Tomorrow is the start of last-chance weekend: the early September rush to the museums for Londoners like myself who, while we certainly feel smug for living in a global cultural centre, got through an entire summer without seeing a world-class event. (I blame both the allure of Saturday morning lie-ins and the toil of reading Sunday newspapers.)
Big art shows at the Tates Modern and Britain, the Serpentine Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery and the Hayward will all shortly close, without me having followed Richard Long's rocky trails or had my eyes popped by a giant Jeff Koons canvas. Rankin hasn't taken my photograph at the Truman Brewery. My ears haven't throbbed to the sound systems at the Notting Hill Carnival, nor any of the sellout Hyde Park gigs, though I read friends' accounts of Blur and Springsteen on Facebook.
In fact, the only major event of the summer I witnessed was June's Tube strike – not that it was a cultural high point, although there was plenty of howling in the tailbacks on the Marylebone flyover.
I might as well have been living in Slough for all the big-ticket shows I've attended (does seeing The Time Traveler's Wife in an Odeon cinema count?). But who cares? It is the boundless possibilities of London's great arts scene that enriches me. Which is something to think about tomorrow as I draw the blinds and settle in for a marathon viewing of Phil & Kirstie.
In training to lose graciously
I don't spend all my weekends watching telly. Lately, my boyfriend and I started playing tennis at the park behind our house. In lieu of a human tennis coach, I'm using three-minute training clips on YouTube: "How to execute backhand"; "How to serve"; "How to do that cool flick-y thing where you pick up the ball with your foot". I haven't yet found a clip on "How to lose graciously", so I suspect my opponent will be posting one entitled: "How to buy your own bloody drinks then".
The truth, laid bare
We girls learnt some pretty interesting things about our bodies this week. If you lean forward, you get a roll of tummy fat! You're not obese or anything – but you might not be skinny enough to be a fashion model. And, if you've got wrinkly knees, or fat thighs, you probably (whisper it) won't look great in a really short miniskirt. Am-azing!
Body image obsession and all the sad, self-hating chat that accompanies it is the feminine equivalent of male functional autism. But am I the only woman who, on reading about plus-sized model Lizzie Miller's tummy, quickly found herself yearning for a statistical breakdown of the greatest Test cricketers in history?