwards I wore thick glasses with plastic rims in a shade that can only be described as shit-brown and sported a haircut inflicted by my dad because he was the only one who could hold me still and cut at the same time; a technique perfected over many years of shearing sheep.

Once a year we had to go to an old theatre somewhere near Wigan to do exams. I quite liked the journey because we got to eat egg sandwiches on the way, but once we arrived I hated it. You had to go on stage, alone, and a thin, cross-looking woman would bark out commands while you put your arms and legs into the positions, then she would play something classical on the piano whilst you leaped around a bit, then you had to curtsey and squint into the darkness, waiting for a voice that came from somewhere in the stalls, in an accent that was so refined that I would have had trouble understanding what she said, if it weren’t for the fact that she always said the same thing: ‘Pretty dress. Nice smile. Pass.’

Even at the age of seven I knew she didn’t mean it. I had an old tutu that my mother had bought at a church jumble sale and a smile like an old age pensioner because most of my milk teeth had fallen out and not grown back yet. I also knew that when she really thought people were good she said things like ‘stylish footwork’ or ‘lovely arms,’ like she did to Sarah Millington, who had blonde hair and a mother who wore patent leather court shoes. She had one of those pink wrap-around cardigans to wear when she was warming up. I lusted after that cardigan. I lusted after Sarah Millington as well but West Cumbria in the 70s was no place for that kind of thing so I kept quiet.

When I was twelve, as if my new tits weren’t enough of an impediment, our teacher Mrs Wrangles (the love-child of Margot Fonteyn and Freddie Krueger), decided that I wasn’t allowed to wear my glasses during the group dance that we had to perform at the end of every exam session. Apparently they looked wrong. I told her that I was practically blind without them but she wouldn't listen. When I blundered onto that stage I knew there was no way I’d be getting off it again without some travesty of justice taking place, which it did, of course, when I went the wrong way during the pas-de-chat, bashing into, yep, Sarah Milington, natch, bringing us both to the ground.

Soon after that, I started smoking fags and reading books by Sylvia Plath. I listened to The Smiths a lot and bleached my hair. I decided that an artform that was dependent on grace was probably not the best choice for me and that I would be a writer, because then it didn’t matter what you looked like.

These days I do most of my dancing at home, alone, in my green high heels. I've had my eyes lasered so I'm not worried about stumbling.

My sister met Sarah Millington last Christmas at Midnight Mass. She married an accountant, apparently.