Dear [reader],

Thank you for your recent email. As you can probably tell, I am a swamped with non-weblog activities at the moment, and therefore not keeping the most careful maintenance of this site.

You commented on my [lack of explicit sex/lack of work updates/poor spelling/bad attitude] and offered useful advice to [give out my contact details/find a new job/throw myself at the first willing man who passes/admit I am really Toby Young]. I appreciate the feedback. However, due to circumstances beyond my control, there is very little going on at the moment that I feel comfortable or able to write about here. Your continued patience is appreciated. It's also worth pointing out that [there are other things to read, try some/this is a free site, count yourself lucky to get anything/patience is a virtue/you're reading a whore's weblog, you expected maybe Milan bloody Kundera?].

Those of you who have [offered to write my book for me as you are obviously so much better qualified to do it/sent a link to your site asking what I thought/emailed for relationship advice/emailed for book recommendations] have not yet received answers. I apologise. It's because I [can write it myself, thank you/haven't had the time to reply/don't know how to solve your problems/am reading The Iliad].

Those few who have threatened to [move on to other entertainments/un-link the blog from theirs/go outside and enjoy the sunshine] move me not at all. Do whatever you wish. I'm not your flipping trained seal.

xx
Belle

p.s. - yes, I realise this constitutes another example of bad attitude.
p.p.s. - no, I am not having PMT.

Last night when I checked email, Hotmail offered a link to 'Dating Tips from the Animal Kingdom'. Expecting the piece to delight and entertain was about as fruitful as reading the back of a shampoo bottle in search of fine literature, so I offer instead an alternative list of dating tips from the animal kingdom.

1. Our good friends and co-evolutionaries Canis familiaris (the domestic dog) show that when in doubt which hole to aim for, thrust wildly. You are bound to land in something good.

2. Shrimps' hearts are in their heads. Men have neither hearts nor heads.

3. The tongue of a giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis) is half a metre in length, long enough to clean its own ears. If you can do the same there may be a career option you had not yet considered...

4. Dolphins engage in group sex. If those squeaky grey-skinned fisheaters can do it, so can you.

5. The females of the bonobo species (Pan paniscus), closely related to humans, are known to use sexual favours to gain status and food. A point to remember next time you're short of change at the corner shop.

6. Some ribbon worms will eat themselves if they can’t find food. Unfortunately, men unable to find sex are rarely so talented.

7. The anal glands of cats, genus Felis, are used to mark their territory and identify themselves to other cats. Whether this explanation will convince the hotel not to charge you for excess laundering is questionable.

8. The sailfish, the swordfish and the mako shark can all swim at a speed of over 50 miles per hour. If you meet someone unpleasant at a club it's unlikely you'll be able to escape as quickly.

9. Lions have been known to mate over 50 times a day. This is probably the sole criterion to become King of the Jungle.

10. A rhinoceros's horn is made of hair. Men who are lacking in the horn department, on the other hand, are not advised to grow ponytails to compensate for the fact.

11. Human birth control pills work on gorillas. If you have more success finding contraceptives and a female gorilla than a mate, something has gone horribly wrong.

12. Time is limited and some opportunities may never repeat themselves. Take a tip from swallows of the genus Hirundo, who mate in midair, regardless of the number of people on the flight.

As an aside, whilst researching this entry I ran across a site of dolphin dildoes. By which I do not mean dildoes shaped like dolphins. I mean dildoes the size and shape of a dolphin's member. Eep.

Drinks with an A, a heretofore-unmentioned S, and one of N's friends from work last night. We lit on a gastropub.

Gastropubs seem an excellent concept. Pubs are already places where people congregate to spend their time and money; why not lay on decent food as well? Unfortunately, the menu was slightly beyond the capability in the kitchen. I'm not certain what S and I ordered to share, but I'm quite sure it didn't contain rhubarb and sausage, unlike the dish that
arrived. I couldn't care if the boar contained within was wild, farm-reared or crashing. Because I don't eat sausage. Not for religious or ethical reasons - I'm not a fan of its texture.

Isn't the concept of sausage odd? Minced pig stuffed into part of a pig's digestive tract. With herbs. It's more like an anal necrophiliac bestial fetish than a foodstuff. Someone once told me of a speciality sausage from his homeland, which amounted to pig tract stuffed with more pig tract. Words fail.

