Kevin and I went walking in the Chilterns today with our friends Fiona, Phil and Karina. The bluebells are providing a magnificent display at the moment, and the bluebell woods are quite the most beautiful I've ever seen.



It was just blue as far as you could see, and the fragrance was fabulous.



We only did a short walk, which was probably for the best as I slightly overdid it yesterday at the gym, and my shoulders were (and still are) killing me. But we rounded off our walk with a lovely meal at a pub called The Frog, which more than made up for the aches.

Just a short post today, because it's Saturday, and I'm knackered, and Kev and I are about to curl up with each other and in the Company of Wolves. The film, that is, not the large furry canine. Frankly, if we were going to curl up with anything furry, it would be a small, cute feline or two, but that's by the by.

We did manage to get the gym today, and I did more exercise than usual. Five minutes more on the treadmill, the full 15 minutes on the bike even though it makes my legs feel like they are about to drop off, and an addition set of 15 repetitions on all of the machines.

I am now, officially, shagged out.

Still, I'm enjoying myself - it's nice to just let my brain freewheel for a while. I had thought that I would take my iPod and listen to music and podcasts and the fabulous This American Life, but I think I prefer having some downtime for my brain. Kev says that the effects of this exercise are already showing, but I'm not sure I believe him. (He's just read this over my shoulder and said "Silly girl", so I presume that means he really can tell.)

Either way, I think it's better to be doing this because I enjoy it, rather than as some sort of purgatory to endure in the hope that there'll be rewards at the end of it, as I'm really not good at doing things that I have to do if I don't enjoy doing them. I'm hoping to see the effects in a couple of months time, but in the meantime, I'll take Kev's word for it.

Right, time for the film.

...Is a house that's far enough away from our neighbours that if I choose to play Duran Duran really loudly, I know I won't disturb them. And if they decide to play Peruvian pan pipe music at absurd hours of the day, they'll be far enough away that I won't hear them. Nor will I hear my neighbour's alarm clock going off. Nor will I hear them flush their loo in the middle of the night. I particularly won't hear them having a party until 3am, and I won't hear their late night arguments. There'll be no thumping bass, and no smell of cigarettes wafting up the communal staircase.

I want a house far enough away from a main road that our kitties will be safe. They'll have room to roam, and I won't need to worry about them getting hit by fast moving lumps of metal piloted by idiots. I won't be treated to the sight of three car pile-ups, however minor, in front of my house because there will never be three cars in front of my house, unless they are parked at my behest. Sirens will be unheard of, as will the screech of brakes and the honking of horns.

I want enough room that the place where i sit and work is not the same as the place where I allegedly attempt to sit and relax. And a sofa which is actually comfy would be nice.

I'd also like a view which isn't a) a road and b) Arsenal Stadium. It doesn't matter that the tree out front slightly obscures the stadium - I can still hear them cheer when Arsenal scores. The tube station is still 'exit only' when they are playing, and there are still a gazillion Gunners fans flooding the streets after each match.

And I'd like all this to be bought without me having to bankrupt myself.

... I guess that's a move to the States then.

The weird thing about yesterday - other than the fact that I went to the gym and wrote three blog posts - was that I didn't turn the radio on all day. Usually I have XFM on from the moment Kevin leaves for work til the moment he comes home. Last year I struggled with listening via the internet, but when they "upgraded" their audio stream they made it PC-only, which sort of screwed me really, being a Mac girl. But Kevin bought me a DAB digital radio for Christmas which I have on pretty much all day every day.

Except yesterday.

Yesterday, I had a couple of phone calls, then spent a couple of hours watching Neil Gaiman on Fora.tv, and then settled into a quiet, radio-free day. The strange thing wasn't that I didn't miss the DJs' chitchat or the music, but that I had absolutely no idea what time it was. Even though I looked at the clock and the clock told me what time it was, because I didn't experience the DJs' shifts changing throughout the day, I had no sense that time had progressed at all. When the clock showed 4:30 pm it still felt like morning, even though I had eaten lunch, because I hadn't heard the X-List at 1.00 and didn't catch the lunchtime news*.

