Sebastina’s chain fell off today, and for a moment I felt totally Sturm and Drang, but then J came downstairs and fixed it and the S&D were replaced by feelings of inadequacy that I cannot fix my own bicycle and thus must rely on the expertise of various men of my acquaintance to sort things out. Next stop: some kind of bicycle maintenance course? I don’t know if I could bear something quite that hardcore…

I am actually pretty amazed...

…just how much of the joy has been squeezed out of blogging as a result of me now feeling compelled to do it in this bland, impersonal way. Is this a lesson in narcissism?

Anyway! Let’s carry on. Yesterday I went to see Alain de Botton give a ‘secular sermon’ as part of The School of Life. Naturally, I was extremely cynical about it - because that’s what I do - but in fact it made me very delighted on many levels. The happiest thing about it (and there were many happy moments) was when everyone in the ‘congregation’ sang Suzanne by Leonard Cohen.

It made me feel hopeful and confident about the prospect of my dream wedding (because, you know, every girl’s gotta have a nuptial dream, right?) at which all in attendance are forced to sing ‘Your Song’ by Elton John and other mildly ridiculous pop songs, because the group singing is always, I firmly believe, the best thing about any wedding, and must be included in the utterly unsacred ceremony that I would have.

I am, of course, slightly less confident about finding a man who will tolerate getting married under these circumstances, but actually I think it will be an effective acid test of whether he’ll be able to stand me for fifty years.

Favourite Irish things!

Inspired by noraleah, and in honour of today, a list of some my favourite things from a country that felt like home (and which I lived in, for a few months) for three years…

- Dalkey Island

- Dairy products

- Bacon fries

- Swimming in freezing seas

- Craic, both in concept and in execution

- The 2003 Special Olympics

- The imperative not to to disembark from a bus without thanking the driver

I should have stayed home and eaten a peanut butter sandwich

“France is dying from too much democracy…” my lunchtime companion explained. “…the trouble is that the police cannot hit the bad guys with club any more.”

Um, that wasn’t worth the free food.

Today I took Sebastina for our longest ride ever (thus far), to Islington to my friend B’s house for Sunday lunch. It was a beautiful sunny day, the first one this year that made London feel like a place worth living, and as I waited to cross Bethnal Green Road I saw my neighbour, J, on his way back from a brunching activity.

‘J—-!’ I shouted at him. ‘Hey!’ he shouted back and pulled into a side street and I pulled over too. We stood there, on our lovely bikes and had a little chat and then he said, ‘Have a good day!’ and I said, ‘have a good day!’ and then we high-fived and pedaled off in opposite directions.

And as I rode away, squinting in the sunshine, whistling ‘Walcott’, I daresay that I felt more happy and twee than I have in years.

Tonight, I...

…ate in a gastropub I’ve never been to, in a part of London I haven’t been to in ten months, and still managed to find that a man I dated v briefly two years ago was seated at the table next to ours. We did not acknowledge each other.

…laughed with my friends more than I have in ages, over the awkward proximity of the man-I-dated, and the difficulty that French Canadians have understanding Anglo Canadians, and the joys of lawyering, and the small dog that was sitting at the next table (under the table, that is).

…had a little fight with a cab driver who thought that I should just walk the 100 metres from the tube station rather than pay him to drive me. ‘Would you walk down this dark street alone if you were a young lady like me?’ I said. He shut up.

…overpaid the driver anyway, out of guilt.

…read half of O Pioneers! by Willa Cather. I have decided to set myself on a remedial reading programme - that is, read a bunch of old books that I’ve managed to avoid over the last few years of only reading the new and hot (or lukewarm). ‘A bunch of old books’ doesn’t sound terribly intellectual, but let me tell you, it is.

The Julie Myerson scandal is fascinating me

Much as it is fascinating the rest of reader-y Britain right now, in a car crash sort of way. But perhaps I am taking it more personally than some, for two reasons:

- as a former nightmare teenager - really nightmare, I know you don’t believe it because now I just seem to be a cute little  monkey, but it is true - so much of what she write rings true to what happened in my family, and I feel a lot of sympathy for the fact that she felt the need to write about it. But I think she should have waited ten years to publish it, until her son was a bit more sorted out. I also think that they are unnecessarily scapegoating skunk rather than, perhaps, acknowledging that their son has some underlying mental health issues - depression, perhaps?  - that went untreated, leading to his addiction.

- the question of where writers have to drawn the line vis a vis their use of the people close to them in their work is particularly close to my heart, because I am that kind of writer. Out of fear of hurting people, the anecdotes in my first book that have any kind of negative connotation only referred to people who I am no longer in touch with…but I wonder if this actually  made the book less true than it could have been. But I am also glad that I don’t have to worry, particularly, about affecting any of my existing friendships or relationships with my family.