"For god's sake, stop squashing my plums! If you stand any closer, I'm going to get pregnant!"

So much for choosing the healthy option: I had a whole load of soft fruit in my bag, all ready for a quick, refreshing breakfast at my desk. The Jubilee line decided that it would have its weekly breakdown just as I got on to the platform which meant waiting for three trains to go by before I could squeeze myself into a massively overcrowded carriage. People kept crowding on at all the stations, pressing themselves against me and it was with increasing fury that I realised this journey to work could result in a bag of squashed, rotten fruit, no breakfast and a bouncing baby boy in nine months time. Ugh. Nasty.

June has been an interesting and exciting month so far. Among other things, there has been:

- My sister’s birthday – happy birthday! I heard there was partying in France… hope the hangover wasn’t too bad

- Sixth anniversary with the beloved, including one year engaged

- Attended a Muslim wedding in East London. I was there for the bride, an old school friend, with Lucifer another friend from those days. The men and women were in separate rooms for the mid-afternoon meal and the bride sat with the women until it was time to be brought to her husband at the end of the day.

We should have been with the bride as we didn’t know the groom, but Lucifer is male, tall and white and was very conspicuous at this wedding: though we could bend the rules to a certain extent, being neither family, Muslim or Bangladeshi, we couldn’t bend them so far as to park ourselves at the bride’s table and so all sat with the men instead.
It was a sober affair – both in terms of no alcohol and also due to the fact as a traditional Bangladeshi bride, our friend had to look sad throughout and we felt unable to rejoice at her nuptials while she looked so mournful. We managed a few snatched conversations but will have to catch up when she’s back from her honeymoon.

Weddings are contagious: Lucifer is now betrothed and one post-grad friend has been an official Mrs for a month already. Gah. What have we started?

- Spent a sunny day in Green Park playing Frisbee, eating quiche, reading the weekend papers and getting royally drunk once the sun went down. Had to help heal some nasty flip-flop wounds for the next few days but the wounded recovered quite quickly and I’m very unhappy with Gap and their cruel open-toed footwear

- Had a guided tour of Rotherhithe tunnel as part of London Architecture week, a fantastic thing to discover

- made a trip to Chelmsford to see my post-grad friend and was introduced to her two lovely and enormous Great Danes. My god, those dogs are huge. Two dogs the size of Shetland ponies. Seriously - they are BIG. And lovely. What a nice night that was - even the sprint down the high street at pub-closing time in the rain to catch the last train back to civilisation was hilarious and uplifting

How has your month been?

"Make Bono History!"

Calling all those sick of the charidee concert mania the developed world seems to be obsessed by at the moment: let’s raise awareness for those who are sick of the charidee concert mania the developed world seems to be obsessed by at the moment!

I propose we put on a concert and sell lots of wristbands to show just how pissed off we all are with the bombast and shallows of the premise and the totally useless bits of environment destroying tat that are proliferating our otherwise quietly concerned community. At the very least, we need to express our horror and outrage regarding the threat of a Spice Girls reunion – how dare the apparently well-intentioned put such fear into our manufactured pop despising demographic!

Okay, we need:
- a venue that is sponsored by a completely uninterested economy-raping global corporation
- a DJ from a deeply uninteresting, deeply irritating commercial radio station
- one or two shouty Irish guys (preferably unwashed and / or washed up)
- two or three cocksucking brain dead gameshow winners who have released a few sink-to-the-bottom-of the-charts-yet-somehow-on-all-the-playlists singles (blonde and female or non-threatening gay male)
- a dozen bands who somehow have made it big by peddling the shite they performed in the sixth form common room as “conscientious rock” and who shallow people listen to in order to feel deep and meaningful

Sigh. I have so much impotent rage at the moment. I think I’ll quit my job to design and make wristbands to help all the little brown children who don’t have shoes or CD players to play my latest shitty album. Yes, won’t that make everyone feel better?

"I hate your job more than I hate mine."
- predictable conversation starter between myself and my brother

It's especially hard to love this job when I'm working on the dark side of the room during this sunny spell and I seem to be mainly double-checking names and / or figures on a very, very, very big spreadsheet. Or washing up. So, summer: hello and goodbye. Still, I hear it's nice in Madrid.

And at least I can enjoy London in the hot weather by proxy by sending my parents off to see the things that I would like to see for me. Such as the biggest open air tea dance ever attempted. It filled me with a warm and fuzzy sort of joy to think of my folks wandering off to Trafalgar Square for an afternoon of free fair trade tea and tango, rhumba, cha cha cha (and char) and waltzing. It was a little too warm and bright for their tastes so after some idle spectating and a few cups of tea, they caugh the bus to Hyde Park and had an ice cream in the shade by the Serpentine then tottered home for dinner.

Now that is a great summer afternoon in London. I can't wait to retire and make the most of my OAP bus pass.

I'm currently heartbroken and pining for the baby blackbird that has been learning to fly on our patio. I spent a very pleasant Sunday watching this grumpy-features feathered tennis ball trying to clear the back wall and failing in various chirping, disgruntled attempts - it was so adorable watching it hop about and flying in short bursts from plant to plant then it would brace itself for a longer flight and go full pelt into the back wall, fall to the floor with a distressed cheep and start again. I'm sad because... I think the baby blackbird has now flown away to a grown-up life somewhere else. And I miss it. It didn't help my currently over-sentimental mood this morning when I saw this in the Guardian today.

I'm going out for a chocolate bar but can't think of what I want. Any recommendations?

Unlike many other people, I actually like coconut. But I couldn't eat a whole one.