XFM recently changed their schedule, and I'm a bit ambivalent about the new line-up. Claire Sturgess I like a lot, and I look forward Ian Camfield each day, but to be honest the new DJs just sort of leave me cold. I don't just listen to XFM because I like their playlist, but because I find the DJs to be entertaining... if the DJs stop being entertaining, I may as well just listen to iTunes, Pandora, Last.fm or SomaFM Secret Agent.

But the one thing XFM will always have over time-shifted or DJ-free internet radio and podcasts is the ritual of it, the sense of schedule-as-timekeeper, ringing the hours and giving form to the day. Nothing can replace the beginning of XFM's Music Response at 7pm as my signifier that we're going to be eating late that night.


* XFM's news is pretty unchallenging, really, but it does give me at least an idea of what's going on in the world.

Yesterday, as per Saturday's post, Kevin and I went to our gym induction sessions at the local leisure centre, where the lovely Frances introduced us to the machinery.

Now, I've never been to a gym before. I used to go to Tai Chi twice a week and, for a while back in the mid 90s, I had thighs like rocks and could fell a man twice my size with a mere nudge to his kneecap. It's all been downhill since then. Add that lack of fitness to my rabid neophobia and my rampant fear of social humiliation, and you have a fabulous opportunity for me to run away and hide behind the sofa. (Dr Who used to have roughly the same effect.)

But with Kevin there to hold my hand, and Frances being really friendly and nice, and the gym being relatively quiet, I actually managed to get through my induction without any moments of hideous embarrassment.

So this is my regime. (Please forgive the lack of technical language.)

1. 10 minutes on the treadmill at an incline of 1.5, speed of 6.0. (I have no idea what units these are measured in, but I think that kilometres might have something to do with it.)

2. 15 minutes on the recumbent bike, level 3, 60 rpm.

3. 2 x 15 reps on the arm pully inny thingie.

4. 2 x 15 reps on the thighy squeezy thingie.

5. 2 x 15 reps on the thighy anti-squeezy pushy thingie.

6. 2 x 15 reps on the leggy pushy thingie.

The last four all have weights attached, but I can't remember what they are for each one, but at least for the leggy pushy thingie, it's the lowest it can be. It's all written down in a booklet that you leave that the gym, so I'll have to check it the next time I'm there.

After Frances showed me everything and I'd done half the amount of exercise that I am scheduled to do in a work out, she showed me some stretches and asked if I wanted to stay to do a full workout. Not on your nellie. My legs were already wobbly and I only did half of what I was supposed to!

This morning, though, Kev and I were up at the crack of dawn and were down the gym, raring to go by 8.30am.

That might possibly be an exaggeration for at least one of us. We were down the gym at 8.30am, but 'raring' wasn't entirely my condition. I did everything I was supposed to do, except that I knocked 5 mins off the bike because I was a bit worried about us getting home in time for Kev to get to work. I wasn't in too much pain afterwards, which was a relief, but we have at least 24 hours before the muscle shock kicks in. I may not be quite so relieved tomorrow.

I have been told that doing a good vigourous workout regularly, including cardiovascular exercise, will not only make me slim and lithe and sylph-like again, but will also give me more energy and make me feel better. This is what I've been told.

I haven't seen any evidence of it yet. I noticed elevated heart rate, although that's hardly difficult to achieve given that my usual exercise regime is moving from bed to couch to fridge to couch to corner shop for ice cream to couch... I also noticed wobbly legs, wherein one suddenly starts channelling Bambi at birth. And I noticed a loss from my bank account of about 30 quid each month.

But I was promised endorphins, dammit! Where are they? I was promised more energy! I was promised feelings of wellbeing! These things have been dangled in front of me like the gilded carrot of anticipation! Yet where are they? Dammit, who stole my endorphins and when do I get them back?

