And don't get me started on kids

A faintly embarrassing truth about me: invite me to a wedding and I am guaranteed to weep sentimental tears of joy during the ceremony. I don't care if I've never met the couple before in my life, or if I'm secretly running a sweepstake on when they'll divorce (I've never done that, honest. I definitely didn't do it at your wedding). Something about a couple standing up there in front of everyone forces emotion from my wizened old heart. In a wedding situation involving me, there is always a 99% chance of precipitation.

On the other hand, attempt a conversation about the possibility of me getting married, and there's quite a strong chance of me vomiting or slapping you in the face. Sign a contract that requires me to commit to something for the rest of my life? Why in the name of jumping Jehovah would I want to do something like that? I don't even want to commit to myself for that long.

Having said that, I had a moment of 'getting it' on Saturday at a wedding reception. I'm going to try and explain what dawned on me.

I may have written this here before, but I often have a bit of a problem with going to bed. I find myself staying up late for no reason whatsoever, literally doing nothing except feeling faintly uneasy. I do it because to go to bed feels to me like saying "OK, I accept it. I have given up all hope on this day getting better. Nothing else of worth is going to happen today so I might as well just throw the towel in." And that's just depressing.

I tend to view marriage in the same way. "Fine. My years of being single and free and having an exciting and adventurous life are over. The happy years are behind me. I may as well just bloody get married and give up on life." The phrase 'to settle down' doesn't help. I think of getting married as an ending - hopefully a happy one but let's face it, you rarely know for certain (except, I say confidently, in the case of Claire and Hywel, who I envy hugely because they've each found the perfect person). I don't want an ending. I love my life as it is, and the thought of giving up now depresses the hell out of me.

(Of course you'll have realised by now that I'm mental, and you'll be wondering what the hell my parents put me through to result in this dysfunctional view of relationships. Well actually they've been happily married for 38 years, so unfortunately I can't lay the blame at their door. Which is irritating.)

What I realised in a moment of clarity, while my friend James was telling the wedding party that his new wife is "the sunshine of my world", is that getting married doesn't actually signal the end of your life.

(I'll just pause briefly in case any of you are like me and need to let this revelation sink in for a moment. I am also going to sit and stare agog out of the window.)

...

Apparently when you get married you continue your life, and your adventures, but you just commit to doing that alongside someone else - generally someone you're pretty fond of. It's not like being glued down, static, to Married Life. It's like holding hands with someone and travelling along together.

I'm still slightly struggling with my new perspective on marriage but I'm going to try and hold on to my mini-epiphany. To summarise: going to sleep is usually not the end of things; you generally wake up to a fresh new day. Marriage is a fresh new day too. At least I believe that to be the theory.

With an eraser and everything.

Good evening, readers, and may I start by saying how attractive you look tonight? Haircut, is it?

I'm writing this on my iPhone from my bed, which is a bit like blogging for the new millennium if it weren't for the fact that blogging itself is quite new millennium. It's been a lowkey week, dominated mainly by trying to work my way through the tub of houmus I bought on Monday, trying out different spellings of hummus, and trying not to think about swine flu.

I'm now completely addicted to the book I mentioned, Valley Of The Dolls. I don't want to spoil it for you but let's just say I'm halfway through and already there've been some very risqué antics, some illicit drug taking and some shockingly implausible dialogue. Deep joy. It also entertains me by featuring lots of references to a sad old middle-aged woman who turns out to be 34. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that if a man doesn't buy me a mink and a diamond ring in the next year or two I might as well be dead.

I wish I had an exciting tale from my own life to share, but it's been a bit short on adventure recently. At a party on Saturday I did the limbo under a giant pencil (yes, an actual pencil). Is that any good?

Oh! There goes a lung

So, I'm ill again. The most probable culprit is Milo, now aged 16 months. He was a bit sick for a day or two last week, then made a quick recovery. Since then, both his parents, three of his grandparents, his great uncle, his aunt (me) and his grandparents' lovely neighbours have all come down with it. Cue much vomiting in and around London (although I escaped the actual chundering this time and just felt like it was about to happen all day). The boy brought down at least nine adults.

Milo has a special skill for this. My sister described him today as a "crawling biological weapon". You spend an hour or two with him speeding around your ankles on a mission, occasionally looking up to adorably try one of his new words ("brush" is my personal favourite) and to point at something meaningfully before abruptly losing interest. The following day you're doing what my dad referred to as a "yodel royale", retching up some of your internal organs into the nearest bin. It's sweet really. In a way. Bless him.

