I have a hole in my tights. That is not related to this post in any way.

Oh, yes, did I not tell you that I was a dinner lady for a bit? I was. At the end of the summer before I went to university, just after I got back from travelling. It was mighty fun. I got to wear a smock and serve baked beans to deranged adolescents. My fave bit was picking up squashed chips from the floor whilst overhearing spotty youths trying to guess my bra size. They were way off, I seem to recall. No one ever gets it.

Last week, in unrelated-to-being-a-dinner-lady news, my Dad got his CBE. From the Queen at the Palace. I was thinking, wouldn't it have been strange if, instead of it being the Queen, it was actually Queen giving out the honours. Like, you'd be looking around for a small old lady with a crown and instead Brian May would be standing there, looking coy and clutching a medal.

Anyway.

It was the actual Queen, as it turned out. I wasn't there, as my Dad got to take three people to the ceremony and he chose my Mum, my Grandma and then constructed an elaborate lottery-based system to allocated the other invitation. For a while he was going to cleverly hide a golden invitation in thousands of chocolate bars, sell them around the house to me, Alex and Sophie and see who was the little girl lucky enough to happen upon it one cold morning outside the plentiful sweetshop, but then he changed his mind. Or... um.. something.
Sophie went, anyway. She can tell you about that, maybe.
Afterwards, though, we had a room booked out at this private members' club in Belgravia (which is London-speak for Much Too Posh For The Likes Of You). There were thirteen of us, and Alex, Sophie and I had been given £150 each to get a new outfit and our hair done.
(I am electing not to tell you the story about the night before in Topshop spent trying to find an outfit for Sophie because she hadn't done it before and I was supposed to be going for dinner with Dan and he had to sit on the seats outside the changing rooms for THREE HOURS while I got crosser and crosser and Impish Sophie and I raced around THREE FLOORS OF TOPSHOP HELL trying to find something that wasn't too Bohemian or Racy or Spangly for Brian May, I mean the Queen, and I tell you, heads nearly rolled. Dan was patient and nice about it, me, not so much because I am a bitch who gets CROSS. And, in case you're wondering, no, we didn't find anything by 9 pm when the shop closed. And no, I did not kill my little sister, but only because she is Impish and can run faster.)
It was a lovely day, for there was Champagne and lo! That is good. Lovely food, as well. And my aunt made a very funny speech, and we took turns wearing the medal and Alex was silly with it for a bit and everyone thought she was maybe drunk but she wasn't, she's just funny. We had our own private room. It was very fancy indeed, the place, and the whole day was really very special, and we toasted my Dad (um.. by which I mean we raised our glasses to him, not held him over an open flame until he was brown and crispy, it really wasn't that sort of a day) and it was jolly. The only thing that confused me a little was the fact that the Ladies' toilet was called the Boudoir, which I have always taken to mean the bedroom. Which could lead to some embarrassing mistakes, I reckon.

So now I am officially the Commander's Daughter (CBE = Commander of the British Empire) and can get married in St. Paul's Cathedral. I haven't had any offers yet, but I'm sure that once word gets out the offers will come flooding in, like a flood.

I am moving into a flat with Bec and David on Saturday, in Oval. We haven't talked about the flat-warming party yet, but I really am in favour of one. You are all invited. Unless I don't like you, in which case I will still let you come but I will tell you it's a fancy dress party when it isn't really and you will look REALLY STUPID and I will LAUGH like this HA HA HA.

I have to go and sort out references and things. Um... you could be my referee if you like? Unless you don't like me (don't gasp like that, it has been known to happen) in which case you would probably write a reference that seems like it's nice but if you take the first letter of every line it spells out SHE'S HORRIBLE DON'T TRUST HER and then I'd be screwed.

I wrote a song this weekend, and I also went out and had fun in Soho.

Also I wanted to mention that the other day I spent quite a long time thinking up shop names you could make out of Nirvana songs. So far I've got the following:

In Bloom: Florist
Lithium: Chemist
Smells Like Teen Spirit: Parfumerie
Nevermind: Funeral Parlour

That's all so far, but I'm sure there are more. Can you think of any, kids?