It must be the menopause

Swimming day, last one of three this week. I only lost half a pound at WeightWatchers on Tuesday and was very cross. Apparently I am exercising too much and not eating enough. Well, duh, isn't that what you're supposed to do? No! According to the violently hennaed harridan presiding over the weighing apparatus, I should be "eating" my exercise points which, by my calculation on the WW cardboard slide rule (one of the perks of my £5.50 session fee) come to 2.5 which equates to 40 minutes moderate to hard swimming for someone of my sex, age and weight. Let me see: that would be one bowl of porridge or one and two thirds WW cereal bars or five medium apples OR 1 large glass of vino - and that would be known in trans-Atlantic parlance as a "no brainer".

I have acquired another cast off mobile phone from Daughter Number 3. Brian is, of course, very happy to support any example of re-cycling but I am only allowed to receive calls and text which I have easily mastered, much to his chagrin. Number 3 and I are now both on Orange and I am her "magic number" so she can ring me as often as she likes at no cost, except to my maternal reserves. Another bonus of this new arrangement is "Orange Wednesday" ie 2 cinema tickets for the price of one, a deal of which, again, Brian is happy to partake so I dragged him along this week to see "Forgetting Sarah Marshall". I am not a huge fan of the Judd Apatow school of comedy (40 Year Old Virgin, Knocked up) which, school boy smutty humour apart, I find morally ambiguous and therefore unsatisfying but I guess that's just modern life. Anyway, the reason I was so keen to go had absolutely nothing at all to do with morals cos I simply wanted to drink in Russell Brand on whom I have developed an unseemly, not to say unlikely, crush. This admiration is of a purely aesthetic nature; we are not eye to eye (or any other body parts) on his sexual proclivities but I find his slightly louche, 16th Century Elizabethan appearance, cavalier deportment and disarmingly sweet smile totally mesmeric and, to my even greater surprise, love to hear him talk and, on this occasion, sing. Comparisons with the official star of the movie, Jason Segel, a disconcertingly young Piers Morgan lookalike, (facially, I can't comment on the body and certainly not the bit of it that got far too much exposure for my liking) were all in Russell's favour, even if the screen play did require him to go through some very dubious motions with a giant chess piece. Next week we'll be seeing "What Happens in Vegas" featuring my other secret swoon, Ashton Kutcher, for whom, ever since That Seventies Show I have harboured strong maternal feelings with a twist - much like Demi Moore, I suppose. Did I mention, that apart from their obvious physical attributes, both my boys are also self-deprecatingly clever and funny, that universal female aphrodisiac which, on a good night, can turn even Ian Hislop into an object of (fleeting) desire. I only hope an increasingly creased-looking Cameron Diaz can arouse the same level of enthusiasm in Brian.