Yasmina to win

I haven't blogged about the Apprentice at all this season because it's become so old hat and formulaic. But allow me to speculate on the winning duel between Yasmina and Kate.

Firstly, imagine trying to manage either of them. Good luck to whoever on Sir Alan's team ends up with that unenviable task.

I don't find either of them particularly endearing and neither of them would be much fun in the office, but at least Yasmina seems to have some fire in her belly. She's already an entrepreneur, having set up a restaurant with her brother.

What I particularly dislike about Kate is the way she chose to highlight how different she is from other women in her CV. She played to the stereotypes that a lot of people have about women in the workplace and tried to put herself on a pedestal as a woman unusual for being unemotional, not whingeing and moaning, etc. She was so unemotional she was quite happy to stitch up the gormless Philip in the boardroom, with whom she is apparently cavorting.

Well I've got news for you Kate but having managed people for over 20 years, women tend to work harder and get on with the job, whereas some men - not all - have a mission to advance by grovelling to senior managers, and lack empathy and intuition.

I've only had two women managers and one of them was the best manager I ever had in terms of mentoring and coaching (Carol Hindes at BT).

Men can be just as emotional as women. They might not cry in the office but they sulk and become petulant. The upshot of all this is that no-one is perfect, although Kate Walsh likes to think she is. So I'm backing Yasmina. It will be a real battle of two iron ladies, and whoever loses will probably lose because she's got the numpties in her team (James, Ben etc). I fear however that Sir Alan will still go for Kate because there will always be doubt in his mind that Yasmina needs his job.

Apathy rules today, ok?

The year I was 18, there were two elections (General and council), and I was so proud and thrilled to put my X on the ballot papers. I even did some canvassing for one of the parties, so newly minted and optimistic was my political confidence.

I have never not voted, a legacy of Mrs Pankhurst (we owe it to her) and a view that if we're lucky enough to live in a democracy, we must exercise our democratic rights.

But I won't be voting today in the European elections. I believe apathy and an appallingly low turn out will send a better signal to Mr Brown and the rest of the crooks (sorry: MPs) than voting for the opportunists who have sprung up calling themselves UK Independents, Monster Raving Loonies or whatever else. Vote for them if you like but they will be toothless and useless.

It's not just MPs' expenses I'm angry about because that's nothing to do with Europe. But the MEPs are getting a somewhat generous 47% pay rise which hasn't had much attention, That seems overly generous, even if they do get paid in euros, when most of us in the private sector have had pay rises of zero.

As for the MPs and their expenses. Words have occasionally failed me. It's the brass neck of the bufton tuftons who say haughtily they haven't done anything wrong, the system allowed these claims. That says nothing about their moral responsibilities. Duck houses, wisteria trimming, non-existent mortgages, bath plugs and charity donations. It would be a comedy if it wasn't so tragic.

I imagine the turnout today will either be derisory (it's usually poor for the European elections anyway) or the Independents will score massive wins. Whatever the country's verdict, it won't come a minute too soon. The Labour MPs who resigned yesterday and today fell on their swords too late. They should have done the decent thing the minute the Telegraph started its revelations. We're all heartily sick of the lot of them, whichever denomination they are. It's time for a fresh start.

Assorted Ramblings and a Horse Feeds Sighting

My regular reader will know that I used to recount my twice or thrice weekly journeys to Swindon and how I amuse myself by a) looking for certain lorries and b) casting the biggest film of all time in alphabetical order, getting extra points for "forgotten" stars (Debra Winger - pictured - Theresa Russell, Sharon Maiden,) and old stars (Olympia Dukasis, Joan Collins etc) and of course aiming to get a good demographic across the age groups.

Set off on Monday, 5.50am, sunny start, felt quite cheerful. Then: a phone call near Slough. "You realise you've forgotten your laptop?" I'd actually sorted out everything I needed for work the night before and laid all the bags near the front door, but somehow I had forgotten that crucial bag.

So I had to turn round at Slough and come home, which meant going through the new M25roadworks again but on the wrong side ("delays until summer 2010." Thanks guys). And by now, at 8.45am, it was too late to set off again because it would take ages.

Yesterday, laptop went in car first, ahead of the all the other stuff - the coffee mug, blueberries, a card for a baby, magazines for the team, sports bag (it goes with me but doesn't necessarily get used).

And as I toodled through those accursed roadworks between junctions 18 and 19, I saw a rare sighting: a Baileys Equine Horse Feeds lorry. Horse nutrition in the bag. It's the same one each time and it traverses the same route as me - M25, M4. But lately I haven't seen it so assumed the driver had a new schedule. Oh joy, the old nags are getting their oats. All is well with the world!

My mind was pleasantly flitting around from one subject to the next:
1) Strawberries getting less popular? (News item). Not surprised if they measured it up to April. Those ghastly out-of-season apologies for strawberries. I don't know what all the fuss is about with strawberries. My berry of choice is the raspberry. Always delicious, even out-of-season. I'm obsessed with raspberries this year having discovered a particular type at Sainsbury's - Tulameen - which is to die for, with a dollop of Greek yoghurt.
2) Need to remember how to do that delegate thing with SAP before my holiday.
3) What will I have for dinner tonight?
4) Will I get to see Mary Queen of Charity Shops tonight or will J inflict Sharpe on me yet again? (The 2nd TV is out of action.)

All heavyweight intellectual stuff as you can see.

Journey passed uneventfully, 2 hours owing to earlier start time, 2.5 hours on the way home. No further sightings of Bailey's, Dentressangle or Wilkinson's. Didn't to see Mary, but Sean Bean wasn't the culprit. It was a dreadful film called "Fool's Gold" with Matthew McConnaughey who is the same in every picture. Avoid that one folks.

Life will never be the same for poor Susan

As Slumdog Millionaire drew to its close and we sat in a fairly stunned silence, as you do at the end of a marvellous film, I realised we might catch the last 15 minutes of Britain's Got No Talent.

We hardly watched any of it except for 30 mins earlier in the week when we wanted to see what all the fuss was about with Susan Boyle. She must have been very nervous because her voice was tremulous and lacked control for half of the song but then she pulled it together.

Anyway, I hadn't seen Diversity in that brief 30 min snatch, so I was amazed to see a group of dancers had beaten Susan. The boys were thrilled about their win and how it will change their lives, but I think, sadly, their moment of fame will be the Royal Variety Performance and then guest appearances in summer shows on various piers. I can't imagine Simon Cowell will be rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of a group of male dancers.

Of course he will be rubbing his hands at the prospect of Susan Boyle. His work is already half done because she is already a global phenomenon. I expect he and his people have already mapped out what they expect to do with her, and the planned duration of her career. Maybe an album, a live tour? Then dropped like a hot brick.

Susan seems a confident jolly person on TV but the reality, as presented in various tabloids last week, is that she is vulnerable and coping badly with this sudden fame. Four letter outbursts and the police being called was one lurid story. I hope she has good people guiding her because fame the Cowell way is often fleeting and contracts are probably very unfair to the naive performer.

Can't move for poets

I've always claimed to enjoy poetry but if the truth is told, my knowledge is fairly sketchy and concentrated mainly on those we studied at school - Larkin was the highlight - and a few others including Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Wilfred Owen, John Masefield and Paul Durcan.

So, shocking gaps (sorry Mrs Bush) and I certainly won't be making Faber & Faber rich. Coincidentally, upon learning about the BBC's Poetry Season, it seemed that suddenly poets were all around us, to quote Wet Wet Wet. In one issue of the Times, Chris Woodhead mentioned his favourite poet Geoffrey Hill. Alice Oswald was reviewed. Carol Ann Duffy became Poet Laureate. And there wss an obituary of one Ursula Fanthorpe, poet aged 79.

I was ashamed not to know any of those poets, not even Carol Ann, so I have requests flying out on Read It Swap It and I've been perusing Ebay. I've discovered dozens of poetry websites- whatever would we do without the internet! Poem Hunter has a top 500 poems and the top 10 is quite baffling, including a Roger McGough (brother of Lily the Pink?) and a Roald Dahl, and topped by Maya Angelou.

On the subject of the BBC's Poetry Season, there was a programme where children recited poems, won by an Iranian born boy for whom English is a swcond language. Heart warming indeed. But I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to Masefield's Sea Fever ever again. I will always remember the theatrical arm movements and earnest gurning of some of the competitors. "I MUST go down to the seas again".....

