I is for Inspiration

So many people and things inspire me. Any given day, song or a book can inspire me to be stronger in a personal attitude or make a decision, a friend’s poise and dignity can inspire me to behave in a similar way, a commuter’s bold choice of outfit can inspire me to experiment and those further ahead down the route to being A Writer can inspire me to stop dwelling on the ‘what ifs’ and carry on. I thought I’d write a little ode to those who push me and motivate me and encourage me to be a better, braver or simply more fabulous person.

Caitlin Moran
You probably know this if you’re a regular reader, because I reference Moran’s wit and wisdom quite a bit. It’s hard to describe her if you haven’t read any of her stuff, but as a freelance writer, interviewer and all round journalistic firecracker, she inspires me to work harder or risk never being as well-read, articulate and funny as her. She’s also from humble beginnings and the state school system but works for The Times, as well as having fabulously punky tastes and a penchant for overexcited capitals (usually when tweeting the word *SCREAM*). If you’re still not sure, follow her on Twitter and I guarantee she will have you howling in minutes.

Angelina Jolie
*Sigh*, no, not for the husband-stealing or the wafer-thin calves, but because the woman’s a bloody phenomenon. Jolie shows that no amount of personal craziness or bad PR record can obscure true talent, and looking at her you just know she’s never stopped to think ‘What if this wrecks my chances of getting that next big part?’ Because she’s hypnotic as a psychotic teen in Girl, Interrupted, she’s harrowing as a courageous mother in Changeling and funny as an assassin with a suburban double life in Mr and Mrs Smith. Because she’s the only choice for icons as diverse as Marilyn, Cleopatra and Lara Croft, and because she kicks more ass per movie than most Hollywood males put together. When I read she’d turned down a Bond Girl role because she’d rather be the next 007, I could’ve kissed her. As well as being a thrill-seeking badass and a stellar actress, Ange also manages to be wonderfully chic and feminine on the red carpet. I'm going to ignore all the 'rainbow mom' stuff as i'm sure it's just too many years in Hollywood, but she is also genuinely and deeply involved in the UN and not afraid to speak up on important matters. If you hate her, I'm pretty sure it’s just because you want to be her.

My Mum
My mum is the most direct inspiration for me because she has always seemed to ‘have it all’ – not in the material sense, but in terms of style, intellect, friendships, work ethic, ambition and maternal brilliance. So I suppose she’s always ‘balanced it all’, and taught me the equal importance of further education and being able to whip up a sublime bread and butter pudding. She was an amazing stay-at-home mum (due to being creative with working from home and sacrificing lots of luxuries) for years, studied her socks off to get a degree, worked her way up to management level in fewer years than anyone I know and even managed to wedge in an MA this year as well as getting her dream job and celebrating 30 years of marriage. Need any more reasons? She’s also the best hugger in the entire world – fact.

Lady Gaga
There’s been a bit of a Gaga backlash of late and I honestly can't understand it. People seem to think she’s a fame-whorish type who is all exhibitionist and no substance, but I can only assume they haven’t listened to a note of her music. It’s pop, but it’s crazy, bold, lyrically sharp pop, vocally challenging and endlessly catchy. She’s also absolutely incredible live – I won’t hear a word against this – just watch this for starters. She has famous fans ranging from Elton John, the hard-to-please Perez Hilton, Janet Jackson and Helen Mirren, and is a very vocal gay rights activist, as well as giving all her little teenage ‘freaks’ and ‘monsters’ a powerful role model to identify with during adolescence. In an industry filled with bland, girly, autotuned one hit wonders, we should surely regard Gaga as some sort of female messiah? More than anything, she just seems fearless – I love that she puts all of her money back into her live shows and designs her performance concepts. More vulnerable than Madonna and saner than Michael Jackson, a better songwriter than Kylie and ten times more talented than Britney; she’s just a tiny little thing under all the glitz and theatrics, but Gaga’s a budding icon and should be recognised as such.

Christine Stovell
I have only had the pleasure of meeting Chris once, but I follow her blog and have watched the well-deserved publication of her brilliant book Turning the Tide in the last year. She is inspirational because she decided it wasn’t too late to do the thing she’d always wanted to do, and proved she had the metaphorical balls to do it. Not only do I respect her as a writer, but she has reminded me that the urge to write never goes away; so on those days when a nondescript but well-paid job beckons to me with its perks of a stable life and steady income, I know I shouldn’t give in so easy. Follow her on Twitter and look out for her next book!

