Tuesday 1 December: Advent is here!

In a fit of domesticity on Sunday morning, I cleaned the entire apartment from top to bottom, baked 18 blueberry muffins and a nutty apple loaf, and washed The Boyfriend's undergarments. In the afternoon some girlfriends popped over to examine my efforts (the baking, not the boxers). The verdict was a resounding thumbs up.

So yesterday, with seven leftover muffins tempting me in the kitchen, I decided to show off my culinary prowess and bring them into work. There were plenty of approving nods and contented chews as the buns were consumed. I was confident I'd earned some serious employee brownie points and was about to settle down to my work with a whistle when my colleague arrives into the office with a homemade gingerbread house.

Seriously, a gingerbread house? Apparently, she whittled it together last night. Now this was no ordinary gingerbread house. This was the Graceland of confectionary residences. I wouldn't be surprised if I switched on Cribs and saw a gingerbread man stroking the black satin sheets of his waterbed, purring 'This is where the magic happens.'

What are the chances, in a global media organisation that you'll find two people who spontaneously decide to bake for their colleagues on the same day, never mind the likelihood of one of them throwing together something as elaborate as a gingerbread house? (sorry to keep labouring the point but even Waitrose doesn't make them)

But this is a girl who's already made her own jams, chutneys and truffles as Christmas presents, spent last week teaching herself html so she could construct an Advent Calendar for tractor.co.uk and cycles abut four miles to and from work each day. And the truly sickening thing is, she's a top bird. Funny, down to earth, sound as the proverbial pound. I should have known better than to try and compete with this level of perfection. Competitiveness is for insecure losers, anyway. And I, am most definitely not, an insecure loser.

In other news, my work Christmas party is next week. Should be very chilled out. A few drinks, some karaoke – I haven't prepared anything, really. Just Mariah's back catalogue. My voice coach says I've almost nailed 'Hero'. Anyway, like I said, it will be a very relaxed affair.

Pants, is that the time? Don't want to be late for work.

Sunday 29 November

There are many things about living in London that piss me off: commuting, people walking too slowly through the tube station, the fact that I'm bothered by people walking too slowly through the tube station, and so forth. But on Saturdays, after my jog on the common, I potter along the Northcote Road to Gail's for my morning Pain au Chocolat, watching Clapham's latest initiates into parenthood proudly push their double strollers into Cath Kidston, and London life doesn't seem so bad after all.

OK, that's utter nonsense. I hate kids and as my far-from-firm backside demonstrates, I've yet to discover the joys of jogging. I also think I may have developed a touch of the Madonnas in reverse. (Since when are prams 'strollers'?)

Anyway, my fast flailing point is, that despite the commuting and the pollution and the mass anger, London's actually a pretty cool place to live.

Take last night, for example. Mid-week, I had fully intended on committing to a night on the sofa yet again with a bottle of wine and the X Factor, even though the show is thoroughly boring now that the twins have gone. Lately though, I've been trying to be more spontaneous, so when my friend Jenny suggested The Boyfriend and I attend a 'Secret Cinema' outing with her and her other half, I begrudgingly said yes.

Hurrah for enforced spontaneity! It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. We were instructed in an anonymous email, to dress up in gangsters and molls attire and meet in a mysterious location under a bridge in East London, with a flower for 'The Boss'. As we queued along a dark, cobble-paved lane in the pissing rain, we were entertained by a troupe of actors decked out in 1920s and 30s regalia and driving vintage, Chicago gangster-style cars. Once inside, we were ushered up a narrow flight of stairs through a tiny side door, which opened up into a huge Art Deco ballroom. A swing band and tap dancers entertained the crowd while in an old fashioned boxing ring constructed at the back of the room, a couple of 'mobsters' slugged it out. We feasted on popcorn and chilli dogs, had a few relaxing glasses of wine and watched Bugsy Malone.

Just before the final scene, where the gangsters charge Fat Sam's Bar, armed with custard pie-filled machine guns, the film was stopped and Fat Sam's boys ran through the audience administering plastic anoraks, paper plates and squirty cream. The film was put back on and on the compere's signal, a mass custard pie fight ensued before everyone piled on stage for a the big finale.

I had a ridiculous amount of fun and yet was in bed by midnight, sober and correct, and feeling the love for my adopted hometown.

The point of this story: switch off from reality TV (unless Jedward is involved) and say yes to everything. Oh, and avoid the Northcote Road on weekends if images of happy families have you reaching for the nearest gun – custard pie filled, of course.

Tuesday 24th November

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Albert_Pearl_N1.Bar

Sunday 22 November

Having a lazy day. Here's a half-hearted attempt at self-promotion:

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/userprofile.aspx?UserListID=48188

Nothing new to report. Had a lovely potter in Brixton yesterday, followed by a disastrous fudge making session, and this morning, I stole an umbrella from a pensioner at mass (I'm so riddled with Catholic guilt right now, I can't even joke about it. I'm sure this will pass, so stay tuned).

This evening, I'm going to call into the Xtra Factor and complain about the other judges' treatment of Louis Walsh. I reckon this demonstration of loyalty towards a fellow compatriot should atone for my earlier indiscretion. Bless me Father.....

