We were sailing on the sea of shops in London and spotted our albatross - How To Look Good Naked host Gok Wan sipping coffee in Cafe Nero.

I would have touched him for good luck but my hands were already full of shopping bags. Some silly stuff like Batman undies but also useful stuff like a non-brown dress to wear to a wedding in July. I argued with Rhiannon and Margaret that it made me look like a flower pot but caved in the end as it was half price and I couldn’t be arsed trying on more dresses.

I’m still useless with clothes. I spent all my teens and much of my twenties being very large and depressed in my uniform of jeans and billowing tops. As I got smaller I just kept buying the same thing in decreasing sizes. Then I spent much of last year writing a book in my pajamas. Now back in the real world, I always seem to look conservative and… brown. I’ve wasted so much of my youth - I want to have some fun with clothes before it’s time for rayon slacks and eau de mothball.

To kickstart this process, style muffins Rhiannon and Margaret kindly volunteered to come shopping. It was a very generous thing to do, given my tendency to give up if a garment gets more complicated than a drawstring waist. But there was just one minor hissyfit, when they made me try on a pair of patent stilettos. The salesladies kept hovering and asking WHY did I refuse the patent stilettos and I finally snapped, “BECAUSE THEY LOOK CHEAP AND SLUTTY”

“Woohoo!” Margaret crowed, “We made her break down! This is totally our Trinny and Susannah moment!”

It was a truly cracking day; one of those ones where you remember how good it is to be a lady and hang out with your fellow ladies. Thank you thank you thank you.

Rhi and Margaret cleverly pre-empted my usual shopping apathy by laying down these Rules first thing in the morning. Click the pic for a more readable version!

Some people get the blues, Holly Golightly got the mean reds. I think I have the browns!

I’ve been splashing round in denial for months but today I am just going to admit to myself that things have gone a bit brown. Brown is not all bad, you know. It’s a nice hue for those with ginger hair and brown eyes. But it also the colour of shit.

So. I have this wee list of things - job husband family friends authoring health sanity hundreds of strangers who write and ask me how to fix their lives - and I’m screwing it all up. Sometimes my priorities have been completely wrong. Despite my lists! Why put “send Mothership text message” on a list? It would be quicker to send the text, DICKHEAD!

Anyway I am just about to put on my brown boots and my brown hoodie then head to London on the sleeper train and write things down that aren’t lists. Sorting out the rubbish in my head instead of ignoring it. Just in London for a day - hitting the shops with Rhiannon and our mate Margaret. I’ve been too lazy to buy new clothes for a couple of years and I’m tired of looking boring. And BROWN!

This here “blog” is eight years old today. Celebrating tonight by finishing off painting the living room then life can begin again.

Last week in the Kingdom of Fife we rejoiced in four consecutive days of fine weather. I took my sunglasses out of storage so I wouldn’t be blinded by bare midriffs on the high street. But judging from the long queues at the Tan Stand, they’ll all be orange soon.

Sunshine lends a wholesome air to the toun. I saw a girl walking to the park with a frisbee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Then I saw a peacock stop to pick up an abandonded chip. He fanned out his tail and tilted his head back, chip clenched in his tiny beak. I fumbled for my camera but the posing bastard gulped it down before I could focus.

Speaking of chips, we went out to Anstruther the other night. Nothing says summer like hot grease by the sea! I also wanted photographic evidence of a chip butty for my Dietgirl blog. I’d mentioned recently that Gareth was a devotee and some people were baffled and/or intrigued by the idea of carb on carb action.

Five years ago I would have been horrified, but now I see poetry in the bland, fluffy white roll, lubed up with butter and stuffed with flaccid fries.

Ask for a chip butty at the Anstruther chippie and your butty shall runneth over:

Gareth likes to eat the overflow first, building anticipation for the main event.

I went for the fish supper as usual. I had brought along my special Australianising Kit: chicken salt and a lemon. Back home you get lemon with fish by default, but over here you have to ask for it and they think you’re a freak. The chicken salt, which doesn’t contain actual chickens, was purchased for a ludicrous sum at the Australia Shop in Covent Garden a few years ago. I could take it or leave the stuff when I actually lived in Oz, but now flavoured sodium is a tasty, pathetic way of clinging to my roots.

