I don't like people seeing me when I've got things on my head

Bjarni came swimming with me last week, the night before he went off to America on this 'business trip' thing of his. He's probably going to be surrounded by Californians in bikinis. That's what they wear over there, right?

As we walk downtown I suddenly realise that we've never been to the pool in Ireland together. Uh oh. It's not like in Iceland where you just lounge around in a steamy hot-tub. Here, you have to watch you don't swallow someone's verruca by mistake and, even worse, they make you wear a swimming hat. I don't want Bjarni to see me wearing a swimming hat.

"What is it?" he asks, wondering why I've stopped dead in my tracks.

God. I don't want him to see me in a swimming hat, but I don't want him to think I'm crazy and neurotic either. But I just don't like him seeing me when I've got things on my head. When we first got together I refused to wear my cycle helmet in front of him: but then I cracked three ribs when an unexpected car-door knocked me off my bike and so I had to get over it. Even so, I don't want to wear a swimming hat in front of him.

"I don't want to wear a swimming hat in front of you," I admit.

He looks at me like I'm crazy. And after a brief 'discussion' we end up going swimming anyway. Great. Now he's surrounded by Californians in bikinis and his last memory of me is as a neurotic person... in a swimming hat.

Did you know that Sweeney Todd is a musical?

I saw Sweeney Todd yesterday, mostly because Tim Burton's main cameraman was the director of photography on my student film and I really, really needed to see his name in the credits — as you can imagine.

Did you know that Sweeney Todd is a musical? I didn't. Any time I've seen a musical I've spent the whole film telepathing furiously to the actors: "Please don't sing. Whatever you do just please do not start singing". Johnny Depp must have forgotten to switch his telepather to vibrate though, because he completely ignored me and sung his little heart out all the way through.

There's only one musical that I like, and that's West Side Story: that classic tale of two dangerous gangs of guys as they, um, ballet-dance their way around New York.

I'm perfectly capable of making shit up about my relationship myself, thanks

I'm in GQ magazine this month. Eep! There's a stunning cover pic, all glossy hair and airbrushed teeth, and a sycophantic report on my budding film career. Oh, hang on — that's Emily Blunt.

So, I flick through and there it is: an article which is, predictably, about the imminent death of blogging. Soon, everybody'll be reading poorly-researched opinion columns in over-priced magazines once again, rather than wasting their time on this fad they call the internet. Which is why, I suppose, the GQ journalist decided to misquote an article the Daily Mail published last summer, rather than contact me directly. And now there it is again: reprinted all over the shiny pages of a men's magazine, destined to sit in dentist waiting-rooms across Wakefield for all eternity.

Well, according to GQ, myself and Bjarni broke up. Oops. I did think he seemed quite distant this morning, but put it down to him being away in California rather than the demise of our relationship. He was being "abused" by his co-workers, apparently, after they'd read my blog. God, I wonder what those crazy geeks were doing? Throwing paper aeroplanes at him?

Uh, what is a GQ opinion columnist doing sourcing dubious material from tabloid archives, anyway? That Daily Mail article was so badly written I never even told my grandparents about it — and they love the Daily Mail. But the GQ journalist doesn't like blogs, y'see, so he couldn't even look at mine before writing about it. "Blogging," he states, "Is the voice of the common man. Who wants to listen to the common man?".

Oh dear.

The Weekend Picture

Anna in Ursula's Kitchen
This is my new friend Anna: she's a Danish pianist in Reykjavik, and this year she's starting a rock band. This pic was taken on the last night of my holiday in Iceland at Christmas. "Ursula's Kitchen" isn't the name of her band though — that really is Ursula's kitchen.

All I really want

One thing I'd love to do in New York is see some obscure singer-songwriter perform in a secret venue. You know, someone who hasn't been discovered yet or whatevs. I do a quick search for the week I'll be there: all I find is Alanis Morisette. Now, I was a big fan of Alanis back in the day — remember back when she'd been dumped and wrote that brilliant blonky album Jagged Little Pill? Everything she released after that was a big disappointment. Though, as somebody points out on a fan-site: "Her ex-fiancée is now dating a much hotter woman, so maybe the next album will rock".

Still, I don't think I'll bother with this concert. I just don't trust musicians to play the good, old songs that we all know and love. Especially not Alanis — didn't she once sneak into somebody's house while they were out and take a shower? I wouldn't really trust her with anything.

Is there anything to do in New York City?

Bjarni is taking me to New York for Valentine's day. Okay, that's not strictly true. Bjarni just so happens to be booked on a three-week "business trip" around America with Google next month, so I looked at him with my puppy-dog eyes... and he just turned back to his computer. So I yapped around his ankles for an hour, locked myself in the bathroom, and chewed up his favourite toy — and now I'm going to meet him in New York!