Embracing 'Movember'

I've been living in a state of perpetual ignorance these past few weeks (blame the Kraftmatic Adjustable Bed) and have only recently discovered the bizarre follicular phenomenon that is 'Movember'.

One of my good friends has been cultivating his mo' for several weeks and now sports a full-blown handlebar. He's withheld our jocular abuse (and no doubt sexual rejection) remarkably well but until now, I couldn't understand why anyone would want to do this to themselves.

I have been enlightened. This self-mutilation is all for charity. The fight against Prostate Cancer to be more specific. I'm a big fan of prostates and anything south of that region, so in solidarity with the male species, I have not only grown a mo, but a fro, too.

It took me a good few hours to get some serious growth going but not a bad effort, I must say.

Being serious for a moment (a sentence, i promise you,  you will never read in this blog again), give Movember and my friend Mick your support today, and change the face of men's health:

http://ie.movember.com/mospace/469341

Old at heart

It's been a while folks, but there's a good reason for my neglect of you. I was back in Ireland for a college reunion, had several restaurants to review and two days ago, I moved house. Thankfully, I've the day off work to recover and fill you lovely readers in on my latest endeavours.

I am in love with my new apartment. Most of Sunday was spent opening the mirrored concertina doors of my built-in wardrobe, watching the light inside automatically switch on, jumping into the closet to marvel at the space, then getting out and repeating the process. I also derived immense pleasure from fiddling with the controls on our Craftmatic Adjustable Bed (yes, you read that correctly). Before you judge me, the bed came with the gaff. I am prone to muscle fatigue, but have no mobility issues as of yet.

We also have an old-fashioned writing desk in the living room. I've been meaning to write a strongly worded letter to British Gas, concerning an unpalatable bill they recently sent us, but I haven't had the necessary implements, until now.

The only downside to our new abode (besides the apartment block caretaker who is, rather disturbingly, attempting to channel Jack Nicholson in The Shining) is a seeming lapse in The Boyfriend's sense of propriety. He is so entirely comfortable in his new habitat, he's taken to walking around the apartment in his underwear. While constructing Beth's Ikea furniture the other day, his new get up was accompanied by a beer in hand. Clearly, we'll be having chats.

We'd planned to spend the first night in with Beth's boyfriend, who was over from Paris to help with the move. He brought some champers and chocolates with him and the four of us settled down on the sofa to watch X Factor, Beth and I clad in fluffy dressing gowns, our men in their slippers. On re-entering the room after an ad break, I surveyed this horrifying display of middle age and, not quite ready for pureed food and incontinence pads just yet, I persuaded everyone to get up and dressed, slapped on that Black Eyed Peas song that seems to get today's 'yoof' excited and we hit two parties, one of which was in a squat.

Human art installations, psychedelic light shows, sinks overflowing with moudly dishes and abstract conversation on abstractism – is this how one parties these days? I tried my best to embrace it, even attempted a spot of shape throwing, but I must admit, I longed to get back to my geriatric bed.

We grabbed a kebab on the way home, another stab at forcing nostalgia for our wilder days but the smoked salmon in the fridge was calling me.

I crawled into bed to finish my novel for tonight's Book Club. Yes, I am a sad old fart (in a hot young body) but look at it this way- I'll probably have my mid life crisis behind me before I get married. So, while your kids are cringing at your cliched attempts to stay young at heart, I'll genuinely be the coolest parent on the block.

Thursday 5th November

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Greens_Restaurant_and_Oyster_Bar_EC3V.Bar_Restaurant

Mother knows... a lot more than you'd think

During my weekly phone conversation with mum earlier, in which everything from her flailing gym efforts to my younger sister's licentiousness is discussed, she revealed something deeply disturbing. One minute, we're deriding the in-laws for their collective lapse in sartorial judgement at a recent family gathering, the next, she's telling me that an 18 year-old boy had an erection in front of her.

Did you just vomit a little bit in your mouth? Good. You have some idea of my initial reaction.

Naturally, I told her I needed more information (though I dreaded receiving it). Apparently, she had volunteered to cook the weekly fry up for my sister's rowing club teammates the previous day. As she was browning her bangers, she noticed one of the members of the boys team, staring intently at her while he worked out on the rowing machine. He had an erection.

I asked her if she was certain and she frankly told me that it's been that long since she'd seen what one looks like, she checked it out three times to be sure. It was indeed, a 'boner'. I feel emotionally conflicted, here. Should I be alarmed that my mother has just said boner to me? Sickened that she's down with the modern slang for genitalia? Or relieved that my dad is no longer asserting his conjugal rites? (I'm assuming female sexuality didn't really figure in the Prehistoric era of masculine hegemony, somewhere round about they time they got hitched)

Perhaps the most unpalatable part of the conversation was the candidness of her narration. The words 'crotch' and 'tackle' were administered freely, in the same tones of motherly disappointment that are normally reserved for when you've failed to do your homework, not caught in flagrante.

Far from being ashamed at his evident arousal in front of a middle aged woman, worse, his friend's mother, I'm told the brazen youth continued to row, smirk on face, proud of his prowess. What's more, the rest of the lycra-clad team freely rearranged their manhood in her presence.

I was going to ask her if my sister will be allowed to continue her tenure at the club, but I wouldn't want to rock the boat.