Blair Waldorf
Oh well... there had to be a fictional one. Gossip Girl's Blair is a purely aesthetic idol of mine, a perfectly groomed Park Avenue princess with pearls, gloves and a pout to match. It's funny as it isn't really my style, but the first time I saw actress Leighton Meester as the scheming anti-heroine of the show, I just fell in love with Blair's buttoned-down look. If you're unfamiliar with the addictive trash TV that is Gossip Girl, this blog explains Blair's look pretty well. She may not be the 'world peace' type, but she's impossibly chic and I can't help but covet her from her beret to her Mary Janes.

Jason Robert Brown
Finally, an inspirational male! Brown is one of my favourite composers (and in my opinion, one of the best in musical theatre), and I'm practically hyperventilating at the thought of seeing him performing his work live in less than three weeks' time. His musicals and song cycles, including Songs for a New World, Parade and The Last Five Years include some of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard, so technically complex and lyrically witty, moving and brutal that I never get tired of listening to them and always hear something new each time. JRB is so good that I bought two of his piano books - and I can barely play Happy Birthday. If you're not a fan of the genre (described amusingly in Bridget Jones' Diary as 'men standing with their legs apart, bellowing') I suggest you listen to Lauren Kennedy's album Songs of Jason Robert Brown, but if you do like a musical - and a real story, none of your Sweet Charity nonsense - I would recommend The Last Five Years.

Nigella Lawson
I adore Nigella. I adore her buttercreamy, olive-oily, chocolate-saucey TV shows and cookbooks, her cooking community website, and her glorious sex bomb image that confirms that 50 really can be your prime. They say that after a certain age you have to choose between your face or your arse (the logic being, I presume, that plumper women have a sort of natural collagen effect happening) but I think Nigella is living proof you can have your cake and eat it.

Jo March
My favourite literary heroine, a tomboy with a hot temper and a desire for independence who never lets the fact that she is a girl push her to give up her dreams or conform to a small-town ideal. I like Jo because she's flawed, impulsive and has big dreams, as well as being the at the centre of one of my favourite childhood books. If Louisa May Alcott and her literary avatar Jo could pick up a pen and compete with the male novelists of their time, hindered by huge petticoats and cultural prejudice, I really don't have a reason to moan in 2010.

Lindy West
Another writer, brought to most people's attention with her less-than-rave review of Sex and the City 2 (some harsh language, folks) and who keeps me smiling regularly with her original style and ponderings on the world. Her column in Seattle paper The Stranger is a cult hit, and many of my favourite writers have followed her work since that review. Why do I love her? Because no subject is too obscure to comment on, from hippy rituals to liquorice. She can transform anything into excellent reading, and that inspires the hell out of me.


This ended up being a slightly weird combination of the very real, the loosely acquainted, the fictional, the obscure and the mega-famous. But it's all true, and I don't think a girl should have to pretend she's only inspired by Mother Teresa or the Lorax. Feel free to drop me a comment with your own inspirations.

H is for Hospitality

I love being the hostess. I have no idea why; it’s often a stressful, thankless, one-sided thing to open your home and feed and water people, but maybe it’s my own personal control freak thing. I love the triumph of a good night, well thought-out snacks and drinks, themes and celebrations and the sounds of people laughing and talking in the comfort of my home. When I was little and at Brownies, we were set the mammoth challenge of achieving our Hostess badge: this involved putting a small shop-bought cake on a plate, making a cup of tea and serving them to a volunteer ‘examiner’ (the intensity was in no way lessened by the fact that this was my mum.) I think I did fairly well, although I’m not sure what the criteria for failure would have been – spillage, plate-smashing or insulting your guest, perhaps? I remember the task vividly, even though in hindsight you’d think it was a quaint finishing school assignment rather than a 90s after-school project.

When my most exotic relative, my aunt from Switzerland, would come to stay with my family, my sisters and I would often create a ‘hotel’ environment for her; carefully-scrawled menus for breakfast in bed, 24-hour service and welcome notes in her guest bedroom. It is unclear why this generosity was reserved for her alone, but she played along admirably during her stays at the Swan Hotel, even when Weetabix and Coco Pops were the only items offered in the Continental breakfast. So I’ve always enjoyed hospitality, in play if not work – my few stints in catering and bar work were less enjoyable, rude customers, sticky floors, complaints and all. My mum and my grandma both have the inclination as well, in that when people visit there will be premeditated refreshments and a selection of drinks on arrival.

