Dot-to-dot-to-disco

Last night I went somewhere that has immediately become MY NEW FAVOURITE PLACE and did something that swiftly became MY NEW FAVOURITE THING.

It was in Kings Cross. No, not *that* you filth-bag.

A couple of weeks back, thanks to the social networking behemoth that is Twitter, I found out about a place on Caledonian Road called Drink, Shop & Do. Rather than bang on in my own ditzy childlike way about what it's all about, I'll let the people who run it explain (because, quite frankly, they know best):

After reading that I decided I HAD TO GO.

And so last night a few of us went along - to take part in dot-to-dot-to-disco. Now, when I told people I was off to do dot-to-dot-to-disco I got lots of blank stares followed by "what's that?" This can only lead me to believe that there's some kind of stupidity virus going around at the moment, because what else could dot-to-dot-to-disco be than dot-to-dot pictures done to the tune of disco music? OF COURSE.

What I wasn't quite prepared for, however, was how awesome Drink, Shop & Do is from the moment you step in the door. It's a mish-mash world of retro furniture and bright colours that somehow all seem to coordinate beautifully. And did I mention the building used to be a Victorian bathhouse? No? Well it did. It's all high ceilings and ornate fixtures. And lampshades made out of jay-cloths.

It's shambolic and beautiful and I want to live there.

So, safely ensconced in the 'shop' part, I turned my attention to the 'drink.' What shall I have … oh, what's a coke float? It's coke with a dollop of ice cream in it. Really? Marvellous - I'll have one of those (or rather four - shhhhh!).

When the nice lady brought it to our table she set it down in front of me and with a smile on her face and a glint in her eye cheerfully said "that'll explode when you stir it."

My terrifyingly explosive coke float pre-detonation.

I looked at my drink a little warily, then thought "of course it won't explode," and started stirring.

It exploded.

Well, a slight exaggeration perhaps, but it fizzed madly and threatened to spill over the top of the glass so quickly that I had to start frantically guzzling it through the straw to prevent it from running on to the nicely laminated table and thereafter my lap.

And then we came to the 'do.'

We - along with quite a few other people who had turned up - were handed dot-to-dot sheets and a glass of vibrantly-coloured felt-tip pens, and told that the effort judged to be the best would win a free drink. In total we each had three different sheets to complete, all of which showed an album cover. The winner would be judged on their colouring in skills. Oh, and to fulfil the disco aspect of dot-to-dot-to-disco, awesome disco music played throughout the evening's proceedings.

This was The Emotions, apparently. No, I've never heard of them either.

This looked familiar but I couldn't think of the artist. Still can't, to be honest, but I later enhanced my effort here with hugely-defined boobs in the possibly mistaken belief that it was a lady.

Assuming that I was doing a brilliant job here, I was slightly mortified when the lovely lady who'd brought me my explosive beverage swung by our table and looked at my masterpiece. "Is this yours?" she asked. "Yes!" I replied, thinking she'd spotted an early winner. She nodded once. "Hmmm. You've lost."

As a result, I determined that I'd really have to bring my A-game to the third sheet. I grabbed my purple felt-tip and, with my tongue poking out the side of my mouth as a sign of my increased determination, furiously set to work. Simple colouring in would not suffice here: I needed to freestyle. I did this by adding an illustration of Garfield to the picture.

WHO DOESN'T LOVE THAT HILARIOUS FAT CAT?! Before submitting this work of art to the judges, I also added my name to the top left-hand corner in a jazzy 1980s typeface. I didn't want some random trying to claim responsibility for my masterpiece!

With my artistic labours complete, I settled back with another coke float, a mouthful of an orgasm-inducing chocolate brownie, and some serious Connect-4 action. Oh yes, they had board games as well. A couple at the next table started dancing to a 70s disco hit (sadly they did not break into a zombie routine when Michael Jackson's Beat It came on next). Some bloke came in, paused at the entrance and marvelled at the room in which he found himself like a little kid unleashed upon Disney Land (except little kids usually don't mutter "what the fuck?!" in amazement). Pear drops and pink shrimps were passed around. I had felt-tip ink all over my hands.

And then I won first place in the dot-to-dot competition. I threw my arms in the air like I'd just won the Grand National. My prize was a drink of my choice, so I had another coke float. Lee cut my straw in half with some scissors, but I was so hopped up on coke, ice cream, and the sweet taste of victory that I didn't care. It was an utterly, totally unexpectedly brilliant evening.

What I'm getting at then, is that if you find yourself wandering the streets of London YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY go to Drink, Shop & Do. There should be one of these places on every street. I'm planning to go back next Saturday. Why? To make a clay David Bowie head of course.

