Bridget would be proud

Bridget Jones used to start her New Year’s diary with a summary of alcohol units, a measurement of thigh circumference, and how many smokes she's sucked down that day - a terrifyingly refreshing and honest look at how the modern woman lives and enjoys.

Gone are the days that I read Fielding’s fictional friend with a wry smile safe in the knowledge that my body will retain an unwavering size 10 no matter what I do with it.
The Christmas holidays and my first gruelling Cornish winter have done peculiar things to my once petit body, now in its 29th year.

My one-a-day smoking habit seems to have cunningly and curiously crept up without my noticing. Vitamin-rich summer salads have now been replaced by comfort-giving carbohydrate-laden ye ole Englishe dinners.

I'm not one who weighs herself - in fact, I actively disagree with the fashion of calorie counting and modern fixations on whether I've gained or lost a pound and a half - in the main, I honestly, truly don’t care.

How things change! With the absence of a sensible summer last year, and the winter months doing a good job of keeping me out of the sea, my 'packaging' has become a bit cuddlier in recent months.

Then, shockingly, the worst happened. Without warning or apparently any shame, my arms developed what could only be described as the tell-tale wobble of bingo wings.
Something had to be done. The back-fat had to be addressed. The bingo wings most certainly had to go.

Then in from the gloomy mist rode St Michael's Hotel and Spa, offering me a month to sample their gym, spa and pool facilities, as well as nutritional advice and one-to-one personal training attention.

Boasting a magnificent view over Falmouth’s Gyllyngvase beach, one weaves one’s way through St Michael’s bar, through the thoroughly tempting smells of the fine restaurant, to reach the marvellously well-equipped gym and spa, where Health Club Manager, Caroline Evans offered me an effortlessly warm and friendly welcome.

Something of a water baby, I am cold-sweat petrified of windowless gyms full of terrifying looking metal equipment, topped off with a low-settling cloud of gun-kissing testosterone. There I stood. The only female (bar Caroline) in a 20 yard radius with guys all around me 'pumping iron'.

There was no time to dwell on the ridiculous, however, as Health and Fitness Advisor Simon marched me through my paces, endlessly patient, unwaveringly forgiving. He formulated an 80 minute gym plan for me, which was nothing if not a little optimistic, mixing cardio vascular equipment such as the rower and arc trainer, with weights, free weights (inducing a good set of giggles) and floor work - including the ever-amusing 'gym ball'.

My favourite part of the entire evening was perhaps at the end, signing a waver that I 'exercise at my own risk'. How true, how true.

Bumping into Personal Trainer Luke on my way through reception, he presented me with the all-daunting forms and lists - I had to make a diary of what I ate day-to-day in preparation for my first personal training session and nutritional tutorial 6 days later. As I had no idea of how little, or let’s face it, how much I consume on a daily basis, this interested even me - and I wondered vaguely if there was a limit on Cadbury’s Cream Egg intake.

But there they were, attached ominously at the back - the all singing, all dancing calorie counting lists. Q: ‘do you know a slice of bread has 90 calories in it'? I had the nagging feeling that I will start to feel guilty about eating, and it made me slightly resentful.

Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. With food diary, calorie lists and exercise disclaimer safely tucked in my bag, at last I sank into the glorious pool for a few dozen lengths and some gentle rejuvenation.

Day 1: Weight: unknown, but sporting an alarming, unusual overall wobble; Cigarettes: 3 - ok, ok, 4 (Bridget would be proud); Alcohol units: a smugly satisfying nil; Optimism: wavering slightly, but resolved to my task ahead.

And so my 4-week adventure begins, with a little trepidation, but a strong will.

In an email

1. Aspire to be Barbie - the bitch has everything.

2. If the shoe fits - buy one in every colour.

3. Take life with a pinch of salt... A wedge of lime, and a shot of tequila.

4. In need of a support group? - Cocktail hour with the girls!

5. Go on the 30 day diet. (I'm on it and so far I've lost 15 days).

6. When life gets you down - just put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

7. Let your greatest fear be that there is no PMS and this is just your personality.

8. I know I'm in my own little world, but it's ok. They know me here..

9. Lead me not into temptation, I can find it myself.

10. Don't get your knickers in a knot, it solves nothing; and makes you walk funny.

11. When life gives you lemons in 2009 - turn it into lemonade then mix it with vodka.

12. Remember every good-looking, sweet, single male is someone else's ex-boyfriend!

We barely heard it over the boos

Holy crap - for one earth-shattering moment I thought Coolio had done it.
Ulrika, the woman who made me change my mind about 4x4s, took BB's crown on Friday.
And only in England, can the 'yoof' of today actually boo a winner. The only remaining woman in a house of 5.
A sorry, sorry sight.