I tried Googling "things to do in new york city" but it was a bit like Googling "things to do in the world" and I couldn't make any sense of it all. Unfortunately, my friend Carrie is out of town that weekend, so no hanging out with her drinking overpriced cocktails that match our dresses.

What else is there to do in New York City? Anything?

RIP Bobby Fischer

International chess fugitive Bobby Fischer is dead! Having been given refuge by Iceland for the last however many years they are now considering burying him at Þingvellir, Iceland's national burial ground — usually reserved for statesmen and heroes, as Alda points out.

Great! I expect I'll be buried there eventually, too. I have also lived in Iceland, spewed many a prejudiced rant, and spent far too much time playing tricky but ultimately pointless board games.

A Girl Called Magpie

The Weekend Picture (new feature!)
I took this photo in the forest behind my parents' house last week. We had finally gotten round to making that film we were always going on about, and decided in the end it would be about a girl called Magpie, with a metal detector and no idea when she should be minding her own business. More pics here.

Feeling disappointed by celebrities

I know you're not supposed to "feel disappointed" by celebrities and obviously I'm far too cool for all that celeb stuff anyway but oh my god: JULIETTE LEWIS IS A SCIENTOLOGIST.

I always quite liked Juliette Lewis — probably because she always lands the role of the slightly retarded outcast, which makes me feel much better about myself — but not anymore. Oh, and in case you too are supposed to be writing your very important essay, here's the edited highlights of the Tom Cruise twattery for you to watch instead:
I am insane

51 words long, not including the title

The essays are going slowly, probably because I'm doing a word count after every line.

What do you think about using the word "indeed"? When I write it at the start of a sentence I feel quite important, but when I read it back later on it seems a bit twatty.

He is a dog, not a human

I'm at my mum and dad's house in Wales, trying to get my essays written for the beginning of term. I'm spending the week with them and the dog, Pablo. It's going to be peaceful and cosy and they're not going to annoy me at all.

"Would you like me to make you something to eat?" calls my dad, warmly, from the kitchen. "A little snack perhaps? Or maybe I should light the fire for you?"

That sounds nice, I think, before he calls me "baby" and I realise he's talking to the dog. Pablo is the size of a small horse and far too big for my parents to be calling "baby". Who do they think he is? Their American girlfriend?

Pablo and I tolerate each other, but have never really got on. He turned up after our first dog, my beloved Owain, died in a tragic road accident. Having a dog called "Owain" in Wales was like having a dog called "Stuart" in England, but my parents, being foreign, didn't know any better when they named him.

Pablo, on the other hand, arrived with his fancy exotic name (which, in Spain, is probably also like being called "Stuart") long after I'd left home, and has never really gotten used to having a sister around the place when I come back to visit. I "sit in his seat", apparently, which isn't an old rug in the hallway like you'd expect, but the entire three-seater sofa in the living room. He just eyes me from his new place, on the floor where he belongs, and waits for me to finish my essay so he can get on the internet to check the ferry times, to try and deduce when I might be going home.

Jolly Good

Visiting my grandparents on our way to Iceland was lovely. My grandfather is much better than I expected him to be after two strokes. He was mixing up his nouns, sure, but whenever he really struggled to get something out my grandmother soon shut him up with a dismissive wave of her hand.

But we were able to chat and laugh and drink extremely large whiskeys together, and I even caught Bjarni using the phrase "jolly good" — which he'd obviously picked up from them, as that's what they always come out with when they can't think of what else to say.

I showed them my film, of course. I think they liked it, although I did see that confused flicker in their eyes, y'know, that flicker that says, "how the hell does a three-minute film about a bit of graffiti take three months and 34 people to make?" but overall I think they were very proud.

"Jolly good," they said.

This new phenomenon they call "blogging"

I did an interview with the BBC about "blogging" last month. Presumably they'd heard about this crazy new fad via their junior interns and were keen to hear what it was all about.

Trouble is, I'm not great at this talking business. I'm never properly prepared for these things and always end up saying stuff I don't really believe, like "blogging is cool" and "no, really, it is..." or whatevs. So, in case anybody else was thinking of doing an interview with me, don't bother, here's some written thoughts instead. Perhaps you could get an actor to read it out — at least their accent will be more consistent than mine was.

What made you want to start a blog in the first place?
I liked the idea of going on and on about myself on the internet. It's like talking about yourself in the pub except you don't have to compete with the DJ.

Do you keep a private secret diary at all, or did you in the past?
No. What's the point in writing stuff if nobody's going to read it?

