Dusted with powdered sugar

Me, that is. Just scoffed two dounts in the space of a few minutes. The second one had an oniony aftertaste… think it may have been near the bagels in Sainsbury’s too long.

Saturday night was the third Actionette gig in eight days. We danced at the People’s Republic of Disco, a hot and sweaty affair at the Windmill pub in Brixton. The venue is totally unsuitable for pretty much any kind of performance, as the space has a weird dog-leg shape, with the stage at one end, hidden from everyone but the first few rows of people. As there is no doorperson at the venue, cos it’s a free night, it just gets more and more packed. So on Saturday night, a sparkle of Actionettes (the collective noun) stood swigging cava and shouting at each other over the music, the stage packed with blissfully dancing people. Who were then all asked to get off so we could perform. Equally inauspicious was the fact that we took our places to the dying notes of Metallica’s ‘Enter Sandman’. Now, I have never seen the Actionettes get a hostile reception, even when we shimmied on after a vitriolic political poet at the Dogstar, but the crowd on Saturday seemed faintly bemused as to why we were there.

Friday afternoon, and what else is there to do but eat Twirls, surreptitiously read blogs, and count the minutes until 5.30?

Some great café sites are making me sad. Sad, cos the glorious cafes they depict are slowly being wiped out at the rate of several a year. Even the stalwart New Piccadilly will next year be no more… the Classic Café’s lost cafespage made me mad I never knew about these gems before!

is another great one. Mostly has Glasgow cafes, and really makes me want to take a trip north of the border.

Walked to work today, as I do most days. Again very windy: my long scarf, hair, and the wires of my discman conspired to form a thick cable and attempt to strangle me. Got to work sweating like a Scouser in Dixons, and, as I do every day, said ‘Good morning’ to the security guards on the front desk. As usual, they responded with silence and ‘Who the fuck are you?’ faces.

Had a fab dream last night. Me, Steve, and a nameless friend of Steve’s formed a band. I think we were called Nails (look, it was a dream ok? I don’t make decisions for my subconscious), and we sounded a bit like the Cowboy Junkies, and me and Steve were both singers. Anyways, we had a gig, and before the gig loads of people were already in the venue (I think there was a buzz about us), so I had to go ask them all for £5 entry money. There was one cheeky guy who refused to pay until after the show, in case he didn’t like us. Uncharacteristically, I let him get away with this. So. We took to the stage, and we only had three songs, two of which were covers. I think it went well. After the gig I caught Steve lining up the red lace bras of all his groupies in order of preference. Like I say, it was a great dream.

I don’t know if the dream was related at all to the event we danced at last night. The Actionettes had a slot at the Stonewall Housing benefit at Heaven. But at the benefit we also only got to do three songs… Rubbernecking, Magic touch, and Love Power. It was lovely to dance on a huge stage, but it did make me feel very exposed, as did the fact that the audience were all seated at tables and not drunkenly falling over as they are at most of our shows.

A true phone conversation overheard at work.

‘He’s on his way to the Ritz. Yes, about ten minutes. He’s stuck in a cab at Trafalgar Square. Yah, do go ahead and open the champagne.’

I am pleased (relieved?) to say I wasn’t the only person with raised eyebrows…

Got back from Mallorca on Monday night… seven days of swimming, cakes, free shots after dinner (everywhere we ate in Palma gave us free shots, and sometimes free amuse-bouches, with our meal), and vintage trains. None of the places we stayed in (two nice hostels and a very swanky guest house) had TVs or phones in the room, we didn’t buy any newspapers, we called no one. And yet we still liked each other at the end of the holiday! Only sad note was when our flip-flops fulfilled their suicide pact when left to dry on a windy balcony… both right flip-flops, my Old Navy ones which have served me well for years, and Steve’s green H&M ones, leapt over the edge and we could see them, four stories below, on a roof… We mourned them with shots of Tunel, the local herb liqueur, and some nice Lindt chocolate.

Saturday night is party night. Oh yeah. Never mind that the dresses don’t quite cover our bums… The pictures will be interesting. Or, if you can make it, come along and see Real Live (nearly) Nude Girls!