Vandal

So, in addition to drawing a rather impressive series of satirical Star Trek cartoons back in my school days (here, here, here, here, and here if you're particularly bored), a recent email from a long-lost friend appears to have uncovered evidence suggesting that I might've, um, defaced school property with my sketches of Kirk and Picard.

Oh well, it was only Hamlet - who the hell has bothered reading THAT?!

The car wash story

If, for some reason, you found yourself in a static position just staring at my blog last week, first of all what's the matter with you? Why aren't you outside scampering around and doing exciting things? That aside, if you *were* just staring at my blog, you would've seen a series of furious tweets on my Twitter sidebar thing relating to the fact that I was washing my car.

Apparently the weekend before I'd happened to mention to Big Bro that my car was filthy and needed a wash. At the time so was his, and he apparently offered to delay washing his so we could take part in some sort of brotherly bonding experience and wash them together. I, apparently, said yes.

By the following weekend I'd completely compartmentalised this fact in my tiny brain, only to be terrifyingly reminded of it when I happened to remark to Sparky Ma that I intended to have a lazy Sunday in front of the telly. One furious look and a series of choice words from Big Bro shot that idea down in dramatic flames, and so on Sunday afternoon I arrived back round at my parents' house ready for a quick once over my adorable car with a wet sponge and some bubbles.

Or so I thought.

I've always been full of pride for every car I've owned, and particularly with my Minis this has been reflected in a car washing technique that has lasted around about the two hour mark. When Big Bro changed his car last year, however, he surpassed even my dedication to the art of wiping bird poo of a motor.

He researched it on the internet. He bought the biggest car washing kit known to man. He formulated STAGES.

I had forgotten this.

The first instance of scrotum-tightening fear I experienced that Sunday afternoon came when he barred me from helping in the initial two stages of washing his car. At first I thought this was A GOOD THING, because I got to sit inside with Sparky Ma watching Kindergarten Cop and drinking a cup of tea. About an hour later, however, Big Bro stormed in and said "I'll complete mine on the road - get your car in the front garden and begin stage one."

"What's stage one?" I whimpered.

Big Bro tutted and looked at me like I was a special. "It's the rinsing stage, OF COURSE."

I looked over at Sparky Ma, but she just slipped ever lower behind the newspaper and pretended not to notice what was going on.

"WELL COME ON THEN!"

I scurried outside.

• Stage one, as I noted, is the rinsing stage. To achieve this, you use a high-pressure hose to dislodge any chunks of dirt that may have become attached to the body of the car. You do not use the high pressure hose to mimic urinating on the front garden, unless you want to be the focus of a withering stare from HE WHO MUST BE OBEYED on the other side of the road, having paused momentarily to watch you with disdain while he delicately dabs water away from his car with what looks like a fine lace hanky.

• Stage two involves cleaning the wheels with what looks like a hung, drawn and quartered hedgehog, and apparently weathering a further series of humiliating comments about yours truly.

• Stage three actually involves sloshing some car shampoo on the car. The car shampoo appears identical to Predator blood, and I was carefully monitored to ensure that I didn't waste any (as if I was going to drink it or do my hair with it or something – admittedly both distinct possibilities if left unattended). This was followed by another rinse stage, which was admittedly made more enjoyable by almost dousing one of the neighbours when she came out of her front door and I turned to say hello.

• Stage four involves wiping any remaining water from the bodywork of the car using a Californian Water Blade. It was when I'd almost completed this stage that Big Bro came over to check on my progress and, upon finding it did not even meet, let alone equal, his lofty standards, flicked dirt on my bonnet and made me repeat stages three and four.

• Stage five saw me ordered to apply tar remover to those hard-t0-remove pieces of road scum that get flicked up off the road and stuck to the doors. This was an utterly soul-destroying task.

Brief pause, possible tears. MANLY TEARS, I MIGHT ADD. Helpless looks from frightened mother. Tweeting cries for help. Stern-faced brother orders me to put down iPhone and get back to work.

• Stage six involves dabbing any remaining water away from the bodywork using the aforementioned fine lace hanky, which I discover here is a microfibre cloth. I don't even wash my face with something so soft and sophisticated.

• Stage seven is the wax stage. Big Bro joins me on my car at this point, having finally finished his own motor. As with when I offered to help him paint his bedroom and actually ended up doing the whole thing myself, I find that he concentrates on about 10 square centimetres of the roof while I am left to do everything else. By the time we've applied wax to the entire thing my previously shiny car looks like … well, a massive bird has taken an epic shit on it.

