So, I lied.

Updates might be fractionally less sparse, my arse. What can I say? In this newly action-packed capital city life of mine, blogging would appear to be one too many things to think about. But I’ll see if I can’t try harder.

Basically, my life now divides between work – comfortably do-able, neither too stressful nor too dull – and an endlessly complicated social life, which requires all the rigourous planning of a military campaign. In particular, trying to construct a regular programme of social activities is rather like trying to knit with blancmange. What is it with Londoners and commitment? Because if I hear that dread phrase “Let’s pencil it in” ONE MORE TIME, I might spontaneously combust.

As a result, I am constantly juggling “provisional” bookings, swapping and switching diary dates accordingly. I have now taken to issuing standard disclaimers to my prospective evening companions, retaining the right to dump them in favour of anyone who can bring themselves to say Yes for definite.

When I do make it out, to cafés, bars, restaurants or gastropubs, the experience is somewhat similar to being on an extended Speed Dating assignment. Each evening, I sit myself down in front of the next candidate, whom I have invariably not seen in months (if not years), and trot out the same perky little off-pat speeches. Blah blah blah China, blah blah blah K’s business, blah blah blah Canary Wharf, blah blah blah journalism opportunities, blah blah blah blogging… it’s a wonder that my fork ever meets my mouth.

Oh, but hark at me whinging. It’s all lovely, really it is. Being here has reminded me that I know more people in London than anywhere else – even Nottingham. One of these days, hopefully in the not too distant future, we’ll be down here for good, dividing our time between London and the Peak District, and these friendships will form the foundation of a new life. It’s a little glimpse of things to come.

After a weekend split between the cottage and my aunt and uncle in Kent, I’m now here for two straight weeks. This coming weekend, I’ll be staying in town in order to attend the live recording of Making Your Mind Up, which goes out on BBC1 at tea-time on Saturday. Yes, the Eurovision season is already upon us. This year, I’ll be spending the whole week in Athens, armed with official press accreditation, covering the event for… well, more of that in due course.

If I’d had the time and energy over the past fortnight, then I’d have told you about: reuniting with the old RVT crowd at Horsemeat Disco; gazing upon the face of Natasha Kaplinsky (and Sienna Miller, Kelly Osbourne, Heath Ledger, Jeremy Irons, David Frost, Tara Palmer Tomkinson, Twiggy and Myleene out of Hear’say); reclaiming the word “growler” in Exmouth Market; The night of the Five C’s (or: When your oldest friends know you better than you know yourself); Miss Marple-ing in Maida Vale; celebrating 44 years on the planet by having laughing gas shoved in my mouth, down at Alt Dot Gay Dot Gothic Slash Industrial Nite; doing Soho with Mister Stranger (and subsequently freaking him out with a telepathic text message); yakking my bollocks off at the Best Gastropub Ever (Since The Last One); Ain’t Nothing Dirty Goin’ On: the heady delights of Amateur Strip Night at the White Swan (I’ll be back); Actually Having A Proper In Depth Conversation With Luca For The First Time Ever; exposing the thoroughly suburban core behind the gleaming facades of Canary Wharf (or: Don’t let those capacious lobby areas fool you); the peculiar gaydar-jamming properties of the above (or: How to flip a clothing fetish on its head); how David Sedaris kept me sane; and so very much more.

Ah, go on then. Pick one of the above, and I’ll tell you about it. Promise.

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