My big sister is turning 40 this weekend. The drama is immense. You would think she was going to the moon. But then maybe it feels like that. She has been dieting for 3 months in the run up to the big day, worrying about her outfit for 6 months, and asking me everyday how old she looks. The local facialists think that Christmas has come early. Why does the big 40 scare us all so much? I keep telling her I am getting older too, so it is impossible to be objective about her age - I still feel 21, she still feels 25, and I hope that this will never change. Bring on the dancing on that bar this weekend, sis - just like the old times..except my skirt may be longer...

So as Mr PB and I departed from our domestic flight in Heathrow the other day, we were shocked to suddenly find ourselves being chased by security guards. Had Mr PB suddenly turned into a secret drug traffiker without my knowledge - I found it hard to believe. Had they discovered the haggis hidden in the bottom of my suitcase - surely that was allowed within the UK?? No, I had 'stepped' over an invisible high secuity line when trying to find my way to the baggage reclaim, and was in breach of some massive security regulations. Next up, the armed police arrived ( I thought highly unnecessary, and obviously gave me the giggles), and this made Mr PB very stern. Our id's were checked, passport numbers noted, and I was not allowed to talk to Mr PB - we were separated. After 40 mins though we had a happy ending and I got my suitcase, my teddy and my haggis back. Really, do the British police think Mr PB and I are the next Mr and Mrs Smith! Fact: I love celebrity and fashion, it goes no deeper than that.

For those who know me, you know I have been burdened with a curvaceous bottom..all my life. And yet, at 34 I still need constant reassurance that it is not as big as I think it is. But it is. My lovely husband and I were just on a beach. We were walking behind a girl in a bikini. I said, 'please tell me if my bum ever gets that big!'. 'Um, it is', he said, 'in fact a bit bigger.' Silence. 'Oh', I said, 'but surely not that much cellulite?' 'yes', he said still straight faced, 'just as much'. I was horrified. He was not lieing, he was being completely honest, and he thought this was good. THIS WAS NOT GOOD!! I do NOT want to know how big my bottom is really! I can't see it as it is behind me, and this is a good thing, so just amuse me, stroke my ego, let me live a lie....and boys, that goes for all of you, and all your lovely ladies...

Last night my lovely friend Lisa took me and Mr PB to the Hippodrome...very retro. Less retro when we sat down to see that someone had left illegal substances already chopped up on our table that one of the previous guests had been too wasted to finish! Call us prudish, but we quickly wiped it to the floor before we could be accused of illegal activity! And then came the naked lady with her magic hanky. Amazing. She arrived on the stage dressed, but much to Mr PB's pleasure was fully naked in seconds...and her red hanky kept disappearing, with no where obvious to go, and then reappearing..talented no doubt, but not one I will trying to perfect at home! So fancy a few drinks, going on a hen night, or love embarrassing audience participation...? Then head to La Clique at the Hippodrome...

It is a fact, girls always lie about their weight, or at least, I do. If anyone knew how much I actually weighed, apart from my personal trainer who has forced me to tell him with death threats, I think they would be horrified. I certainly am. Heavy bones? That's me. So, when Mr PB and I were in Jacksonhole, Wyoming last week for a little bit of skiing, I saw no reason why the man in the ski shop should know how much I weighed either. I mean, what's a few pounds between friends right? Wrong. 4 hours later, there I was tumbling down a double diamond, with only 1 ski. I hadn't fallen, my ski had simply come off because I had lied about my weight so my bindings were all off kilter. Why, Mr PB asked, would I risk my life rather than admitting what my weight was? Well, I suppose that is something only a girl would understand, but I know that next year I will probably do exactly the same thing. And to be fair, the 4 hours I spent in a&e with 3 terribly attractive doctors nearly made the whole affair worth while...

Since I met Mr PB...(my now fiance...don't you just hate that word? It reminds me of moist..)..anyway, as I was saying, since I met him, he has been raving about Frank Black, the lead singer of the Pixies, who according to him is a God. Unchallenged. No one apparently has come close to matching this mans talent. Well, says I, lets hear it then. Mr PB says he can go one better, FB is playing in Camden. Yes, this man of unrivalled talent is playing in some has been bar in Camden. But don't judge I tell myself, go along and be openminded. So, we drag along two friends and head off. The place is packed, but Carol and I manage to find a sofa seat at the back, sit down, and the music is so great...we don't get up once. But wow, we had a great gossip! This slightly overweight, balding sweating man did what I would call an average performance. I am uneducated, I love Enrique, and I worship Dolly, so what do I know? But Mr PB, I was disappointed. Maybe he was just off colour...but no, we can't walk down the aisle to it.

A couple of our mates took us to see Richard Hawley play the other night. I had no idea who he was prior to this, and was more distracted by the fact that he was playing at the Astoria than anything else. Tottenham Court Rd fills me with a certain dread I cannot quite explain, but I think it's becuase it fills me with sketchy memories of drunken nights that have become a terrifying blur...anyway, into the taxi we bundled, and of into the abyss. As we entered, the stench of stale beer was quite over powering, but I felt an instant coolness wash over me when I realised that NME was running the event (last heard of by me at boarding school - my cool mates used to buy it...). Anyway, the upshot is, Richard Hawley was AMAZING! I am fully converted, and a complete fan of this 'Elvis of the North', or otherwise known as 'that speccy twat from Sheffield.' And to the people behind us who swore at us all night for being noisy, get over it saddos, this is real, this is ROCK AND ROLL!x
http://www.richardhawley.co.uk/

I know, I know. I am sad. And I know I said that Dirty Dancing rocked my world, but the Sound of Music really did. It was amazing, I loved it, and actually cried at one point. Juliet (my long suffering friend) was horrified, especially as we were the youngest in the audience. The best part? I actually bought a yodelling goat to take home. Every household needs one. You must go and see it - I promise you will be singing Do Re Me every time you are stuck in a traffic jam....or if you are me, standing on your chair at the end of a dinner party after too many glasses of wine...