Bank holiday mixed fortunes

That's mixed fortunes as opposed to mixed fancies, a la Blenda Blethyn. For J it was a very good weekend. He ran the Hatfield Oak 10k in a record time and believes the older he gets, the faster he gets. So there's hope for everyone.

It was a good weekend too for the cat. She managed to bag both a mouse and a bird yesterday, although I was a bit distraught to find the blue tit still in its death throes. Both were carefully parcelled up and removed (by me).

It was an OK weekend for me: I did manage to get J to go to a carpet store and, thanks to the fact that I generally make up my mind very quickly when shopping, made the purchase in record time so he didn't have time to start huffing and puffing.

But there was also a lot of toil involved: tidying, ironing, shopping, hoovering. Buying and planting some goodies for the garden. Clearing out the spare room. Trying to find homes for everything that was in the spare room, without the house looking like Steptoe's Yard.

To his credit, J did spend most of yesterday in said spare room installing power sockets. Now he is in "research phase heaven," the most prized state of existence for a man. It's when they've been given the go-ahead to research getting a new electrical appliance, and means he can start surfing the web in earnest and looking at all the reviews. This will hopefully keep him so preoccupied I'll be able to watch Springwatch without a fight.

Justice for the abused children in Ireland

It's a terrible, depressing story: endemic sexual abuse across boys' institutions in Ireland. Girls supervised by orders of nuns, chiefly the Sisters of Mercy, suffered much less sexual abuse but frequent assaults and humiliation designed to make them feel worthless.

The enquiry has taken nine years to complete and it's probably too late to bring to justice a lot of the perpetrators.

But let's not forget that these vile inhuman people claimed to be Catholics, so under their own system of beliefs, those who sin burn forever in Hell.

I wonder if they thought about that at the time?

Carol McGiffin's bare bottom

The traffic stats for this blog make amusing reading in terms of the search words that sometimes bring visitors here.

Some poor schmuck arrived after a hopeful search for Miss McGiffin's bare bottom. I once wrote about how she would make a great dinner party guest. It seems she has a tantalizing effect on the male. Many seekers of "Carol McGiffin naked" have also found their way to these pages.

I was sharing some search word secrets recently with Bill Blunt on the tags that really pull in the visitors. Real crowd pleasers. For me it's Elizabeth Hurley's Indian wedding and John Torode. Check out Bill's blog where he shamelessly featured both of them in a most amusing post.

Torode doesn't seem to have a website of his own so hapless searchers find themselves looking at my scathing review of his restaurant, Smiths at Smithfield. As for Hurley, I remember writing about the overkill nature of her nuptials but wasn't expecting it to be such a rich source of page views. My prediction for Hurley is that she and Arun will probably not be together this time next year. Then I shall write about Liz Hurley's Indian divorce.

As for Torode, he was eclipsed somewhat on the recent Masterchef "professional cooks" variation where Michel Roux Jnr joined the "ingredients expert" (grocer) Gregg Wallace. Torode does a good line in smacking his chops and nodding but Roux was more knowledgeable about the technicalities. So I predict Torode may be spending more time in the kitchen.

Other search words that continue to deliver are: Sharon Maiden (who featured in the seminal comedy "Clockwise," and is often Googled by people who've seen the film and wonder what happened to her); single men with cats (as if it's a nasty illness), bottle stalls, and the world's largest horse circa 1968. Whose name still escapes me. If only I could get the answer.

It's a bit depressing really. Hardly Goethe is it? For eternity my blog ramblings will be posted, espousing on such superficialities as the Eurovision song contest, single men with cats and conundrums like why do teapots always leak. Actually I've never written on the latter but it does trouble me, so perhaps this is my next topic de jour.

Eurovision Yawn

For the 3 years in which I have tirelessly kept a weblog, I have become known as an expert on the Eurovision Song Contest. The one blogger bold enough to challenge the voting system and to declare the UK entry rubbish each year.

So my silence on the 2009 extravaganaza has surprised my reader. In fact my brother texted me indignantly to say he had missed the first semi-final, having been unaware it was on - because I hadn't told him via the esteemed pages of this blog.

To tell the truth I will miss the final on Saturday so I have gone cold turkey on the whole thing. I won't be watching the second semi tonight, and I missed the first one.

In terms of our chances, well, the song's a dirge, performed by a screamer, but at least it was written by someone famous so the East Europeans can't sneer. And I gather that Jade Ewen (pictured) has been on a European tour to try to boost our chances. Plus there's a change to the voting so countries will have panels in a return to the good old days, but there will still be a phone vote so the money comes gushing in. And let's face it, BT needs the revenue.

Anyway, let me share this nugget from the first semi-final. The following countries are through!
Turkey
Sweden
Israel
Portugal
Malta
Finland
Bosnia and Herzegovina
Romania
Armenia
Iceland

Unfortunately that does mean Belgium is out. Sorry Kurt and Nicky. Of course we, Germany, France and Spain go through automatically because we pay for the damn thing. The Netherlands feature in tonight's. May the best dirge win.

The Renee Award

As they used to say on "That's Life!, I am indebted to Melissa at Smitten by Britain for awarding me a new blog award, the Renee Award. It was created by Bella in Japan in memory of her friend Renee and is intended to "honour someone who is incredibly inspirational in her intelligent and witty writing."

Well, I will pass the baton to Maddie Grigg at The World from My Window, life in rural Dorset with wit and panache. Maddie and I trained together as journalists in another life and we're seeing each other next weekend for the first time in seven years. There will no doubt be much reminiscing about the house we used to share in Plymouth with its outside toilet (not much fun when it snowed) and the curious shower in a cupboard.

And I will also award the Renee to my friend Lucy at Thoughts and Worries from the Wrong Side of the Hill. Lucy writes in a mouth drooling way about restaurants and food - and thanks to her I discovered the wonderful restaurant Caldesi in Campagna (Bray) which knocks spots off The Fat Duck, also in the same location.

I am perched on a shooting stick

I'm in the forest sitting on a shooting stick (surprisingly comfortable) with a monopod between my legs, waiting for the runners to come by. Perfect weather for the Orion Harriers Summer Handicap, a five mile run. J actually won this two years ago and it was a proud moment when he collected the cup at the prize giving event.

But this year he did too well in another race (came third) so his handicap was reduced. I've advised him to be rubbish at all their other races so he gets the best possible handicap. He was fifth when he came past me, with a mile to go, so a good performance anyway.

I'm not sure how J would judge my performance with the camera, normally his role if he doesn't run. I thought some of them were quite good but he muttered very darkly about how I had positioned myself near horse poo and he had to edit it out of every photo. And some of the runners weren't in focus (sorry Ann) but I blame the camera for that. More photos here.

As always J turned to me at the end and said "they're a nice crowd aren't they? You should join," which is his eternal plea, but there is one drawback: I would have to run. And after being told that I run like Tiny Tim, ie on tip toes, this is as likely as a snowstorm in June.

Silly Commuting - a guide for beginners

I mentioned to J last night that I would be blogging about the cycling hierachy and the way he and cycle-to-workers (male) go to extraordinary lengths to overtake each other.

He was adamant that he shouldn't become a figure of fun in my blog, but I insisted stoutly that he has the right of reply in the comments section.

J is obsessed about his cycling and recently used his cycle-to-work purchase scheme voucher to buy the hybrid bike of his dreams, a Cannonsdale Bad Boy. This decision was made after weeks of vacillating between the Bad Boy and the Boardman, and briefly, another brand whose name escapes me which fell out of favour when the salesman told J it was a "sit up and beg bike, not the high peformer he should be looking at".

Equipped with his new bike J has since purchased some strange and to my mind lethal shoes which attach themselves to the pedals. When he stops, he has to release his feet from the pedals. Some weird sunglasses arrived today. Then there is the fancy gold standard lock, the helmet with a prism mirror that enables him to see who's approaching from behind; shorts with what looks like a nappy in the bottom, and a whole raft of fluorescent bits and pieces, water bottles and ruc sacks of various sizes that he carries his work shirt in.