Sparky Ma comes out and so as not to enrage THE WRATH OF BROTHER, hesitatingly offers us both dinner. I have been doing this for three hours. I am inexplicably soaked from the waist down. I want to go home, but I am hungry so I say "yes." Big Bro turns to me and says "we will finish this stage in 30 MINUTES!"

I look at him, but all I hear is Mrs Kim from Gilmore Girls.

• Stage eight is initiated exactly 30 minutes later, with the furious buffing of wax off my car. What is revealed underneath is very clean, and very shiny, and, I can't help but think, slightly smaller than what I had at the beginning, as if some of it has eroded away with the all the strenuous sponging and furious buffing required by all the earlier stages.

• Stage nine was the 'black trim stage,' where we walked around the car applying a cream that looked a bit like semen to the black trim to transform it from a weathered grey to showroom-fresh black again. I can't help wondering at this point if I am the subject of some horrific practical joke.

• Stage 10 required me to walk around the car, liberally spraying 'fast glass' on the windows, headlamps, and my face. One of those things should not have been sprayed with 'fast glass.'

By the time we finished it was night. Sparky Ma said "mmmm, that looks, um, clean," but the truth was it was so dark she couldn't see it. The whole thing had taken four and half hours. I got home and immediately vetoed any thoughts I'd had about going for a run. There is only one photo of the afternoon's events; I did not take any more because Big Bro shouted "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO TAKE A PICTURE EVERY FIVE SECONDS AND PUT IT UP ON TWITTER, ARE YOU?!" It can be seen here; you can see the car-washing commie in the background.

It rained the next day.

Genius!

I've been providing technical support to the wonderful Glittering Lee as he embarks on his initial faltering baby steps as a new iPhone owner, and as thanks for my help he waved his magic photoshop wand and imagined me as one of Apple's in-store geniuses.

The result, I think you'll agree is, well, genius.

My arse hurts: the Richmond to Windsor bike ride 2010

The Richmond to Windsor bike ride crept up on me a bit this year; in fact, I actually only signed up for it about three weeks ago, and at one point was even debating whether I'd even bother doing it. Just last night I was complaining about it to Sparky Ma. The reason? I dunno … I think I felt woefully unprepared for it. The last time I'd been on the bike was last year's ride. But then again, the last time I'd been on it before that was 2008's ride, so if anything I was just as well prepared this year as I was last.

But seriously, three rides in two years? Ouch.

Anyway, having payed £17 for the privilege of taking part I thought I'd better do it, so I was up at seven this morning for a nutritious breakfast (porridge - slow release energy), got my kit together, and got out the door.

The day immediately took a bad turn when not one minute from my house I was stopped by some local busybody wanting to discuss a new recycling plant the council want to build in the area. I barely discuss anything at 10 past eight in the morning, let alone debate the merits, or lack thereof, of a recycling plant. While he was busy pulling an A3 laminate of the plant out of a worn plastic bag I told him I had the council's information pack in doors (technically I do - ironically it's in the recycling bin) and that I'd consider it in my own time (a lie). He then asked if I'd sign his petition against it. I rolled my eyes (behind my sunglasses so he couldn't see) and repeated what I'd just said.

Then, basically, I just cycled off.

En route to Richmond I had the unerring sensation that something wasn't quite right with my bike, although on the face of it, aside from being a bit dirty from the accumulated muck of the last two rides (particularly 2008's horrific washout), it was fine; I'd oiled the technical-looking bits and pumped up the tyres earlier in the week. Still…

Upon arriving at Richmond I decided that the rear tyre was a smidgeon under-inflated, so pulled out my pump and went at it. And then the valve broke and all the air came out. Well, some of it. I quickly and wisely put the valve cap back on to contain the leak.

I was thus confronted with a dilemma, the options available being thus:

• Phone Sparky Pa, tell him of my predicament, ask him to come get me, and bail out of the ride.

• Do the ride with the valve cap in place and hope it was sufficient for the 40 miles to Windsor, and the 10 or so home.

• Get someone to fix it.

While option two was dismissed almost instantly (even I can't believe I considered it), option one appeared VERY tempting. But then I realised that Sparky Pa would probably say something like "no, I'm not coming to get you, you lazy tyke," and I'd have to walk home from Richmond with an epic sad face. And anyway, having got to Richmond Green the sight of all the other participants boosted my spirits somewhat. I (kind of) wanted to do it!

So I went over to the mechanics tent where a nice chap changed the inner tube in about five minutes for the princely sum of £5 (they also had a box in which you were supposed to throw loose change as a donation for their tea fund, but I only had notes so I just looked at him with apologetic eyes, although in hindsight he probably didn't see this as I was still wearing my sunglasses). This was good because, quite frankly the last time I tried to change a tyre I was about 9, it all went horribly wrong, and I threw an immense hissy fit. Chances are if he'd told me to do it myself I'd still be sitting on Richmond Green sulking now.

