Feeling like a number one

Admin, admin, admin. On and on and on. My life is 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent Arts Council application form! And, of course, the endless waiting game we play whilst people decide whether or not they're going to reply to your messages. Still waiting to hear about a bus. Still waiting to hear about a commission. Still waiting to hear whether I have the rights to turn a book into a musical. Still waiting for the gym to re-open. Today we went down there with our little ruck sacks and hopeful eyes. The doors were locked. They promised us it was opening this week. What we didn't expect was that this week meant Friday.

The yummy mummies were out in force this morning in Highgate Village, all panicky about secondary school choices. I didn't think wealthy people needed to worry about that sort of thing. I thought those sorts of women worried about their cleaners breaking into their safes and stealing jewellery they didn't know existed or whether the handy man had painted the walls a colour that their neighbours would describe as Weimaraner.

I burned my mouth all over today by eating a feta-covered potato that I'd grilled in the oven. I've subsequently lost my sense of taste and am fearing putting anything remotely hot in my mouth because I'm worried I've lost an entire layer of skin. My soup for tea was magma hot. The little bits of sweetcorn in it were so hot that when they exploded, I felt like I was putting my tongue on a gas hob.

I have decided to try to expand my brain by dedicating twenty minutes a day to memorising lists of British number one records. I've opted to focus on the official chart despite the fact that the NME chart gives ABBA an extra number one (Chiquitita) and has Vienna by Ultravox reaching the top spot. Vienna was famously and ludicrously held at number 2 by the ghastly Shaddap You Face by Joe Dolci. Hysterical. Anyway, you can now ask me anything you like about number ones in 1980. I'll have forgotten it all tomorrow, so ask quickly.