The saddest news I've ever heard

"US wildlife officials who tried to capture a bear that had a jar stuck on its head, have shot the animal after it wandered into a busy Minnesota town," reports the BBC. "The bear, a male about two years old, was killed by police after six days of failed efforts to catch it alive."

Oh god. This is even sadder than the polar bears. Six whole days desperately wandering around with a jar stuck on your head, before being shot right in front of everybody in the middle of a busy North American town? Could there be anything more unbearable?

Apparently the jar was "the kind that held popcorn or sweets". Isn't that sad? A million times worse than getting your heart broken.

Throw your hands up at me

Things are going from bad to worse: I now have a Destiny's Child ringtone on my phone. I've never had a phone that uses actual songs as ringtones before, but this phone is a phone, a camera, a walkman, and even a clock, too. Suddenly I feel disproportionately optimistic about the future.

"I need to put a Destiny's Child ringtone on my phone!" I wail at Maurice, one of my incredibly helpful intern assistants at work. "And I need to do it right away, so I can feel better about myself immediately!"

"That's easy enough," he says, helpfully. "Which track do you want?"

"Independent Woman, of course," I say, glad that there's a guy around to sort this shit out for me. "And it has to be the bridge bit, when she sings about driving her own car and buying her own diamonds, and how if she wanted the watch you're wearing, well, she'd just go right ahead and buy that as well. Even though nobody wears watches anymore because we all have phones that are clocks, too. Yes, that bit."

Maurice sits down at my MacBook so he can edit the track for me. He's used to using a PC, and so I try to convert him over to our side, where everything is much more beautiful. But he's dubious; Macs are stupidly overpriced, aren't they? How much did mine cost me?

"Er... actually, I don't know." I say, sheepishly. "I didn't buy it."

I know, I know. I have a cheek using the 'Child as my signature ringtone.

I love how shallow I have become

I bought a pair of knee-high snakeskin boots yesterday. I know, I know, if you'd suggested two months ago that I'd be looking at myself in the mirror wearing nothing but a pair of knee-high snakeskin boots then I would have laughed. But love, or the lack of it, does funny things to people; and now here I am.

My doctor says I've been overdoing it. I went to him with back pain and he tells me it's a chest infection. It's my lungs that are aching, not my back, which is why I look 'run-down'. What? I don't look run-down! I look great. Everybody keeps telling me how great I look, in my new clothes with my new hair and my new weight and my new french fucking manicure on each fingernail. But my doctor thinks I look run-down. He's never even seen me before.

I tell him I work long days, but I don't tell him about how I sat for two hours last Saturday on Sandymount platform at 5 in the morning, smoking cigarettes and shivering in a mini-skirt, waiting for the first Dart to show up. Or how before that I'd left a party I'd been to with my new celebrity friends — talk show hosts and basketball stars, all of them — and then realised I'd left my cash card in the VIP area and had no way of either getting home or getting back inside. And I don't tell him how it was only then that I realised, oh, maybe the talk show hosts and basketball stars aren't really my friends after all, otherwise why would I be sitting by myself on Sandymount platform, smoking cigarettes and shivering in a mini-skirt, waiting two hours for the first Dart to show up?

He prescribes a course of antibiotics and sends me to bed. But after three days I cant take anymore of this thinking shit — which is avoidable when you're working long days or hanging around with talk show hosts and basketball stars, but entirely unavoidable when you have to spend three days alone in bed — and so I get up and drag my friend the chest infection to the high street where we spend €300 in a panic on a pair of knee-high snakeskin boots. I don't even like snakeskin. Does anybody?

By the time I meet Rosie for dinner I'm feeling feverish, and without me even asking she runs out to the shop to get me some paracetamol. I'm glad I bought her a gift, I think, as I fumble in my bags for the little package from L'Occitane. I want her to like me.

Pictures of machines against the sky

(1) Chimneys near Doncaster, England (2) Pylon in the Icelandic highlands (3) Rooftops from my old apartment in Reykjavik (4) Welsh ship heading into Dun Laoghaire port (5) Traffic light in New York City.