Anyway, with my stead restored to full working order, I headed off to join the queue for the start line. Unlike previous years, though, the queue this year stretched right to the opposite corner of the green and had begun to loop round again.

I tried to take a picture, but I couldn't get it all in frame, so I did a video instead. Look:

That done, I faffed about putting my phone back in my bag, only to turn around to find about 50 more people had joined the line. I sighed, and tacked myself on the end.

It took about 25 minutes to reach the front, at which point I heard the compare (alas, not the usual Shatner lookalike) make a fascinating comment about most men not being secure enough in their sexuality to have a wicker basket on their handlebars, and then I was off.

So, yeah, the ride went OK. Good, actually. I think I did it in about the same time as the last few years, obviously arriving at Windsor a smidgeon later than usual due to the delayed start, but physically I don't feel too exhausted - with one exception: my arse.

I don't know whether I've shed fat in my posterior, or whether it's just a case of not being anywhere near as prepared for the rigours of being perched on the saddle for so many hours as I should be, but it REALLY HURTS. At one point I sat down on some damp grass to try to alleviate the pain, but that just made me look like I'd suffered some sort of horrific downstairs accident. Cycling home from Windsor was especially painful. As a result, my saddle and I are currently NOT FRIENDS.

Evil.

On the plus side, based on my recent cycling history, I won't have to deal with this problem again for at least another year.

-----

Bonus photo!

This adorable pony was tethered at one of the rest stops. While I sat soothing my aching posterior, I watched a woman approach it to take a photo. The pony just wanted some attention, though, so she stroked it and they both appeared to be having a great time. Then the woman walked away and the pony started spazzing out a bit, shaking its head like it was having a bad reaction to some E or something. This went on for about a minute, at which point I decided I'd had enough of seeing a pony having what looked like an aneurysm, and jumped tenderly back on my bike before cycling off at speed. I hope it's OK!

Out and about: walkabout

After the excitement of Wednesday's trip to London Zoo, I decided that I'd spend one day just wandering around London. Whenever I go into town it's always with a purpose - a meeting, a trip to the cinema, meeting friends in a bar - never just to take in the city. So I decided to remedy that with what can only be called a walkabout.

I got the train to Waterloo, and then just walked. For about six and a half hours. I started in Covent Garden, where I checked out the gloriously huge new Apple Store, and basically spent about 15 minutes looking around in awe like OMG Cat.

It's basically a very beautiful, very well restored building packed full of my favourite shiny tech. Essentially, Heaven.

Then I walked through Covent Garden and down Charing Cross Road to Oxford Street, where I fought my way through the heaving masses of slow walking mouth-breathers to the Selfridges end. After that I ducked and weaved through some back roads round to Carnaby Street, down Shaftsbury Avenue, and basically back to Covent Garden where I then headed east, eventually ending up just past Tower Bridge. And when I ran out of exciting stuff to look at, I turned around and walked all the way back to Waterloo, where I hopped on a train home.

All on foot, and with only one 15 minute pause for lunch, and another five minutes nursing a bottle of juice outside a Starbucks at Butler's Wharf. Glorious weather for it too; I've got a bit of a tan.

Some photos?

One of these shops is lying about what they sell.

This was the size of a toddler and probably costs a small fortune, but I WANT ONE.

A Spongebob Squarepants drum kit. Why not?

I finally fulfilled my desire to walk over the Millennium (formerly wobbly) Bridge. I also walked through the Tate Modern - lovely building.

I think I'd rather have liked to give it a go while it was still wobbling. I imagine it would be a bit like walking on jelly.

This is the Golden Hinde, the ship that Sir Francis Drake circumnavigated the globe aboard. Oh, but wait a second - what's that, Senator Vreenak? Yes, that's right: it's a replica because the original rotted away.

I first visited this little shopping centre when I was on a school trip years ago. It's a serene and welcoming little place just back from the Thames.

Love the criss-crossing walkways in Butler's Wharf.

I have decided that I would like to have a central base of operations here, please. Donations gratefully accepted.

That's not the river - that's mud.

Classy photo, eh?

Some plucky anti-war protestor obviously made a little stand in Foyles using a copy of Tony Blair's new autobiography.

Morris dancing Storm Troopers of course!

Yeah, J.J. Abrams isn't the only one who can throw a lense-flare in randomly - and I guarantee mine was done a whole lot cheaper.

