Well, that was all rather busy

Highlights of the last week have been...

1) Doctor Who
2) Not dying because of Dr Who.
3) The not-bf ringing up at one point to express genuine concern for me.
4) Storming out of a meal like a queen.
5) Drinking with Darian. He's charming.
6) Sleep.
7) Learning that sometimes, the best way to get something done around here, is to snog someone.

Bad things of the last week...
1) Snot. Everywhere. Constantly.
2) Walking back from a party in Cardiff. In the rain.
3) Not watching Doctor Who, or even enjoying it much, due to working at the time.
4) Conversations with Other People about Doctor Who.
5) Losing my wallet.
6) My bike having a puncture.
7) I've suddenly started hating smoking. But am more addicted than ever.
8) What is a gym?
9) What happened to my hair?

Weirdest thing of the day

Being put forward as a guest on a phone-in show where there's bad blood between me and the host.

I imagined my introduction, and swiftly declined:

"... And joining me now is someone who's shagged my boyfriend behind my back...."

No comment!

Well, the comments system's buggered off like a cocktail waiter at The Green.

Remounting the Mountie

I've been enjoying Due South on DVD far more than I thought I would. And for some of the wrong reasons.

My fixation this time around is not the star (Paul Gross), nor his rumpled sidekick (Callum Keith Rennie - apparently, his real name). I'm enjoying the oddball stories, the razor-sharp dialogue, the giddy musical score as much as ever... but no... this time the star is Constable Renfrew Turball, as played by Dean McDermott.

There's something about a decent man with lots of muscles and no brain that's irresistibly attractive. And then there's the uniform.

*sigh*

Of course, even better is the joyous realisation in Mountie on the Bounty that... Officer Turnbull is a red shirt-lifter! While the rest of the cast settle down for a lovemaking montage, Turnbull indulges in a Gaultier-tribute spot of arm-wrestling with a fellow mountie. "You are a very aggressive young man," sighs Turnbull, staring into his eyes. Here's the picture:

Cheating at cheating

Faithfulness is easy. Especially when you still get hot flushes from meningitis.

Matt the Irish personal trainer and I were getting on really rather well (Buns of steel, I tell you. Brushed steel. The expensive stuff. None of that-steel-coated nonsense but solid steel you could stick fridge magnets to). Especially considering the male-strom that is Central Station on a Saturday (I know, I know... but it was on the way back from Islington and Topping and Butch were on).

But there was definitely something weird in the air. I'd started off the evening in a good mood only spoiled by the other people in the pub at Karl's party (there were women there with off-the-shoulder wraps and gold lame clutch bags). By the time I got to Central Station I was feeling a little peculiar... and then I met Matt, who seemed rather marvellous... and it was all getting a little giddy and all thoughts of the non-boyfriend were drifting very swiftly out of my head.

And then I realised I was passing out. Bless those meninges, I thought, as I staggered into the street. They've saved me from all forms of silliness. I'm going home with a stainless conscience. But not stainless steel Matt.

Bring me sunshine

Glorious sunshine means that I'm finally relaxing. After a horrid week. Honestly, if I wanted a job in telesales, I'd get some phone skills.

It's been one of those weeks when, if I'm not on the phone, I'm picking up voicemail, while being asked three questions, and watching the scary emails flood in.

I've started to crack. My nervous twitch is back. As is my stutter. As is a curious inability to do any actual work, but simply stare at the oncoming horror with wide, fluffy-bunny eyes.

Luckily, I've discovered an amazing thing. The Atlantic Bar and Grill. It's like eating in the Titanic... at the bottom of the sea.

You would think that hiding away in an underground art deco restaurant is escapism. And you'd be right. There's no light, no mobile phone signals, and no one can get past the door whores without a booking.

It's like a bond villain's underground lair. Only with a fantastic wine list.

PS: Daquiris. They taste just like cold lemsip.

Saying "No"

I turned down sex on the train on the way back from Cardiff. Am still trying to work out if the main reason was because...

a) He wasn't pretty.
b) I was hungover.
c) Train toilets? On a Sunday morning? Euw.
d) I was at a really good bit in Alias (oh! my! god! Sark's back)
e) My undying love for my not-boyfriend.
f) These things are just too tacky.

Oh dear. I've got the suspicion it was "a".

Doing a runner

I've been to two marvellous, work-related parties in Cardiff this week. At the first one (due to a puzzling lack of vodka) I was completely sober until I got back to the hotel bar, at which point I got very, very, very drunk with daleks.

The second party was the wrap party for cast, crew and parasites like me. And it was marvellous. ish. There was the peculiar horror of turning up and knowing very few people, mixed with the lavish alarm on realising that there was a free bar.

Now, i've been good for the last year. I've been polite, courteous, and tried desperately not to put my foot in it, or disgrace my department.

So, when I finally met Tim, the astonishingly attractive runner on the show, I was very friendly, but relaxed. We may have chatted politely, and even danced a little next to Christopher Eccleston. If we did kiss, I'm sure it was brief and discrete. More of a peck on the cheek really. I wouldn't want to show him up in front of his colleagues, and I've got a reputation to consider.

You're way ahead of me here, aren't you?

***

This morning I woke up to a text from the script editor on Doctor Who. Now, growing up, like many fans I learned the names of the script editors - dear Terrance Dicks, troubling Eric Saward, Andrew Cartmel and his masterplan. One treasures their thoughts, ideas and philosophy. So, how pleasant to awaken to pearls of wisdom from the lovely Helen Raynor.

They were kind, thoughtful and solicitous: "Did you remember your coat this time? Or were you too busy SNOGGING TIM'S FACE OFF?????"

Um. Oh god. Um.