Apparently there's a known hierachy in the cycling world depending on the type of machine, the way the cyclist is dressed, how hairy their legs are, their age and the way they're cycling. It's known as Silly Commuting Racing and you can check it out here. The whole purpose is basically "to attract birds." J describes himself as an 8 and sometimes comes home cock-a-hoop having raced a 2 ("a roadie with shaved legs") and emerged the victor.

As he painstakingly explained in the King's Head last night, there are certain rules to this informal challenging. You can't go on the pavement (a relief for we pedestrians) and you can't use the traffic lights as an excuse to pull away faster. And very important, you shouldn't show any pain (unless your face looks that way anyway.)

Apparently it doesn't apply to women cyclists unless a) they have hairy legs and b) they're Nicole Cook.

I'm glad to see Gordon Brown is worrying about the cyclists on our roads, but it seems they have a kamikaze streak in their DNA. It's always a relief to me when I hear the ping of J's bell as he signals his arrival when he gets home at night.

Readers: do you spend a fortune on books?

I read all the time. I even carry a "spare" paperback with me to ward off the nightmare situation of being in any sort of delay with no reading matter. At night while J watches Sharpe endlessly, I read.

Not only do I read a lot, but I read very quickly. People are sceptical about this but I stoutly contest that if we both took a GCSE on the subject matter, I would do as well as the plodder who takes weeks to finish a book.

I study reviews in the papers and sometimes order a book based on what I've read, without having seen the book in question. This quite often applies to hardbacks I just Have to Have, the most recent being The Book of the Interwar and Edwardian House, Wetlands (couldn't wait for the paperback) and The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work.

The trouble with all this reading is that it's an expensive hobby. But let me share my three Top Tips for getting hold of books and reducing your EU Book Mountain without spending a fortune.

1. Swap your books. I do this informally via colleagues at work. I hit a rich seam in Nicky but unfortunately she's in Belgium and our travel restrictions mean that we rarely see each other now. I have a huge pile of her books to return. I also use Read It Swap It, an excellent UK swapping website.

I'm now a "super swapper" on there, having swapped over 100 books. I don't keep my book list activated all the time - only when I want a particular book or if I'm starting my holiday pile. For a two week holiday, I need a book a day, unless it's a huge book, so I start gathering books and piling them up in readiness.

I can't bear books that look shabby or well thumbed so I only opt for swaps where the book is described as "like new" or in excellent condition with no damage. I once went for a book described as "acceptable" and it was so disgusting it went straight in the bin.

It's amusing to put a hot new book on there and see what a feeding frenzy you start. Be very picky then about the book you want in return - you'll have plenty of choice.

If there's a book you want, and it's just come out in paperback or airport edition, add it to your wishlist and then you'll be notified when someone has it to swap.

Make sure you get very good quality wrapping supplies. I recently bought some cut price brown paper and tape and one of my books was damaged in transit. I always use bubble wrap on hardbacks because their edges pierce brown paper.

And on Read It Swap It, make sure you communicate to the swappee if you're going to be late posting. People can get surprisingly antsy about this and hand out a bad rating. I've had a couple of "oh no!" moments where I realised I no longer have a book that I've just agreed to swap, but I find that if you're quick to make contact and offer them another book, people are satisfied.

2. Sell your books. I use Amazon to sell pristine hard backs. Quite often, reading the book once is enough for me. I don't need to keep it. So I sell it on Amazon. A very easy process and you'd be surprised what prices certain books can command.

3. Give them away. I like the idea of Book Crossing, where you leave books on public transport and in cafes and track their progress, but I find it a bit irksome having to buy the labels and register the books. Instead I just take them to the charity shop, although some of them don't like getting books so you have to make sure you choose the right one.

I'm conscious there's a fourth option which is go to the library, but while I used to do this, I've never joined the local library. I was put off when they insisted on three forms of identification. I'd taken my driving licence and passport and couldn't believe they wanted to see a utility bill as well. But my mum is an avid library goer and when I'm going down there for a visit, she accumulates her own pile for me.

Much needed revisionism for Anne of Cleves

I have long been fascinated by Henry VIII's fourth wife, Anne (or more correctly, Anna) of Cleves. The famous Holbein portrait, which captivated the fat middle-aged king, hangs in my dining room much to J's chagrin.

Most people know the story: enthralled by the portrait, Henry agreed to marry Anna, a German princess, without ever having seen her. She came over to England in a long journey, was rapturously received by the public, and then rejected by Henry for being ugly, smelly and dull witted, as told by various historians.

I have always pondered though on the fact that Anna stayed in England, was given several palaces and continued to dine with Henry. In those times of political skullduggery and intrigue she must have had great skills of tact and diplomacy.

When Henry abruptly divorced her, she wasn't sent home but as his "sister" was given lavish homes including Hever, which belonged to one of her predecessors Ann Boleyn. She made sure she didn't offend Henry by sending him a sweet note after the divorce which flattered him to think she actually loved him.

Anna became an expert cook and gardener, befriending Henry's two daughters Mary and Elizabeth. She even graciously received Katherine Howard, the foolish teenage girl who followed her, and became a confidante and friend of Henry.

She was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, not hidden away, as befits a queen. And she remained, along with Katherine of Aragon, the only queen of Henry's that the English people loved.

So I was thrilled to read a book by one of my favourite writers, Mavis Cheek, who explores Anna's life and the injustices served upon her by the mostly misogynistic
male historians, one of whom saddled her with the description "Flanders Mare".

As Cheek recounts in the novel Amenable Women, partly spoken by Anna, she had been very positively described and received by dozens of courtiers and ambassadors before she was rejected by Henry. She very quickly learnt English and some of the skills needed at court as she travelled over to England. She was equally as repulsed by Henry as he appears to have been by her. He was vastly obese by this stage and had a suppurating leg. A far cry from the Henry served up by Jonathan Rhys Meyers in The Tudors.

The Holbein portrait of Anna is one of the most marvellous pictures, full of hidden language and signs. It is far more evocative to me than the portrait of the Mona Lisa which only draws our eye because she is missing her eyebrows.

I hope that future historians will start to get the story right as far as Anna of Cleves is concerned. She was the great survivor, the queen who kept her head despite displeasing the king, and who went on to win the hearts of many. Sadly she died at 40, but as Cheek's novel explains, she was honoured 40 years later by the elderly Queen Elizabeth. A wonderful read.

Uproar in the allotments

If you think Facebook and Twitter are the current big thing, well you're sadly mistaken. It would seem that gardening, allotments, bee keeping and chickens are what's hip and happening. I've lost track of the number of people who have mentioned they indulge in one or more of the above. I would love one of those cute little Egloos, but so would Molly (pitured). Bee keeping will be my retirement pastime. Let's hope bees are not extinct by then.

Gardening does delight me, or rather, the buying of plants and containers and the photographing of results. Digging and weeding is less appealing, as is pest control (spraying, slug removal etc). My gran used to snip the slugs in half with a pair of scissors but I'm far too squeamish for that. I'd like to say that I use nematodes but you can't beat a good handful of slug pellets.

With gardening becoming so trendy, there is naturally quite a lot of snobbery. Apparently a lot of the old guard, who use Latin names when snapdragons would suffice, are up in arms about the new format of Gardener's World, where we are now shown how to sow seeds and create raised beds, and, gasp, there was even a feature on gnomes.

My solution is very simple. Keep Gardener's World the way it's always been, for the serious gardeners, and branch out with some new gardening progammes for novices. There will be more of us growing vegetables, so why not get in early?
My vote is to bring back Charlie Dimmock. We haven't seen nearly enough of her lately. Just Charlie, though. We don't need Tommy Walsh, decking or water features. A few veg, some raised beds and how to grow blueberries and goji berries would be very appealing. And maybe one or two gnomes.

TV cruelty

I chanced upon the first programme on ITV of "Britain's Biggest Loser," and boy do I wish I hadn't.

In Victorian times people paid money to watch bearded ladies, the morbidly obese or people with afflictions like The Elephant Man. We now use TV as our medium to gasp and point, but now they don't get paid, unless you count the miserly £10k prize for whoever loses the most weight. And we call it progress?

The concept of the show is just awful. These poor people have heart rending stories like having footprints on their skirts because of being kicked in the street, and not going on holiday because of the potential embarrassment of aeroplane seats.

Instead of being treated with dignity and respect, and given counselling to overcome addiction, they're bullied and humiliated by two ferocious personal trainers, one of whom screams "you've treated your body like a dustbin all your life and now your body says it's payback time!" When they're weighed, the men have to take their shirts off to give the viewers additional titillation.