And no wonder!

My lovely friend and sometimes-colleague Cat (she hasn't updated her blog since February. I think if you click on that link and read it you will agree that this is a crying shame. Do leave her some comments to persuade her) has lent me her copy of Valley Of The Dolls by Jacqueline Susann. It is her favourite-avourite book. She loves it so much that her copy has been reinforced with sellotape, and frankly I'm in a constant state of anxiety in case I accidentally leave it on the tube/drop it in the bath/leave my one-year-old nephew alone with it and return to find paragraphs all over the floor.

I wanted to share with you the not-at-all-melodramatic blurb written on the inside cover of the book. Ha-hem.

From Broadway to Hollywood, this is one of the fastest-selling, most whispered-about novels ever. And no wonder! It reveals more about the secret, drug-filled, love-starved, sex-satiated, nightmare world of show business than any book ever published.

It is about the world where sex is a success weapon, where love is the smiling mask of hate, where slipping youth and fading beauty are ever-present spectres. It is a world where the magic tickets to peace or oblivion are "dolls" - the insider's word for pills - pep pills, sleeping pills, red pills, blue pills . . . and pills to chase the truth away.

VALLEY OF THE DOLLS is the story of three of the most exciting women you'll ever meet; women who were too tough or too talented not to reach the top . . . and unable to enjoy it once they were there!

ANNE WELLES: the icy New England beauty who melted for the wrong Mr Right . . . an Adonis famous for his infidelity.

NEELY O'HARA: the lovable kid from vaudeville who became a star and a monster.

JENNIFER NORTH: the blonde goddess who survived every betrayal committed against her magnificent body except the last.

Each of them was bred in the Babylons of Broadway and Hollywood. Each of them learned about making love, making money, and making believe. Each of them rode the crest of the wave. And each of them came finally to the Valley of the Dolls.

This novel - big, brilliant, savage and sensational - tells its inside story . . . the shockingly true story behind those headlines . . . knowingly, compellingly and intimately.

Don't miss it. And don't lend it to a friend. You'll never get it back.

Clearly Cat hasn't read the inside cover carefully enough.

I'm about 30 pages in and so far I've only met Anne and Neely - but I'm very intrigued as to what betrayals are due to be committed against Jennifer North's magnificent body. I am going to try to imagine myself a star of the book. Perhaps something like:

HATTIE CRISELL: the naive northerner who found her feet in the Big City - only to be brought to her knees by the cruel world of romance.

Or:

HATTIE CRISELL: the sensitive writer who made it big in digital media - but lost her soul along the way.

Or:

HATTIE CRISELL: the promising talent who got dragged into a world of after-work boozing in seedy London dives.

It's a work in progress.

By the way, gang - I'm in the process of planning a website for myself. Nothing exciting, just somewhere that will link to my blog etc, for work purposes. I have a very talented designer who is going to help me out but I think I'm going to go for something very simple. Having said that, it would be great to hear anyone's thoughts on what should go up there - whether I should go completely minimalistic or try something a little bit cleverer. Any ideas, stick 'em in the comments section. Thank you.

Jeff Goldblum: "He was not only a friend and a mentor, but he was also me."

Last Thursday, as you all know, Michael Jackson died. I heard about it on Twitter just after TMZ broke the news, and I sat in front of my computer and the TV for two hours, looking for more information. Twitter comes into its own in these situations - if there's a latest development, you can be sure that someone you're following will tweet it. It's a bit like having 100 people to gossip with - which maybe doesn't sound that appealing to some of you, but considering my line of work, I'm in my element.

Anyway. During all the Michael Jackson Twitter flurry, some hilarious joker set up a fake news page announcing that the actor Jeff Goldblum had also died that night, which turned out to be utter bollocks. And this morning I saw this clip from The Colbert Report, which really tickled me.

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Jeff Goldblum Will Be Missed
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Jeff Goldblum

I love Jeff Goldblum. Apparently he's dating this very lucky 21-year-old actress. Humph.

In other news, Claire and Hywel's wonderful wedding (did I mention Claire got married?) has been featured on the very well-known (if you're into that kind of thing) wedding blog, Style Me Pretty - here, here, here and here (look out for me looking a bit awkward in the bridesmaid picture). They've described it as a "sweet, sophisticated British wedding" with "chic style" (they add, "Doesn’t it just kill you that even the guests are chic!" - a-thank-you-very-much). The photos are gorgeous, and are by the talented photographer Marianne Taylor. If you're getting married (well, you might be) I know Claire can't recommend her highly enough.