Oh what a difference a few days make. Last weekend I was having fun at the festival. Running around backstage, enjoying the hot sun, relaxing with friends, (hopefully doing good and helping out all and sundry) talking to the press -  even doing a brief TV interview and ultimately, partying til dawn, missing breakfast and wondering exactly why it seemed a good idea to go to  three parties  the night before. (Losing the odd  member of the entourage along the way, I ended up in a club with  just a core of six of us. Two of us left at four am leaving the others to party till dawn. Never saw them again)

This weekend is spent in the hell-hole that used to be my home. The kitchen is a shell, everything is packed away and I will be reduced to attempting haute cuisine for ten days or so with just a microwave and toaster. The kitchen equipment is in boxes spread around the house, the diningroom sideboards have been stripped of photographs and carries an assortment of cartons containing crockery and of course, stupidly, I put the booze in a large box underneath the dining table and crammed other boxes in and around it.*

So,  for the next two weeks while they knock down ceilings, build units, plaster walls, re-thread electrics, lay floors and tile worktops, I will be adrift in my own house

I can see I will be making my favourite thing for dinner for a while.

Reservations.

* But cleverly thinking ahead, I kept the corkscrew in easy reach. 

 Far be it for me to say that I have the gift of the gab but I appear to be a frequent guest on the local BBC radio these days. I  have done many interviews  in the run-up to Pride,  including the far-too-early- for-a-dramaqueen-who-loves-her-bed 8am slot on the actual day of the festival.  Today, I appear to have been  one of the usual 'Rent-A-Mouth' people on a panel discussion concerning 'Modern Dilemmas'. (And no, it wasn't the hoary old 'Tits V Kitchen?')

 Promising Mummy to be nice to all the other panelists  was possibly one of the hardest things I have ever done but in the end we got in famously and  apart from  - in an old Socliaist sort of way - correcting the Tory when he attempted to tell me that I had 'Proved his Point' there was no real disagreement. And really, it's sort of a no-brainer with some of these dilemmas. You have to do The Right Thing All the time. You have to protect the weak, defend the right of free speech and speak up for injustice.

 But just occasionally, I want to turn into a frothing mad lefty.  And sod the listeners. 

 Not that I'm complaining of course, but since the blasted virus of the other year which  turned out to be  M.E. - necessitating  6 weeks off work and a complete turnaround of my social life - I have lost weight.  Not that I was anything other than a curvaceous, zaftig sort of woman anyway but I have now gone down at least one dress size and sometimes two depending on shops  and frocks and styles. Of course as dress sizes have got bigger over the years anyway I am still a little confused as to what my actual real size is. (You try getting into a vintage 70's size 10 - I tell you if you've got hips, it's an impossibility)* I can get into an American size 8 and fit mostly into UK size 10-12's now but nothing really seems to have changed. I realise my older wardrobe is now quite loose and things I would  live on green tea and toast for a few days to get into for that perfect night out now slide easily on. I  now buy close-fitting outfits which I would otherwise worry about with nary a second thought and don't  worry about taking the clothes off in other than dim lighting and with a Gentleman well-oiled with champagne. But where has it all gone from? The stomach is still no firmly toned smooth, firm layer (blame the disappointments  and surgery) and my thighs aren't  exactly built for speed but I do still wear short skirts and don't frighten the horses while doing so. The bottom may not be as firmly padded - meaning that skinny jeans are now a new-found joy - and the bosom is still more than a handful which again means that corsetry is still a must. (Although with a few strapless frocks I have to be careful when turning round in case something unexpectedly pops out and has someone's eye out). The cheekbones are a little more prominent but you can't tell me I was actually hamster-faced in the first place. I have lost my appetite a little but through not sat in the office all day I am no longer prone to fighting off boredom by visiting the chocolate machine or the cake trolley or just wandering by the biscuit tin in a spirit of enquiry.  And ask a Gentleman whom I Adore and he will tell you that I can quite easily  eat up a storm when he is paying AND still have room for brandy and cheese afterwards.

 But this is not my worry. The real worry, the panic that has me awake at night  (probably adding to the subtle weight-loss regime) is that..... (Brace yourselves, it's a big one)

My shoes no longer fit.

Yes, I have gone down a shoe size. I mean WTF? You're telling me my feet were FAT? The darling Louboutin now slide around the heels and slip-slop, clip-clop off my feet as do most of the other shoes. I rattle around in the boots and with the four pairs of beautiful be-jewelled satin court shoes**  I look like a child playing dressing up in her Mummy's wardrobe. But there is hope. Some of the sandals can be fitted with a tighter application of straps and luckily, the Doc Martens being what they are (i.e a twenty minute struggle to get into them while sat on the floor and cursing) there is no danger of  not being able to wear them again.  Sadly, I am at a loss as to what to do with majority of  the killer heels which make me unable to run for buses, catch trains or walk elegantly without losing a heel in the gutter or it sliding off every fourth step. I mean I can't just abandon them like a basket of un-wanted kittens in the park, but if I do have to replace them all, there is no room to keep 60-odd pairs of shoes just in case my feet get fat again. I suppose I could wear socks with  them but I feel what may look cute on a young slip of a thing going for the 50's bobby soxer look would look - quite frankly - mad on an aging Drama Queen.

It's no use - I'm going to have to start a shoe museum.  And the entry fee can go towards replacing the collection in a smaller size...

 *Gentleman, please don't send me photographs of you trying. It's not half as amusing as you think.... 

** Sorry, but they were on sale and so I bought them in four colours to match various outfits***

***Why am I apologising? You're not the man who pays the bills****

**** And no, I don't have a man who pays the bills. It's all me. But if you want to apply for the post, please contact me with photograph.