There doesn't seem to be much in the way of nutritional advice either. It's all about gruelling 4 hour training sessions resulting inevitably in vomiting and hospitalisations that allow the trainers to sigh and roll their eyes about the weakness and sloth of their charges.

Of course at the end of eight weeks, when one or two of them 'triumph,' it'll be smiles and hugs and talk of journeys.

But eight weeks is nothing --- if you're 26 stone you may lose, what, five? You're still be morbidly obese. And it's not long enough to handle the psychological issues or to change the habits of a lifetime.

Michael Parkinson was wrong when he wrote scathingly about Jade Goody representing all that was bad about modern TV. It's shows like Britain's Biggest Loser, which vilify and allow others to feel smug. Jade may not have known where East Angular was but she made a better living than she ever would have done as a dental nurse. For some of the people on Britain's Biggest Loser, this crass show may be their only chance to live beyond 30.

We should be looking seriously at ways to stem the obesity epidemic. Top of my list would be reinstating cookery lessons and PE in schools and stopping retailers and fast food outlets from supersizing everything.

Top five footballers

Now here's a turn-up. Curious Girl Writes About Football shock. I was intrigued when a friend, Fred Landergren, published his Top Five Footballers of All Time on Facebook.

I had a think about it and came up with: George Best, Ruud Gullit, Thierry Henri, Sepp Maier (pictured now, aged 65), Paul Gascoigne. Now I wouldn't say any of them are on the list because of their footballing skills per se. No, it's more of a charisma rating. I couldn't comment on footballing skills because I find football so deathly dull.

It wasn't always so.

Back in the radio years, I was a bit of a pioneer because I was one of the first women to broadcast about football. The reporters' box at Home Park (ground of Plymouth Argyle FC) was an all-man zone until I turned up, and the first time I did my tentative first report, there was a sudden hush as they all listened to me. Over time they came to accept "the bird," and even to share the half-time broken biscuits with me.

I started doing the match reports at home matches and the Thursday "what's the team news?" report. I got to know the two managers of that time, Bobby Moncur and John Hore and even "broke" the news of Moncur's sudden departure.

I was sent to Plainmoor (Torquay United) to interview their new manager, Dave Webb. He kept me waiting for ages, on a Sunday when my shift had finished, so when he breezed in saying "do you know anything about football love?" I testily replied (mindful of their position at the bottom of the table) "yes, do you?"

Anyway, the football reporting came to an abrupt halt when PAFC reached the semi-finals of the FA cup and I was bounced from doing any match reporting in favour of The Guys.

Phrases like "sick as a parrot" or "game of two halves" were never to fall from my lips again. And I haven't watched the game ever since.

A great time and a great day

London Marathon, the aftermath

Firstly, J has told me to 'fess up and report that he was right, the elite runners' drinks station manned by his running club IS a brilliant vantage point.

I found it with no problems this year thanks to Google Street Map.

There were just a few elite runners' drinks to deal with, and they're simply laid out on the table, not handed to the runners (phew). Some of them have all manner of decoration to make them stand out to their gasping owner. This extravagant tinsel number unfortunately went unclaimed.

Sorting out the drinks
I was able to see J twice from this position and because he knew where I was, he waved and danced around, looking slightly unhinged in some of the photos.

He did a great time considering it was hot and he'd been injured a few weeks ago, and even managed to beat his brother-in-law Don, below, a hot shot runner, by a minute.

After seeing J the second time, at 35km, we then set off for Horseguards and the "family repatriation area". J had already finished before we got there and was leaving me breathless voicemails giving me different locations for his whereabouts. But eventually we were reunited and the final picture taken with the medal.

J said (somewhat inscrutably): "I was in a great pen and we had a fast start. I kept my pace and finished higher in the field than I ever have before. The pressure's off now that I've done my four hours and the world's top 10, so I just wanted to enjoy it".

He's now having a snooze before hitting the Royal Forest tonight for a few well earned beers with the other finishers. Well done to everyone who crossed the finish line!

London Marathon day

It's the big day! J has been gorging on pasta for several days like a goose being fattened up for foie gras. I've just dropped him off at the running club where they're getting a coach to the start.

His bag is packed, he's got his number, and I've activated the SMS runner tracking service on my phone.

I'm pretty confident that this year R and I will find the elite runners' drinks station where we will see him at 14 and 21 miles. I followed the actual route from Shadwell DLR station via Google Street Map. So that's one reason why it's useful.

You might catch a glimpse of me if you're watching the race on TV because the elite runners' drinks stations are separate to the normal drinks stations and if the TV cameras are focusing on the elite runners, they're usually out in the lead (the nature of the beast). I will be wearing a bright pink coat and jumper.

The weather is good for spectating - it's a sunny but cold start, with temps forecast to reach 17 to 19. A bit too warm for the runners though. Better than last year, when it rained quite heavily and I couldn't put my umbrella up.

Time now to make the sandwiches.

Back with photos later.

Clothes Crisis

6am: woken by pitious miaows of cat outside bedroom window, on roof of lean-to. Foolish beast, she refused to come in last night. "Out ratting," suggested J, whose view on the cat is that it belongs outside at all times.

J had a day off, getting ready for the London Marathon on Sunday. He rushed off to the expo as soon as it opened to get his number and to peruse the overpriced London 09 branded sportswear. It's the only time he goes into a clothes shopping frenzy. I have seen him buy, oh, three sports tops and as many as five pairs of socks.

He forgot to get me any socks, even though I texted him. (To which he will reply: "But I got you some dirt!" And yes, he did buy me a bag of compost which he always mysteriously calls "dirt" so Mustn't Grumble I suppose, even if it would be up there on the Chris Evans list of strange presents).

Meanwhile I was preparing to go into town (London) for a meeting and having a fully fledged Clothes Crisis. These are particularly likely at crossover times, eg when the seasons are changing or the one or two days that constitute summer are happening earlier than expected. Eeek! Suddenly it feels too warm for opaque tights and black, but it's not warm enough for the full summer panoply of cream, florals, bare legs and exposed toes.

The crisis was compounded, ladies, by all my trousers mysteriously becoming half mast overnight. I had several pairs shortened recently at the very helpful dry cleaner's, but I fear they mistook centimetres for inches and now my trousers are all the cropped variety, which as Trinny and Susannah will tell you, do nothing for those below 5'11.

Anyway, eventually I set off in "greige" suit and the brown high heeled shoes I told Wendy I never wear to London (too uncomfortable), and resolved to go shopping tomorrow. Yes, there's nothing for it - Bluewater it must be. Wish me luck!

Chef Talk

I don't know about you but I'm finding The Apprentice a tad dull this year. Do you know, last night I didn't even watch it...I was with Hell's Kitchen and the surprisingly touching departure of Bruce Grobelaar. You may have noticed that I haven't been blogging about each episode of The Apprentice as I did previously (hello Katie!).

It's just too much the same. Same challenges, same type of people and same conclusion.

Having mentioned Hell's Kitchen I'm staying with kitchens and chefs to report on one programme I am enjoying, The Great British Menu. It's a delightful little daily soupcon.

The premise is: the nation's finest chefs compete to honour the men and women from all three forces serving in Afghanistan with a glorious homecoming dinner that captures the authentic tastes of home.

This week's Northern Ireland regional heat is particularly fascinating. The two competing chefs are worlds apart. Clare Smyth is head chef at the Michelin three starred Restaurant Gordon Ramsey in London, and Danny Millar runs a gastro pub called Belloo House. He was the winner of this heat last year, but this is Clare's first time and her classical training and use of luxurious ingredients shows her pedigree.

The fascinating thing to see will be the judging tomorrow. Even Clare seemed thrown by Danny's delicious looking (and apparently tasting) steak, oyster and ale pie yesterday. I would have preferred it to her spring lamb on a solid bed of Irish stew. Tonight it's desserts and he is preparing an interpretation of rhubarb and custard (not a favourite of mine), while Clare is preparing an intricate Irish coffee. That's more up my street.

Marathon Madness

This time next Sunday I will not be sat complacently at the PC in my dressing gown. Oh no. I will be fearlessly traversing the Docklands Light Railway to find my vantage point for J's 19th marathon here in London.