Lots of my food and drink memories are based around this civilised touch – on hot, sticky driving holidays through France, Spain and Italy, we would stay at Eurocamp sites, where you would be met by the reps as you pulled in, taken to their tent and fixed a drink of your choice to unwind from the journey (always exciting). I lived with an excellent hostess in my second year at university (not usually the domain of domestic goddesses), who taught me the grave importance of quality shot glasses, proper coffee and matching your party food to the ambience of the event. I left that flat a much better hostess and full of enthusiasm for full on, fifties-style hospitality. In a less intelligent life I think it might have been fun to be a party or wedding planner, and in retirement I still think it would be incredible to run a sweet little café or tea room.

This isn’t to say I want to abandon all career aspirations, become a WAG and suppress any irritating backchat that might upset the all-important man in my life. But I like taking pride in my hosting skills, love a bit of home baking and definitely think cocktail hour should be reinstated. And never underestimate the joy that a pretty Cath Kidston teapot, a nice cake stand (or if you're not the afternoon tea type, premium vodka and a beautiful set of martini glasses) can add to your social gatherings.

G is for Girl Crush

Ellen Page is just cool. She oozes attitude by being a diminutive powerhouse in the massive boy club that is Inception, with her wit and guts in Juno and decidedly non-fluffy roles in Hard Candy and X Men: The Last Stand. Page should depress me as we are more or less the same age, with very different life CVs, but she's just too damn likeable.

In an interview with The Guardian following the success of Juno, Page said somewhat presciently, "I think a lot of the time in films, men get roles where they create their own destiny and women are just tools, supporters for that." So it was wonderful to see her work her charm and individuality as dream architect Ariadne in Inception last night. The film had my eyes widening, my head spinning and my fists clenched for its entirety, and the swirling plot was enhanced by drops of lightness and comedy here and there in a brilliant script. Page more than holds her own with Hollywood heavyweights Leonardo DiCaprio, Michael Caine and Marion Cotillard (who I’ve always found a little creepy… great that Inception brought that out in her.) To be 5ft and baby-faced and still have the presence and sharpness to be cast as a lead in a blockbuster like this is an incredible feat.

At the modest age 0f 23, she's an Oscar-nominated acting veteran with a huge indie following and has achieved a boyish, funky style which means she avoids cutesy photo shoots in favour of the classic edginess that usually comes with being an 8ft gazelle with jutting cheekbones and vacant eyes.

Loving the big pants

To top it all, she’s a dog person, loves outdoorsy things and just seems like a smart, down-to-earth lass:

[On role models] "As a girl, you're supposed to love Sleeping Beauty. I mean who wants to love Sleeping Beauty when you can be Aladdin?"

[On abortion] “I am a feminist and I am totally pro-choice, but what's funny is when you say that people assume that you are pro-abortion. I don't love abortion but I want women to be able to choose and I don't want white dudes in an office being able to make laws on things like this.”

[On courting the press] “I don’t really think they’ll do a story about Ellen Page eating a mooseburger in Newfoundland.”

So box up the Doc Martens and order me a pint, because I’d definitely give up men to turn the Page.

Ellen Page designs dream worlds in the brilliant psychological thriller, Inception

F is for Fear

Since graduating, I’ve felt a little like I’m freefalling without a parachute. An arts degree does not lend itself to a clear or secure career path, the job market is the worst it has been in decades, and I don’t seem to be able to hold on to a comfortable routine or familiar relationship at the moment. At the beginning of this year something happened which I had feared, and it seemed that the abyss was even closer than before. But I was determined not to let a few changes of situation and fortune ruin my year, and I decided, as a instinctively passive and introverted person, to face up to a number of things that scare me. Against my nature, I was taught as a child that you should try things once, from buttery Escargot to rock climbing, and then see if the result is really revulsion or revelation. Some of the things I approached with trepidation never made it into the Likes list – mushrooms and speaking to a large group still make my stomach turn – but a good many have proven to be completely unfounded.

