Red, blue or yellow - this time voting by my nail varnish won't cut it

I usually wave my flag of political allegiance based on what nail varnish I am fancy at the time.
The way I see it that nails are a key way to identify people. If eyes are the windows of the soul, then nails are the windows to all those surface things that are the true way of getting to grips with a person.
Dirty ragged nails on a man is a clear warning to stay away. I once went out with a mechanic who had dirty nails all the time, and, while the sex had the potential to be great I could never relax into it because he kept leaving greasy black marks on my White Company furniture.
And don’t get me started on chipped nails on ladies. The height of slovenliness. If they can’t keep their fingers in tip-top shape then I dread to think about their pores, armpits and worse.
As far as I’m concerned they represent the worst of womankind. If I can look pristine while I juggle a high profile job, look after a menagerie of animals - which let’s face it is far more demanding than having a child - AND attract the highest class of man, then so can every other woman.
But I digress.
The 90s for me were a very red moment, I was a power woman with red lips and red nails for most of that decade. So when Tony Blair came along with his mesmerising Cheshire Cat grin - it’s a bit harsh to reduce QC Cherie to that description, but if the cap fits - well, I was sold. Swept away by the power of D:ream and the rugged mix of the Gallagher brothers plus how great red looked on me, then it was clear I was voting Labour.
I didn’t vote last time because it coincided with my 6 months living on a kibbutz for my award-winning memoir, What’s Yours Is Mine and What’s Mine…..Well It’s Still Mine. And No, I Won’t Breast Feed Your Child, He’s Six.
But this time round I’m back in the UK ready to make my mark. I’ve watched the debates, read the newspapers, spoke to some of the candidates. Had dinner with the PM and his rivals, and I must say they flattered me greatly.
There are aspects I am impressed with all of them.
Firstly I was one of Nick Clegg’s famous 30 women. I was number 29, aka the one that got away, and he really did wow me in the bedroom the first time round. That was mainly cos I was expecting very little from him, so anything above average was a winner. However, all that excitement soon died down. I think I was distracted by his hair, it’s so fluffy. I can’t trust a man who doesn’t know how to tame his fluffy boy mane.
As for DC, I was truly impressed to hear that some of his party had proper superhero powers and could change people by the “power” of prayer. But, then I discovered they were squandering their abilities trying to turn pray gay men straight. Who would design my clothes and tell me I am beautiful and worth it when yet another, older and uglier female friend gets married?
Sorry DC, I can’t vote for the party that wants my favourite group of the male species to wither and turn into football-loving, feet-picking thugs.
That means I’m left with Labour, but like padded shoulders on jackets I feel that particular trend has set sail.
So, as a responsible member of the polling card gentry I have only one choice. Janice the gerbil will be left overnight with the board game Twister, and, on polling day the colour without any droppings on it will be the one I choose.
It’s like some form of dirty protest, but this way I get to keep my nails completely clean.


This week: I started to look into adoption like Sandra Bullock, it could be my next memoir, maybe I'll adopt a poor Northern baby

Hunger strikes really do work....

Readers, he came.
He called by house this morning and stayed for at least 20 minutes.
I am shaking a bit as I write this I am so excited.
He must have heard about my not eating because he came with a bagful of cheese and onion pasties and some iced fingers. And he was muttering something about his PR person telling him to see that mad journalist and end her potentially "brand damaging" hunger strike.
The visit was all I dreamed it would be, he looked so dashing and brave just dressed in a t-shirt despite the freezing cold weather.
We talked, well I talked. He is such a good listener. I told him how I like to exfoliate my face twice a day to feel extra clean and how one time I ate a whole piece of cake. I could see he was impressed by my occasional devil-may-care attitude to life.
When he did finally speak, he told me of a young woman he had met, a woman with an impressive body and a keen interest in footballers. He has such a big, kind, generous heart and he told me how he took her back to his flat, I think he said she didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night. What a man, ladies, with such a caring nature to all those who are lost and homeless, I know he can be a good father to all of my pets.
Those minutes with him are ones that I will cherish for my whole life.
As he was backing out of the door, I admit I was rather forward and asked him when I would see him again.
He told me he was going away for a month but that he would be back in the North to host a big club opening.
I told him to wait for a minute, quickly ran into the house to find a pair of my scissors and snipped a lock of my hair clean away.
He was waiting for me with a sense of keen desperation on his face - how he must despair my absence - and as I thrust the lock in his hands I promised him I would be by his side at the club opening.
Readers, as he walked away he started to violently shake his head, and I know he was trying to whip away the tears that were forming in his eyes.