My Famous Dad

At the weekend I got a gleeful call from my father, telling me about the car full of people who'd turned up at the house asking for his autograph. This confuses me. As far as I'm aware, my dad — who spends most of his time 'pottering in the garden' — isn't famous.

Oh god, I thought, he must have been on some horrible reality TV show without any of us knowing. Ack! There is nothing worse than reality TV. If he had really wanted to parade all his character flaws in front of potentially millions of viewers, why didn't he just start a blog?

"No, no," he said. "It was about the record covers."

Hmm. Way before my dad was making illustrated guides to walks around rural Wales, he worked on record covers with trendy London-based art studio Hipgnosis — back in the seventies, of course, when album art 'actually meant something'. This was a very exciting claim-to-fame for me as a teenager, especially when everyone at school went through their compulsory five-minute Pink Floyd phase and I was able to say 'my dad worked on that record', giving a little shrug as if I didn't care — but of course really I did.

Last month, Classic Rock magazine published an article about some of these covers, including one by a band called Wishbone Ash picturing my famous dad standing on a cliff dressed in some kind of surreal roman soldier outfit. "To this day," stated the article. "The identity of the person wearing it remains unknown." Of course, as soon as one of his old friends from the seventies read this he immediately sent it to my father, who immediately sent a letter to Classic Rock magazine setting them straight...

"I am pleased to be able to tell you that it was me in the cloak and helmet. I was working for Hipgnosis at the time and we all shot off to the south of France for the photosession. In the uncropped version you can just see my trainers sticking out from the bottom of the cloak. We also took a large sword with us that was used in Polanski's Macbeth but in the rush to catch the train north we left it on the clifftop. We heard later that he was very displeased and wanted it paid for. Funnily enough as we were setting off from London we took out a 10p insurance ticket with British Rail so they ended up settling what I think was a rather large bill."

...which immediately prompted a car full of aging rockers to turn up on my parents' little Welsh doorstep waving their vinyl about and demanding autographs.

The best thing about the article, though, is that it says the artwork was George Lucas's inspiration for the Darth Vader character in Star Wars. Oh. My. God. My dad is Darth Vader? Does this make me Luke Skywalker?

"So did you invite them in then?" I asked him, wondering enviously what it must be like to have a car full of people from Birmingham ask for your autograph.

"No," said Darth Vader. "Of course not. I had gardening to be getting on with."

When is this awful phase going to end?

In an attempt to take my mind off things, I have fallen in love seven times in the past seven weeks. Seven times. If my calculations are correct, that's a man for every week — although all of it has been unrequited, of course. When will this rebound phase draw to an end?

Week 1: The Silver Fox
I meet my first rebound crush at a party, because that's what happens when you're single: you start getting invited to parties again. He is prematurely grey and so I call him 'The Silver Fox'. He likes that. We make tentative plans to go out that never quite materialise, and I have to remind myself that 'prematurely grey' was a bit generous of me anyway, hey.

Week 2: Batman
To take my mind off The Silver Fox, I fall head over heels for an old classmate who has a thing for Batman comics. In a bid to win his affection I decide to go to the school reunion dressed up in a Robin costume. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" worries Jenna. "What if he spurns your advances? Could you really handle rejection right now dressed from head to toe in a Robin costume?". I understand her concerns, but I'm determined to carry on regardless, and later I find myself having to handle rejection dressed from head to toe in a Robin costume.

Week 3: The Actor
At work I have to show a handsome young actor how to use a quill and ink. He is the most charming and perfect-looking creature I have ever seen and as soon as he walks into my little studio my cheeks burn red. The next day, as I hurry through the set, he throws me a little nod as if to say, 'Hey, I know you, you're the ink girl' and I nearly drop my bundle of 16th century scrolls. I decide that having a crush on an actor is too dangerous for the workplace, and so I convince myself that actually he is in love with me. The next time we pass I throw him a casual little nod and then walk right on by, knowing that the mere sight of me flops his stomach over like a big wet fish.