Are you inspired by any famous bloggers, like Petite Anglaise?
Um, do I sound like I'm inspired by Petite Anglaise? Oh dear. Well, I used to read her blog, but there's only so much earnest I can take before my head implodes. Then there's Girl with a One Track Mind: really, what's the point of a sex blogger who can't write and isn't sexy? On the other hand I like Dooce, the most famous blogger in the world — but of course I don't link to her. Really I'm just jealous of how many readers they've all got.

Who are all those faces on that funky, illustrated blog-roll?
Let me tell you something: that funky, illustrated blog-roll is nothing but trouble. I really need to update some of those links. If you think your blonk should be featuring on it, rather than all those people who abandoned us for Facebook, then drop me a line. With a picture.

Have you made any "friends" through blogging?
Yes, I've made some online friends, some of whom I've met in real life, some of whom I haven't and probably never will. It's kind of like finding pen-pals in Smash Hits only they write back to you more than once.

Are you ever embarrassed by what you've written in the past?
Not yet, but give me time. In a couple of years I expect it'll be like leafing through the awful poetry I wrote as a teenager, only all my enemies have copies.

Well, you haven't written about your rabbit in a while, are you embarrassed about that yet?
No. My friend Carrie Bradshaw taught me that it's okay to write about your dildo as long as you don't call it a "dildo". I haven't written about it in ages because it was, like, funny for five minutes and I managed to get half an hour's worth out of it.

How has blogging changed your life?
My hobbies used to be "getting drunk" and "texting", usually at the same time, but now I have all kinds of other stuff going on, like "writing stuff on the internet", "taking photos and putting them on the internet" and "pretending to be a movie-star on the internet". Seriously though, the world wide web is a great platform for creativity, and you don't need to know-somebody-who-knows-somebody to get your work published anymore.

And finally, any bloggy tips?
Keep posts shorter than this one, write regularly, and step away from your stat-counter.

Your what-counter?
It's this chart that measures how great you are.

Because Reykjavik is such a tiny, cool city

Because Reykjavik is such a tiny, cool city, I did bump into Quentin Tarantino, when he was sitting at the table opposite us in Prikið the other day. Although, because Reykjavik is such a tiny, cool city, I didn't have my glasses on — just in case anybody saw me — so I didn't recognise him. I just thought, "Oh look, there's a very blurry, vaguely foreign-looking man eating a burger by himself. Boo hoo, let's ignore him like we do to all the lonely foreigners."

It wasn't until he got up to leave and Krilli said "He's much taller than I thought he'd be," and I said "Who is?" and he said "Quentin Tarantino," nodding towards the vaguely-foreign looking blur walking out of the door, that I realised I was this close to showing my first short film, "Grammar School", to an internationally renowned director — which I had conveniently brought with me in my backpack, along with my autograph book and DVD player.

Speaking of "Grammar School", I'm going to convert it and put it up on le blonk sometime next week, for one night only, just in case people start accusing me of always making shit up.

Happy New Year

New Year's Eve in Reykjavik is supposed to be something special, which is why Quentin Tarantino always comes here — looking for more women to insult, presumably. I was about to cruise the bars for him with a copy of "Grammar School", just in case he wanted to give me a job, but luckily I ended up at a house-party instead.

Bjarni's youngest sister Lora, the little angel, drives us to town on her way to Busby's place — wherever the hell that is — and drops us at a lovely party with grapes and cheese and little shots of alcoholic jelly. I'm befriended by a red-haired Icelandic guy whose accent gets more and more Scottish as the night goes on, despite insisting he's of Irish descent. By 5am I've eaten half a kilo of absinthe jelly and am trying to out-Celt him, by performing an uncoordinated but somewhat aggressive "jig" in the living room, based solely on the snippets of Riverdance I've seen on TV.

By 7am we're heading over to "Busby's place" to blag a lift home from Lora, the little angel. "Busby's place" has bodies everywhere and is like walking through the pages of an Irvine Welsh novel. Bjarni gets between a fight just coming up the stairs and gets smacked in the face. I examine his swollen lip gently with a concerned expression, but secretly I'm pleased. We're at a party with DJs and bodies and fights: how very rock 'n' roll.

Lora — who somehow seems less angelic now — is on the dance-floor, which luckily has a strobe-light so all I have to do is stand there slowly moving my arms in order to look energetic and cool. My feet are killing me from all that jigging, and if I bump into Tarantino now all I'm asking him for is a foot massage.

At 8.30 Lora suggests we go home. I feign disappointment, but secretly I'm pleased. Happy new year, everybody. Resolutions to come.