Have you ever felt so stressed you could hear your heartbeat in your ears and grasped the nearest chair to avoid falling?

It's a rush.

Am confused as to whether I am actually burning out.

How many days are there in an hour, anyway?

In reply to some concerns expressed other places.
But I do have a life!
Have just spent Saturday drafting letters to the Prime Minister to suggest law banning the likes of Eric Bana and chiropractors from our society. Reason? Hm, in first instance, cannot see why you should ask. Unless born outside of galaxy. I mean, Munich. Let's leave it there...

In the second, chap puts one finger on my spine and next thing I know I want to run away with him kit and caboodle. So, you see, these shameless creatures lead us common mortals into sins I am afraid to mention...

Oh dear, somebody pass the fruitbowl. And yes, I have spent 1 hour arranging it, waiting for inspiration.

I am not normally caught in front of the telly these days - to be honest with you, I've never been a big fan - which is why, when I occasionally hurl myself on the sofa for an evening of zapping and become, without exception, bitterly disappointed, I am more and more inclined to believe it has become utterly superfluous.

Why oh why in Almighty's name would I be tempted to succumb to the unbelievable disgrace to showbiz the B awards have become?
Illustrating to the furthest how low music has fallen, the ceremony needed - let me stress that - NEEDED to be seen by all, great and small,as a historic masterpiece of combined kitsch, horror and ridicule.

Let's see: first, the Oz family. Thank heavens, I turned on the TV about halfway thru so I was spared the sight of Ozzy decomposing on stage (was he there at all or have the moths got to him already?). Hurrah then for girl power - one would think - until the old hag Mrs. Oz opened her mouth to shower us with a tasteless imitation of 'lassie-at-the-pub' jergo, even managing to embarass her nearest and dearest on stage. Not that the offspring was any better. Whilst Jack presumably went in search of\escorted Ozzy to the loos, his sister managed to look like a twat, not knowing exactly how to hold the mike and what to utter. Oh, I sympathise. It must be hard moving those jaws that block the view.

You know the rest. They cut off the Arctic Monkeys(whatever happened to the freedom of speech? it would have been far more entertaining for the nation to hear their drunken rantings) and ushered in Macca, who took us back to the time when they still made music. Notice the past tense. Notice the fact my mom used to sing the same tunes he sang last night. Notice my mom does it better than Paul. Wheeeey!

And don't even let me start on the pathetic joke of a human being Amy is, blurting out messages to hubby (still in prison, still not bothered) whilst flapping her wig and forgetting her lyrics. It's a wonder she can still stand with the amount of okey-cokey in her veins.

These are who we look up to, ladies and gents. An army of sad wannabees, imitations, blink-and-they're-gones, 60's and 80's replicas, addicts of all sorts, illiterates hiding under the pretense of making music. We buy them, we cherish their shallowness, we cannot wait to hear about their sorry lives. Because, petty as it might be, it's still better than ours.

And what worries me most is the round of applause they got into the press today...

well, well, long time no see...I guess my recent move over to more populated and cultural blogs (a.k.a. Books)has left no one weepin' given the activity has moved with me to more popular debates. But it's nice to be back, albeit tired with being online 16/5 and lacking energy to write after all my creative power is currently sucked out by my editor's deadlines.
Writing...what is there to write about? what is there leftto write about? as I look back at the sentence I've just put down, it all becomes well-known, already seen, already discussed, already digested.
'My name is Nobody' says Ulysses in Homer's Odyssey (chapter IX for quote fanatics). I was taken aback by this statement, even knowing the context, skipping the translation arguments and, reading it again and again, I embraced it and I lingered on it time after time. It is my creed and motto, my coat of arms.
I write, you see. After my first book of poems, I just kept going and going, rounding up the hours, missing the launch parties, avoiding literary circles, confessing to myself, despairing.

But not a single line of all my works has come close to/ will ever equal the purity and the skill of this simple line.
I stand rebuked.

See you around. I'll make it more often after this book.

At the end of a long week, with emotional ups and downs, I discover that Italians are with a few exceptions, the only ones making music. Forgive my generalisation, am swinging it with Biagio Antonacci.
Yeah, they're cheesy, they're pathetic, especially when they look at you with those puppy eyes or give you the 'you belong to me' stare, but at the end of the day even somebody as cynical as me can fall for them. Again and again.
To recap, some of my greatest loves, at least in this life, were, and are, Italians. Bocelli, Di Stefano, emperor Hadrian and Lu (not necessarily in this order and not all unachievable, as record proves).
Love you all, you still light my fire.

P.S. Non rimpiangere mai,
Non illuderti mai
Certe cose non tornano più
E non pensarci anche se
Son le cose che hai amato di più

During the last couple of days, befallen by a typical longing after my university days - and I only say typical because of the change-of-job, change-of-industry syndrome - and at the same time treasuring memories of the good solid academic debate, I started seriously considering a long awaited comeback to my alma mater in some form or other.

But whilst getting a different degree has always ranked high amongst my priorities, the return to the ivory tower couldn't have crossed my mind as the onyl viable alternative to the 'real' world. Until recently, that is.