And when I got home I bought a coat off the internet that I've been assured will make me look sexy.

Out and about: let's go to the zoo!

Whenever I take a week of work I usually a) get told off by colleagues for not going away somewhere, and b) wing it. By winging it I mean I get up each day and decide what to do then and there. Aside from the traditional and always enjoyable shopping expedition to Kingston with Sparky Ma, this often results in me waking up late, having a cup of tea, then retiring to the sofa for an all-day DVD boxset marathon.

And while all-day DVD marathons are fun, they aren't exactly a good use of my 20 day holiday allowance, are they?

So this week, I decided to get off my backside and, y'know, do stuff. And what better to do then spend some quality time in one of the world's most brilliant cities - which also happens to be right on my doorstep (not literally).

I started with this:

Yes, the Prince Charles cinema in Leicester Square was showing all the Star Trek films in order. I didn't see all of them, but I did see two - the ying and the yang, the dizzying high and the terrible low: Star Trek V and Star Trek VI. I don't think I really need to explain which was the best one, do I? Truth be told, though, I actually really enjoyed Star Trek V, although it remains a pretty flawed movie. Take it as a given that VI was awesome. And it was a joy to see them on the big screen again after so many years.

Things really kicked off on Wednesday, though, when Best Mate Jo and I went to London Zoo. This was a cracking day out, and because I'm feeling lazy I'm just going to post photos along with some snappy and witty captions.

I can't for the life of me remember what this was, but we were both rather taken by its lovely eyes.

Giraffes. OBVIOUSLY.

Dramatic owl. This is a Burrowing Owl. It has a brain the size of a pea. That is my one Burrowing Owl fact.

Fake gorilla.

Monkey in silhouette.

I was going to tell the llamas that leg-warmers are out this season, but I thought they'd spit in my face.

Prairie Dog. Basically a fat Meerkat.

69-ing Aardvarks.

Meerkat: basically a thin Prairie Dog.

More Meerkats. You wouldn't believe how much these animals have to put up with people shouting "SIMPLES!" at them these days.

Sleepy Tiger.

Mick Jagger-fish.

It was while looking at this vibrant fish that I stunned Best Mate Jo by telling her that I thought Finding Nemo was dull.

Tiny orange frogs!

This sign is just *begging* to be altered for this website.

Temptingly close…

This Lion is called Lucifer because his zoo registration number is 666.

Disappointed to find there were no penguins in the penguin pool.

Found them eventually in a different pool on the other side of the zoo. This is Ricky. He gently flapped his wings and jumped dramatically from one rock to the one RIGHT NEXT TO IT.

Sexy shrimp!?

This made us laugh like specials.

Liar - LIAR! It's called Earth Eater, but it doesn't eat earth, or indeed, THE EARTH. I'm going to have this alleged planet-destroying fish under the trade descriptions act!

Sad fish.

We also got to see the zoo's highly advanced fish tank cleaning equipment in operation.

All in all, then, it was a brilliant day, topped off by a brief stop at Oxford Street where I almost collided with the most terrifying animal of the day.

Going postal

Buying stuff off the internet is great because when it arrives it's a bit like getting a present (especially so if you click the 'gift wrap' option when purchasing from Amazon). Admittedly it's a present from yourself and at the end of the day you are paying for it, but because you don't actually hand over any cash it's all a bit of a case of out of sight, out of mind.

Hurrah!

Unless something goes a bit wrong.

Since buying my new front door I've been trying to save money. As a result, I've just been buying more stuff off the internet and avoiding looking at my bank balance. This is working brilliantly.

In the last few weeks I've been reading the book Youth in Revolt, which is waaaaay better than the movie starring everyone's favourite progeria-poster boy, Michael Cera. I'm enjoying it so much, in fact, that I ordered the other three books (volumes 4-6; the first book contains volumes 1-3 if you give a damn) in the series (I can't remember what they're called - it's all some variation on the words 'young' and 'revolting') from Amazon. I also finally found the perfect bag to lug my iPad around in, so I ordered that too. Unfortunately you can't get that from Amazon, so I had to order it direct from the supplier in the States. The bag was 35 quid plus another testicle-retracting 20-odd pounds for postage.

Still, I needed it, and I wanted it, so I threw caution to the wind and bought it.

This is what life must feel like for Emily Gilmore. If she wasn't, y'know, a FICTIONAL CHARACTER.

Anyway, annoyingly books five and six of Youth in Revolt arrived exceedingly promptly, but about a week or so later there was still no sign of book four, despite the fact that it had apparently been sent. So I emailed Amazon and received a very long, very automated reply basically telling me to shut the hell up and wait another two weeks to see if it turned up in the interim.

