"Do you want a cork for that?"

Friday evening. The Blonde had come down from Edinburgh to spend a weekend poncing about east London with me. Upon her arrival we went straight to the old man's pub in Clerkenwell for a catch up pint or two.

I was overjoyed at being presented with much-coveted Pantone teatowels, and I presented The Blonde with my home-made Camera Club badges. (During the creation of which I almost broke the Badge-It badgemaker, designed for kids but somehow unfathomable to a 27 year old professional woman.)

Next on the list was a trip to my much-harped on about local in Hackney. Impeccable service, great atmosphere and a nice mix of people. We bagged ourselves a table at the back and began the cackling and drinking. The Blonde thought that the lovely Aussie waiter was like a Summer Heights High character. We were meant to be meeting The Blonde's old pal from her teenage years; affectionately known in their friendship group as 'Terry Fuckwit' after the Viz character; for generally being, well, a bit shit.

Three hours later, Terry did turn up. Inexplicably clutching a DVD of series one of My So Called Life. I still never found out why this was. They'd not seen each other for two years, so an epic catch-up session began involving a lot of wine. Before we knew it, after ordering another bottle of Sauvignon, the lovely staff insisted that it really was closing up time and we had to go. Please.

A worse-for-wear Blonde to the Aussie waiter: "Can I take my wine home?"

Waiter: "Yes... do you want a cork for that?"

The Blonde, looking confused: "....for what?"

Waiter: "... the bottle of wine?"

The Blonde: "Oh. Yes." Stood looking baffled with a bottle and a cork.

Waiter: "Shall I put it in for you?"

The Blonde: "Oh yes, thank you."

Me, Terry and the Blonde staggered back to mine arm in arm, and it's about here I'm not totally sure as to what happened next. Things I recall:

Smashing my last beautiful wine glass.

Dancing to Pulp's Babies in my slippers. (Both cool AND alluring)

Telling Terry and The Blonde to stop putting their iPods on "because I'VE MADE A PLAYLIST!"

Apparently at one point, Terry requested Erasure. I didn't have it on my iPod, I think I presented him with a laptop, mumbled "Spotify" and smiled like an idiot. It wasn't going to happen. So, in order to fill the Erasure-shaped hole, they apparently burst into a harmonised, acapella version of the song. I wish I remembered this. Luckily, I was treated to another version the next day.

Suffice to say, around 3am, Terry left, The Blonde crashed in my bed and I found my way onto the sofa still mumbling "No, don't put YOUR iPod on, I've made a fucking playlist!"

"Someone should invent the transportater"

I'd been looking forward to this weekend for a while. The Writer was coming to visit and we planned a lovely east end experience browsing the the markets, critiquing the try-hard Shoreditch/ Hackney set and drinking in my superb local. We'd not seen each other for about two years so we knew it was going to be a big catch up. In a previous life we'd been fellow copywriters at a Whitstable agency working for a director of dubious mental stability, and bonded over a love of music.

Saturday started off well - glorious London sunshine, I baked a carrot cake and got the flat visitor-ready. I met The Writer at Bethnal Green tube and surveyed the amazing cross section of people passing through the gates to the Central line. East end fashion is sometimes so ugly it's hard to tell who's being ironic and therefore 'cool' and who genuinely is just really, really badly-dressed. Double denim for instance. So wrong, but apparently so now.

We began our catch up with civilised tea and cake back at mine, then decided to go and have a 'nice quiet dinner' in my lovely local. As always the welcome, service and food was impeccable and we were deep in conversation until a guy clocked The Writer ordering more wine at the bar.

He introduced himself and before we knew it, launched into his life story - apparently, a tv-presenting cab driver, born in the flower market, 48, owns a place in Sharm el-Sheikh, brother is the CEO of Britvic, went to school with Martin Kemp from Spandau ballet, he lives in the same block as art critic Adrian Searle and the fashion director of Burberry and his Mum knew the Krays... Brilliant, you can't make this shit up. We thought he did at the time, but a bit of Googling today does confirm a few of his tales.

He invited himself to sit at our table and we ended up spending a couple of hours engaging in bizarre but interesting conversation with this character. After a lot of talk about him being single and once he started buying us wine, I did invent a nice boyfriend. We've been together for five months apparently, he was in Scotland over this weekend and it's going really well. According to The Writer, he's also well endowed. I did question how she might know this detail about my imaginary lover but it all got a bit too complex to think about.


Despite Jonny Hollywood being very charming and fun, we decided it was a good time to go when, after saying "No ulterior motive!" all evening, he asked us again if we'd like to go back to his warehouse across the road to talk a bit more. Errrm, no. We politely declined and made our way back to mine, laughing at how strange the evening had been. The Writer grabbed a bottle of Rioja and we decided that staying up drinking until 4am, listening to music and debating the world was a really brilliant idea. Which it was. At that point.

I awoke to a text from The Writer asking if I was alive, at gone lunchtime. I concluded that if I was reading a text, then I must be. Just about. With a hangover so severe that I even had to think twice about having a cup of tea, I set about trying to take my mind off the pain with the creation of famously hangover-soothing bacon sandwiches. At this point, No'rn Ir'on comes in and we fill her in on the evening and how we got into the state we in.

No'rn Ir'on sat on a bar stool at our breakfast bar and tucked into some of my homemade cake with a brew. The Writer lamented the fact that she had to make her way across London then get a train home, which was the least appealing plan with a hangover, ever.

The Writer: "I wish I could just transport myself instantly home to my bed...."

