Oh no! Mini crisis!

The mini's not ready. There was rust under the wing and he needed to put on a new one. And the cream leather interior didn't materialise. The seat covers are a knacky black fabric. I can live with this, but it gets worse.

Claire says he didn't do that great a job on her bike.

It's not going to be ready till Friday. My car insurance started last Saturday.

And worse, I popped into see Sel, a Turkish garage owner I've known for years (he used to mend my car, regularly, back in the day) and he reckons I'm mad to go anywhere near an old Mini. He reckons it'll be a constant headache. "What about a nice little Rover Metro?" is his argument.

Sel's coming over to take a look at my new car on Friday and made me promise not to hand over any more cash till he's seen it.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Spotted this on the way back from the cinema. Chinese Triads? Surely they can do better than that...

I always take flowers when I go to a house party, so yesterday I took Glads. it was only when I sat on the tube to go all the way to Walthamstow that I noticed these Glads are a bit tired. Still, they're cheery enough.

There was a young East European couple in the supermarket, she was about six months pregnant and they had another pal with them. One of them (I think the Dad-to-be) was taking photos of the other two on the largest iron curtain-looking old camera i've seen in a while. They were choosing potatoes in Morrissons in Peckham. They looked so excited, it was heartwarming to see.

Have I mentioned how much I love this time of year? Probably. Apple pie and figs on the tree. And don't Bert's zinnias look lovely? A little old lady persuaded me to buy greengages in the supermarket, and she was right, they're sweet.

Raising teenagers is taking its toll though. Last night I came in around 9.30. Me: "Have you eaten?" Them: "You didn't tell us to..."

Lord help me.

Oh yeah. I haven't smoked, nor do I desire to smoke. Except when there's alcohol around. So last night was a right off. And the night before. But at any other time, I'm a non-smoker.

I think it's a progress of sorts.

Purple fingers

Boots, brisk walks and blackberries. They're lush in the cemetery and the crumble's now cooling on top of the oven.

My very own Harvest Festival.

And it was all going so well...

Except that last night, I found myself in an empty house, and instead of doing the sensible thing and stretching out with a new book, I rang Maria to see if she fancied a pint. Despite being Ikead up to the eyeballs, Maria was keen - As soon as I get home I'll call you to come round, she said - and I've got a friend with me. With hindsight, there was a whiff of urgency about it.

As soon as I knocked on the door, Maria was out in a flash to the shop to get fags. I'd barely introduced myself to the friend, and within moments was knee deep in Maria's IKEA purchase pile and up to my neck in Avril's life story.

I couldn't possibly - but it can be tagged thus: love, death, police, ripper, fraud, fire, insurance, breakdown, harrassment, inspector, father, Gambia, gnome.

Avril is 62, she's an ex-cop, and she talks. Maria seemed to be smoking a great deal of dope - so out of loyalty I joined her. Avril didn't mind the green fug - she was hell bent on wringing the sweat from her life story, so I did the merciful thing and picked up the instruction booklet for the bathroom cabinet. Maria made her excuses to head out to the shop again. I know for sure, she nipped into the pub for a brief respite.

I've always maintained that Ikea holds the alum key to continued male domination - as long as we have flat pack furniture, women will never rule the world. Still, they were desperate moments at 10.30 last night, so I got started (the pic is proof). Avril carried on and Maria gazed into the middle distance.

Avril doesn't go home to Yorkshire till this evening, and she wants to get on the London Eye. Maria wants to get her new curtains up. I've done my bit, and smoked like a lunatic in the process.

I will now retire to the sofa with that book.

Mmmm. Green suede...

The marvellous thing about going for interviews and coming out of them feeling good is that you get to buy lots of pairs of new boots. Especially when it's nearly autumn.

Here are today's new boots. Very denim skirt. Very walk-in-the-woods.

They make me want to go pick blackberries. I'm actually going out to pick a new camcorder with the boys - trying to get two 14 year olds out and up the Old Kent Road is harder than climbing a hill with a donkey, but I'm still not inclined to have a shifty smoke outside while I wait.

Whew... Now, where was I?

It was an eventful weekend, on the edge of the Pyrenees. I won't go into details, but suffice to say that leaving my luggage in the boot of a car, by a lake, undiscovered until I was checking in at the airport, scored so low down the incident list as to barely warrant a mention.

Hopefully I'll get it back before the end of the year.

Catalonia has a radical history, and I was taken with this bit of graffiti - especially with the bouncy castle in the backround. I smoked a bit in the evenings with vin rouge, and once at home again with vin blanc.

But that was Monday night and I've been puff-free since then, even though I've found out I didn't get my dream job, I got turned down for another, and had a surreal interview this afternoon.

I think I'm doing well. I'm virtually a "non-smoker".

It's been a week, bar one

The kids have gone again and I'm pleasantly alone.

But as I sit here mooching about, looking through my news headlines, I listen to Jeff Buckley singing Lilac Wine and I suddenly get the urge for a cigarette.

So I smoke the last one in the left-over packet of ten i found on the top shelf in the kitchen.