(I'm pretty sure they just used to send you a replacement item straight away - didn't they?)

So, although I'm seething about this, on the plus side I'm WELL EXCITED about my iPad bag.

Until I get a letter from Parcel Force telling me that they won't let me have it until I pay customs duty on it. This, the letter informs me, is about a tenner, which isn't too bad, I think. Then I read on and discover that on top of customs, Parcel Force are charging me an outrageous £13 handling fee! £13! That's 13 quid for the privilege of them picking up the box, hoofing it into the back of a van, and delivering it into my by now destitute hands!

Of course, I have no option but to pay it, so I do. By this point my bargain £35 iPad bag has now cost me around £85, but on the plus side it looks awesome, and I'm still refusing to check my bank balance.

And because I've not posted in a couple of weeks, here's a pic with some gratuitous arse.

And yesterday, finally, was the day when the two week waiting period was up and I could hassle Amazon about sending out a replacement book, which I was incredibly relieved about because although I've been rationing myself to just 10 or so pages of Youth in Revolt per day I am nudging perilously close to the end. So I emailed them and almost immediately received a reply that was clearly from an actual human, albeit one with a flare for the dramatic because it said:

"It does indeed appear as if something has gone awry!"

Seriously, do people even still use 'awry?'

Anyway, he's sending out a replacement, and even sending it first class at their expense to make amends, meaning it'll arrive on Thursday. Which is, y'know, great, except for the fact that it's going to the office and I'm off this week.

*sigh*

Massive space vagina

Around this time last year I thought about buying a new front door. Not because I especially wanted to spend an exorbitant amount of money on such a thing, but rather because I experienced a brief moment of BEHAVING LIKE AN ADULT and thought it would be a wise thing to do; existing front door had never been particularly awesome, y'see, with the 5mm gap between the door and the frame being particularly un-awesome in the winter.

However, as often occurs when I have a brief moment of BEHAVING LIKE AN ADULT, my dominant personality traits kicked in and I spent the money on shiny and exciting new toys instead.

Fast forward one year and I'm jauntily walking down my front path one bright and sunny evening when I notice 'hey-ho, have I always been able to see into my porch even when the door is closed?'

The answer used to be NO. At this point, however, it was in fact a resounding YES.

EPIC DOOR FAIL. Don't believe me? This is it from the inside.

Immediately upon seeing this immense crack in space-time the door the part of my brain that BEHAVES LIKE AN ADULT snapped its fingers to get the attention of the dominant part of my brain that had already started thinking about exciting other things, and sternly said "new door." The dominant part of my brain nodded like a special and immediately set about patching up the door with masking tape and wishful thinking, and then colouring in the masking tape with a black marker pen so it wasn't quite as noticeable as it would be if it was just left the colour of normal masking tape. However, as dominant part of brain is wont too, after a minute or so of colouring in the masking tape it got bored and decided to play Angry Birds HD on the iPad, leaving the door covered in a mish-mash of coloured and uncoloured masking tape that, the next day, both parts of my brain agreed was not a satisfactory solution to the problem at hand.

Gap at top of door, and tastefully arranged, albeit uncoloured, masking tape.

And so like a sulky teenager, the dominant part of my brain caved in and a swanky new front door and industrial-strength frame was ordered.

About five weeks after I placed the order a nice lady called me to say everything was ready and they'd like to come and fit it. A day was arranged, and even the dominant part of my brain was quite excited at the prospect of the new door because it would be shiny and do exciting things like open and close without requiring an excessive tug or a forceful shove.

On the Sunday before the day new door was to be fitted I was in an evening yoga class in the midst of one of the upside down postures when I suddenly realised that workmen expect beverages, and while I was covered on the tea front (regular, Earl Grey, excessively stinky Lapsang Souchong) the only coffee I had in the house was some of that Starbucks instant stuff, and as appreciative as I intended to be toward this chap for exchanging shabby old door for shiny new one, there was no way I was going to let him have one/any of those. And so after class I made a special effort to stop in at the only shop I could find that was open where I paid an exorbitant fee for a comically undersized jar of Nescafe.

I arranged to work from home for the duration of the day new door was to be fitted, because quite frankly I had no idea how long it would take to fit a new door and frame so I thought I'd better play it safe. And because I expected there to be loads of loud noises accompanying the door-fitting process, I decided I'd do a cover design for one of the forthcoming issues. You might ask why an editor is doing a cover design, so lets just say that I like to keep my hand in the photoshoppery pool every now and then, and it's easy enough for me to disengage my brain and make something pretty without having to think. Plus it keeps everyone on their toes if I show I can multi-task the shit out of everything.

