I heart the 90s (or drunken nostalgia)

"But the internet used to be the most facsinating thing!"
"I know. I had a holiday job working for the Drum 'n' Bass Arena and I felt so cool, trotting off to this internet start-up."
"I used to sit there with my orange clamshell i-Book..."
"Do you remember when lattes were actually cool?"

A small animated me, that looks very little like me.

In the last week I've been to New York and played at Truck festival and I'm too, too tired to write about any of it. Later perhaps.

Daisy Duke? I hope your thighs get sunburned.

Never shop for Daisy-Duke-style hotpants with PMT, never, even if three weeks ago or so someone told you you had a nice bum and seemed like something to cling to in the midst of Crazy Hormone Week. Now my self-esteem is somewhere below the Tube network and I have a headache. I can't find an over-night bag either.

Much better was yesterday, early evening, which was spent lowering the tone in the British Library by gossiping and scoffing chocolate brownies with F.

The Stirling Prize for softball

David Attenborough: "In the warm weather they flock to open green spaces, seeking others of their kind, swarming across the grass in circular formations. This display is confined exclusively to the summer months and few of those who share their environment are even aware of its existence. They are architects... playing softball."

Yes, I found out last night that every Wednesday in the summer most of London's architects all go and play softball in Regents Park and follow it up by swamping the pubs of Camden. Apparently there were about 500 of them yesterday. The pictures in my head suddenly became all BBC nature documentary: wildebeest storming over the savanah; shoals of krill massing in the Antarctic; reindeer wheeling on the tundra, but all clad in serious designer glasses.*

Really, I mean who knew? You could probably halt half the building in the south east and seriously damage Nicole Farhi's British profit margins with a well-timed explosion.

*("So," I said to my informer, otherwise known as my flatmate. "How high was the poncey glasses count? Sorry to stereotype and everything..."
"Pretty low actually," he said. "I mean we were playing softball, people put their contacts in.")