Then Hallelujah comes on, and I'm done. I was hoping to do an audio link, but no joy.

Off to France for the weekend. No job yet, but early days.

Another good reason to not smoke

Because my lungs will look like these stairs by the cineama in Peckham.

Turns out the celeb chef was filming the trailer for his new show, and put on a fat suit himself. See here.

I still think he's a patronising little twit.

No fags since last Thursday.

Jamie Oliver is a twat. Here's why.

I was down the road in Peckham today to go to the bookshop. Big signs up saying filming in progress. Turns out it's JO and his entourage. His latest project is telling us good people how to avoid becoming obese.

So I leave the boys at the bookshop - they wanted to get a copy of The Book of Cool. I head off to find a baker's shop. I've never seen Bellenden Road look so weird. You couldn't help but notice the large number of ginormous people - I mean, this afternoon, it looked like Beyond Imaginary Texas.

Apparently, although JO is on for patronising us all with his "eat healthy" wisdom (remember how he slagged off the childrens' lunch boxes in the North East last year, and worse - "These kids don't even know what an aubergine was! Imagine not knowing what asparagus tastes like! It's shocking!"), the production company couldn't actually find enough real people of size to take part.

The jelly belly crowd down Bellenden Road today were nearly all actors in fat suits.

The twat.

Artandtarts@vomit.com

On the Sunday, we went to look at some art in the Arnolfini. Most of it didn't light my fire much, but we liked the bit where you choose a pair of shoes to walk round the rest of the show with. Lu picked out some red patent heels.

I reckon I could earn cash with these, though I'd probably break my back before much more than £50 had cleared.


This sign made me smile. Mind you, I mispronounced "detritus" for years, so who am I to pretend I'm an urban sophisticate?

The venue is in the new part of town dedicated to hangar-sized bars and plenty of early morning cleaners on hand to hose away the vomit. It's what local government types call "the night-time economy", stupid.

No smokes for the last five days

Well until this afternoon that is, and only because I bumped into a fellow from the office. It seemed rude not to join in a communal toke.

But I brought home some sartorial gems from the charity shops in Bristol? My pal Lu is the charity shop queen, and we scoured the city with our vacuum settings for vintage on high.

With colours like these little shifts, who needs to smoke?

Saturday evening was with another pal and her parents. They were part of the beautiful people of the sixties, and yes, my new frocks went down a treat with them too.

I can't say I could place the period references in the conversation, though I couldn't place anything much after the third bottle of charddy was opened. Still, I got through the night with no fags.

So who's Raymond?

Lordy, it's Friday already

Busy busy.

And I didn't smoke for two days this week. Well, circumstances and all...

Tuesday I was all set for a nearly night before my interview, until Cad called and demanded I head up to a local wine bar. She isn't in town that often, and she was heading back to Liverpool the following day, so I had little choice but to head up. Cad and her neice worked through a portion of the packet of ten I bought after Cad ordered a second bottle of white.

Still, I wasn't chucked out from the interview room on the Wednesday morning, though my psychometric test may not have done me any favours. The killer line was "needs substantial administrative back up" which can only mean "we don't think this one can do up her own shoelaces".

They'd asked me if I needed any equipment to do a powerpoint presentation. I'd rather straddle a bendy bus down Oxford Street dressed as a cowgirl, than give a powerpoint demonstration, but with hindsight, I probably shouldn't have mentioned that.

Still, the bigwigs said they enjoyed it, so I went and bought these to celebrate. The only trouble is I'd bought a pair of sandals that were so comfy I wore them out of the shop (had to go back in and ask them to remove the tag) and less than an hour later had a massive blister on my left foot.

So for the time being they're strictly what my mother would call "sitting down boots". I'm off to Bristol in a bit, so I'm having to stuff them in my bag and keep on the look out for boot-wearing opportunities.

It was such an exciting day, I ended up asleep in the pub, and had to be carried into a cab. Still, I'm spending the weekend with a don't-smoke-or-drink-anymore teetotal, in a house owned by a psychic. Apparently it's all decked out in purple, so I might not be able to wear the boots inside in case I disappear into the decor.

Monday afternoon

I'll do anything rather than prepare for this damn interview. I've looked up Chile, Isis and Horus, booked national express tickets, found out the national flower of Jamaica and even weeded the garden, but still I have to get excited about a job before Wednesday morning.

I picked up the free CD that had been left on the pub tables after the New Cross gig the other night - the first band I'd missed, blahblahblah!

They're brilliant - it was an EP (can you call a CD an EP?) and the first song was a foot-tapping tune about not being a wanker on the disco floor.

If you try looking for them online you come into problems though - the exclamation mark doesn't count when you're searching, and it's too generic an expression to make it searchable.

Just goes to show how the internet has indeed taken over our life. You'd probably have a similar handicap if you called yourselves The Clash these days.

Anyway, I did manage to find this - seeing as I'll have had my interview, I might even try and find someone to pop along to this with me.

Notting Hill Arts Club gig next Wednesday

Despite the grind, I haven't had the urge to smoke, and even when Linds popped round and we had coffee and sandwiches and cake, I still didn't smoke and neither did she. Is this a first or did she just not have any tobacco?