While hashing out ideas for the cover design and waiting for doorman to arrive I have to keep talking myself out of a growing urge to put my foot through old door just to see how feeble and rotten it actually is. The only reason I don't is that I'm worried the door company will phone and say the fitter is ill or something and can they rearrange for another day, and then I'll be left with a massive hole in the door that all the masking tape in the world won't be able to fix.

So anyway, doorman arrives promptly at 10:30, and I immediately suppress the urge to ask him if he's OK with me putting my foot through the old door because he looks like the sort of person who would frown upon such behaviour and respond with something like "don't be so stupid." I instead ask him if he'd like a cup of tea or COFFEE. He raises an eyebrow and replies "actually I'd love a glass of water please."

"Not coffee?" I ask again.

"No - water will be fine," he says.

I briefly consider telling him that I'm all out of water and that he'll have to make do with coffee, but I just give up and get him a glass of water. I subsequently resolve to see if I can drink the entire tiny jar of Nescafe myself in the same time it takes him to fit a door.

The old door and it's shabby frame are dispensed with in a frighteningly short period of time, and within an hour all the new bits are coming together nicely, and I'm in the midst of some terrifying Nescafe-induced sweats. Regardless of the fact I'm vibrating more than a Harry Potter broomstick at a teenager's slumber party, the cover is coming along just great. I've created a lovely image that shows a familiar spaceship from a well-know sci-fi show flying toward a beautiful custom-built purple nebula with a vertically-arranged glowing centre; I'm really quite proud of the whole thing, and decide to celebrate with my third or fourth cup of coffee.

So there I am standing in the kitchen and I glance back over towards my computer just at the same moment that door chappy, who is standing in the porch, decides to turn around and look over at my computer. For a minute we stand there in silence, both taking in the breathtaking space vista I've lovingly created. And then we both harrumph a bit, blush, and return to our respective duties, having both realised that what I've created looks just like a massive vagina floating in space with a spaceship about to plunge into it.

However much you might argue the point (and believe me, the dominant part of my brain fought tooth and nail with the part of my brain that BEHAVES LIKE AN ADULT), there's no way I can let a massive space vagina be published, so I scurry back over to my desk, plonk myself down, and begin tickling (oi, careful - that's a design term) the nebula to make it look slightly more, well, nebulous. Regardless of my efforts, by this point in time the dominant part of my brain has dubbed it the Lohan Nebula and is sniggering away in my subconscious like a naughty schoolboy.

New door in place but without the centre panels. My first thought upon seeing it like this was "ooo - forcefield door!"

About an hour later the doorman comes up to me, looks at the somewhat less vaginary image on my screen in a slightly disappointed fashion, and says he's done and would I like him to show me how it works. Obviously by now I'm on about my fifth or sixth cup of coffee and am literally a live-action version of Tweek from South Park. Also, being somewhat loath to leave a workman downstairs in my house while I pop upstairs, I'm desperately in need of the toilet. I nevertheless follow him outside.

So it turns out new doors are considerably more complicated than old doors, and while he's lifting the handle up and turning the key in a variety of complex and exciting ways, I'm being distracted by a neighbour's Hitler cat who is giving me evils from underneath a car, and by the fact that I'm hopping around and squeezing my thighs together in an attempt to not wet myself. I think, though I'm not too sure, that doorman notices I'm not exactly focusing my full attention on his little show and tell display, and toward the end I actually think he's going to tell me to go into my house and offer to lock the door from the outside and pass the key through the letterbox to me just to be on the safe side.

"Did you get all that," he eventually says. I nod. He gets in his van and drives off, and I'm left standing on the lawn thinking 'what?'

New door completed. While new door is considerably more awesome than old door, I do miss being able to use the gigantic cracks in the old one as rudimentary spy holes.

Anyway, I eventually go back inside, manage to lock the door (or at the very least stop it from opening) and subsequently stick my finger in the still-wet mastic around the frame before scampering upstairs to empty approximately two litres of liquid from my painfully-strained bladder. My next action, and the only defence I can offer is that my caffeine-frazzled brain somehow wanted to memorialise my morning's work, was to hop onto Twitter and start furiously tweeting the exciting new trending topic hashtag #massivespacevagina.

Sadly, and somewhat inexplicably I think you'll agree, it has failed to catch on as well as #justinbieber.

30 days of yoga: Day 30 - Sparky's finest hour!

Let's not beat around the bush, eh? My 30 days of yoga challenge: DONE!