Of all the marathons he's done - and they include the world's top 10 - London ranks as My Worst One.

Last year he attempted to install me and R (his daughter) at an elite runners' drinks station, courtesy of his running club. The logic was that we'd only have to hand out a few elite drinks at the start of the marathon and then we'd get to see him twice and have a great vantage point for pictures.

Problem was, I was vaguely pointed in the direction of the drinks station and I never found it. We found many other drinks stations but not this particular one. And by then it was time for the marathon so it was too late. From my POV we had an excellent situation near a pub, which meant there were Quavers and Facilities on tap.

But J was furious and still brings it up to this day. So next week I fear we will set off at 5am just so he can deposit us at the drinks station. And then I will be terrified that I'll drop the special drink for Paula Radcliff or the other elite runners.

After we've done the elite drinks bit, we're under strict instructions to make our way to the finish, where we've very little chance of seeing anything, and then to meet him in the "family reunion area," which you can find easily because of a strong prevailing smell of embrocation.

We go through a curious ritual where I have to wrest his clothes off and force feed him bananas and Gatorade, and depending on his time, he will either smile and do a little dance or bark at me "hurry up! Stop messing around!" when I take the traditional photo of him with his medal.

I've often contemplated doing the marathon myself just to get revenge. Let J find out how tiring it is skimming thousands of runners to identify him as he trundles by for a fleeting second! And then to make sure he takes a perfectly focused picture. And not just once, but in several locations!

But after two jogging sorties in the past fortnight, I am now nursing Runner's Knee (which made J snort with laughter) so I'm unlikely to be challenging him in the marathon stakes.

Thrilling discoveries

It's been a while since I had a good old nose round the blogosphere. Lately it's been enough just to read the updates of a handful of my blogging friends (some of whom I've never met, but they seem like friends). A year or so ago though, I was an avid surfer, forever scanning Technorati and other sites to try to find intelligent and humorous UK blogs.

Well, yesterday I stumbled across all kinds of riches, simply by visiting one of my blogging pals, checking out her blogging pals and so on. It's like peeling an onion.

So let me introduce you to:
1) Private Secret Diary or, Norfolk village life exposed (a rival for Maddie Grigg). Latest posting: "I go to the village shop".
2) Menopausal Old Bag, who writes beautifully but is, darn it, far too well known in the blogosphere with dozens of followers and awards;
3) Non-working monkey, who lives in French Canada but is English. I love his "genuine plaudits" which include "Daddy wants to spank the monkey", Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, and "I would," Nigella Lawson;
4) The Gossamer Woman, whose posting about how she visited her grandparents, made an effort to look nice but was told that short hair on a woman was manly, made me smile because it's exactly what my grandma used to say to me. "I don't know why you don't have a perm" she would say, and now I cringe to think that it's the type of thing I long to say to teenagers who have spent hours straightening their hair.

I also tapped into a rich seam of granny bloggers: Nuts in May and Granny on the Web.

These blogs are so well written and in many cases amusing. It's a privilege to get these insights into the lives of other people.

Groundhog Day

I must confess to never having seen the film Groundhog Day but I know roughly what it's about and today, Easter Monday, was my Groundhog Day.

I'm not saying it hasn't been a great day: a walk in the wood, finding that the secret bluebell wood is in full flower, and having lunch at a country pub.

But it's exactly what we did last year, as I created two scrapbook layouts at the time.

The trouble is, J can only really tolerate one bank holiday and a weekend. Two bank holidays seems excessive for his puritan streak. Any suggestions of going to Southend or dare I mention it, Hampton Court to see the new Henry VIII exhibition, and I get a wince of Victor Meldrew proportions. Neither was he keen to wield a paint brush, tidy out the shed or go up in the loft (all manly pursuits).

But getting him to go for a walk to the Owl and to check on the progress of the bluebll wood, well he was out like a shot.

I did make sure I was dressed differently for this year's pictures.

The best time of year

Easter is a lovely time of the year. Two delicious days off seem to creep up on us without much warning and it usually augers the start of warm weather; the opening of attractions and stately homes for the summer season; the smell of grass and a feeling of optimism.

I much prefer Easter to Christmas. Easter has not been spoiled by over-commercialism, despite Sainsbury's efforts to only stock the giant Easter eggs this year - they are determined to supersize everything, at the expense of the nation's girth, to boost their profits.

Easter doesn't have the "gimme gimme" baggage which Christmas was blighted with many years ago. It's a relaxing peaceful time.

I often wish Easter had more traditions going for it other than hot cross buns, Easter eggs and simnel cakes (I bought my mum a wonderful cake from the famous Betty's of Harrogate). I saw a beautiful Easter wreath in one of the magazines but unfortunately it has sold out. And I regret the fact that religious TV programming has all but disappeared. No wonder the kids of today have no idea about why they get two days off. Schools are forever trying to be so "PC" that any traditions or religious or cultural nuances attached to this country are frowned upon.

So whatever you're doing this Easter, may it be going to church, gardening, crafting (!) or trying to keep querulous kids amused, have fun!

Mind the Gap

I have long been fascinated by the architecture of Britain's houses. Not the "Grand Designs" type of architect designed one-offs, but the roads of terraced houses, Victorian and Edwardian houses; the different gables, the stained glass, the tiles. I've been looking for a book that explains all the history and traditions for some time and have finally found one, a new book, The Book of The Edwardian and Interwar House by Richard Russell Lawrence.

Our house dates from the 20s (or so I thought, but a neighbour told me they were flattened in the war and rebuilt in the 1950s). I was thrilled to find similar looking houses in the Interwar section known as "tooth and gap" houses. These were built speculatively in developing areas and feature overhanging eaves above bay windows. The plan of the house was asymmetrical but, built as a semi-detached pair, it developed into the pattern which would become known as "tooth and gap".

Despite its more recent heritage our house retains some of the original stained glass in a side window (pictured).The last owners attempted to replicate the design when they selected new windows but the result is not very sympathetic.

There are no other original features except for a ceiling rose. I would love to turn back the clock and reinstate a black and white tiled hallway and appropriate fireplaces, but given that the "drawing room" now looks like an extension of Comet, (J's description) I fear this would also look unsympathetic.

(NB. On the subject of "Mind the Gap," do you think the woman who was hired to deliver the message in the tube stations gets paid royalties?).

The Barack & Michelle Show

What a week, with the G20 Summit in London and pictures everywhere of Michelle Obama hugging people and (joyously) upstaging the uptight Carla Bruni. Not to mention the Queen and her celebrated dismissal of Italy's Berlusconi who apparently screeched "Mr Obama! I'm Silvano Berlusconi!"

The Obamas seem an amazing couple, so warm and friendly and always knowing the right thing to say. When she met a young woman with cancer, and her young children, Michelle immediately pulled them close for a hug.

I hope they didn't get the wrong impression of the UK with the protesters and riots in the City. It was mainly an excuse for the crusties or anarchists, whatever they call themselves, to have a go at the police. When you saw the close-ups of bloodied and snarling faces it looked very much like the scene in I Am Legend when the zombies are trying to break into his car.

The moment when Gordon Brown and Barack Obama took the stage together in a press conference looked very much like that scene from Love Actually where Hugh Grant (UK Prime Minister) suddenly stopped playing best friends with the US President (Billy-Bob Thornton) and said Britain wouldn't be pushed around. Fortunately Mr Brown didn't go off script but he was smiling a lot (most unusual) and YES IT SUITS YOU MR BROWN DO IT MORE OFTEN.

Sarah Brown came across really well: she has a natural touch and seems like the sort of woman you'd like to have tea or dinner with. A far cry from silly Cherie Blair. Her dinner party for the leaders' WAGs was criticised because of the "bizarre" collection of ladies who attended, but I thought choosing some of her favourite women, among them Naomi Campbell, Martha Lane Fox, Dame Kelly Holmes, JK Rowling and Dame Tannii Grey Thompson - was an inspired idea. Who would you have chosen? I would have invited Vivienne Westwood, Zandra Rhodes, Joan Collins, Lily Allen, Doris Lessing, Carol Vorderman and Rebecca Adlington.

Here In My Car

Friday afternoons are never a joy on the M25 so I made sure I left early yesterday (3.40pm) for my journey from Swindon to home (East London).

Finally got home at 10.30pm.