Not so Cool

As Michelle was booted out of the Big Brother House in a surprise eviction on Monday, Verne mused 'why are all the women leaving?', to which Ulrika glumly retorted 'ask the men'. She refers, of course, to the fact that nominations for eviction from the reality TV house over the last 3 weeks have been largely dominated by the fairer sex, leaving only our Swedish 4 x 4 and LaToya Jackson left, amongst what can only be described as a tribe of men.

Now, having watched bits and bobs of this years celebrity ego-fight, its not unfair of me to say I wasn’t expecting anything very insightful to dribble out of Michelle's mouth in her interview with Davina.

But she did note how otherwise polite and respectful men like Terry and Tommy, were turning into monsters when joined in force by Coolio - 90s gangsta rapper and woman disrespecter extraordinaire. Not one for even bothering to pretend to look a good-looking girl in the eye, this man has spent every waking minute manipulating the men with injections of untreated testosterone, and toppling the women one by one.

Early on Lucy left, after bravely standing up to him during a task where she was forced to spend 24 hours in a small area with him, pretending to 'pap' the garden. Things turned from bad to worse for the model, as Coolio prodded and prodded and prodded in annoyingness and disrespect until she broke.

So, what's left? A bunch of men quite bereft of female company or companionship. Even the rapper himself told Big Brother he 'felt sorry' for Michelle - a woman he had tormented for her entire duration in the house - when she left. Perhaps it is no wonder this man is quite simply - alone. Let's hope the other men grow some balls and stop limpeting themselves to him.

A case of confused identity

After Saturday's storm, I was convinced the sun would never shine again. Sun-dance after sun-dance performed in my room, I was desperate for gale force winds not to scupper my second attempt to see the Cornish Pirates play.

The first attempt failed, rather oddly, because I had a notion the boys still played in Penzance. After a failed trip to Alexandra Road (accompanied by my long-suffering mother, somewhat used to my blonde moments by now), followed by being heartily laughed at by our ever-sympathetic Sports desk the following Monday, this time at least I knew where I was going.

Unbelievably at the last moment the wind dropped off and the clouds rolled away. The sun had put its hat on, and we were in for a sporting treat.

Not only that, but the storm had apparently kept a few supporters at home on the sofa, allowing us terrace-dwellers to sit amongst the God's with the injured players on the East Grandstand. So the first half an hour was spent thanking god Sam Betty is currently injured and sitting only a few feet away. Amen.

That done, I turned my attention to my Dilemma of the Day. Pirates vs Southend. Southend. Just a few miles from home. Whatever 'home' means.

After catching a few lazy tones of South London drawl murmur out from the throng of supporters, I began to feel traitorous. The previous week I had practically come to fisticuffs with a (Cornish) friend who had told me, in no uncertain terms, that I shouldn't even be allowed to support the Pirates, as I'm not 'Cornish'.

Not Cornish, no, but living here - trying so very hard to make a life for myself here. Embracing with open arms all things local and meaningful to those kind enough to let me live among them. And here I was in my stubborn defiance, now having doubts.

It's hard also, to not support the underdogs - in this case the away team, who were so very far from home that only a handful of die-hard relatives had made the 250 mile pilgrimage across country, only to be met by an impressively resilient and somewhat intimidating Cornish side, and vocal fan base.

My resolve was to sit in silence, and simply enjoy the experience…

As if that worked. Rugby was never a game I could watch particularly silently, and as the game finally got going (20 minutes from the start and about 10 minutes before the heavens opened), I found the odd combination of desperate shouts of encouragement for a Cornish team yelped in a my London twang oddly amusing. And most confusing for my co-watchers.