This week: I savoured some pasties and discovered the joy of a greasy dinner, especially when they are brought by a loved one

No dinner, till he turns up

I haven’t eaten for 10 days since I last spoke to you, dear readers.
I’m so concerned that my love will catch me with a mouthful of food, or smelly breath that I can’t risk it.

Don’t worry, I’m completely fine, I had a lovely conversation with my mother the other day and it didn’t even worry me that much even though she has been dead for four years.

Come to think of it, my mind has been playing tricks on meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.sorry about that I must have just dropped off for a second while holding down the ‘e’ key.

That’s been happening quite a bit, I think it kicked in around day 7. I’m not sure how often these mini sleeps/black outs are, or how long they go on for. But the other day I did wake up lying awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs to discover my cat Roger hungriliy licking salvia from my face. And I swear there were distinct nibbles around my neckline when I shoooed him away.

Anyway, I feel I have written enough to satisfy my editor this week and justify my impressive salary - aren’t I glad I don’t get paid per word like some fools - so I am off. It’s 10.10am so I am already late to sit in the window and stare wistfully into the distance.

This week: I discovered David Cameron and I met that same black person, what a coincidence. My first one.

The wait is on for my Northern Prince....

My readers, I apologise for the gaping hole I have left in your lives for the past few weeks, but you must forgive me. For I am in love.
This is not like one of your piddling love affairs that you often write to me about in the mistaken interest that I care; this is a real and a true love, not based on money or fear of my rapidly deteriorating body.
You must be dying to find out who has tamed my fiercely, independent heart and managed to live up to my exhaustive check list. Well, I must say you will be shocked, because it shocked me. Readers, I have fallen in love with a Northerner.
I know.
But I have found the pearl hidden in the grit of their uncouth breed, the shining star of their backward race and I am so proud of myself. I have barely been in the cold, harsh North for more than a month and we have found each other.
At the moment of writing he has yet to show much attention to me since the date my editor forced him on – but I know what his real feelings are.
I see him, I see right though him into his heart and soul.
Like a brooding Heathcliff, this is not a man who talks about his feelings or outwardly shows any signs of affection. But, those empty silences, and that lack of touching, speak volumes.
I will describe our date another time, but suffice to say I now no longer see delicacies such as pease pudding as a yellow vile mush, but a symbol of my new life.
I sit here waiting in my townhouse flat, with the half finished pot from our date in front of me.
He has not called or texted since that night but I know this is not a man to indulge in the fripperies of modern technology.
That is why dear readers every day at 7am I get up, shower and dress.
By half nine I am finally presentable and ready to wait in the front room for a letter, a telegram or, best of all, an unaccompanied visit.
I know he will come one day; it is just a matter of wills.
I don’t need fresh air, I don’t need food and only on pain of a sacking from my editor have I agreed to one concession, to continue to write.
And so I wait…….


This week: I’ve been mainly worrying that my anti thrombosis socks are visible through my gown