As you've probably guessed, there was an accident on the M25 and junctions 17 to 20 were closed. Unfortunately I was trapped on the stretch between 16 and 17 and it took about 4 hours to creep along the 3.1 miles to leave the motorway.

To start with the sun was shining and people were relatively good humoured, with men doing that mir cat thing they always do, leaving their cars and wandering around looking puzzled. Then people started cruising along the hard shoulder to try to get out of the jam - very bad. Plus a lot of cars started over heating, with owners attempting to pour in the contents of little bottles of water.

I was tempted to get a book out of the boot but instead listened to the radio. Simon Mayo was OK but after 7pm on Radio 2 you go into a hiatus. Desmond Carrington or Lee Mead from Joseph or some such nonsense. The Archers was entertaining although I never listen to it normally so had no clue really about the story lines. Then there was a play which was very bad about an Australian detective. I gave up on that.

Finally got to junction 17 and the sat nav was telling me to go back on the M25 anti clockwise. I ignored it to start with but then thought about it and agreed that she was right, it was probably the best way to go. Plus I was too exasperated with the nose-to-tail traffic. So I turned round and managed to get home in an hour. Treated myself to the programme about the rescue of Woolworth's in Dorchester ("Wellworths") which was very enjoyable. Memo to self: try to avoid the office on Fridays.

Get thin: look old

A doughty old bird said a few years ago that when you get older you have to choose between your face and your ass. It may have been Elizabeth Taylor, it may have been Barbara Cartland.

Anyway, whoever said it was bang on the money. A report by the Million Women Study says the ideal body mass index (BMI) of a woman of the average height of 5ft 4 ins is about 24. This would mean weighing about 10 stone. (Apologies to my Euro chums for not using KGs but you know what laggards we Brits are when it comes to weights and measures.)

Meanwhile research published in the papers today says that losing 10 pounds can age a woman over the age of 40 by four years.

It's all to do with losing fat in the cheeks. According to Dr Bahaman Guyuron of Chase Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio, the study involving pairs of twins found that a BMI higher by four points was found to result in a younger appearance of between two and four years.

Now if you're Madonna you can achieve a very low BMI and still retain some flesh in the cheeks courtesy of Restylane or whatever else is pumped in there. But over time it starts to look lumpy and your face changes shape. And doesn't it now seem really vain and shallow to try to prevent ageing when we're in recession?

I am working hard to shed the half a stone that creeps on in the winter - but I am giving up any ambitions of being a size eight or 10. If there's a choice to be made between looking younger (and fatter), or being skinny (and haggard), I know which one I would take.

Breathtaking stupidity of Jacqui Smith

As if Gordon Brown hasn't got enough to contend with this week with the G2O Summit and global warming, here is the ridiculous Jacqui Smith and her buffoon of a husband getting into hot water yet again and facing ridicule in the papers.

Apparently he downloaded two porn films and claimed for them as part of her Internet expenses.

It's not the first time this foolish pair have been in the news for the wrong reasons. She claimed her sister's nearby house was her main house of residence and was claiming for that, and a few years ago he was exposed for sending letters to the press in praise of his wife.

She now has no credibility at all and as such should be sacked from a government position.

You would think that after her first indiscretion with expenses, she would have scrutinised future claims with a fine tooth comb. Apparently her husband did the expenses and she signed them off. Does this slapdash attitude apply to her work as well?

And it's no good MPs squealing about privacy issues with their expense claims being exposed in the press. Thank goodness for a free press is all I can say. Who knows what else they would try to get away with!

Stroppy Fern shoots herself in foot

I am not a fan of TV presenter Fern Britton for reasons I will explain below. She was all over the papers yesterday having walked out of her "This Morning" job because she discovered she gets paid a lot less than Philip Schofield.

I imagine she thought that if she threw a strop the powers-that-be would offer her more money and beg her to come back. I fear she is sadly deluded and may have shot herself in the foot. She will indeed be "spending more time with the family" and hopefully not raiding the biscuit tin now that her gastric band has enabled her to lose all that blubber.

There are very few TV presenters over the age of 40 - Fern was an exception. Fiona Bruce, a very presentable 42, got shuffled off to Antiques Roadshow and how often do we see Carol Smillie, Carol Vorderman, Anthea Turner, Angela Rippon, Selina Scott etc etc these days? Sometimes they crop up in those ghastly daytime shows that no-one watches but prime time? Not when the TV moguls consider a woman's prime is her 20s or 30s. I would suggest they look at some current trends - the success of Mamma Mia for example - and at the powerful women in cinema and music who are reversing some of the stereotypes: Julia Roberts (42), Halle Berry, Madonna (50), Tina Turner (late 60s).....

Anyway, back to Fern and the reason why I find her fake and false with her faux sympathy and smiles.

A few years ago she was a presenter on BBC Spotlight in Plymouth and I was a gauche reporter on BBC Radio Devon.

The TV people were somewhat sniffy about sharing "Broadcasting House" in Plymouth with the radio goons but we called them the dead legs because they had the easiest job ever: tearing off the stories we had filed through ringing the police, going through council minutes and so on.

Anyway, on Children in Need Night a swimming pool had been provided in the garden and the idea was to film some silly stunts and show them live on TV.

I borrowed a Plymouth Argyle strip and gathered pledges to be thrown into the pool. I went into the studio to tell lovely Alan Dedicoat and Fern all about it - they were doing a Children in Need radio special.

The interview went OK and I left the studio. I then heard Fern tell the nation (well, one or two people in Barnstaple) that "she had never seen such big thighs."

My dip in the pool that very cold night was blighted by the thought of my gargantuum thighs and Fern's cruel comment.

Well over the years she got very fat and I was pretty smug on the thighs subject - but now of course she is off loading the weight. But she's out of work now and the spectre of Cash in the Attic or a return to Ready Steady Cook looms. Not so good, eh Fern?

Never tell Sir Alan you're a lawyer or strategist

Poor Anita Shah. Not only the token lawyer in The Apprentice line-up , but condemned also with the word "strategy" in her job title. She was a lamb to the slaughter.

Anita was the first candidate to be told "you're fired" in week one's show.

She had tried to take the Lee McQueen approach (last year's winner) of keeping her head down, aware that everyone else on the girls' team was bickering and bitching. Unfortunately her dissociation meant that she applauded the girls for being on budget when they spent £197 on cleaning materials for their car wash business, when actually the objective was to spend as little as possible.

Anita had initially tried to convince us that she had the full rainbow of skills.

With the lawyer/strategist gone, the next vulnerable candidates are the estate agent and the teacher. The teacher has already claimed that he looks posh and talks posh (although with a regional accent - does that count as posh?) and his pupils told a newspaper that he's the vainest man on earth. So I'm interested to see how he will keep order over the arsey group of men who won't want to be treated as if they're in a classroom.

While the women snip and bitch, the men always form traditional lines of rivalry based on "alpha male" and snobbery. Hence a stockbroker will always look down his nose at an estate agent or sales manager. We saw plenty of this jostling, with contemptuous sneering about certain people's accents.

As an aside, in the car this morning I mused over candidates I could remember from the previous four years of shows. The ones I remember are Saira Khan, Trey, Ruth Badger, Lucinda and Rafe. The winner of the first series, Tim Nice but Dim, crops up occasionally on chat shows but was so unassuming he is completely unmemorable. I don't remember the name of the young keen guy who beat Kristine a couple of years ago. Michelle Dewberry I hardly remember.

A veritable pot pourri of miscellany

A visit to the ancestral home
Spent a long weekend in Plymouth, the old ancestral home. Made sure J stayed behind as he is not too keen on monks, cream teas, craft shops and garden centres, all of which feature heavily in a stay at mum's. All very enjoyable. I bought a hanging basket, a bag full of "stash" (crafting delights), some fancy pickle for J and some stuff for washing the paving. Oh and I put on three pounds thanks to two Easter eggs and other sundry fare.

(You know, I never thought I would become the type of person to have a hanging basket. When I wore razor blade earrings in the punk era, I despised mortgages, hanging baskets and slippers, and now I've done all three).

One of the lowlights for me was the Dancing on Ice final. Mum loves this show but I gave up after about 10 minutes of the new series. The music! And somehow it seems a very tatty, tawdry and feeble version of Strictly Come Dancing. But I couldn't part her from the final so gritted my teeth for the duration (or so it seemed - two hours!).