Week 4: The Intellectual
The actor, being an actor, manages to hide his feelings for me well, and so I move on to fall for a guy that I sometimes chat to online — when he uses the word 'aplomb' in an MSN conversation and I mistake him for an intellectual. This is it! I think, giddily. He's The One! Later, I am both disappointed and relieved to find his MySpace page, where it clearly states that he is 'in a relationship'. I'm disappointed, of course, that The One has already been taken; but relieved because having a MySpace page proves he wasn't really an intellectual after all.

Week 6: The Reader
I mention to Jenna that her friend, Cormac, is kind of cute, and in a fit of goodwill she fixes it so we all end up having a drink together. He has been book-shopping that afternoon, and turns up with a copy of something by Steinbeck that he's been meaning to re-read for many years. "Cormac, you like books!" exclaims Jenna, tactfully. "Annie likes books too!". "No I don't!" I huff, indignant that someone has once again mistaken me for a reader just because I'm good at spelling. "I hate books! The last book I liked was by Marian Keyes!". Cormac and I don't really hit it off and we never meet up again.

Week 7: The Weatherman
Through another well-meaning friend, I end up going for drinks with a weatherman from an obscure cable television channel. I can't decide if like him for his looks and personality or if I'm just dazzled by his celebrity. While I'm trying to make my mind up, my well-meaning friend snogs him by mistake in the back seat of his Volvo and I decide sulkily that yes, I did like him for his looks and personality after all.

Pictures of red things

Clockwise from top left: Fire hydrant in Venice; Dave Christ as a clown in Alison's short film; Shane on the set of 'The Dream Factory'; Cathy as 'a Girl Called Magpie'; Raggi at Christmastime; Eavan's costume party; fire extinguishers in Dublin; Bjarni on top of a mountain; my niece Selkie at a music festival (centre).

Red Mum's colour challenge

Sunday

By the time Sunday morning crawls around it dawns on me that I only have two choices: I can either lay here in bed whimpering all day, or I can go out and buy myself a leather jacket.

A leather jacket isn't going to roll me over and have rebound-sex with me; a leather jacket isn't going to laugh at my jokes afterwards while I make an omelette; but a leather jacket is going get me one step closer to looking and feeling like a rockstar, and nothing is better than that.

Yesterday

Cleaning your apartment is boring; cleaning your apartment that you don't live in anymore is double boring; cleaning an empty apartment with your ex-boyfriend that you were once building a life in together is just awful. There's a new couple moving in soon. I hope they're miserable here, I think, as I hoover under the bare beds. I hope they break up! I hope they both get hurt!

"Do you want these?" he asks me, holding up a packet of condoms he finds in a drawer. I don't even answer, just glare at him. No, I don't want the horrible condoms that were handed out at the festival we went to last summer. What am I going to do with them? Make mint-flavoured balloon animals?

"What about this?" he asks, holding up a fridge-magnet. "Do you want this tacky but meaningful Betty Boop fridge-magnet that I bought for you that time in San Francisco when we felt we were really, truly in love with each other?"

Well, he doesn't say that, in fairness; he just holds it up and I glare at him again.

"No, I don't want that," I sigh. "What am I going to do with that kind of crap? Take it all the way to Hollywood with me?". And I say that word, Hollywood, just like that in italics, as if to show him hey, I am going places! Without you! Boo hoo! But it just sounds stupid, and he quietly drops the Betty Boop fridge-magnet in the bin.

"Well, I thought you might at least like this," he says, and I turn around, about to give out again, when I see he's holding up our old jar of coins from the bookshelf. "I thought you might want to give it to a homeless person," he says. "You were always going on about doing that one day."

I take the jar off him and turn it around. I can see euro coins — there must be at least 50 quid in there! And it's true, I am always talking about one day dumping a load of cash into the hands of a homeless guy, and then watching the happy smile on his face as he picks up his blankets and hurries off to buy some crystal meth.

"Well, thanks," I say, reluctant to come out of my sulk, but melting a little despite myself.