A hairy dilemma after a desperate text from a old lover

Yesterday I received a text from an old lover. Not just any old lover, the love of my life, the man to who I wanted to be wife and HWMNBMEWABCII*.
It said “I jus remmembered (sic) your hair in the plughole in the mornning (sic)”. That was it, 11 little words, to make up a cryptic, badly spelt fragment from his young, illiterate mind. My heart soared, those few words were enough for all my feelings to come flooding back.
What can he mean by this? Is he looking for a reconciliation? The last I heard he was making his money as a professional gigolo to female MPs desperately trying to find a sneaky new way to spend their expenses. Not second homes, but second lovers disguised as male PAs. Always take a second look at those “politically correct” members making use of the equal opportunity law, there‘s skeletons in those closets. The last text I got from him was over a year ago and I don’t think it was for me, unless I had requested 20 photocopies of his backside immediately. I hadn’t.
But now, to message me out of the blue with such a clear sign that he missed me, well I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all morning. It has clear taken my mind off waiting for the pasty magnate to call and set up our date.
I need to think of an answer for him but I can’t do that without seeking advice first.
I asked my new BFF about it while I took Fluffles - my fav guinea pig - for her regular pedicure. She is very wise, Anita not Fluffles - who is wise in a different way. I think that’s what comes when you convene with animals daily. We came to the conclusion that HWMNBNEWABCII is finding our separation a terrible wrench. He always loved my long flowing locks and their absence from the plughole expresses the gaping hole in his life now that I am gone. This is why I like Anita, she knows how to make sense of it all and it is so worth my fortnightly trip to Kent to visit her. I often think that the people I pay end up being more reliable and friendly than my so-called friends.
The message has given me a real boost and I’m feeling quite confident that 2010 could be my year. I mean I could be carrying out a sexy reunion with my ex a la Meryl Street in It’s Complicated while simultaneously planning a wedding with the Greggs’ heir - as long as he doesn’t have the same new face as Steve Martin.
Anita says this couldn’t happen to a nicer person - she is so sweet to say these things as I am handing her a tip.
I called my publisher to update her on the latest developments in the story. She didn’t answer so I told it all to her answer phone, which is a much nicer experience as her voice is very high pitched and grates on me so.
Now all that’s left is to think of a suitably sexy, yet nonchalant reply. Hmmm plugholes and hair - I don’t think SJP had to deal with this literary dilemma but I’m sure I can manage it.
As a feminist icon to women across the world and a confidant for celebrities and role model to many on how to survive on a handful of blanched almonds a day and only a sniff of chocolate, I don’t mind sharing this all with you. Just so you know how to handle it if you are ever lucky for an ex lover to come crawling back into your life.
I had it, a perfect test to take the temperature of the water.
Quick as a flash I texted him back, “I still have the house keys (NB I gave him a house in the break up) I can come in and leave a reminder for you one day! : )”
I know what you’re all thinking, “You’re a intelligent, rich and fabulous woman, why the smiley face?” Well it is code between me and him, because of his youth I think he appreciates it when talk his language.
So now I have to keep an eye on my phone this week for any exciting responses, I have cut a lock of my hair and put it in the cupboard until I get the ok.


*He Who Must Not Be Named Except When A Book Contract Is Involved

Next week: I’ll be avoiding the calls from the tabloids after they somehow discovered that John Terry and I had a moment in a VIP toilet - I really don’t know who tells them all these things

Researching the Pasty Magnate or my soon to be new husband

My editor says I been getting complaints. Apparently some bloggers have been whining about my comments about life in Newcastle. I told her that if I listened to all the people who wrote nasty letters about me or sent me anthrax in the post then I’d be suicidal all the time - as opposed to when it makes good column copy.

But, in these user generated times the reader is supposedly king, even those that write for free on the internet instead of being talented enough to be paid thousands by a newspaper. So to appease them I have been forced to go on a date with the richest, or soon to be, man in the North East.

Now like a good journalist I’ve been doing my research on the area and was surprised to discover, given his cultured lifestyle and command of the Queen’s English, that Sting was from the area. So maybe a dinner date with him? Or even maybe the one with more hair from Ant and Dec?

My editor however has gone one better, so she says, and set me up with the heir to the Greggs’ fortune. Well, if Gwyneth Paltrow could date that beans means Heinz guy for a bit maybe I could fall in love with a pasty magnate.

After googling him I discovered he has some far dated some of the North’s top notch catches including Cheryl Cole’s cousin; a tap dancer from Whitley Bay who got three “yes’s” on the first round of Britain’s Got Talent before being cruelly crushed by Amanda Holden and most recently “Our Joe” Mcelderry’s nan. I’m not too sure how accurate the last one was.

His longest relationship, and from what I can tell the woman who came close to taming him, was the girl known locally as Spuggy from Byker Grove. I can’t be bothered to find out her real name and it wasn’t on Wikipedia. But I gather that Byker Grove was a sort of poor man’s Hollyoaks with less attractive actors and mainly featured teenagers who were far too old to be going to a youth club hanging out with a bearded man called Jeff. If I were making a snap judgement, I’m not sure it was really suitable for children but who am I to stand in the way of the masses and their gogglebox.

Back to Spuggy, apparently she is a ginger, so no competition there and I’m feeling pretty confident that a well groomed, sophisticated lady from London with two credit cards and all her own hair will impress him easily.

