Making a complicated sign with my hand

The last big rap concert I saw before Jay Z was Snoop Dogg in Iceland, after which I swore I'd never go to another big rap concert again. Now, don't get me wrong; I love Snoop, but only when I'm out cruising with my bitches etc. In concert, there's really only so much chanting of "Snoop is the best" you can be made to do before you wonder when he's going to get on with it and play your favourite song. To make things worse, he then made us shout "Iceland is the best" over and over again; which was fine for the Icelanders because that's what the say all the time anyway, but I just stood there knowing he'd been saying exactly the same thing about Holland in Holland the night before. Oh yes, I know how men work.

Well, I guess I'm just not really that into Jay Z because by the time we got there I had to ask the gorgeous Andrew if it was Jay or his support act 'Estelle' up on the stage. "Eh, that's definitely Jay Z," he confirmed, over the beat of '99 Bitches'. I explained that I was a bit too short to see the performers at these shows, and so Andrew kindly did that thing that men do at concerts and hoisted me up onto his shoulders so I could get a better look — before he realised that I'm no Irish waif and promptly put me down again. So I just made a complicated sign with my hand, pumped it in the air, and bobbed up and down on my knees for a while before stopping abruptly because I felt a bit self-conscious.

I was disappointed that I didn't catch a glimpse of Beyoncé (fave person in whole world next to, uh, Jeremy Paxman or whoever) but meeting Irish radio personality Rick O'Shea and blonkers Pedro, Darren, Ponies, Andrew and the mysterious 'B' almost made up for it.

Did you know that Rick used to be on Atlantic 252? "Oh my God, I loved that station!" I gushed when I found out. "I listened to it all the time when I was twelve! In fact, you probably remember me: I was the one who always phoned in to request Bryan Adams' glorious hit Everything I Do (I Do It For You), as if you didn't play it enough — remember?"

Apparently he does not.

Exactly like a pomegranate

Last month I tried to console myself by listening to a lot of very angry, misandric rap music, but it did no good. I love men, I kept thinking. I love the way they move, I love the way they talk, and I love the way they always have to sit with their arms and legs all over the place. And then I joined a dating site in a flurry, when I realised there were no men left in the wild to go around, and then I deleted it again in equal flurry, when I realised that maybe I'm not quite ready yet for soulmateseeker79 and his over-punctuated declarations of love.

This month I discovered shopping. I'm not usually a very shoppy person, it's true, having lived in the same old runners since 2004, but all of a sudden I have an overwhelming urge to spend way too much money on very small pieces of denim. I showed Jenna my new 'micro-skirt' and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Now, she and I both know that I don't really have the thighs for mini-skirts — and no amount of cycling (or secret smoking) will help that — but we also know that if there was ever a time for me to buy inappropriate clothes then it is now. And lots of cheap jewellery; God, I love Accessorize. I love the way everything always fits, y'know?

Last month I walked right up to the cinema and I kicked it: I actually kicked that cinema with my cowboy boot really hard in the wall. Because, as you probably already know, life is not always like a two-hour episode of Sex and the City. Maybe your best friends don't live in the same town as you — maybe one of them lives in Cork and the other one lives in York — and they can't jump on a subway train in a sparkly gold hat just to come over and eat stuff with you in the middle of the night. But that was last month, and this month I'm not flying into a panic every time I end up spending a weeknight on my own: in fact, I'm beginning to really like it. I dabble in my film projects, write some emails, fill a tub full of bubbles from one of my many superfluous shopping trips, and then go to bed taking great comfort in smelling exactly like a pomegranate.

Even polar bears can only swim for so long

They shot another polar bear in Iceland yesterday, the second one to swim to shore this month. Some people assume that polar bears are native to Iceland, but they're not: they're foreigners, floating over on icebergs from Greenland. Most of them drown, though, as the ice melts away underneath them. Even polar bears can only swim for so long.

I didn't think they'd kill this one. I heard there were experts coming from a zoo in Denmark. They were going to tranquilise it, take it home with them and... and look after it, right? But in the end they said they couldn't manage it, and they shot it dead before it had a chance to attack somebody.

Before I went to bed last night I turned off every light, unplugged all my chargers, and switched the TV off stand-by, as if it would make a difference.

Awkward and disappointing rebound-sex

A friend has offered to introduce me to her internationally-famous musician friend to make up for all the heartbreak and pain of last month. Although I realise it won't really make up for it, she sighs, considerately, giving me an affectionate arm-touch.

Yes it will! Yes it will! I say, grabbing onto her in a panic in case she changes her mind. I can't think of anything I want more right now than awkward and disappointing rebound-sex with an internationally-famous musician. He'll probably want to write a song about me afterwards, I suppose, while I laze about his mansion rolling the occasional spliff. Eep! I call Jenna to tell her the good news, and we excitedly google some of his lyrics.

Y'know, she drawls, disappointedly. I've never really given any proper thought to his lyrics before... and I have to say they don't always seem to make that much sense.

I know; I'm disappointed too. What's the point of having a pop-song written about you if the world isn't going to hear it on the radio and think, hang on a minute, is that Annie he's going on about?

I'm going to have rebound-sex with someone a little less "poetic" instead.

This is not a metaphor

Flamingos in Fota Wildlife Park, Cork 2007

I haven't taken any pictures since I finished college — which is the longest time I've ever gone without using my camera — so these ones I've been posting lately are all from my archive. Since I started work it's like I just lost the will to do anything creative in my spare time — unless you count 'drinking vodka tonics' and 'texting people' as creative, which is how I ended up with Gimme and Rosie last night. Rosie has agreed to let me take a portrait of her, and with her new Cleopatra haircut Gimme reckons it should be in a bath-tub full of milk. And I totally agree.