ARRGHHHH! This weekend, for sure.

Recently we were sitting in the car out the front of my dear in-law's house. We were running late as usual, so Gareth had to write on the Mother's Day card before we went inside.

GARETH:  Sorry we're late.
MOTHER-IN-LAW-MARY:  Is everything alright!?
G:  Yes?
MILM:  Are you sure!?
G:  Yes!
MILM:  But you were just sitting there the car for ages! Were you two having a fight?
G:  No!
MILM: You were fighting, weren't you?
G:  Nooo! I was writing on your card!
MILM:  Are you sure you weren't fighting!?

I was somewhat miffed that we've reached a point of togetherness where if we sit in a car for a long time, people assume we're having an argument. As opposed to assuming we're desperately feeling each other up, just one more time before the soup is on the table.

Meanwhile, we're still fixing up the bloody flat. Gareth has spent all weekend painting the doors and skirting boards in the bedroom. My efforts with the gloss were crooked and shite, despite holding my breath. And I really tried hard, as I'm sort of bristling from that incident in January 1998 that I've only mentioned 72 times when The Mothership and Rhi were re-upholstering a chair and I asked could I bang in a few nails and The Mothership said No and I said Why not and she paused and said, Because you don't have practical skills.

Oh yeah? Then how did I come up with the Russian Remote Hat? I brought this fuzzy wonder back from Moscow for Gareth but the Scottish winter has never been cold enough for it. Now thanks to my Practical Skills it has found a noble purpose.

In other developments, my brain went fuzzy. It happened on 2 October when I began my New Job or perhaps it was as far back as 18 June when I handed in the book manuscript. All the clarity and zest absconded and I've been unable to focus ever since. New Job is almost six months old but I still call it New Job as that makes the constant panic still seem appropriate, and nothing to do with any rubbishness on my part. I've also done a lot of writing and talking to pimp Dietgirl and I don't know how I got through that without drooling on anyone. It's been a really mad, wonderful ride and I wanted to bore you with the details, all eleven of you. But whenever I've sat down at the screen I couldn't concentrate so I ended up Facebooking or twitting on Twitter. Result: brain cells further eroded. Witold wrote recently, Oh boy, there are so many places on the web now to say almost nothing in so many ways.

It feels like I'm trapped inside something, maybe a giant plastic ball. It's opaque so I can sort of see the world outside but not clearly and I'm poking and prodding the curvy walls, wanting to shout about my predicament but not being able to find the words. I think maybe I'm a little burned out, as much as I hate to use such a wanky phrase. But overall life is great, just really freaky busy; so sometimes it's hard to figure out what's important and what's to be done. Right now I am reading lots of books, to remind me that words are good and sexy and nice to be around. I hope to form proper sentences soon!

How do we carry on now that Masterchef is over?

For those not in the know, it's basically American Idol with foie gras and fancy knives. It's hosted by two strangely endearing blokes who don't understand the concept of Inside Voices, so they constantly bark at the contestants, I WANNA SEE A NICE PLAYDA FOOD and NOW THAT'S BEWDIFULLY SEASONED!

The contestants are mostly earnest Former Bankers or Ex-Barristers who gave up high-flying careers to pursue their Passion for Food. This intrigues me as I don't think I could sacrifice even my low-flying career until I was 100% certain that the Passion was 100% secure and paid near enough to the low-flying career that I wouldn't need to live in a cardboard box. But on the telly, Passion RULES and people can chuck their jobs with gay abandon.

The final episode was both compelling and insane (and beautifully live blogged by Anna Pickard) Shouty Aussie was reduced to tears by Emily's beetroot tagliatelle and Shouty Bald insisted that EVERY YEAR THEY. JUST. GET. BEDDA AN BEDDA! Curly James was eventually declared the winner of the suitably curly Masterchef trophy.

It was so easy to be swept up in such culinary drama but Gareth brought some perspective to the table:

	"Whoever wins… IT WILL CHANGE. THEIR. LIVES"
	"It DOESN'T get any TOUGHER THAN THIS"
	"They're just COOKING THE DINNER!"