I have been waiting for a text to set up the date and venue for our first outing and dear readers I’m starting to get excited about it. I don’t mind telling you - mainly because I’m paid oodles to do it - that it has been a good few years since I felt the touch of a man, and even longer since it was done on purpose. My shrink has told me on a number of occasions that paying an attractive man to pummel my thighs and wax my moustache twice a month does not constitute a meaningful sexual relationship.

But I have high hopes for this one.

Fingers crossed I get at least a week’s notice then I can indulge in my proper pre-date routine. Three seaweed wraps, daily body brushing, epilating head to toe (I know you ladies understand that one), a hair cut at my favourite salon in Paris, and at least two nights of sleeping on satin pillows to reduce the facial crease factor. Plus I need to visit some up and coming designers to blag the perfect outfit to make the right first impression.

Fingers crossed for me, I think we could be onto a winner. And just think of the accompanying book deal if I manage to tame a rough, uncultured Northerner, it would be like Educating Rita with me in the Michael Caine role.

Next week: I fly to America to give Angelina a hand with the children, at times like these Hollywood A listers always turn to me

In which I discover a bit of rough is actually quickly tricky to catch - even with a Greggs pasty

The North is a cruel mistress. As I sit here the wind has whipped through the wings of its famous steel angel and is currently ripping into my skin.
I am awaiting a date, who is very late.
It was my editor who suggested a trip North would be a good chance to inject some excitement into my column - apparently she was bored of paying thousands of pounds for copy based around my pets. Dear readers, I know, she knows nothing about writing an internationally popular column with countless females relying on my every word.
But still, I thought North London, great. A couple of nights in my fav five star boutique hotel, The Draycott, some meals in some of the chicest restaurants and a chance to stock up on some antiques from South Ken. It took a couple of emails to realise she meant the North of England, and a couple more for me locate it on the map. This is a place where people are banished in Jane Austen novels (Mr Whickham and Lydia, anyone?), a place where the woman discard coats because their skin, so radioactively orange, actually keeps them warm. And Ed wanted me to find love in this desolate backwater? I know I have succumbed to poorer and intellectually inferior lovers in the past - it befits my nurturing and patronising nature - but I was unconvinced.
Then dear reader I was offered a bonus and as quickly as my Yoga teacher, pet psychic and I could pack our bags we were off. Faust might have only sold his soul once but I find you can get more use out of it if you break it up into tiny little pieces and auction it off stage by stage.
So, I won’t go into the whole embarrassing discussion about how this date was set up, but suffice to say I didn’t fully understand my first conversation with my new gardener and I somehow agreed to a drink with his twice-divorced brother.
I have been told he is a looker because he has his own teeth and is a bit of a traveller - he spent time in Leeds and went to London once to see We Will Rock You because he is a big Queen fan.
I, truthfully told, am not holding out much hope but am taking solace in the fact that alcohol is much cheaper in Newcastle and seems to be served automatically in double measures.
Well, readers, I have been here an hour now. Waiting. I miss my cats, at least they seem excited to see me, well, when I bring them their dinner. It's humiliating sitting waiting in a bar where you can’t understand the language and I do not like the women in this town. While I reapplied my Crème de la Mer moisturiser at the bar, one girl asked me for a scoop of it. I told her no and that it was a very expensive face cream made with sea kelp. At that she sneered at me and said she could get all the seaweed she wanted for free from the beach at South Shields. I’m not sure I can deal with this level of backwardness. I’ve never seen so many pasty shops and yesterday I passed two children who were called Greggs….oh for the cute deli at the end of my street and people with refinement and a reading age over 6.
As I was musing over my lot, a hairy paw grabbed my shoulder, crushing my white silk t-shirt, “Al reet, pet,” he bellowed at me (NB. Ed was forced to hire a Geordie translator for this). This beast of a Northern man, stood in front of me. I was trying to drum up some Heathcliff fantasies with an ill-educated but passionate man and I was coming to terms with the fact that I could maybe grow to love a Newcastle football shirt as acceptable evening dress, when he looked me up and down, grabbed a pint from the bar, downed it and left.
So I waited for hours and then was snubbed by a tubby, hairy Neanderthal with barely a word of explanation flung in my direction. If this is the type of terrible behaviour I can expect from Northern men and if this feeling of worthlessness it gives me as a woman can prevail, then Readers, I think I might be in love.
Next week: I venture onto the nightclub that is actually a boat and threaten to remove a thermal layer to fit in