Torvill & Dean reprised Bolero for the umpteenth time, and then we met the three finalists. I didn't have a clue who any of them were. "Oh he was in the X Factor. He didn't win," said Mum helpfully. This character, a Ray Quinn, went on to win. She wasn't sure about the woman, suggesting that perhaps she was in Girls Aloud, but I knew that wasn't the case. The other chappie was a complete mystery. "Oh Donal's lovely, but he won't win," was about as much as I got from Mrs Malaprop.

Google Street View - ace
I have surveyed our house from every angle on the marvellous new Google Street View. I can report that they came on a Thursday, around lunchtime, because the recycling box and wheelie bin are both out the front, empty; I wasn't at home and it may have been late autumn because the roses look very profuse but lacking in blooms.

Various n'er do wells have been bleating on about burglars being able to case the joint thanks to Google, but all it means is that burgling, like most occupations, is now enjoying the fruits of the computer age. All I can say is that Google Street View uses an awful lot of servers and for that we are very grateful.

Lions and Apprentices
I'm looking forward to a programme tonight on Five about a lion cub that two men bought from Harrods in the late 60s, when you could buy anything there. The lion became too big to be a pet so it was released in the wild, thanks to the Born Free Foundation. A year after it had been released, the owners were reunited. We saw the clip on TV last night. It was very touching, as they called the lion's name (Christian) and he came bounding over, very much like a loving domestic cat but a lot bigger.

And of course The Apprentice is back again this week. Check out this blog for a weekly update! I usually have Sore Misgivings about the format (hackneyed?) and the candidates (chosen for TV and unlikely business moguls?) but it soon hooks you back in. So I will be blogging about it, yah boo sucks Snurgie Boy.

The ski-ing Ghanaian

Still in the vein of looking for good news, it was heart warming to hear this morning about the Ghanaian ski team: a Milton Keynes trained 34 year old known as the Snow Leopard.

Kwame Nkrumah-Acheampong has just qualified for the winter Olympics in Vancouver in 2010 in the giant slalom. It will be the first time Ghana has ever been represented in the winter Olympics.

Remarkably, Kwame, was born in Glasgow, only took up skiing six years ago, and for the first two years, only skiied indoors at Milton Keynes. He has competed at the highest level.

Kwame recently completed his Masters in Travel & Tourism Management in the UK. You can read more about him here. I'm looking forward to seeing him in action in Vancouver.

Reasons to be Cheerful

I am but a simple soul. I can be made happy by the slightest of happenings. My three latest reasons to be cheerful are:
1) I discovered a very good website for contact lenses; you don't need to send your prescription and my daily disposables are now £15 - gasp - a month cheaper than when I was going to the place we should have gone to. This doesn't include aftercare and so on but unless you're a numpty you have a regular check-up anyway.
2) I got the new spring catalogue from Kettlewell Colours. I had "my colours done" many years ago, free of charge as it happens because I was a reviewing journalist then, and I am a clear Spring. I know a lot of people think it's bunkum but actually the spring colours do suit me best. Kettlewell produces great quality tops, t-shirts and sportswear in the colours of the four seasons, many of which you can't easily find. I have immediately ordered a fleece in Kelly green and tops in rose pink and leaf green. Their tops wash brilliantly and don't lose their shape.
3) When cleaning out my car, I was thrilled to find the car key I lost about 8 months ago. I've hunted high and low for it and colleagues gave me dire warnings that those keys cost around £200. Anyway, there it was, glinting away under my seat. So now I have a spare again!
That's me set up for the week. What good news have you had? I'm bored with all the bad news......

The scandal of the Big Eat

Now you would think that with all the fuss around obesity in Britain that fast food and snack manufacturers would be looking to their laurels and trying to do their bit (within reason - they obviously depend on lardasses for their profits).

Not Walker's Crisps, who are determined to make us buy their supersized bags, The Big Eat and Grab Bag. I like the occasional packet of Quavers at a modest calorie cost of 89. But in my local Sainsbury's, they only have the large bags. And as every dieter knows, there is a huge difference between 89 calories and whatever the bloater sized bag is (I am too appalled to look it up). I tried Sainsbury's petrol station next door but same story.

Meanwhile, I noticed in Reading Services last week that they only had Grab Bags.

I realise that Walkers have "low fat" varieties but they taste like cardboard, which is why I have downsized from normal crisps to Quavers.

I appreciate it's doing wonders for Walkers' margins, but they should be pulled up. Or at least if retailers insist on stocking supersized snacks, they should stock the normal variants too. I'm certainly boycotting the giant snacks, along with Chris Evans on Radio 2.

Eurovision Latest

I am less excited about Eurovision this year but nonetheless I know I owe you, my faithful reader, an update on what's hot.

After a butchers at the Irish Times last week, an illuminating article spoke about their entry, described as "High School Musical meets Pink." The act is Sinead Mulvey with Black Daisy and they have a pop song called Et Cetera. Sinead, pictured, was shown in the paper wearing bright pink shiny leggings - not a good look on anyone, so I hope she has a stylist for the Moscow final.

The writer was pessimistic saying that Ireland has never had great success with pop songs: its winning entries were ballads. It concedes the entry is slightly better than last year's entry from Dustin the turkey puppet, but asks if broadcaster RTE is deliberately fielding a duff entry to avoid winning the contest and having to spend millions on the final next year.

I always had similar Sore Misgivings (as quoth by Mrs Fussey in Carry On Camping) about the BBC, but this year they do appear to have pushed the boat out a little by hiring Andrew Lloyd-Webber to write the song, even if it is performed by a nobody.

The Irish Times refers to the Lord's noble entry as a "dirge," which is probably quite an accurate description actually.

Bless him, he writes a good show tune but he isn't that good on pop songs. My belief is that when he said he didn't want to do another casting show this year, he was tied into a three show contract so had no choice but to take the Eurovision poisoned chalice.

Other news: Georgia apparently risks upsetting Russia (again) with their song "We don't wanna put in" which pokes fun at President Putin.

Fabulous Irish wedding

Went to Ireland at the weekend and enjoyed a most fabulous wedding. The Irish are well known for their joie de vivre and love of "the craic," and this was evident in this joyous affair. The three-day wedding featured a reception at Slane Castle with Irish dancing, live music an d a sumptuous banquet, and we all stayed in the historic town of Trim, north of Dublin, overlooked by ruins of many a castle. It was a very international affair with people flying in from several countries.

I'm sure the happy couple won't mind me sharing one photo of the day. Here's Hilary in her fabulous crystal encrusted dress with Klaus and their flower girls.

Here's another of J and me in the Trim Castle ruins.

I was interested to learn about the history of Slane Castle - it is of course famous as an open air venue for big pop concerts, and the likes of U2 and Bruce Springsteen have played there.

In its present form the castle dates from 1785. It was badly damaged by fire a few years ago and has been undergoing renovations. The parklands were laid out by Capability Brown, and the gothic ballroom was designed by Thomas Hopper, architect to King George IV.

The personalities of London's airports

This weekend was a special treat: not only did we go to a marvellous wedding in Ireland but we flew out from one airport and landed in another!

I love airports. It's no hardship to me when my fierce punctuality means I arrive far too early. It's not just the shops - mostly I don't bother - but it's the people and plane watching and the different personalities of the airports. Personalities?

London Heathrow is my favourite because it's the one I know best. Because it's a combination of business and leisure, you get a rich tapestry of drama and emotions in Arrivals with people greeting long-last relatives and tearfully waving off relatives to distant climes.

Heathrow bustles and throbs. It may be, as an American visitor once loudly announced, "like a third world airport" in that it is overcrowded and shabby, but the shops are still the best. And there are many quiet, secret little places to sit and muse. Terminal Five is a vast hush of luxury and comfort, very at-odds with the rest of Heathrow and its lurid carpets. It's as if a luxury penthouse was bolted onto a 60s block of flats.

London City is my second favourite and the one I use for short haul. It is literally just 30 minutes away and because it's very small and efficient, you can be off the plane and at home within 45 minutes.

London City is still like an old-fashioned airport in that passengers are treated as individuals and not amoebas carrying bags of dangerous toothpaste. You pay for the privilege: no cheap fares here. And it is mostly businesspeople bustling around in suits. There are signs of gentrification: the airport is expanding, the duty-free is now large and the sweet little Dormier and Fokker twin props are fewer now that the big guns like Lufthansa have moved in.