I got the ball rolling a week after being emotionally crushed, by auditioning for a local amateur dramatic show. I used to do a lot of drama and music, but dropped it after high school; incredibly rusty four years on, I felt terrified by the prospect of any audition, let alone one in front of a strange panel with unspecified standards. However, I braced myself, learnt the song, fudged my way through a traumatic dance audition and was delighted when I got a small part. Unsure how it would fit in to my life and whether I’d struggle, I went along to rehearsals and what followed were some of the best weeks of my life, featuring some of the greatest people I have ever met. I don’t know how long I would have stayed in my numb self-esteem crash had it not been for the whirlwind distraction of learning harmonies and lines, costume fittings and on show week, sheer adrenaline. It was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and cemented my idea that scaring yourself can work wonders.

Some other things that make my heart pound…

Flying
This is a tricky one; although not rare, I have an odd detachment from my fear of flying. It is the only one I can truly deem a phobia, as fearing it is like an out-of-body experience for me – I know it is irrational, I will still get on planes every year and I think it is a very unappealing trait in a person. But the minute I get near an airport terminal I feel unsettled, and the adrenaline that rushes through me as we speed down the runway is a far from pleasant high. It feels like a deep-rooted, animal fear of something that feels so totally unnatural to me; perhaps because I don’t even come close to understanding the genius of aviation, every time I fly I feel like I’m part of some dicey maiden voyage on an experimental type of transport. I try to talk myself down from the ledge by reminding myself of all the rational facts: statistics, physics, the fact that people take flights every day as their regular commute. But to no avail; I fear I will always fear the speed, the suspension and the precarious feeling. But I still hope to conquer it. After years of Rescue Remedy, deep breathing and calm visualisations, the only thing I can truly recommend is a large glass of red wine a little while before and perhaps midway through the flight. This is often controversial on early morning departures.

Karaoke
Hand in hand with performing (but much, much worse) Karaoke is literally my idea of a night-out nightmare. Yes, it’s meant to be fun, but anyone who has sat through someone very seriously mewling their way through a Mariah Carey classic knows it can turn from tuneful to tragic in no time at all. Getting up in front of a roomful of strangers (or worse, friends) and getting through a whole three minutes of song is simply my idea of hell. It’s not so much that I take it as a serious challenge to sound good, but that I know the extent of judgement that goes on in my own head, let alone the rest of the crowd’s, when someone takes the mic. I even have three or four pre-approved tracks in my head should I ever be forced up on to a platform with a neon screen of lyrics; a sort of survival plan should the worst happen. Shudder.

Dates
No, not the shrivelled fruit snacks, but one-on-one time with newly discovered men. As I’ve mentioned in my recent posts about online dating, although I enjoy the basic concept of the date, the time leading up to one is unbearable. I suppose this means on some level I can’t bear someone thinking badly of me, or just the hugeness of it all – that this could be someone pivotally important to your life, or even that they might be horribly insignificant. I always have a short phase of ‘How do I get out of this?’ followed neatly by ‘No, I have to do this’ and right at the last minute, ‘Is it too late to run away really, really fast?’ I’ve mostly had good dating experiences, so this isn’t a reflection on the men I’ve been out with, but I can never quite get over the potential shyness or awkwardness a budding relationship poses. Hence the maximum-dating plan, a sort of baptism of fire which I hope will burn off the nervous energy that envelops me when I’m single.

Public Speaking
Though not the quietest member of my family, I have always been the shyest. As a child I found it incredibly difficult to talk to new people, and always relied on my more boisterous siblings when it came to the momentous challenge of making friends. I have no idea why I was hit with the timid stick when I come from such a sociable clan, but I spent lots of my childhood trying to speak louder and more clearly, make eye contact and basically not hide in a cupboard somewhere in the foetal position when it came to new faces or places. Somewhere along the line I gained friends and confidence (junior school?) learned how to fake a bit of attitude and guts, and basically tricked myself into being a more confident person. Drama helped, and getting to an age where it was more acceptable and powerful to be clever. But most of all, I had exceptional examples all around me of articulate speakers and can-do attitudes. I knew just how people went about seeming at ease, and I learned to imitate it until it felt natural to go up and start conversations from scratch. Saying that, the thought of getting up in front of more than twenty people and saying anything makes my head spin slightly; the prospect of having to lecture was one of the main reasons I passed on continuing with the academic route, which is terrible, thinking about it. Commanding the room is a skill I’ve been determined to develop for a while, and it’s definitely on my To Quell list.

