The problem with blogging, is one sets a standard. And sometimes it's hard to maintain. In the case of puspie, it's a voyage around metropolitan life. But life's been dull as ditchwater this past month. I've been writing. And continue to do so. And I've had two commissions. Which is great. But socially, I've been a homebird. Hence the intermittent entries. On Saturday, I made chicken and leek pie for twelve. It was a fab evening, but dry. Because four of the twelve were lawyers. I do find legal people, particularly those at the bar, so up themselves. In the nicest sense, of course;-) There's no room for a bit of slapstick or playful banter. I wonder if the focusing on small-print makes even small-talk appear complex? So the lightest of remarks becomes loaded with meaning? That said, the last guest left at four. After I'd done an extra-curricular three hours as agony aunt. "Your problem is intimacy," I told her. "You're scared of it." Her face lit up. "That's it! What should I do?" "Shag him," I replied. The previous night, I'd gone out with my godson and his IBM cronies. Dull dull dull. Even when drunk. Worse than lawyers! I slipped off early for some bevvies with a young Aussie of my acquaintance. And rolled home at two. A lot of late nights. And still no gossip. This evening, I'm off to a women-in-public-policy-making networking event. Which promises to be lively. Thankfully, the diary is far more interesting in Feb. Normal blogging resumes:-)

A debonair colleague once told me, "Your arse looks like two boiled eggs in a navvy's hanky." A stone later, an Australian colleague elaborated. "When you walk, it's like two helium balloons in the last throes of making love." As I grew, it grew with me. Were I six shades darker I could, for much of my life, have been a Nigerian. With middle age, the stuffing resettled on my midriff. The jackfruit is now a pancake. Which is why I'm in serious discomfort. After bouncing down the stairs this morning. Boing boing boing. No padding! And such a large surface:-( Ouch! It was my own fault. For days I've nursed a blocked tearduct. Random tears slalom down my nose. And onto my chin. It happened mid-interview on CNN. "Maybe one day you'll weep blood like the villain in the new Bond film?" my youngest said hopefully. Anyway, because of the weeping eye, I missed the step. So you find me on the edge of my seat. Earlier tonight, my Godson came round. And deposited three tyres in my garden. "Those bastards at BMW charged me £600 to replace them," he growled. "I'll get them checked this weekend. If they're all right, I'm going to sue." "And if they're not?" I ventured, foreseeing years of rotting rubber in the yard. No answer:-o That said, after a bad birth, don't women sit on inflatable rings? I wonder if a low profile Michelin can do the trick for my sore down-there?

Goodness, barely morning and so much done already. The first payment of the year has been agreed. A proposal for a website, written and dispatched. The house is spotless, despite the char coming tomorrow. The washing is on, the ironing scheduled, and I'm prowling the basement, waiting for my agent to call. Because I sent him the first 13,000 words yesterday. Part One of the new tome. Another four months and it could be done. Unless he hates it. Then it's back to square one. If this wasn't tense-making enough, last night I made the mistake of watching Big Brother. After an hour of Jade's bilious and chaotic outpourings, I was so tense my jaw had locked. I don't think she's a racist. She's just woefully ignorant. She has no parameters. Given her background with an addict for a mother, that's hardly surprising. It's extraordinary she's turned her life around at all. But money only confers comfort. It can't make up for a lost education, childhood neglect and social isolation. Jade may be rich, but she remains troubled and out of control. Because a hundred per cent improvement on zero is still zero. Shilpa will go on to greater glory and riches. As she deserves to. Jade, poor cow, has unwittingly been hoist by her own petard. That's one pictured alongside, in case you were wondering;-)

