Here endeth the saga…


Rumour has it that you’re not actually supposed to spend a minute or two every morning ouching and oofing en route to your bedroom door as your aches subside. Who knew? Well, as of yesterday, I am now in possession of a 52kg cloud of fleece and hemp, stitched by pixies in mattress factory in Yorkshire. A mere night away from the bag of spanners and pain supplied by my landlord, and onto the silken wings of angels’ sighs from John Lewis, I am reborn. Reborn and a grand poorer (yes, a grand. This explains the undisclosed ‘saga’ of three months’ dithering). But money well spent! Goodbye to the groaning troll with the grinding lower back pain. Hello quicksilver sprite with untwanged rotator cuffs!

Re sagas (sorry), two nights ago I dragged my feet to Les Miserables, where disdain turned to total conversion. How can you sing and weep simultaneously when there’s a camera six inches from your face? Ask Anne Hathaway. Russell Crowe is still hot (there’s something about his hairline that makes me want to know where he lives); Jackman’s not too annoying, tho still can’t forgive him for Australia; Redmayne is adorable; there are hatfuls of handsome young revolutionaries bursting into song; and Helena Bonham-Carter and Sacha Baron Cohen are having a high old time off the set of Sweeney Todd. Put them in more stuff together! Now! The cinema was pin-drop silent, drained, as the titles rolled, before applause, nose-blowing and sheepish laughter. Acksherly, I cried so much I soaked my vest. Fact. And that’s the first thing I’ll howl at Russell Crowe when I’m caught outside his house.


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