Now I witter on about things being wonderful and fabulous and divine - even when just applied to a cup of tea or a darling handbag. But Friday night was FABULOUS. Amazing. Wonderful and breathtaking. There are no superlatives suitable for such and event.

I saw Liza Minnelli on stage. In Nottingham. I expected to have to be... well... generous about her. I expected to have to make allowances and just appreciate all that she was instead of what she is if you take my meaning. From her first show-stopping number and the standing ovation on her entrance, to her endless, effortless singing and dancing, ending up with her singing her heart out a cappella, I was captivated. My eyes and ears were hungry for more, more more. She was not a washed out torch-singing diva with a past we had come to see, this was pure energy and class and a consumate entertainer. Her voice soared and had lost none of its range, her actions seemed natural and her warmth and happiness at being on stage and performing, genuine. At 62, her legs were gamine and worthy of someone half her age and her banter - including sly swipes at her own oft-mentioned bad husband choices and 'liquor and pills' - did not seem scripted or trite. She looks like her Momma the older she gets, she sounds like her Momma at times but she is always, always, herself. Liza-with-a-Z

I hope to God I look like that at her age. Hell, I wished I looked as good as that now...

So much good karma and my heartfelt thanks, love and devotion to Mike who kindly took me along as his guest.

Now in the not-so fabulous category, obviously Liza sucked all the wonderfulness out of this world and sadly, sadly, Yves St Laurent has died. I shall be wearing my YSL jacket in his honour today. It is fittingly, black grosgrain silk. (Vintage darlings, vintage).My wedding dress in red satinn was a YSL style and pattern, and was a classic design of his from the 80's. If you remember all those crazy, crazy 80's fashion years, you remember the bad stuff. But HIS designs stood out from that melange. Classic lines, beautiful cuts and never out-dated. Ah! now there was man who could dress a woman....

I am in danger of turning into a crabby old woman. Lots of reasons but it's raining, my kitchen is costing more than I expected (I need a new ceiling? And let's have it hand-painted by scores of magical elves while you're at it) and I can't believe I've still got the heating on in June.

And there are trolls around. Trolls abound in this cyber world evidently and I have no idea how to get rid of them. Now trolls are Swedish I think (Or Scandinavian certainly. Don't ask me, I'm fine on the Greco/Roman gods and have a vague grounding in Celtic myths and legends but anything else I'm lost on. There's obviously a gap in my reading somewhere) and the only thing I can remember is that they reside in the Frozen North and live under bridges. Or in tunnels or similar. (As I said my details are a little hazy) Certainly a place where the light has yet to reach which probably explains their aversion to coming out and being spotted and therefore removed. So how does one get rid of them? (Look don't ask me, mention Scandinavia and I get all confused with hot geysers and Fingals  Cave and go off on a tangent about The Hall Of The Mountain King)* I must admit the only reference I have to them is the Three Billy Goats Gruff and all I can remember is that the Troll seemed incredibly stupid to me and was bested in the end.

But I tell you what darlings, in my lovely new be-sequined heels, you won't 'arf tremble when you hear me trip-trapping over the bridge....

* Or is that Emmerson, Lake & Palmer? 

 Please don't think I am complaining.* I love the work I'm doing for Nottingham Pride at the moment. I'm enjoying being back into the media whirl, sending out my finely crafted press notices, talking to jounalists and  giving out radio interviews. I'm hounding celebrities for prizes and gifts and donations, going to meetings, giving suggestions and generally running a tight campaign.  But the down side of it means that my usual hedonistic round of pleasure and London has been regretfully put aside. My diary is squeezed and complaining of exhaustion - and not in the usual way either.

Today - as most days recently - I  am cramped over the laptop on the sofa, ignoring the blandishments of Mad Frankie to go out and play at squirrel-hunting (they appear to be playing 'chicken' with him on the garden fence this week) and - with much regret and sulking - I have  had to turn down the chance of a  lovely literary day in London today. Lunch, a private showing, and the possibility of an evening in town.

 I'd better get my reward in heaven 'cos I sure as hell won't even get a snog of out this lot..... 

*Well maybe just a tiny, tiny kvetch.. 

I have taken advantage of a new ironing service. They come round in a van, pick it all up and return it the next day.

 The name? .............Iron Maidens.

That'll be Dirty Deeds Done Cheap then. 

 Well it made me laugh. 

I missed out on the festival at Hay-on-Wye this year. It was back in the days of office work and well, after my damp and dreary experience last year and being a Delicate Little Hot-House Flower at the best of times I ddin't make too much of an effort to go. (And frankly sweeties, I could have recreated the experience reading a book while standing in the flower-bed mud in the back terrace these past rainy weeks.) But I am missing the literary life a tad. I want the joy back in my veins of chatting to authors and picking up those lovely, fresh new books and breathing in the smell of them.

So this July I am off to Harrogate. The Crime-Writers Festival is a three-day event as part of the larger International Festival. This time there will be no outdoor, windy, cold and rainy marquees to sit in, no rivers of mud to endanger the heels and no chance of catching trenchfoot in the surroundings that rival a rainy Glasto. It is all being held in comfort of the Crown Hotel. And as I have booked into the self-same hotel for the duration, I may even be able to wander down in a froth of satin negligee and take my breakfast Earl Grey while discussing the finer points of autopsy findings with an author or two. I'm also expecting a power cut, a murder or two and possibly a bit of amatuer sleuthin' (as Lord Peter Wimsey might say)

With such well-made plans, what could possibly go wrong?