The picture is of the flower of the Lignum Vitae tree. It's the national flower of Jamaica (see above) and it blooms on the Lignum Vitae tree. The wood of the Lignum Vitae tree is the hardest in the world. It's so hard it sinks in water and it has been used to make police truncheons. This we now know because I indulged Linds who mentioned wanting some wooden candlesticks, and once you get looking online, it can be hard to stop.

The Lignum Vitae is also known as the "Tree of Life", and while I realise that I've posted it twice, I think it looks so fresh, I'll leave it doubled up.

Sunday afternoon distractions

The internet is a wonderful thing, but spending a whole Sunday afternoon online, prepping for a job interview can get you down. (I'm spending more time reading news headlines, holiday planning and wondering who to email next, if i'm honest, but I'm still under house confinement.)

Still, I have no inclination to wander out to the garden for a five minute smoke, so there's progress.

Fantastising about where to spend the last week of August is fun. Once my little car arrives in a couple of weeks time, I'm off. I nipped down to the mechanic fellow's arches to take a picture of it yesterday. I'm very excited.

Week three, day one, later

Not one cigarette today. Though when my dear friend Daniel started to row the boat on the Serpentine this afternoon, it could easily have been a smoking moment. As it happens, smoking is banned on the Serpentine - because the boats are plastic and they might melt.

We'd met up at Speakers' Corner at three. There wasn't much speaking action - though this fellow had caught someone's attention. He stayed on his soapbox for the duration of the chat, which seemed to be going on for some time.

Week three

I've had an entertaining few days, but from the point of view of a non smoker like myself, it's been a disastrous time.

It's true, I went out with Bloom and Stella, non-smokers on Wednesday night. Stella had suggested a chi-chi Turkish place on Wilton Street. These sorts of chi chi new places are generally the non-smoker's friend, and true enough, it appeared to be a smoke-free joint. Then Stella - who's usually "Make mine an Appeltise" after two glasses of wine, suggested we retire to the ante room to enjoy another bottle of some Spanish white.

As soon as I spotted the hookahs, it seemed appropriate to have a go on one. Apple flavoured tobacco. It's a subtle smoke. So subtle that Bloomie and even Stella had a puff, but I have to say that for me, the experience only served to wake up my lungs again, and after fishing around in my bag, I found my last Marlboro Light.

It was only around 9.30 when we exited, and Bloom suggested a quick one in the Pub on the corner. At least, I think it was Bloom. I needed to get cash, and the machine was right there on the wall of Sainsbury's. Seeing as the smoker's hatch was right by the door, it was convenient to slip in for another packet of ten.

You don't feel like you're committing yourself with a packet of ten, do you?

The bus home goes via Camberwell, where Claire lives. She fancied meeting up for a quick pint. Claire is a failed non-smoker, and she had her tobacco with her.

Over our breakfast cup of tea at Claire's I didn't share a morning fag with her, or after lunch back at my place.

And when I went out to meet Ana at the Wheatsheaf that evening, I took no cigarettes. I smoked Ana's rollies, instead.

The picture above is there to remind me how disgusting they are - I had to fish it out from the bottom of the sink. The fruit looks good, and I'm about to eat one.

Day three, week two

Spent last night leaning against the bar in the New Cross Inn. We calculated that we were probably the fifth and sixth most elderly people there, and while I'd made the effort with the rock chick dress, it ended up being teamed with lesbian sandals.

I spent the evening leaning on the bar, trying not to look like the drummer's mother. Gins were taken, cigarettes were smoked, though I took Maria's lead and only lit up when she did. About eight. It may sound pathetic, but to me, it's progress.

the first band were www.myspace.com/popularworkshop - boys with thrash, the other was Nebraska, whose myspace address is forgettable, since someone had bagged the US state. The lead singer thinks he's Morrissey. They were good. We arrived after the blah blah blahs but I like the name. I got tickets to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs last year, on the strength of their name.

Ended up talking to people who seemed like cool band types, and turned out to be teachers who gave out about the state of the last Year seven intake. Yikes.

After getting up late, I had a long call from Emmanuel, moaning about his charlatan excuse for an architect. We agreed to get drunk soon. Off to meet two girlfriends from way back. Neither smoke. I should be okay.

Day two, week two

I didn't mention I'm job hunting, did I? Skiving out of the office while I wait for the redundo cheque is a good way of avoiding the inevitable smoker sessions outside the building - the new management recently banned us from the smoking bunker in the basement - and I'm managing not to escape from the mac to the garden for a shifty smoke.

I did my first ever psychometric test yesterday afternoon, and I still didn't need a fag. This is impressive. It was vile and will probably cost me a second interview.

Hey ho.

Had one fag today when Linds popped round. She asked if I had any, and it seemed churlish not to join her for one as we sat on the grass. Nipped up to the High Street to sort out banking stuff - truly detestable - and I still didn't smoke.

Maria's round in a bit, and we're off to see a band in the next parish. I'm aiming for no more than five all night.