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Friday 16th May

I know that with the advent of the 40-degree, drizzling spring that I should by now have worked myself into a joyful lather about the end of a winter that reduced us to twitching husks of our former selves. For some reason, it just hasn't happened. Each day I trip over a walkway decimated by ice-melting powder, the paving stones now heaved up by the frost. Last week's cloud-enshrouded lunar eclipse capped things nicely, as I stood on my lawn at midnight, hands on hips, and stared up into the greyest of firmaments and felt a kind of universal loathing for all things as a result of this most cosmic of gyps. And what is there to do to cheer myself up? The prospect of seeing Rebecca Romijn-Stamos sliding around in blue paint on the big screen leaves me strangely unmoved. *A Mighty Wind* didn't work at all, as Christopher Guest took the most fatuous of sub-humans, folk singers, and made them appear to be nice and unfunny. Another gyp. Uday Hussein still slithers across the earth, leaving a slimy trail of C-notes, knowing he will never be charged in the gruesome death of Laci Peterson. Infuriating. A young actress, Hilary Duff, is being catapulted to superstardom, due to the disgusting fact that she has looked like a twenty-four-year-old woman since she was twelve. Nobody talks about this. Melissa Stark has resigned from *Monday Night Football*, leaving us to contemplate the revolting John Madden. Only Jack White of the White Stripes seems able to lift me from this slough of despond. He will sell more records than Eric Clapton and the earth, tilting obscenely off its axis, will right itself somewhat. Outside my window, the frozen head of a yellow tulip slides off its stem and smashes into a million shards on the walk. They tell me this is spring.

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