You're damn right...

So I channelled the spirit of Pam Grier for a party this weekend. Powerful, strong, 'Shut 'cho damn mouth' and who knew that wearing heels would make a pulled muscle better?! It also made me very aware that I am in the company of some super fierce women. Makes me want to put a pick comb in my afro and kick some ass... Join me!

No walking here

I've pulled the muscle in my calf. I don't know what's wrong with my body lately, it just doesn't like me any more? Is it because I don't have time to have lunch at work any more? But you know that's not my fault!*

So I've been limping around the show making my eyes sting with Deep Heat. Grim. Half way during the day, I suddenly slipped into the mind of one of my male characters. Now, people think I don't like exercise, which is bollocks because I love walking. I love a bloody good walk, music on full blast. I walk faster than Superman. I've had some of my best ideas on a walk.

But I can't do it at the moment and the sheer freaking frustration of having something you're used to taken away from you for no bloody good reason I completely understood him. I mean, it is stopping me from hopping downstairs for ice cream. My dad put tons of scotch bonnets in the rice today.

You know how you need to see things from a character's point of view before you can honestly write from their perspective? I'm on Jamie's page now. Not as tall, or angry, or buff or blonde (maybe a little blonde) but on his page. And I still love him. So when you meet him, just pretend you have a limp. Actually don't, he'll think you're taking the piss.

*It's totally her fault. Sainsbury's is round the flamin' corner, lazy cow. Billy's stomach

Like Molly Ringwald

There is a playlist of songs that makes want to be wearing a pink puff ball dress with a perm (jerry curl that has dried all kinds of wrong) with lace gloves doing something blasphemous so I get excommunicated by the pope. My number one changes all the time, but for sheer joy today it just happens to be The Smiths' This Charming Man. The fact that I have on occasion refused to leave my house due to wardrobe malfunctions has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Nowt.

The men in tights

I've been struggling with an idea that I had since I listened to BoB's Ghosts in the Machine. I've been trying, really trying to write some damn thing but The Red One [my laptop] mocked me: 'It's not working for me baby. I'm going to sleep now.'

I went to the ballet. Yeah, I said it. The ballet. I saw Matthew Bourne's Cinderella. I'm obsessed with Matthew Bourne. Any bloke who puts fifteen male dancers in feathered tights and nothing else to do a five minute sequence deserves my worship. http://www.new-adventures.net/

This production was all about finding love in the middle of the Blitz in London. Call me a sap - or a girl - but I was welling up by the end. It was the exquisite dancing, and the incredible music by Prokofiev, and the beauty of the story, but most of all it was simply magical. And that was what was missing from the idea. What I loved about it in the first place is that it was rooted in magic and I was trying to take that out, make it all about reality. But what on god's green earth is love about if not a complete suspension of reality?

One has now slapped oneself on the wrist, and one will let the love and magic flow. A shisha pipe helped though...

And then there was light...

I've just moved in. It's a mess. You're going to have to just sit on a box while I rearrange everything. Have a glass of wine. See if I've got any embarrassing CDs. Then we'll get to the good part. x Billy