GFY

My mum thinks I look a mess and that I'll never catch a man unless I cut my fringe and brush my hair properly before I go out. Her comments are chicken feed compared to the devastating critiques on this blog: my new favourite website. No-one is safe.

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I sat in Club World on the way out to DC on Thursday. I nearly didn't get to fly at all because I was on standby and the plane was full: but then at the eleventh hour, just as I was beginning to despair, a business class passenger failed to show up. Actually, there ended up being one more spare seat in Club. Someone went missing in the terminal, and we sat around waiting while they rummaged round in the hold to remove his bags. I always wonder why/how that happens so often. Where do they go? Do they fall asleep on the loo? I wasn't complaining though. I drank kir royales, watched Ocean's Twelve twice, and accidentally dropped two biros into the machinery that makes the seat convert to a bed...

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A nice lady from Nielsen phoned up today to ask if the household would like to participate in the national TV ratings. My former flatmate Ann and Ann's former husband Pete work for Nielsen in the UK, and I was always begging them to let me be one of their sample, so I was pretty excited to be asked at last. But while in the UK they register what you watch with an electronic set top monitoring device, in the US it turns out that you actually have to use a real pencil to write everything down in a diary, which is a bit of a bore.

The lady wanted to know how many TVs were in the house. Four, I thought. She said they would be sending four diaries, one for each TV. But I will be in the house alone, I protested: not even I can be in more than one room at a time. Unless they are interested in what the cats are watching? She was unmoved. Four diaries. If the cats can't write, I'm allowed to do it for them.