At any rate. I am a champion whinger and promptly hijacked the attention of the nice boy serving us to bend his ear on the subject of my displeasure. This is a hereditary trait passed between the women of my family, whose dining out standards are so high and tolerance for embarrassing fellow diners so extreme that there isn't a kitchen between Hackney and Harrogate that hasn't cowered in our wake. I used to cringe when my mother, inevitably, started asking the wait staff uncomfortable questions, little realising the habit was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off in my own body.

To her credit, she usually gets what she wants.

We did, eventually, receive something resembling what we wanted. Even then it was on the random and misguided side. After eating we tucked into pints. I haven't been out nearly enough lately and was enjoying the company. We talked over all manner of subjects, ranging from supermarket queues to plans for gardens to the appalling state of driving in this city.

"Would you listen to us," A smiled after a bit. "Bunch of old folks talking about traffic and the weather."

We laughed. Roll on middle age!

I want so very little out of life, really. All a girl asks for is

- a haircut that looks the same regardless of wind speed or direction
- to be smiled back at, by people I smile at
- shoes that make you look taller, and look nice, and can be used for actual walking
- for only disabled people to park in disabled spots
- instant mastery of all things kitchen-related
- a bit of sunshine now and then
- a worldwide ban on polyphonic ringtones
- a worldwide ban on phones which give you no options save a polyphonic ringtone
- a cessation of all suffering, backdated to the beginning of time

There is really nothing I can write that would not have already been expressed better, elsewhere.

But I have never felt so far away from a place as I have seeing it on television the last two days.

With any move comes a decision - where is the new epicentre of the universe?

Until this recent move, it was the room in the house I was living in that had the largest television. There we congregated; there was where people came when they needed to find us. To the television and its warm, welcoming light.

The place before that, it was a rather nice London club. Everyone was there, or knew someone there, or knew someone who knew someone there. It didn't matter if you were a member or not, because membership was not necessarily related to applications and fees, more a subconscious sense of who was in and who was out. If at a loss for something to do, go to the club, and something would happen. Don't come crying to me - I didn't say something good would happen, just something.

The place before that, the epicentre of the universe was my kitchen.

Before that, the conservatory.

Before that, the kitchen again. Hmm, I see a trend here, and it probably relates to kettles and milk and the relative locations thereof.

This new living arrangement has no epicentre yet. I'm auditioning them this week. It can't be where I live - slightly scary neighbours, not enough chairs. So there is public location one, which has the definite drawback of closing rather too early of an evening.

Public location two is somewhat better, and offers pleasing libations, but is frequented by a slightly unnerving population of religious fanatics and ageing hippies.

Tonight's candidate for Unviersal Epicentre is very large, plays okayish music, has wireless access. And is currently populated by myself and two gentlemen on the billiard table.

We may well have a winner.

Before I forget to mention, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a terribly good film. So good, in fact, you will leave the cinema in a half-daze, wander aimlessly by the river for a few hours, smiling benevolently on the drunks amassing at the water's edge in complete ignorance of the spring tides and wonder, at turns, whether you would erase someone or not, whether your life would be any better or, in fact, somewhat depleted by such an occurrence. You will continue this train of thought for some time, imagining the things you would or would not want to save and - scarifying as they may be - the way things ended. What this means about you as a person. What this means about us as a species.

Not good first date fodder, in retrospect.

I don't always have the luxury of preparing for an appointment in the comfort of home.

Once I attended a booking directly from a job interview. This was acceptable but not ideal; the clothing was almost right for an afternoon meeting, and the makeup certainly was, but it was a bit odd to be walking around with a CV tucked away next to a box of condoms. And a little worried that someone may have glanced in my bag and noticed them at the interview.

Would that help or harm the chances of employment, I wonder? And yes, I was offered the job, but didn't take it in the end - just more office admin rubbish that would end up nowhere in a year's time.

Another time I readied myself in a museum toilet. This was very early on, when I was convinced that the punting world would beat a path to my door, and went round with a light summery dress, strappy heels, latex bits and change of knickers in a bag just in case. This was before I realised that I didn't have to work at breakneck pace to make my bills and expenses, and also that most punters would accept a meeting one or two hours later than requested if they really wanted me. If not, well, there are plenty of fish for hire in the sea.

I applied lipgloss and mascara as dozens of tourists trailed in and out of the toilets. If there is a uniform for tour groups, and I assume there must be, it is this: overlong shorts, white trainers, voluminous t-shirts advertising the last place visited, visor, hair in pigtails, shoulder bag.

I can't begin to imagine what they thought I was dressing for.

