Alison's Diary

Mar 8 2009

Monday

Off to see Thriller at the Festival Theatre. It's the history of Michael Jackson's music, from ABC to the present day. Within 15 minutes the entire audience are on their feet and waving their arms, myself and Teenwolf included. By half time, there is a buzz round the auditorium and by the end everyone is moonwalking or doing a Thriller zombie routine. Great night. We get in the car and Teenwolf tries to find a dance track on the radio so we can boogie on the way home. "No way can I sleep after that," he says, so we sit up, drink hot chocolate and eat cake. Even watching other people exercise makes me hungry - there is no hope.

Tuesday

In the middle of writing my new book when I suffer a bout of laptopitis - my eyes are bulging and my head is throbbing due to prolonged staring at my laptop's screen. Need a clear head so in a fit of pique and despite the credit crunch, I go online and book a few days' skiing. At the last minute, as usual, I have to get on the fit bandwagon. My gym has a Powerplate, a vibrating platform that supposedly gives great results. As I was walking past it the other day someone shouted: "Have you had a go on the vibrator?" I walked even faster in the opposite direction. But today I climb aboard with Scott my trainer bossing me around. Blimey, even though you just stand on it and bend a wee bit you really feel the burn, as Jane Fonda, right, would say. I'm hopeful there may be a muscle to be found before my trip. We'll see.

Wednesday

I can feel my thighs - there must be muscle in there after all. Hallelujah! Dynamite, right, comes with me to the gym today so we can both brave the jiggling Powerplate. At one point we are shown a move where you have to jump with both feet onto the side of an exercise ball which has been cut in half. It is a bizarre feeling rather akin to using the horse at school PE classes. We subconsciously start competitive jumping, seeing who can leap highest. Inevitably we soon get carried away until eventually Dynamite flies by my ears and lands on her bum, turning her ankle and banging her head on the belly cruncher. Excused further exercise, she sits on a chair with a cold compress pressed against her throbbing leg and laughs away as I continue to do my best Skippy the Bush Kangaroo impression bouncing off the half ball, my sports bra under a great deal of strain.

Thursday

Legs like lead, I take a day off vibrations. Maintenance on the wig is overdue so I go for a short back and sides...ie a trim. My hairdresser, Craig, is looking very slim, sharp and together. "What have you been up to?" I ask. "Powerplate," he answers. Right, I'm going back. Once barnet is done I hit the gym. Sadly my new barnet looks less coiffured by the time I'm done, having transformed into a Crystal Tips, right, bouffant. But the fight for muscle in the thigh must go on. While in the changing rooms someone tells me Marks & Spencer and Poundstretcher are merging. In the current climate I don't bat an eyelid...until the smirking daftie tells me it will be renamed Stretchmarks. Got me.

Friday

Discover the Outsider Festival is being held again this year. It's at Rothiemurchus estate near Aviemore on June 27 and 28. Must gather pals from all over to meet and spend the weekend dancing. Having a glass of wine with Dynamite when her mum Muriel calls. They chat on then Dynamite starts laughing. Turns out her mum had said she was going to see Scumbag Millionaire. I suspect she hasn't quite got the gist of Slumdog Millionaire, above. The last time Muriel went to the cinema was to see The Reader. "How was it?" Di asked. "There was lots of sex," Muriel replied. What can you say to that eh? More tea vicar?

Saturday

Meet my niece Sarah for lunch in Escargot Blue, a new French restaurant in Edinburgh's Broughton Street. I feel like I've been transported to France. Everyone is French, there are baguettes on every surface and the food is divine. I order pigs' head tureen and it is fabulous. We eat and drink and it is just £25 for the two of us - can't be bad. Arrange to meet here every week for the rest of our lives. Meanwhile, Dynamite is also eating out with a pal. At the next table is a crowd with what looks like a football cup on the table. "What's the cup for?" Dynamite asks. "It's my father's ashes," comes the reply. Ah.