No'rn Ir'on: "I know! I've said this many times, but someone should really invent a transport-, a transportater."

I instantly cracked up as she pronounced it with a heavy emphasis on 'tater' which is how she pronounces the Northern Irish crisp brand Tayto.

Me: "What, a device for the instant transportation of potato-based products?"

No'rn Ir'on leans back to laugh on the flimsy stool she's perched on, but suddenly the metal gives way and she slips off the side of the stool as it collapses. It's too much and I'm doubled over the kitchen counter, The Writer is laughing too but clearly at the expense of her pain receptors.

I see The Writer off on her awful journey and manage to get to the shop without falling over, vomiting on anyone, or coming into contact with any naked flame. Back in the kitchen, I complain to No'rn Ir'on about possibly sweating wine and she responds with a burp as she's finishing off her Chinese food from the night before.

Me: "I don't understand how we're single."

On that note, I drag my sorry arse back to my room and eat a Calippo ice lolly in bed.

Not Going to Glasto and Not Drinking Tea

I've had another quiet month on the old blog front. There's a few reasons for this, but it's mainly laziness I'd say. And being busy and all that.

A few things to talk about today: firstly, I got my hair cut off. It's the shortest hair I've had since I was about 8, so it was kind of a risk. I got a bit overexcited in my trendy hairdressers and allowed the heady mix of complimentary beer, loud rock music and beautiful androgynous hairdressers to warp my sense of reason. It might not seem a big deal to a lot of people, but I ran a serious risk of allowing myself to be shorn to look like a boy, circa 1984, with learning difficulties. Very few people can carry that off.

Luckily, Lorenzo was fabulous as well as gorgeous, and gave me a brilliant haircut which makes me feel liberated. Though one of the first responses I got to such a "forward, strong-look" cut was "Now you're definitely a Shoreditch Twat." I was hoping I was still borderline. I'm not wearing a fake-fur coat, red lipstick and pointy shoes. Well, just the pointy shoes.

Other things this month that I feel like sharing: I'm not going to Glasto. I know, after all the bloody fuss I made last year, sat whining on the sofa and pathetically trying to recreate the Glasto experience by drinking cider on my balcony, TV on loud and sporting a straw cowboy hat. I scored my ticket deposit on the day they were released, and spent a good few months telling everyone that I'd got a ticket. Then I started thinking about it as the payment deadline for settling the balance drew closer.

I know that Glastonbury isn't about the headliners. I know there's a million stages and acts playing, and you can see lots of epic sets without going near the main stage. But - Muse, U2, Stevie Wonder as headliners? Really? I could see myself enjoying Stevie on the Sunday night but I have a seriously ingrained hatred for Muse. I'm not sure what it is. Perhaps the weasely-faced Bellamy, the pompous, overblown rock anthems, the lazy lyrics, the "we are a stadium rock band and therefore are EPIC" sentiment implied in their unsubtle, teenage song-writing. Can't quite put my finger on it. Oh hang on, smug. That's it.

Same goes for U2. There's something about U2, Bono in particular, that makes me cringe. That stupid song about 'putting on your boots' makes me want to hurt other people, or myself. U2 and Muse in the same village at the same time (there are rumours of an on-stage collaboration, I'm gagging just writing that) - there's a serious danger of mass, passive smug.

So, I made the decision to let my ticket go to a Muse-lover. I am certain that come June, I'll be bemoaning missing out on the 40th anniversary Glastonbury. If you hear me bitching about it, please remind me that it was my own fault. I'm going to the brilliantly local-but-proper-festival-with-proper-acts Lounge on the Farm which mainly involves being a bit hazy in the sun with my Canterbury friends; and will be attending Lovebox since the line up is really good and it's in my local park five minutes from my flat - result.

In other news this month, I caught the utterly grim norovirus winter sicky bug thing the other week. Absolute hell. The worst part for me, apart from spending hours sobbing on the bathroom floor in agony, was not being able to drink tea for a couple of days. Seriously depressing. It wasn't so much the projectile vomiting and not being able to eat for three days that got me down, it was the kettle being sat unused and forlorn and my lack of hot, calming tea. I hope it never happens to me again. I've been tea-drinking with even more fervour since then to make up for the tea void.

Finally, I've been very angry this week. Furious. At the BBC's announcement of the closure of 6Music. BBc, what the fuck are you thinking? This is the only non-commercial station that actually caters for music lovers. I base my musical discoveries on it's playlist. It's like a friend whose music taste you trust, and actually follow their recommendations. The DJs are brilliant for the most part. I'm actually on a mission to marry Shaun Keaveny from the breakfast show.

What other station wakes you up with a vintage Buzzcocks archived live session followed by the latest cutting edge new band? I actually look forward to waking up on a Saturday morning to listen to Adam & Joe's inane in-joke ramblings and listening to Jon Richardson on a Sunday morning in bed with a brew is actually one of life's great pleasures. What am I going to do now?

So it's all about budget cuts and the fact that "Only 20% of adults questioned knew about 6Music." This is the point! It's that 20% of discerning adults who really, really care about quality music. It's not about the populist 80% who will happily listen to Radio 1 and not give a shit that they will hear the latest auto-tuned Black Eyed Peas track five times within two hours. The BBC have said that they will listen to the public: so make your voice heard, email the BBC on srconsultation@bbc.co.uk and let them know what you think. There's Facebook groups, Twitter hashtags and online petitions. So get involved.

Right, I am going to go and concentrate on Jon Richardson's final 6Music show with another brew. Have you emailed the Big British Castle yet?