Last night a thespian party. "I love actors, don't you?" trilled my friend. To whom I was an adjunct for the evening. "I'm not sure," I mumbled. "I sort of think they're lazy buggers." What I didn't add was, "A bit like writers." The house had a name, rather than a number. I noted the postcode and wondered where such grandeur might be hidden. In the street of small terraced cottages, we came unstuck. Ah! Theatrical irony. The house was really number two. Inside, bedlam. More people than space. The tiny front room was spliff heaven. In the kitchen, the drinks area was blocked by bodies. I shoved my contributions under a table. "This is like being 16 again." My mate had champagne. We went into the garden, drank it and left. I was home by eleven. Earlier I'd driven to Huntingdon. To pick up some chairs I bought off eBay. From Sexyladyantiques... On a windblown estate of box-like houses, I knocked at number 23. Much activity behind the glass door. I spotted two small children, two cats, and a dog. Finally, Sexylady opened up. Physically and aurally, she was the Cambridgeshire foil to Jimmy Cliterhoe. "Excuse the mess," she said, "We're moving." The tiny front room was like the killing fields. I had to step over toys, clothes, junk and bodies. Behind, a much larger room was stripped bare and filled with old furniture. The business:-o I collected my wares hastily, and left. "We're moving to a mobile home," she told me. "While we self-build a farmhouse." There were many responses that came to mind. But I stuck to "Good luck."

There is a fine line between community spirit and busybodying. I think I may have crossed it this morning. When I spotted a car with its lights on. Which belongs to the family across the road. I'd better tell them, I thought. And went to ring on the bell. At which point the man of the house emerged. From the car... I wasn't wearing my specs. And he is as grey as the Audi's sleek exterior. So I hadn't seen him. Purple with embarrassment I started to burble. He held up a hand to silence me, pointing to a headset. Into which, I now saw, he was mumbling urgently. I turned to leave. He motioned me to stay. Clearly anticipating an emergency. Finally he said, "I'm so sorry. It's a busy dealing day. We're selling madly. What's the matter?" "You've left your lights on," I said. Embarrassed? No shit, Sherlock. It made me wonder about the aforesaid line. This past week I've been a bit of a local heroine. After my complaints about incontinence pants were aired in the local rag. On the other hand, half the street's avoiding me. In case I decide to air their personal problems too. I think it's an age issue. The line, I mean. When you're young and you care about your community, you're a good neighbour. When you're middle-aged, the same actions mark you as a busybody. When you're old, you're perceived to be a nimby. It's a hard call. I shall think twice in future, before making helpful advances...

I'm writing again. For myself, I mean. It started after the historic lunch at Hakkasan. The following week, I breakfasted with an agent. "Having fallen off the big horse," he said, "it's time to return to the saddle." "I've already polished my stirrups," I replied. But it was Christmas. And I had a lurgy. So the writing got forgotten. Then yesterday, I pulled up the file on screen. And realised it worked. By end of play today, the word count had doubled. Ooer Missis. Meantime, the youngest is covered in indelible red spots. From my 24 hour lipstick. Which she used as make up. For a film she's making in the back room. And the eldest is elbow deep in mocks. "I used some great words in GCSE English," she trilled. "Atrabilious, sophomoric and rebarbative. Do you know them?" I don't, but I'm guessing at least one is appropriate to my relationship with our local hospital. About, and to, which I recently complained. After finding my elderly neighbour sitting in dirty incontinence pants. Unchanged for at least two hours. Today the local paper ran the story. So I'm keeping my head down. That said, my head was the best part. "Nice picture, Mum," said the youngest. "You look ten years younger."

Another glorious morning in the great metropolis. The line in the sand has been drawn, and 2006 consigned to the recycling pile of old memories. Last night in bed, I wrote a list of improving goals. Health, harmony and focus. These are my new year buzzwords:-) Alas, bed featured large over the hols. Suffering from a head cold, I slept through them. Except on New Year's Eve. When I lunched with my ma. In the evening, I painted on a semblance of life. And stepped into the night like a geisha. Or, to be more precise, a boxer in drag. My hair collapsed in the rain. I arrived at a soiree in a club on Portman Square, bedraggled and rheumy eyed. And found the hostess had drummed up a bloke for me. A Daniel Craig lookalike. With a Torbay accent. Who was charming and funny. All year I've waited for such a moment. And it happens on a night only nasal dilation is possible. Flipping heck, I thought, sipping a raspberry martini out of politeness, what kind of portent is this for 2007? It was a relief to return home. I won two games of Anagrammatic and retired to bed with a double Lemsip. Yesterday was no better. But! This morning I woke and my head is clear. Where I've struggled to leave the bed, today I leapt from it. And ran downstairs. My eyes are bright. My spirits high. Today is the first day of the rest of my life! Happy New Year to you all. It's looking good;-)