Criticism
As has been so delightfully pointed out by many of my readers - sense the bristling already? - I become somewhat defensive when faced with criticism of my writing in particular, and my character in general. I find it hard to brush off a comment once made, and probably because I’m not as resilient and confident as I try to project (see above) it does make me doubt my own ability rather than helping me to get better. Of course it does help, in the long run, especially when I can see that I’ve oversimplified, been arrogant or failed to provide the facts, but at the moment of impact I feel about two inches tall. I now have my blog comments emailed to me to approve; they always go up eventually, but it means I can swallow, take it on board and absorb it before putting it up there for all the world to see. I am trying to be a better person about this (it’s definitely a maturity thing; I’m already much more willing to concede some debating ground than I was pre-twenties) especially, as so many have emphasised, because my ideal career choice will involve all the flack and weekly ranting from every ‘Disgusted of Berkshire’ and lunatic reading. I have to deal with it, but it’s an ongoing challenge for someone who does actually care quite a lot if people like her.

Fear is just fear, you can’t let it rule your life or prevent you from meeting your goals and living your dreams. As Mr Darcy (or Colin Firth, as I hear he likes to be called) once growled during a sweaty fencing lesson: ‘I shall conquer this. I shall.’ And I shall leave you with the words of that fictional hottie as I go off to jab at my own fears with a pointy stick.

E is for Elegance

When I'm wandering around London or at a glamorous party, my eyes are never drawn to the suited and booted gents around me, but always to the female of the species. This is not me coming out to the blogosphere; for kissing, dating and arguing with, I like boys. That's just me. But for sheer aesthetic satisfaction, it has to be women who win every time. It's probably because of the range of fashion options and physiques, whereas boys just have short or not-so-short hair and dark or not-so-dark jeans to work with. I've been enamoured by a number of women who have passed my way lately due to an elusive elegance that wafts along with them. It could be a symptom of my working in a far more corporate environment than I'm used to, but mainly it's because I have become less than elegant, and I aspire to be a lot more so. I hesitate to use the term 'let myself go', but I've certainly become a bit relaxed and blase to the way I eat, (skip) exercise and dress day-to-day. Not necessarily a crash in self-esteem, but a lack of anything to make me up my sartorial game. I am not naturally elegant, but I seem to have stopped trying to be, and this is what peturbs me.

A number of factors foil my attempts to join the E-list, and these are as follows: I am incurably clumsy (known as 'the spiller' amongst friends), prefer keeping my heels under my desk than braving the commute in a sleekpair of 4-inchers, I do not drive, therefore acquiring a flustered rosy glow on the trek to various chic destinations, I do not have a limitless bank balance (I know money shouldn't matter but with style it definitely helps) and alas, I am not of the pale, slender, high cheekboned, ravenous Eastern-European persuasion which bombards our perception of beauty. Actually the latter does not quite fit my own idea of elegance; it can be anything from exceptionally radiant skin to beautifully coiffed hair, stopping by cinched waists and gloriously classic handbags on the way. Beautifully pedicured feet in sandals, light golden or porcelain skin, a glimse of slender wrist in a simple bracelet or a little Smythson leather diary are all part of a very London-specific elegance.

I keep seeing effortlessly shift-dressed ladies, their (usually glossy brunette) hair piled up in a chignon - seriously, who in real life can put together a chignon at 7am? - sleek waxed legs lengthened by simple black or nude pumps, a tres-chic hint of perfume completing their aura. It's true, many of these women will also have the misfortune of being a UBH (Unfriendly Brunette Hottie), casting doubtful glances at frizzy-haired, flat-shoed bag ladies like myself as they grab a soy latte. But often they are smiley, chatting ladies with a spring in their step who are just that lucky. It may take a few more hours at the gym, some high-maintenance grooming and months of saving for a better handbag, but I am determined to take a few more steps towards this kind of urban elegance. I was definitely more gazelle-like a couple of years ago (when I was also brunette, incidentally, although hopefully a friendly species) and I'm sure it can't take too much willpower to head back that way.

Thandie is Chanel-clad, Moet-sipping, chignon-rocking elegance personified

D is for Dating

We don't really date, as a nation, and I think that's a shame. There is a bit of a suburban culture of one-at-a-time, orderly queue relationships, where it's considered somewhat exotic and experimental if you have a drink with more than one of the opposite sex in the same month. If us Brits did as the Yanks do and shop around a bit for a significant other (with no confusion about the casual nature of a single date) I think we would have better relationships and less painful break-ups. Due to the city pressures of careers, commuting and the sheer volume of human traffic, London in particular has started to embrace singles events, speed dating and the like in last couple of years. In the spirit of this new urban date market, I have decided to cast aside my closing-in-on-5 months of wallowing singledom and join a dating website.

