On a bit of a Temptations bender this week. This could be a contender for the greatest lyrics of all time:

Every stove has a fire

and every car has a tire.

Every fish has a bowl

and every shoe has a sole.

Everybody's got something but me.

Back in our courting days Gareth was in a band. He'd disappear into a manky studio every Saturday with his mates, make a racket and then sit around eating pizza. That is when I discovered tuna and sweetcorn is considered a tasty topping in Scotland.

Gareth played the bass, which is a very foxy instrument. I positively swooned when I first saw him on stage and knew I had to marry him. But alas, the band disbanded not long after that gig. Gareth pursued solo projects.

Then this year he joined a new band. I was all a-quiver until I heard the band already had a bass player. Dr G would be at the keyboard. That's hardly the most sexy of instruments, is it?

Not only that, he'd be doing fancy bleeps and samples and stuff, which meant he'd be nicking off with George the Powerbook all the time and leaving me stuck with the stupid PC.

But when I saw him playing a gig a few weeks ago I realised the appeal was not about the instrument but about the bloke. It is exciting to watch someone do something they love to do. The faraway expression, the intense concentration. People who are interested are interesting. Therefore I'll be taking up skydiving, stripping and sword fighting in order to keep the magic alive.

Meanwhile, Dr G's fame is spreading across the land. The other night the band were playing in a pub in deepest darkest Fife and a girl came up to him.

"Is your name Gareth?"

"Aye."

"D'you go wi' a lassie called Shauna?"

"Aye."

"I read her book!"

"Oh."

"She wrote about her man Gareth playing in bands so I wondered if it was you! Wah-hey! I've read all about you... being romantic and that!"

"Aww man."

We were sailing on the sea of shops in London and spotted our albatross - How To Look Good Naked host Gok Wan sipping coffee in Cafe Nero.

I would have touched him for good luck but my hands were already full of shopping bags. Some silly stuff like Batman undies but also useful stuff like a non-brown dress to wear to a wedding in July. I argued with Rhiannon and Margaret that it made me look like a flower pot but caved in the end as it was half price and I couldn’t be arsed trying on more dresses.

I’m still useless with clothes. I spent all my teens and much of my twenties being very large and depressed in my uniform of jeans and billowing tops. As I got smaller I just kept buying the same thing in decreasing sizes. Then I spent much of last year writing a book in my pajamas. Now back in the real world, I always seem to look conservative and… brown. I’ve wasted so much of my youth - I want to have some fun with clothes before it’s time for rayon slacks and eau de mothball.

To kickstart this process, style muffins Rhiannon and Margaret kindly volunteered to come shopping. It was a very generous thing to do, given my tendency to give up if a garment gets more complicated than a drawstring waist. But there was just one minor hissyfit, when they made me try on a pair of patent stilettos. The salesladies kept hovering and asking WHY did I refuse the patent stilettos and I finally snapped, “BECAUSE THEY LOOK CHEAP AND SLUTTY”

“Woohoo!” Margaret crowed, “We made her break down! This is totally our Trinny and Susannah moment!”

It was a truly cracking day; one of those ones where you remember how good it is to be a lady and hang out with your fellow ladies. Thank you thank you thank you.

Rhi and Margaret cleverly pre-empted my usual shopping apathy by laying down these Rules first thing in the morning. Click the pic for a more readable version!

Some people get the blues, Holly Golightly got the mean reds. I think I have the browns!

I’ve been splashing round in denial for months but today I am just going to admit to myself that things have gone a bit brown. Brown is not all bad, you know. It’s a nice hue for those with ginger hair and brown eyes. But it also the colour of shit.

So. I have this wee list of things - job husband family friends authoring health sanity hundreds of strangers who write and ask me how to fix their lives - and I’m screwing it all up. Sometimes my priorities have been completely wrong. Despite my lists! Why put “send Mothership text message” on a list? It would be quicker to send the text, DICKHEAD!

Anyway I am just about to put on my brown boots and my brown hoodie then head to London on the sleeper train and write things down that aren’t lists. Sorting out the rubbish in my head instead of ignoring it. Just in London for a day - hitting the shops with Rhiannon and our mate Margaret. I’ve been too lazy to buy new clothes for a couple of years and I’m tired of looking boring. And BROWN!

This here “blog” is eight years old today. Celebrating tonight by finishing off painting the living room then life can begin again.

Last week in the Kingdom of Fife we rejoiced in four consecutive days of fine weather. I took my sunglasses out of storage so I wouldn’t be blinded by bare midriffs on the high street. But judging from the long queues at the Tan Stand, they’ll all be orange soon.

Sunshine lends a wholesome air to the toun. I saw a girl walking to the park with a frisbee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Then I saw a peacock stop to pick up an abandonded chip. He fanned out his tail and tilted his head back, chip clenched in his tiny beak. I fumbled for my camera but the posing bastard gulped it down before I could focus.

Speaking of chips, we went out to Anstruther the other night. Nothing says summer like hot grease by the sea! I also wanted photographic evidence of a chip butty for my Dietgirl blog. I’d mentioned recently that Gareth was a devotee and some people were baffled and/or intrigued by the idea of carb on carb action.

Five years ago I would have been horrified, but now I see poetry in the bland, fluffy white roll, lubed up with butter and stuffed with flaccid fries.

Ask for a chip butty at the Anstruther chippie and your butty shall runneth over:

Gareth likes to eat the overflow first, building anticipation for the main event.

I went for the fish supper as usual. I had brought along my special Australianising Kit: chicken salt and a lemon. Back home you get lemon with fish by default, but over here you have to ask for it and they think you’re a freak. The chicken salt, which doesn’t contain actual chickens, was purchased for a ludicrous sum at the Australia Shop in Covent Garden a few years ago. I could take it or leave the stuff when I actually lived in Oz, but now flavoured sodium is a tasty, pathetic way of clinging to my roots.

ARRGHHHH! This weekend, for sure.