Fine. I'll just go and eat some chocolate instead. See if I care.

That whilst I am suffering once again from wisdom tooth ache and a cold - simultaneously... oh the delight - I can tell you precisely how long it's been since my last cold and last bout of toothache. Because I blogged them.

The last cold started as this one did with a sore throat and then developed into a snotfest. Just like now. It happened in June 2005, whilst I was in California for the first time.

My tooth last gave me real proper gyp in June 2006, when it got so bad that I ended up going to the dentist and secretly hoping he'd take the damn thing out. A few months later, I was due to go off travelling when the infection flared up again, so my dentist gave me some antibiotics to carry in case, but made me promise not to take them unless things got really really bad. They are still sitting on the shelf - even though my tooth's been dreadfully unhappy, I haven't felt that it's been so bad that I needed to take the antibiotics.

I'm bored of this cold now though. I've had it nearly a week, and it's just no fun.

PS... When I said that I was going to blog every day, you didn't expect me to blog about interesting things, did you?

When I found the flat that Kevin and I currently call home, I remember thinking how well positioned it was. Waitrose only 5 mins away. Holloway Road just 10 mins away. And a gym literally on the corner, just a short walk away. We moved in and promised each other that we'd join up to use the leisure centre really soon. Really, really soon.

Then came the uncertainty of whether Kevin would be able to stay in the UK after things at the BBC went south. Then there were a few months where I was travelling almost all the time. Then things went mad with ORG. Then Christmas came...

But today, finally, Kevin and I managed that taxing three minute walk to the end of the road, negotiated the very dangerous and fearsome road crossing, and found our way into the leisure centre. We thought we'd have to book a time to join up, but they did it all there and then so now we are the proud owners of two gym memberships. We have our induction sessions tomorrow. It's only taken us a year and some change to get our act together.

Of course, I'd by lying by omission if I didn't admit that the main reason I'm joining the gym is to use the bike machines so that I can lose a few inches from round the waist area, prior to that, y'know, small event in February. If I can get rid of 4 inches over the next six months, I'll be happy. Five and I'll be delirious.

Unfortunately, I don't really have appropriate footwear for going to the gym. We went to an alleged sports shop to try and get a pair, but it was much more about sports fashion and the shoes there had little to do with actual sports. Took a trip to Islington, on the assumption that there was bound to be some decent shops there, but sadly was totally wrong. So now thinking about turning up to the induction tomorrow in my Adidas and hoping no one notices, and then going to a decent shop in town on Monday in order to get some shoes. Or maybe I'll have to go back to the alleged sports shop and buy the one pair of shoes that looked as if they might actually support my feet during training.

Either way, plan is to go to the gym at least three times a week, if not every day. Really do need to crack on with burning some calories, else I'll still look all podgy come The Big Day. And we can't have that.

Just sitting watching the lunar eclipse. I don't think I've seen a full lunar eclipse on a night as clear as this before in my life. Such a shame that I'm in the middle of London where the light pollution is dreadful. It really is quite beautiful, though - all red and dramatic and portent-y. I'm sure it's a portent for something. Probably going to have a plague of frogs tomorrow. Or chavs. Although one could argue we have one of those already.

Pity my camera would achieve no more than show you a small red speck in a large black sky, really, as I'm sure one could get some beautiful shots if one had decent kit.

For those of you interested, the wound is healing very well indeed. My doctor did a good job, and it's a very neat scar. It's still a bit painful at times, when I reach too far, or when I bump it, or my jacket pulls tight over it, but I really can't complain now. I can about sleep on it, which is good because I usually sleep on my left side, but sometimes it does still ache.