"Do you want this?" I ask him, holding up an old toenail clipping that I find under the bed and waving it in his face, as a warning not to ask me if I want to keep anything again. He backs away, and laughs, and then I laugh, and then we have a very long, long hug, and I cry for a while, and he holds me very tight. I wasn't expecting to be sad today, I tell him, spilling tears all over his shoulder. And he knows, he understands, he says that he felt sad earlier, too. And I don't want either of us to be sad, so I hold up a comb that I picked up for him in the supermarket once and sing into it, to the tune of that awful Coldplay song: "Look at this comb, I bought this comb for yoooou, and all the things you doooo..." and we laugh again and he suggests that we stop this stupid cleaning stuff and go for a pint and I think yes, let's go for a pint, let's go for a final pint now that this chapter in our lives is closed.

And as the evening sun shines in through the windows of our old apartment I remember how there was a time when we were pretty happy here, together, nesting and stuff, but that it never really felt right somehow, and all of a sudden I hope that the next couple who live here are really, truly happy together. I don't want people to be miserable. We're moving on, we have good lives, I want other people to have good lives, and I feel good feeling good that other people might feel good too.

And then he says, shit, it's nine-thirty already, and he can't go for a pint after all, because he's late for pints with... with someone else. And that's when I realise it: he's started seeing another girl. And he nods, cautiously, yes he is. And it doesn't matter that I knew this was coming, that I've been waiting for it for weeks now, avoiding the topic because I didn't want to know, but now, all of a sudden I do know, and it floors me; it hits me like a ton of bricks. And that's all I can say about that right now.

Pictures of yellow things

^ Some yellow shots from my photo archive, as part of Red Mum's colour thingy, because I still haven't taken any new pics recently. And yes, I realise that they are actually mostly blue.

Happiness writes in white

I've been doing a lot of 'going out' lately, and not just in a vengeful, determined way but sometimes even in a genuinely happy way, too. Being miserable was fun for a while, but there's only so much sulking you can do before your head falls off.

The trouble is, I've never really felt like writing much about Adventures in the Pub, so anytime I've wanted to blonk recently it's been during those dark moments that snuck up on me unexpectedly — giving my friends, family, Bono, and everybody else who reads my blog the impression that I'm perpetually glum. "Happiness writes in white," nods Manus sagely, quoting some important historical figure and summing up everything I've been trying to explain.

Last night I bumped into my friend's Best Gay Friend, Shane, who I haven't seen since before the break-up, and he flutters love and attention all over me, spinning me round to admire my 'new look' and informing me the word on the street is that I've gotten over it all very quickly. Really? That's the rumour? Oh, I like that! I am sassy and independent and Beyoncé would be proud — if only she'd call up for a chat and a cup of tea. But I guess it's all because I've been 'having fun'? I've been taking great pleasure in dressing up in my new clothes — what recession? — wearing hairstyles that are way too young for me — 'bunches'; how old am I, three? — then going out, rediscovering my sense of humour, and piling it onto anybody who's willing to listen. I've been finding myself way too funny lately: there's great mileage to be had out of getting dumped, and suddenly I understand why stand-up comics are all sad losers too.

My ex winces when I crack jokes about our split, especially when I refer to it as him dumping me, but overall he's glad to see me being pissy rather than sad. We meet up every so often, sometimes to catch up over dinner and sometimes just to sort out practical stuff — dividing up our old life into two parts — and it's nice to see each other, even if it's just so we can breathe a sigh of relief and think okay, this doesn't have to be our future anymore. Whenever we meet I have my usual weight of shopping bags with me, and he notes that I must be enjoying having my own money again. Yes, I nod, I am. I work very hard these days, putting long, long hours into this new career that I landed, and I intend to spend every last cent of it. I was never really that into shopping, but now all of a sudden I understand. There's something incredibly satisfying about walking into a room full of stuff and saying I want that, I want that, and I want that, and then leaving again with precisely those things. Getting exactly what you want is very therapeutic after being dumped, I think.