A Cornishwoman, not quite. An emmit, yes. A proud Pirate supporter, apparently so.
Although I must admit to already having quite a worry over what I'll do when they play London Welsh in April…

To read the match report, click here

Web 3.0, at your service

Remember Clippy, Microsoft's 'helpful' Office Assistant? The annoying little brat of a computer programme, who became the butt of many of our most sophisticated Microsoft Mickey-taking jokes?

Well imagine a far less annoying, but not so cute Clippy for all aspects of your 'connected' life - encompassing documents, programmes, uploads, downloads, and spanning all mediums of text, picture and video.

Writing a word document on Art History? How about an Internet that recognises not just what you're writing, or how you're writing it, but suggests web links for research material on that topic, points you to pictures and videos on your subject of choice, or connects you by Skype to friends of friends who might know more about it?

Welcome to Web 3.0.

Many have waxed lyrical on what the new generation of web will throw up - by definition, its largely unknowable until it actually happens. For some, the transition can appear at first, seamless.

Do you remember the exact point you first thought 'my goodness, this web 2.0 is fantastically more advanced than 1.0'? No, neither do I. I was far too busy being concerned with the fact I still was neither as slim nor successful as I wanted to be when the unwelcome spontaneous school reunion burst onto my computer screen via the wonder of Facebook in 2005.

But the next transition might be a bit more exciting. This time we know what we want the web to do, we're just waiting for technology to catch up.

In a nut shell, the web is becoming 'intelligent'. No, it won't be able to crawl out of your dormant monitor and tidy the living room while you sleep. But it will know who you are, where you are, what you're doing, what you're interested in, and how you like to 'do it'.

To some, this new generation of web connection and communication will be welcome on a par with burning in hell with nothing but a pair of knickers on. For those of you who are just about taming the reins of the inter-connective community of Web 2.0 - avoiding the Facebook revolution with the shadow of a notion that some bespectacled, spotty, twenty something in America will 'steal their identity' - Web 3.0 is probably not going to be your tea of choice.

But for those of us who've enjoyed the laziness the Internet so far has allowed us, this new A.I will open doors to us that our forefathers could never even have imagined possible.

Looking forward to it? With nervous trepidation, I hope very much to be on the front line. Knickers and everything.

You must be thinking of someone else

So. Do we believe her? It-girl Hilton reckons she's put out with just two guys her entire life.

And one of those guys just happened to leak a tape of their naked sweat tangle. Unlucky.

Now, I'm all for a believing her if she thinks that this disclosure will make us think more of her. But does it really matter? Do we judge her for how many guys we think she's done the truffle shuffle with, or is it just because she didn't bother to get smart about anything?

The Simple Life was a classic example of a girl we know must have brains (look at her Granddaddy...), who plays the dumbass because she thinks it looks good.

I would venture that we judge her for that - not for her promiscuity or otherwise.

Remember Britney? Turns out she made more than fuck eyes with Timberlake for many years after promising us all she's remain pure until marriage.

And look what lying to the media did to that skank...

Fairy Delights

I know, I know, I promised I would let you know about the Christmas party - my first at Cornwall and Devon Media.

But the Christmas holidays ran away with me. No sooner was I complaining that it had arrived to quickly, I blinked and practically missed it.

But not before sampling the delights of an early-hour frolic in a Falmouth Hotel with a load of sideways colleagues.

Fancy dress regulations dictated we dress according to 'musicals', so with the inexperience of never fancy dressing before, I opted for the Moulin Rouge Absynth Fairy.

Not such a plan, I must say.

Mortified at having to spend an evening in what one colleague described as a '12-year-old's outfit', I soon tucked into the vodka cunningly disguised as 'Absynth' for part of my costume.

About 12 and a half minutes later, management spotted the cunning plan and
whisked away said costume prop - only to be retrieved later from
reception, rubber banded to a note reading 'confiscated from a Green
Fairy, table 11'. Well - there aren't many who own a note like that.

Back in the land of the living, I've recently moved to an old Farm House.
One soon discovers the trade-off for old wooden beams and rolling field
views is rubbish heating and frozen water pipes.

But it sure beats the single bed bedsit.

So 2009. New Years resolutions? I pre-judged 4x4 Ulrika Johnson when she entered the Celebrity BB house, only to be mildly surprised at my warming to her. So the resolution is to not judge people I don't know.

As much as possible.