Refresca

The train back from Cardiff was wonderful. Not only was it full of some of the most powerful people in television, but it also featured a buffet named "Refresca".

So intrigued was I by the whole "we-made-it-up-and-isn't-it-cool" naffness that I decided to pay it a visit. And was delighted to discover it run by a really rather pretty man.

We bonded at once: "How do you spend your working life swaying from side to side surrounded by boiling water?"

"Well, a few deep breaths in and it's all right. Plus, I'm naturally giddy."

I'm in here, I thought.

And then realised - the Buffet is open all the way back from London. I can't possibly have him. This is ridiculous. Sadly, I slumped back to my chair.

Later at lunch, Ann yelled at me, "Fool! They're always closing the buffet to restock or something. I'm sure he'd have made an unscheduled stop for you."

Damn.

Doors of persective

Was at a marvellous launch party last night, and gradually realised that there were celebs everywhere. But, rather like too many magazines in a crowded living room, people were just falling over them. Not only did Robson Green accidentally give me a backrub, but someone opened a door into Charlotte Church's nose. When they realised not only what they'd done, but who they'd done it to, they ran screaming away. And then laughed.

I didn't talk to Celebs. Well, I can't. But I did get to interview the controller of BBC One, Lorraine Heggessey. Which was odd. She's perfectly lovely, but emanates such background radiation of authority that my memory of the entire incident is wiped. I don't think I fainted during the interview, but do remember that lots of perfectly fluffy questions suddenly came out all wrong.

Such was the buzzing in my ears that I had no idea what I was saying. At one point I asked an appallingly dumb question and began to apologise for it, only to be stalled by her saying, "I've started to answer it. I'll finish."

I'm so so sorry. Fabulously powerful women terrify me. She really is like Servalan. Only nice. And a bit smaller.

Seeking calmness, I rang Adam for reassurance: "I've just interviewed Lorraine Heggessey."

"Really? Fab. We've just taken magic mushrooms. We're worshipping Steve's lighter. It's a god."

The gym's a fine and private place

oh. that wasn't classy.

Turned up at the gym this morning, very hungover and bloated.

I belched so loudly a lesbian dropped her weights.

Oh Rose, thou art sick...

So, I've lost the office sweepstake on when Dr Who episode one would leak on the internet. I was voting for this Wednesday, but nope - it was Sunday. Hilarity has, of course, ensued.

I'm most adoring the various fan reactions to it all - a whole new form of smug has been invented for it. One fan site has grandly announced that they've seen it, and really won't spoil it at all, in any way. But they've changed their mast-head to include a massive quote from the episode. Mis-spelt.

Another dull Saturday

Sigh. The freelance project that never ends. Why do I keep on plugging away at it? Because of the vague glimmer that, if it ever ends, i get paid and my credit card stops squealing like an insufficiently-lubed air steward.

Old BBC job titles

According to a friend of mine who's been working through folders of old documents, the BBC used to love long job titles with acronyms (such as HOD for Head of Drama). His two favourite are:

Head of C.A.M.P - he was Head of Current Affairs, Magazine Programmes

and

E.I.E.I.O - he was the Engineer In charge of Engineering and Integrated Operations.

Rufus Wainwright

I'm taking a stand. I don't like him. I know he's gay and post-modern and has floppy hair and is adored by all the lentil-eating-gays, but, really, no matter how witty the songs, why does he have to sing them in such a whiny whingy "Belle and Sebastian after a good slapping" way?

Plus his dad was the worst thing about Jasper Carrott's TV show. And that's saying something.

On the subject of Belle and Sebastian, I once lost a boyfriend to those whinnying artwits. After a couple of weeks of chaste, magnificent dating, we started to kiss in a very significant There Will Be Sex way. And then Belle and Sebastian came on the radio, moaning about how they'd tripped and grazed their knee and the plaster stung or some such waste of spittle.

"Do you mind if we turn this off?" I said, "Only, you're really important to me, and I don't want this moment ruined by Belle and Sebastian."

The temperature in the room plummeted. "They're my favourite band," he said, leaning over to call me a taxi.

Cocktail Bar at the Edge of Forever

There is nothing between Tottenham Court Road and Mornington Crescent. It's a howling desolation of road and abandoned sofa warehouses.

But there is a cocktail bar. Called 4th Estate. And it's rather minxy and lovely. It's all snug wood panels and ceiling fans and smooth tunes, with a New Yawk feel and an authentically American waiter who takes ten minutes to make a martini as he's waiting "for the glass to get right".

Unfortunately the contrast between freezing desolation outside and warm snug inside means that within fifteen minutes of entering, you are asleep.

Things I've learnt recently

Always wash your hands Especially between crumbling chillies and applying crab lotion.

Those gay Sainsbury's boys Are much harder to pull than you'd think. Even when there are two of you working in a pincer movement.

Weathermen are rubbish How are we supposed to believe them about global warming when they keep on yelling "Snownami!" and all we get is a trickle of shifty dandruff?

You can microwave dim-sum But it's a little tacky.

Fuzzy little pill

I wish I hadn't taken that sleeping tablet last night. I just felt wired at bedtime, and they normally don't have any side effects but... oh... oh... oh...

I didn't get up at 7.30 to go the gym. I just lay there, listening to Libby Purves at 9 gossiping with a hard-drinking breast-grabbing Diplomat's wife.

On the bike ride in, I sailed into the Westway underpass and my head went "MMM... warm dark space... must close eyes..."

Things haven't really got better. The urge to sob, shout, or just fall asleep is contesting with a sudden sprout of really important meetings where i have to be NICE to people.

Not helped by the NB ringing up giggling, "I've had two hours sleep since Sunday and I've not touched cocaine! But I am drinking champagne right now."

I'd narrow my eyes, but then they'd shut and that would be the end...