I’m feeling fresh guilt for breaking the pub owner’s dart. I’d forgotten all about it until I realised how long it had been since I last blogged.

Maybe I should send him a pack of new ones.

I went to Yorkshire with Laura and two of her friends on Friday and Saturday night. I think the last time I did something with “just the girls” was when I went to Paris with Lyndall in 2007. And since Lyndall is even more cynical than me, I’m not sure I can remember anything so girly apart from perhaps the end of high school when everyone ran off to Plett.

I remember a week of kissing teenaged boys and puking. Drunk ironing burns and hung over discussions with Faye as she shaved her legs in the kitchen sink. The four of us pointedly ignored J as she shuffled around the flat in a sheet held up over her not-really-there tits wordlessly boasting a busted hymen that we refused to enquire about.

So this weekend was fun and lovely and at times very toe-curling because I’d say something crude and make everybody wince, forgetting that the boys can scarcely tolerate my turn of phrase. And I’d grow duly embarrassed.

Questions like “if you had to give one up for the other forever, would you take kisses and cuddles or sex?” drew a blank look from me as I thought the answer obvious until I realised I was in the minority.

I felt even more like someone sporting a penis when the girls all spoke of their genuine love of cleaning. I wish I could be like them. Really; I absolutely loathe dirt, but hate cleaning equally. Because it’s never a job done, is it? It’s just maintenance.

We went to the pub and played Bingo. Then a very serious game of darts commenced- one that I was apparently obligated to play (for the very reasonable participation fee of 50 pence). Memories of wanting and failing to sit out on activities flooded my head. I have a dim recollection of a smouldering sense of victory as I recall Lindsay’s grandmother saying (annoyed) “Look. You’ve broken it” as my ineptitude ended a game prematurely.

For some reason, when I say “no, I really don’t know how” people think their insistence will only pull me out of my stupid shell with delight falling upon my rounded shoulders.

But no.

I’m awkward and I end up breaking their toys feeling only relief that I can sit back down. I love playing games- the more active, the better. But I hated organised fun supervised by grown-ups. The sort that involved younger siblings and doddery pensioners. Family obligation indeed- but not my own, thank you very fucking much. My clever parents hate that shit too.

Anyway, I played darts until one magically snapped and then enjoyed watching Laura eat lump after lump of pork scratchings, each time declaring it sickening in another way.

“Oh My God I Can’t Stop Eating Them!” she squealed. And then “Urgh! it’s like salty mousse” or “fat paste!!!” or “it’s creamy inside!”

Very funny indeed. I think I love her in a kisses and cuddles kind of way.

Yes! First to see Bat For Lashes and then to see the Sunshine Underground! In London- not Newcastle!

I’m so excited to not be in Newcastle for a bit.

Yay!

I’m gutted though; the Noisettes are finally touring, but as sodding Maximo Park’s support band. The fug? Support?!

Not that I think their Mazda advert is the best thing they’ve done.  But still, Shingai Shoniwa is about the coolest girl to open her mouth and issue noise; which arguably makes her the coolest girl out of all girls. She totally pulls off the disco shit, doesn’t she? It’s the hair, I reckon.

God, I hope Karen O doesn’t go that route too.