Online dating? I hear you gasp. Surely this is for painfully awkward folk, those almost clinically inept at attracting a mate, or merely specimens with unnervingly lopsided faces? Well yes it is, in some ways - of which more later. But I've jumped on the bandwagon anyway. I felt my attitude towards online dating change gradually this year as I kept finding myself chatting to very normal, attractive, charming people who had given it a whirl and reported back with mixed, but often positive, experiences. A particularly attractive male acquaintance confided that he had tried most of the big sites, and admitted it was awkward at first but on the whole, great fun. A good female friend (who is a dating dream: bright, successful, pretty & interesting) was giving it a go and feeling boosted by the assertive nature of the process, and even one of the most straight-talking, no-nonsense girls I know was nosing into cyberspace in search of a hottie. Maybe it's the facebook revolution or perhaps people are just bored with pretending that we meet fantastic potential life partners every day, but it's no longer weird to approach your lovelife as you would an ASOS spree. So as a single, slightly bored blogger, I felt I needed a slice of the action too.

I plumped for MySingleFriend.com, highly recommended as the least intimidating and most relaxed UK dating site. Instead of trying to match you intensely based on life values and pet preferences, MSF aims to be more like a large online pub - you scout around for faces you think look nice, get the insider info on them from their friend, and 'favouritise' them much like a facebook poke. The idea to have a friend write your description is a stroke of genius - there are no cheesy 'I like walks on the beach, sunsets and a nice glass of Merlot' spiels, as well as it hugely taking the pressure off creating your profile. As a result of the recommend-a-friend system, there are no GSOHs or 'free-spirits', just a lot of quirky descriptions and jokey speculation as to why their single pal hasn't met the right person yet. On my first man search (a heady experience, shopping online for cute boys) I was surprised by the amount of passionately bromance-y descriptions by male friends, even more so by the amount of older sisters giving their hapless little bro a nudge onto the market, but most of all by how many friendly faces and witty profiles I actually came across.

Now, don't get me wrong, MSF is no Cosmo centrefold; there are plenty of nice guy/hopelessly lopsided face scenarios, and even a few tanned and waxed Adonises who appear to have clicked 'seeking a female' by mistake. But now and again you come across an interesting description, a lighthearted picture and a hook of some sort, be it an Anchorman quote, a PhD or a winning closing sentence. Considering I don't tend to go for muscley dreamboats so much as funny geeks, I was quite relieved to see the focus was firmly on personality. If nothing else comes of this experiment, it has proved a huge ego boost with minimal effort from me. I asked a friend to back up that I was not a psycho or a misanthrope, came clean about my musical theatre habit and lust for Greek food, stuck a couple of pictures up and went about my own business. On returning to my inbox 24 hours later, I had 30+ notifications that people had added me to their favourites, and even a few messages were coming in (some concise and witty, others stilted and cliche-ridden). So it's good to know I am not hideously malformed or tragically invisible. Granted, some of the aforementioned facial landslides were among those singling me out as a possible match, but as part of the well-organised wonder that is MSF, you can send a delightfully crisp and cruel 'Thanks, but no thanks' message to any real Quasimodos. It's actually a bit nicer than it sounds, more 'I don't think we're a good match but good luck with your search and all that', but it does mark the rejected party's messages with a cartoon thumbs down sign, clearly separating the tasty wheat from the dating chaff.

So what have I learned in part one of the saga? A good male friend took the time to say that I'm quite a nice person (I blushed a little), 60 random males took the time to click on my profile and liked what they saw enough to add me as a favourite (woo-ha) and I learned just what my bizarre and fairly shallow manhunting criteria are, doing it as I was sober and from the comfort of my sofa. In short, nice face - tick, good smile - tick, too much sport - no thanks (they'll only be disappointed at my lack of ineffectual berating of little men on TV), too much travelling/skydiving/shark-wrestling - next, any mention of food loving - on the right track, bad spelling - chaff, chaff, chaff, and any admission of guilty pleasure films or TV are also surprisingly attractive amongst hundreds desperate to look cultured. I am being a little brutal, but that's the great thing - you never have to meet these people or worry about crushing their feelings so you can judge away on first glance. Knowing how to sell yourself (and having a witty friend) goes a long way on this site, so it will be very interesting to see how profiles compare with the real product... if I ever stop hiding behind my laptop and actually accept a date with any of these virtual suitors.