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I get up in the morning jumping into my boots with alacrity to get on the DLR and go to bed trebling with anticipation at the thought of a new day.
But advertising has helped me see the worst of today and the pandemonium of tomorrow. It has - one too many times, alas - shown me what guilt-ridden, consumerism laden, presumptious, recycled identities we've become, reduced to being defined only by the actions we perform online.

I don't mean to sound like a pompous old fart, but I don't like the fact that, in reinventing the already reinvented with total disregard for what used to be known as common sense, my generation and, sadly, my children's, have failed miserably at becoming.

I see people so concerned with listing their titles they forget who they are without them. I see literature being mocked and pseudo-intellectualism flourishing. By the way, I consider the latter more dangerous than plain stupidity. I see individuals with a speck of culture passing for philosophers and unsolicited opinions\comments\rants bordering lunacy. I slook at blogs sprouting with the certainty they can overcome their subculture status and substitute schooling. Or common sense.

Today, when I was reading a book that made me cry - yes, I'd give Orhan Pamuk the Nobel again, but they haven't put me in the jury yet - I realised that there is still a little hope left in all the rubbish heaps surrounding us. It just takes longer to dig it out.

It's not even that time of the month or that time a year coming to think of it, but all of a sudden Monday syndrome kicks in fiercely.

The day started on the wrong foot because I managed to knock over my alarm clock and misplace my Oystercard, which meant I had to spend more for a peak travelcard than on my last pair of jeans. The station looked like mayhem on earth and I spent 1.5 hours on a train to get to London Bridge because we got delayed AND diverted.

I don't know how other people manage, but I get the 'Why does it always rain on me?' feeling....

Please oh please I just want to make it home under the covers again

Before you read any of the following, please bear in mind that the girl behind these lines, a year older, but non necessarily any wiser, is currently on the third day of a recovery from a state of sheer drunkenness, shamelessly inflicted upon self at party venue, thus not to be held responsible in any way for the reactions aforementioned lines may cause to the public opinion.

Firstly let me daresay that birthdays are largely overrated these days. Although I confess to heart swelling with smugness when flowers arrive in my office – albeit so far in fantasies – I also think that eating cake until you die, tearing wrapping paper with your teeth and nails and having your photograph taken when doing so, with whole shebang of friends in toe sighing or wowing behind, well, in a word, stinks.

I may be a very confused person, but also very practical according to the Buddhist guy in front of the shopping centre, who saw me sporting a pair of trainers instead of towering above him on Manolos (this is a different matter, which I will happily discuss upon request with other equally vertically challenged females in London) and thought me to be an incredibly organised, down to earth personality willing to spare him a dime in donation. Needless to say he never got it, but was left more than bewildered and ready to give me the cash after 4:39 mins of my ranting (I had a digital watch on, before you smirk).

With this in mind, the first doubts I had about my own self on the occasion of yet another year gone by, presented themselves when I was incapable to put on a nice face and smile when I opened the gifts. I have been told a number of times that I am difficult to shop for (my mom has long ago thrown in the towel and resorts to either handing me the cheque or providing reading material, which I never refuse). So far, I regard myself as pretty straightforward. I even help people by giving hints months before or leaving magazines open with big circles around the items I envisage.

I never imagined how hurt one can become when people insist of giving what they would like to receive or what they think might look good on you. Out of their own image of you, it emerges you’re either:

a) attracted to blue;
b) attracted to things you’re not likely to sport because too fragile;
c) likely to wear something that curls up in knots in 5 seconds and takes 5 hours to detangle.

Why? Why does it ache so much when the people close to us fail to observe our tastes and likes whereas you always give them the perfect wanted presents because you jot down ideas throughout the year? Why do they think that spending a sum can compensate for the irritation of not being able to actually wear your present? (This comes from a person whose pangs of guilt made her hide her own new jeans from herself at the back of the wardrobe).Go figure!

On the same note, it’s worthwhile to point out haircuts cost twice as much for ladies whereas pay equality is still a big topic to be debated and discussed and fail to come closer to an end in our lifetime.

Please excuse me, I need to go back to my corner and moan. I am sure that the threatened ‘no gifts from now on’ policy will make me happier in the long run. And they say 27 is a nice number!

The grumpy old woman
(Then again, diamonds are forever).

Per tutte le notti meravigliose d’estate col torpore uscendo dall’asfalto e per il tuo mare troppo salato. Per i tuoi volcani e le loro ceneri calde. Per le tue spiagge pazzesche. Per la tua campagna selvaggia. Per le tue terre arse e per gli ulivi addormentati da secoli nei giardini di casa. Per le tue mulettiere da brivido e per le stradine che inghiottono i passi dei passanti. Per il tuo calmo e le tue sieste. Per i sorrisi e le coltellate di dietro. Per le tue campane e per le tue chiese antiche. Per la passione, la morte e la vita. Per i riti. Per le feste. Per i cibi e i balli. Per il rumore che hai lasciato nella mia vita e che mi riempie ogni momento. Per la gioia e l’amarezza. Per la casa che hai costruito dentro di me.

E soprattutto per l’amore.
Grazie.
Mi manchi.

Ormai, sono io.
E tu sei parte di me.
Per sempre.