Funnily, I'm really not that fussed about the dent in my arm or the scar. I'm replacing the steristrips weekly to take the strain off my skin so that the scar doesn't widen like the other one was starting too. Whilst I don't mind a dent or a nice, thin line, I'm not so keen on a big red stripe! Apparently it takes six weeks for scars to regain 80% of the strength of normal skin, so I'm trying not to use it as much as I normally do, but of course, being left handed it's always this arm that automatically reaches for stuff.

Overall, though, I feel lucky, really. There are people grappling with far worse - we caught a dodgy mole before it turned bad, and I'd rather have a dent and a scar now than nastiness later.

Well, that's the second minor op over and done with. My surgeon removed 5mm all the way round the existing scar, and has sent that off for analysis too. I now have a much longer incision, which I'll take pics of in a few days when it's had a chance to settle.

The other scar did stretch a bit, possibly due to me using my arm too much, so I've been taught now how to put on and remove clothes without using my arm. All I have to do now is remember!

I suppose the rest of today may as well be a 'sick day', as being self-employed I only get those if I'm really ill, which I rarely am. I guess minor surgery counts.

Well, it turned out that my mole wasn't precisely nothing, but it wasn't particularly anything either. It showed 'moderate cytological and architectural atypia', and was a 'dysplastic compound nevus', which all appears to mean that whilst it certainly wasn't a melanoma, given my family history of melanoma, it might one day have considered turning into one.

The long and the short of it is that I have to go back next week and have another 2 - 5mm removed from where the mole was, just to make sure nothing dodgy's been left behind. It's a shame - the wound had healed really nicely. But I don't mind. Better safe than sorry.

Yesterday was Dydd Santes Dwynwen, or St Dwynwen's Day, which is the Welsh equivalent of Valentine's Day. Both Kevin and I enjoy appropriating whichever holidays, festivals and notable dates we fancy from other cultures - he celebrates Cinco de Mayo, the "Mexican holiday where they celebrate beating the stuffing out of the French", as he puts it.

So last night we went out to our favourite restaurant, Andrew Edmunds in Soho, for dinner, followed by the American Bar at the Savoy, to celebrate Dydd Santes Dwynwen. (We sat on the left there, with a lovely view of the Thames that you can't see in this photo.)



It was just a perfect night out - wonderful food at Andrew Edmunds, as always, and just sublime Pol Roger champagne at the American Bar - made even more perfect when Kevin asked the pianist at the Savoy to play a song for us. The pianist suggested Frank Sinatra's The Way You Look Tonight, and whilst he was playing, Kevin drew a box from his coat pocket, opened it up, and asked me to marry him.

In the box was a diamond, and two beautiful amber-coloured citrine to go either side of it. The ring itself is being made by a friend of ours, Nigel, and it won't be ready for a while yet, but to see the stones that will go in it was just wonderful. I have to admit, even though Kevin and I had discussed the ring, and even though I had an inkling that he might ask on Dydd Santes Dwynwen, being the gorgeous old romantic that he is, I still teared up when he asked.



It was just amazing. And of course I said yes. And the staff in the bar came over the congratulate us, the pianist announced it to the other patrons, and all round it was just lovely. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and ended up doing a bit of both.

Of course, as soon as we got home we did what any newly engaged coupled would do. We announced it on Twitter! Lots of lovely messages from our friends via email, text, IM, IRC and Twitter, and this morning, blog posts from friends JR, Dan and Euan. Can't quite believe that they managed to blog it before we did! But I'm rectifying it now, and Kevin's already posted his account on his blog.

I honestly can't describe how happy I am. Kevin has made my life wonderful - he's so supportive, tender, caring and adorable. Every day when he goes to work I miss him, and every night I look forward to him coming home. We've both had some tough times over the 15 months since we met, but we've helped each other through and neither of us can imagine life without the other. I never really knew what it was like to be really, properly in love, but it's this: I am grateful for every moment I am blessed to be with him, and I am filled with nothing but joy and excitement for the future.