Gatwick or Gatters as I call it is an airport completely devoid of personality. Who knows what the difference is between North and South terminals! It has a similarly lurid carpet to Heathrow (presumably a bulk buy at Carpets R Us) and despite being very busy it looks empty most of the time. Gatwick has the most abysmal food court. Nasty little overcrowded outlets.

Stansted is the one I avoid. It has nothing going for it. That creepy transit, where the amoebas are silently whisked from one end of the airport to the other! The interminable queue for security. The British tourist in all his tattooed and shorted glory, getting tanked up before Stelios flies him off to some unsuspecting European resort.

So that's the London airports: I can't give an opinion on Luton. I mean, Luton? Why?

I could start on international airports and in particularly the ghastliness of some of the US airports and their woeful duty free and eating experiences, but maybe I will save that for another time.

About this Twitter thing

Twitter is the current big thing and as I've been tweeting for a while, people keep asking me what it's about and what's the point.

Twitter basically allows you to give short status snippets of what you're doing, thinking or sharing (eg URLs) - and you can do this by web or your mobile phone. That's the basic value proposition.

You can "follow" people whose tweets you want to read, and more and more celebrities are signing up and allowing a revealing insight into their thoughts and lives: Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry for example. I've just started following Jane Fonda and David Bowie (although I'm still not convinced it's really him).

As a marketing device, companies can start Twitter sites. Intel, my company, has several, as does Dell and also Starbucks. It's a great way of delivering updates and snippets. You can also allow a dialogue with your followers.

I became aware of how compelling a marketing vehicle it is when I started gaining followers based on my tweets. I mentioned cloud computing (as you do) and I'm now followed by two cloud computing associations. I posted a tweet about being bitten by a squirrel, and now I'm followed by Squirrelnet. I am wondering if I should now revisit cloud computing and squirrels to try to satisfy my new admirers.

The other good thing about Twitter is that it's linked to Facebook. If you update your Twitter status, that update is reflected on Facebook. Twitter also updates Facebook with my blog updates, and I notice traffic has improved since I started doing this.

The fascinating part about Twitter is that it doesn't have any sort of visible funding. There are no adverts. I imagine this will follow. I believe that as soon as Twitter becomes as ubiquitous as Facebook, it will lose its appeal. Even now I am finding it harder to filter the good tweets and I'm only following 21 people. There are quite a few sites offering Twitter applets and ways of dressing up your page, but I prefer to keep mine plain.

Give it a try - it's quite addictive!

We should all have heard of him

It's been six years since I last saw a proper pop "concert," (unless you count Bjorn Again and Jane McDonald), David Bowie at the Birmingham NEC in 2003. So it was with some excitement I set off to the slightly smaller venue of Swindon Arts Centre to see Colin Blunstone.

When I announced my intentions to see him, my colleagues and friends were baffled. "Who's he?" was the refrain. Well, Lucylastic and Mike, who came with me last night, weren't too sure either, but they really enjoyed it and a lot of the songs came back to them: "Wonderful," "She's not There," "I don't believe in miracles."

The tiny venue holds around 100 and it was full. We were, gasp, in the second row! The trouble with such a small venue is that a murmured aside becomes a magnified stage whisper. When the support act, a young boy in a scruffy suit and woolly hat with a selection of guitars, announced that his CDs were on sale for £4, somebody said "bless," and his head shot up. "Did someone say 'bless?'" he asked sternly.

Colin, who's in his 60s now but very trim and twinkly (although Lucy did question the provenance of his suit and doubted if it was a Paul Smith) came out without any fanfare and the venue rocked for the first couple of songs. All the old favourites were sung and some new material from his first album for 10 years. His band were very tight, I think they say, although the lead guitarist was extremely irritating. One of those dudes who models himself on Mick Ronson circa 1972, brandishing his guitar and performing showy solos.

Colin has the most sublime voice and it was at its best in the ballads. The breathy quality for which he was noted was obviously a studio gimmick because in real life his voice is very strong.

At the end a group of Colin's fans gathered round to wait for the great man in the foyer. Lucy and I did too as we had lots of questions: what happened to Caroline from the song, who was the girl in the Lamb's rum ad; why hasn't he had an album for 10 years, does he want me to write his biography, etc.

Unfortunately he didn't show up but the irritating guitarist did, so we made our excuses and left.

Lucy will be blogging about the gig too so check out her post --- URL is in my links section ("Thoughts and worries from the wrong side of the hill").

Sorrow for Jade Goody, the modern icon

My heart breaks for Jade Goody, having been told she only has a few months left to live. She is a young woman with children, she had so much ahead of her. Now she puts her "matters in order" with the papers praising her bravery. Her boyfriend Jack, newly released from prison, struggles with the emotional turmoil of it and may not be able to give her the support she needs.

I was always an admirer of Jade's because despite a horrendous upbringing, she was one of the few who took her Big Brother opportunity and made the best of it, re-training as a beautician and opening a salon; writing a book; churning out TV programmes for Living.

Then came her much publicised fall from grace at the hands of Celebrity Big Brother. Looking back, what a storm in a tea-cup. Was her racist bullying of Shilpa any worse than the racist insults levied by the heir to the throne, his idiot younger son and Carol Thatcher, which the Daily Mail and others are quick to brush aside as "jokes"?

All we can hope for is a miracle for Jade. And I hope the doctor(s) who refused to take her seriously when she first tried to get a diagnosis have learnt something from their errors. If it wasn't for them, she would not be in the advanced stages of cancer.

Eggcellent news -or is it?

I don't know about you but I get mad at the tabloids (yep in particular the Daily Mail) squealing and squeaking about research that tells us one minute not to do something and the next minute to go ahead and do it.

The research I mean is always around food and drink and far from educating our poor obese nation, people just get more and more confused.

Today the papers tell us it's now OK to eat more than three eggs a week. They don't lead to high cholesterol. Well, yippee, because I certainly eat more than three eggs a week and my cholesterol levels are fine. But the paper says a lot of people still labour under the misapprension you shouldn't eat more than one egg a week because of previous research.

And there's still scepticism about the new research because it appears that the nutritionist involved was funded by the egg industry. So what should we believe?

The papers should be more responsible about how they use "scientific" research and hwo it was funded. The Mail in particular, which hates women, is forever running shock horror reports about the Pill and HRT and how red wine, chocolate, you name it, can increase the risk. Most of their research is taken from very small statistical surveys, without proper investment, so they shouldn't be taken seriously.

S I guess the jury's still out on eggs, but I'm going to carry on enjoying them anyway. Omelette anyone?

Mick the only surprise in tedious BAFTAS

Maybe it's the recession, maybe they're saving their best frocks for the Oscars. Whatever the reason, the BAFTAs was a distinctly gloomy gathering of the stars. Most of the frocks were black, whereas I was hoping for an explosion of colour as we've seen on the cat walks.

The only stars who stood out, to my mind, were Sharon Stone who J remarked "still looks good," in red, and Angelina Jolie, albeit in black but with a dash of citrus. I can't even remember what the gorgeous Penelope Cruz was wearing so it can't have been very memorable. "She looks rough" was J's remark about Kylie, in black. (Reminder to self: black now looks so boring!).

Meanwhile each category seemed to feature the same old films. I now have no inclination to watch either The Changeling or The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I am quite enthusiastic now about Slumdog Millionaire and I've Loved You So Long. I can't believe how Mamma Mia hasn't won any awards - a marvellous feel good film, fantastic cinematography (and largely made at Pinewood - which wasn't mentioned when Pinewood was given its award).

The only surprises in proceedings were Mickey Rourke winning best actor, and Man On Wire defeating Slumdog Millionaire for Outstanding British Film. (I saw it recently and it really is the most marvellous documentary).

Plus, Mick Jagger was a big surprise. I've always discounted him as an ageing old lothario. But when he came bounding out on the stage I was struck by his charisma and his youthfulness. He was the only presenter who said anything remotely funny all night (sorry Jonathan Ross, but you were so busy minding your P's and Q's you weren't your normal ebullient, hilarious self - thanks prissy Daily Mail readers for that). Even my mother agreed and said she could almost fancy him herself.