PANDORA'S BOX

I had planned to spend this evening swotting up on Mexico; thinking up feature ideas; immersing myself in factoids and figures; and figuring out what I might be asked when I finally have an interview for the job. But then fate intervened in the form of Pandora.

Sad as it may seem, whenever I log on to my blog, I always hope to find that a message or a comment has been left behind - anything to suggest that my idle scrawl isn't simply uploading into a black hole in cyberspace. But when comments the size of short stories are left behind by critics with the social grace of a python at a mouse party, I tend to get a little distracted (see comments under previous blog entry).

So here I am, ensconced in my black leather sofa. The World Service is playing in the background and my Powerbook is humming, warming up my lap as it overheats. My eyes are sagging and the shnitzel stir-fry is sitting heavy in my belly.

Today was a shit, shit day by all accounts. But yesterday was better. I went to the Tropicalia exhibition with Jane. "Do you have anything against my shnorrering a journalist's discount?" I asked her, as we queued. "Yes," she replied, matter-of-factly. "These things are underfunded as it is." She had a point. I paid and we entered.

The expo itself was pretty uninspiring - wearing a fetishist's mask that's been worn by countless germ-carrying tourists is not my normal idea of fun. Nor is painting with edible gloop. But Jane and I got on well. We flirted and, as the rain fell on the concrete Barbican jungle around us, we kissed. She's chunkier than the girls I usually go for (though as a former anorexic I suppose she's in better shape than she was). But she's sharp, witty and enjoyable. The memory of non-calling Karen is already beginning to fade.