My top tip so far would be ALWAYS look at the 'secondary' pictures as well as the one on the profile. Some people just have one very flattering shot (or have gone for black and white, moody lighting or a good angle) and their further shots are nothing short of horrifying. I'm also watching out for anyone who has 'possible marriage material' selected as one of their personality traits; I don't care if their friend ticked it, it's totally weird for a man not to appear shrouded in commitment-phobia at first and it actually isn't what women want to be hit with before they've even met the bloke. There are also a few 'thirty year olds' who have either spent a large proportion of those years chain-smoking in bright sunlight, or are in fact not thirty at all. No one said it wouldn't be a minefield, but just like a Wetherspoons on a Friday night you have to dodge the old creepies, sidestep the court jesters and keep an eye out for the cute advertising exec at the bar with a nice glass of red. Next stop: testing out the actual dating bit...

C is for Controversy

So, apparently I caused a bit of a rumpus in Glamour HQ this morning.

I casually tweeted Glamour magazine's editor, Jo Elvin (@jo_elvin) some thoughts on their June Women of the Year issue; namely that I had been a bit unimpressed by Lily Allen opening the section with a somewhat self-pitying attitude. As we all know, Lily's tired of the limelight and wants to retreat into 'oblivion' and have lots of babies. So far, so good - more power to her. But in the context of a section filled with witty, successful celebs like Ruth Jones, Zoe Saldana and Lea Michele, all at the top of their game, her moany interview just went down like a lead balloon with me. Anyway, Jo wrote a blog post on their website defending Lily from those criticizing her life choices. I can see how my comment suggested it, but I don't actually have a problem with Lily's bid for domesticity. I do however, have a problem with her own 'issues' with fame, stardom and a few grand in the bank - issues she feels compelled to press on us every chance she gets.

I like Lily; in a sea of PR-savvy schmaltz, she really is refreshingly honest. But when presented with an award voted for by thousands of readers, I'm sorry, you just suck it up and say thank you. Her response didn't seem to say that at all. Instead she criticized the public ('people have stopped buying music'), the media (particularly 'the image we're sold of beauty' - by magazines like Glamour, Lil?) and basically everyone who's got her to where she is today. Because she doesn't seem to like where she is, even if that is at the top of the charts, the awards shortlists and the style pages.

I just felt disappointed that someone could be offered a lovely photo shoot, an interview with the editor-in-chief, and ANOTHER award, and still feel compelled to re-iterate their boredom and disillusionment with their situation. It's not exactly the worst of the worst, after all. And yes, Lily, we get that you're all loved up right now, but I really didn't need to hear you witter on about getting your man's dinner on the table in time for him getting home after football. I, personally, don't think that's very inspirational (or even relevant) in a woman's magazine, in a section about great female celebs. I do agree with Jo Elvin that a woman's right to choose between dizzy heights or washing his whites is important and should be respected, but I just don't think Lily proved herself a great choice by being so negative and melodramatic about her own stardom.

B is for Britain

We all seem to have a daily rant here in Britain about the rubbishness of the weather, the transport, the politicians and the chavs, but I have to say I bloody love this country. Not in an English-flag brandishing, football-loutish or snobbishly imperialistic way, but in that I'm happy being here most of the time. I don't share the now-fashionable obsession with emigrating to sunnier climes (although it's amazing to get away and I would love to live abroad temporarily) but I do have what is better described as an overwhelming fondness than a fierce patriotism for this sceptred isle.

