Sunday, March 20, 2005
The first hint of sunshine and the whole country goes ker-azy. Friday evening, half of London was standing outside pubs wearing shorts and T-shirts. We were in a summery mood too, and got very drunk before going to Wagamama. As anyone who's read my guide to being a veggie in Japan will know, food was the worst thing about our stay in Tokyo. Wagamama (it means 'selfish' in Japanese, fact fans) is great though. The food is almost authentic and is highly veggie-friendly. Excellent beer too: Asahi, Kirin, Sapporo. Yum. I took Mimo to Wagamama in Covent Garden and despite staring incredulously at some of the bizarre, to her eyes, dishes being served up, she gave it her seal of approval.

We visited our house again yesterday, armed with a tape measure. The sun was shining in the garden and I was relieved to find that I still liked the property. Touch wood (not woodworm-ridden or damp wood, obviously) we'll be moving in before the end of April. This means we'll be spending the next few weeks swatting up on fridge freezers and washing machines and visiting Ikea. I've never been to Ikea before. I've been put off by the thought of being crushed to death in a riot, or stabbed during a fight over a sofa. Sofas aren't worth dying for, no matter how nice and cheap.

Did I tell you we got our car? It's a bright blue Rover Metro, L Reg. It's the least cool car in the world, and came complete with my grandad's tape collection: Chas and Dave; Dusty; the Royal Grenadier Guards. Still, it may be uncool, but it goes. It will henceforth be referred to as the Buttermobile.

We've bought tickets for the V festival in Chelmsford in August. We're going with Debbie and Richard. I've heard that the V festival is full of posh people in designers wellies with fold-out chairs and tents with porch extensions. In my day, only scruffy students were allowed into festivals, three men to a six-man tent, and we'd survive on one lousy veggieburger for the whole weekend then hitch a ride home tied to the roofrack of an old banger driven by a hippie. Ah, Glastonbury 1993. The worst sunburn of my life, dropping my friend Dave's torch down a legendary Glasto toilet and waiting 3 hours beside the motorway in Birmingham for a lift. Those were the days.

My company's sending me to New Yawk in May for a conference. I'm hoping this time I won't (nearly) get arrested or stay in a hotel that's so filthy that even roaches won't stay there.