Had an odd few days. Gone from feeling absolutely wretched on Thursday night (a combination of factors, not least....wellllll you don't want me to talk about it.....it's a girl thing...but it was more than just that) to feeling pretty cool yesterday (football results notwithstanding).

I had thought I was about to have a quiet weekend. And then I didn't. So that's ok. Friday at work was almost dead, punctuated only by one of the managers astonishment at me being able to do Ken Bruce's pop quiz on Radio 2, and know that Long Haired Lover From Liverpool was a hit in 1972. She now thinks I'm some sort of Rainman when it comes to dates. Which I am a bit.

After a hellish (in the "like hell" sense, not the "aw that's great" Geordie 80s sense of the word) journey on Friday night, I met Sarah and her friend Paul in the Light Bar in Liverpool Street. Sarah and I had been driving each other nuts on Thursday - over terrorist threats, and then fat beauty queens. Bless her, I love her, but sometimes she drives me barmy because she can't see past the end of her own nose. Luckily we both agree that The Light Bar is a wanky hideous nonsense of a place (at the weekends). So many City Suits, wafting their cards at the bar and ordering rounds of 20 drinks. To get in there, I had to queue, which goes against every grain of my being, but I had to find them to get them out of there. Which I did. We had a decent enough night, but Shoreditch makes me feel stupidly uncool, even though I think the idea of Shoreditch cool is wanky. Go figure...

I discovered on the way home that the reason a nearby street had been cordoned off a few weeks ago was because a bloke had been shot, at 4.30pm on a Sunday, or so the police witness appeal board said. Added to the fact that 3 streets away, the pregnant wife of one of the plane terrorist suspects had been picked up on Thursday, I'm starting to wonder about my little corner of Stokey

Yesterday was spent at another Saffa barbecue. I should say Braai really, for that it is what it is. It was at the same house in Balham as the last party - a really lovely little flat, which I would like to own, thank you very much. Mostly different people from last time, but still a few I knew. (Kim had told me two of the guys who were at the party last time, when she met with them recently, exchanged knowing glances on mention of my name and said I had an "earthly sensuality" whatever in gawds name that means. I laughed, it tickled me. She suggested they were dirty buggers for discussing it )

Somebody found a CD with Yeke Yeke on it and the whole place went nuts, it was hilarious. After a discussion on George Michael and his Hampstead Heath antics, Roger found a Greatest Hits, and Kim, Dave, Patrick, Roger and I danced like it wasn't really raining on our barbecue. This upset a couple of the other guests, who couldn't believe we could dance to George Michael - idiot, does he have no soul?? The GM was replaced by some terrible reggae, but a compromise was eventually reached through the medium of The Pixies. The neighbours mustn't have been amused at 30 people singing Debaser at the tops of their voices. Followed later by The Clash's London Calling. I say neighbours - I mean the ones upstairs. The ones next door were 4 absolutely stunning blokes, who we waved at all night (well, me Kim, Patrick and Roger - Dave, being the straight bloke, wasn't  that interested). They still didn't come round.

And so that was my weekend till now.

And it's stopped raining. Sunshine and showers - kind of sums up my life right now.