So, off now to write a few emails, make a few phone calls, and let a few more people know. Oh, and I suppose I had better set up a wiki for organising the wedding. I guess this is Engagement 2.0!

* It's just been pointed out to me that the phrase 'Engagement 2.0' sounds as if I've been engaged before, which I haven't. Instead, think more 'Web 2.0'. As Kev and I just decided in IM, Engagement 2.0 is like Engagement 1.0 but with client-side caching, lots of rounded corners and an aqua-effect fill. No, I don't know what that means either, but I find it amusing.

My many thanks to Tom Reynolds, our celebrity EMT, for taking out my stitches yesterday in Cafe Nero. He did an excellent job, although it was rather fiddly as the stitches were pulled rather tight. See how neat my scar is though!

Alas, poor Moley, I knew him Horatio.



I had a dodgy-looking mole removed from my upper left arm this morning. Luckily my doctor is also a minor ops surgeon so there was no need to go to hospital - the doctors' surgery is all shiny and new and purpose built and comes with a variety of treatment rooms, one of which I frequented this morning.

It's been a long time since anyone's come near me with a scalpel, but my doctor was very good indeed - the worst part was having the local anaesthetic, but even that wasn't anywhere near the level of the kind of thumping migraine pain that afflicted me on Christmas Day. Once the site's anaesthetised, there's just that strange tugging as he cuts the mole out and then carefully sews up the resulting hole.



We chatted throughout the whole procedure, and all in all it was a hassle-free and non-stressing experience. There was even laughter. It's nice to be be able to say it, but the level of care was extremely high, and my level of faith in my doctor even higher. When the NHS gets such a pounding every day in the press about this or that misadventure, it's stuff like this that reminds you that the media just love their scare stories and that the majority of people working in the NHS, like my doctor, are doing their best and their best is, in fact, very good indeed.

The offending mole will be sent off for analysis, and whilst we both expect it to come back as entirely normal, it's better to be safe than sorry. Being fair, and there being melanoma in the family, any abnormal-looking mole is best removed, just in case.

Kev took pics of the wee beastie (in situ), which I'll post here when they are on Flickr. Meantime, I'm left with a slightly achy arm that I'm going to have to keep dry for a few days, and three stitches that I am hoping Mr Reynolds will be able to remove for me in due course.

Haven't had a chance to blog before now, but Saturday, as soon as we got off the coach in Dorset, Dad took us down to Poole to pick up my replacement Nokia E61. Phew. I have to say, the staff in the Poole Carphone Warehouse were lovely, and the entire unpleasant experience was very much softened by their kindness, and by the efficiency of the Carphone Warehouse's insurance department, who didn't quibble at all about replacing my mobile even though I'd had it such a short time. Even the excess, which I expected to be quite a lot, was only 30 quid. Compared to the 200 quid nature of the phone, that's trivial.

In fact, I wouldn't ever buy direct from a phone provider now, as I always have in the past - I will always go to the Carphone Warehouse, and I will always buy their insurance. Especially now that I'm hooked on smartphones and am unlikely to go back to the kinds of cheap, minimalist phones that you can easily replace at little cost.

That said, I'm much more aware now that having a flashy phone makes you a target, and being 'normally so careful' - as my amazed parents described me as they tried to comprehend that their diligent daughter had had her phone nicked - isn't good enough. You have to always be careful.

I will, therefore, be much less likely to use my phone outside and in public unless I really, really have to. Which somewhat makes a mockery of bothering to have a phone that's mobile, but I just don't want to go through all that again.

One annoying point, though, is that I can't transfer my number over from Orange to O2, because unlike T-Mobile who will transfer your number at any time after you've bought your phone, 02 want you to do it at the time you buy, so I'm too late. Rats. So it's a new phone number for me, whether I like it or not. Which is a bummer as I've just sent out Christmas cards with the wrong phone number in. Oops.

Anyway, all's well that ends well, and frankly it's not like I'm not easily found online if people really want to find me.