It's easy to forget the fundamental joys of living in a developed Western country, but of course they are many - freedom of speech, equality, democracy and an uncorrupt justice system. But it's the littler things, those you miss at the end of a holiday, that warm my heart on a regular basis. The politeness - I have been told by more than one non-Brit than our pleases and thank yous are excessively and unnecessarily used, but I appreciate every little piece of verbal etiquette that comes my way. Yes, we apologise when someone else bustles into us, and often to entirely inanimate objects, but it's a compulsion that makes us loveable. I love the amount of satire in our press and on TV, especially the topical panel shows such as Have I Got News For You where no-one and nothing is too sacred for examination. I enjoy our eccentrics (even the Royal Family for their entertainment value) and traditions, and personally think we have a pleasant balance of conservative and liberal minds. I enjoy a cup of tea on a drizzly day while snuggled inside on a sofa. Sunshine puts me in a great mood, but 365 days of roasting heat a year leaves no room for seasonal contrast or variety, from your wardrobe to your leisure activities. Can you imagine being without the glorious novelty of a beer garden in summer, or a snowball fight in winter? We appreciate jetting off somewhere warm so much more for having such an unpredictable climate here. I love the smalltalk, the wit, the humour and the diversely styled fashionistas. I enjoy our straight-talking celebs more with every bland Hollywood soundbite from a US star, and the irreverence of our entertainment TV and awards shows. The history and culture of London is far superior to so many tourist destinations, we just find it hard to see that when we're so close to the action.

From our offbeat advertising to our disloyalty to political parties (the 'Ok, show me what you've got' approach to this year's election was truly impressive) and our ability to laugh at our own failings, from teen mums to snobbery, is what makes Britain unique. In some ways - mostly financial - we could be described as Broken, but in essentials we are flourishing. I like that a grown man can be reduced to tears by the kick of a ball and someone convinced they are Yoda or Jesus can get on their soapbox at Speaker's Corner without being moved on. In the next 24 hours I will definitely complain about the weather, become enraged by fellow commuters and needlessly mock a public figure, but deep down I'm happy that by random chance and good luck, I happen to live here.

When Derrick Bird shot twelve people on a seemingly motiveless killing spree in Cumbria yesterday, the reports were not met with sad resignation as a sign of the times. There were and are ripples of outrage, numbed shock and furious questioning in every paper, on every website and around every watercooler in the country. Do we ever stop and appreciate that such large-scale and tragic violence is a distinct rarity here? Sometimes it's hard to remember amongst the tax moans and the MP gags, but from high school shootings to Taliban-esque restrictions, terror and violence is part of the everyday for so many people around the world. That's not to say it is any less tragic that twelve innocents have been killed by one selfish man determined to punish the world for his misfortunes; simply that we should look around us once in a while and reconsider our disdain for this little piece of earth.

A is for Age

I haven't really felt my age since I was about 18. I feel like very little has changed for me since then, although I know I must be a little wiser and perhaps calmer than I was.

These unretouched pictures of Madonna's latest campaign for Louis Vuitton are circulating online, and they made me think about how skewed our visual perception of age has become. My sophisticated first reaction of OH MY GOD, WHAT'S HAPPENED TO MADONNA'S FACE?? surely can't be right, when after a moment of consideration the answer is clear - time.

On third glance, she actually looks fabulous for a 51 year old woman (with some hefty cosmetic procedures on her side) minus the airbrushing - why does LV need to go one extra step to de-age her by a quarter of a century? Of course this is the way we've been trained to receive and appreciate advertising, but we all know how old Madonna is - especially those who danced to her 80s tracks as clubbers in their twenties, but have mysteriously zoomed past her in terms of their physical ageing. It's no secret, but she and we are happy to collude in the 'Madonna looks so great' myth. The overwhelming feeling I get from the raw pictures is tiredness, sheer exhaustion. Not due to age perhaps, but to the titanic effort of maintaining her everlasting youth. The teenage boho hair, the leotards, the dewy make-up, the playful bunny ears are all part of the theatrics.

The interesting thing about the brand she represents is that Louis Vuitton is a classic label. It represents wealth, maturity, the security of being able to buy their luxe leather goods to travel with. Couldn't they have unveiled a new Madonna with a more fifty-plus look tailored to her own style and image? She is, after all, the queen of reinvention. In the re-touch Vuitton have not only de-aged her, but feminised her - note the sculpting away of arm muscle and softening of expression. They aren't fully celebrating the defiant, bordering-on-bionic Madonna, but giving us a completely different person than the icon photographed.

I do agree that you're only as young as you feel, and I admire Madge's energy and determination that her life and career shouldn't need to slow down after fifty. But I do think other celebs manage to stay in the limelight while still looking fabulously middle-aged in it - it's a hard time for those who have built their career around their body or face. Age can be a beautiful thing, if you're at one with the self that remains: in your mind, your conversation, your laugh. I can't see myself filling my cheeks and forehead with every type of silicone and poison available to me post-fifty, but who knows - I'll get back to you when my face starts to collapse.