Writing this now, it's been exactly two hours since class finished, and I'm in some sort of weird state of ecstasy. My 30th class couldn't have gone any better - I genuinely feel like I did every posture to the best of my ability; you could say I was in the zone, which after having done yoga every day for the last month came as something of a pleasant surprise. I think I was a bit fired up in anticipation for tonight's class anyway; I didn't want to stumble at the finish line and feel like I'd let down everyone who has given me support and encouragement over the last 30 days.

What made the evening particularly memorable, though, was the fact that one of the teachers told the lady taking tonight's class that I'd reached the end of my 30 day challenge, and just before the final breathing exercise she asked the entire class to join her in congratulating me on my achievement - and I got a massive round of applause. I was genuinely moved by this. Some of the postures can bring up weird emotions, and I was sitting there desperately thinking "DON'T CRY!"

I'd actually thought about carrying on to do 31 or even 32 classes in a row, but after such a wonderful end to the challenge I've decided to take a couple of days off. I don't think I've got anything left to prove anyway. Doing 30 days of yoga has been such a good exercise; I've improved my postures, I feel fitter and healthier, and I've proved to myself that I can do anything I set my mind to. If you'd told me a couple of months back that I was going to take on this challenge I would've laughed in your face; two classes a week - three at most - was my limit. Once a day for an entire month?

After class I stopped to talk to the teacher for a few minutes, and she told me that I'll notice the true benefits of the challenge in the days and weeks to come. She said that taking one or two days off to let my body adjust to what it's done is a good idea, and I'll probably find that I have a really great class when I next go back. I think that will probably be Thursday, and to be honest, while I am looking forward to having a couple of free evenings for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm also looking forward to getting back in that studio. It's going to be really weird driving past it tomorrow and not stopping off. I'm really going to miss it - even though it will only be three days till I'll be sweating my tits off in there again.

What's really weird is that as I was driving home I passed the spot where I had the car accident last year, and it occurred to me that if it hadn't been for that terrible day I'd never have gone to Bikram yoga. Funny how something so positive and life-changing came out of something so negative, eh?

30 days of yoga: Day 29 - the foot thing

As I've mentioned before, I generally appreciate a little quiet time/nap before my yoga class begins. But it's not all sweet dreams and towel snuggles, I'll have you know; I generally like to sit upright about five minutes before the teacher comes into the studio just so I'm not going straight from a horizontal position to a standing position and end up toppling over from an epic head rush.

Now, obviously there's not really much to do in a yoga studio when you're not doing yoga, so once I've finished checking my bad self out in the mirror, glanced out the window to see what's going on in the world, and checked out the competition, I've found myself doing this sort of weird thing with my feet.

The only way I can describe it is being a bit like a Predator mouth.

Here, look:

It keeps me entertained like you wouldn't believe, and it's become something of a habit now. I'm sure the people sitting on either side of me must think I'm a mentalist. Either that or they're amazed at the dexterity of my toes. I can pick stuff up with them, don't you know. They're like little monkey feet.

Anyway, as exciting as my feet are, did you notice that today is day 29? Just one more to go…

30 days of yoga: Day 28 - get naked

When I first started doing Bikram yoga last June the first thing I did when I stumbled out of the studio into the bright sunshine and blessed cool air was to go and get something to drink, because although you have a bottle of water with you during class, believe me, after class it's never enough. On that first day I headed straight for Starbucks (Chiswick handily offers three) where I bought a coffee.

Now, while my love of coffee is well documented, it doesn't really hit the spot after 90 minutes of stretching, balancing, sweating, and wondering what the hell you've done spending money to be tortured in such a way. So, after my second class, I started buying this:

This is a Naked Berry Tasty smoothie. It's really fruity, exceedingly refreshing, and must count for at least a couple of my five a day (BONUS). The knowledge that I'm mere minutes away from one of these fruity little bastards is what gets me through to the end of class.

I used to buy these from Starbucks, but a few months back they stopped selling them which is annoying but fine because Waitrose sell them so it just means I have to wander a little further down the Chiswick High Road in my sweaty, somewhat dazed post-yoga state. And anyway, Waitrose is good because I can pick some nice food up in there too.

On the downside, while I thought I was forming a nice bond with all the lovely members of staff in Waitrose, apparently I'm somewhat mistaken. And quite frankly I've only got myself to blame, because I realised that when I walk in there, not five minutes after scampering out of the studio, I'm still sweating a fair bit. And when your shirt is plastered to you, the light denim jeans you're wearing are slightly moist on the inner thighs, and you look like you should be called Crazy Man Mentalist Hair, it's quite understandable that the staff of this upper class supermarket would think that you're a homeless, albeit somewhat buff, special who quite frankly looks more like the sort of person who would normally be found shopping in Tesco.