(And to answer a question or three that has come up in email: yes, I do work the blog on a time-delay. But not all the time. Some of the entries are posted a few days or longer after they happened. There are also jottings going spare that get chucked in anywhere, as they are not time dependent. This is one of those.)

There is one client with my real name and phone number. He rang to ask why I wasn't seeing anyone. Being a regular, after all, shouldn't he be the first to know if I was off the market?

"I'm not," I said. "Have you heard otherwise?"

He said he'd rung a couple of weeks ago and the manager had said I was on holiday. Ah, yes, that's because I was, I apologised. Then I rang yesterday, he said. And she said you were away indefinitely and offered me someone else.

Have I been not-so-subtly dropped? I checked the website and my profile is still there, though rather lower in the listing than efore. No matter. He offered to book with me privately for next week. I said I'd think about it.

N has taken a hiatus from his usual running commentary on sport and tits to focus on pussy.

His cat, that is.

Unlike my dearly departed feline, who would take to spring like a cat to a nest full of little flightless baby birds, using her cat-like reflexes to jump cattily from branch to branch scaring the living kittens out of any and all tree-dwellers, N's pussy has been dragging along unable even to pull herself up the steps.

She came back from the veterinary clinic with a bandaged paw and a pinched look, as it was explained to me, having had a thorn the size of another cat drawn out of her foot. It had formed an abcess and - well, something too disgusting and technical to go into, really. But I gather it involved 'draining,' which I presume has nothing to do with kitchen sinks. N has been looking after her with the tender mercy of a ward sister who missed her calling. It's rather sweet.

Last night as we left the gym, he did not offer me a lift home, nor suggest a drink or a meal somewhere. Mumbling something about changing a dressing, he all but ran to the car park.

I smirked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting a little pussy on the side."

Love. A spotter's guide.

Love at First Sight: the overwhelming desire to see the inside of the nearest closet (pub toilet, friend's back garden, the alleyway over there et al.).

True Love: can be introduced to the family without unreasonable fear of embarrassment. On the part of the family.

Everlasting Love: a polyamorous couple who haven't had sex with each other in years.

Love Match: an alliance between kingdoms.

The Love of Your Life: the indolent boy from your last year at Uni who spent 8+ hours a day online and ate all the Nutella, the memory of whom somehow improves with time.

In Love: a momentary instance of being almost as interested in someone else as in oneself.

Loving: capable of untold amounts of suffocation.

Motherly Love: capable of untold amounts of suffocation.

Brotherly Love: forbidden by the moral laws of most world religions.

Lover: the one who comes round when your partner's 'out of town on business' (read: seeing his lover).

Lovable: cuddly. In the pejorative sense (similar to the concept of 'shapely legs,' which is code for chubby).

Lovely: only just bearable. "That was a lovely party! I do hope you take me to Kettering again!"

The computation devices in SMERSH station: Belle Towers are now fully operational.

It took a week or more of skulking round, digging out unloved laptops and buying the necessary doodahs to connect to wireless networks for the duration (bless you, British Library). Now I am back at my machine, looking over my scattered and jumbled files again, with no good excuse not to do some proper work. The box has had its spring cleaning. Presumably inspiration will follow.

(So long as you understand I take 'inspiration' to mean 'browsing and possibly buying things I really have no use for, online')

Someone has asked about my taste in music and I know it's so terribly last year, but I can not recommend Flaming Lips' 'Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots' highly enough.

N and I went out for Italian and beer. We sat outside waiting for the food. It was a mild evening, I was a little tired from a long session of working out frustrations in the gym, and the drink went straight to my head. We talked about the coming month, what he was doing with work, a bit about women he was interested in. I confessed that I'd been doing a little Internet snooping on the Boy.

We must be in sync - N, who has been so good about not obsessing on his own ex, revealed that he'd been doing the same. "So did you find anything?" I asked first. Nothing, he said. Maybe she was married. Maybe she moved. I thought it was too soon. She was an impulsive girl, a bit dappy, but settling down already would beggar belief even for her. He asked if I found anything.

"A little," I said. "Enough." He's moved, he's probably single. Nothing earth shattering. We sipped at our drinks. The food came. The first course was bigger than we expected, he finished mine off. The second course came, I just had a salad. I supppose I feel I've violated the Boy's privacy by looking, but couldn't stop myself.

"Mutual inability to let go," N said.

"Yes." We sat in silence a bit longer, chewing, waving off the ubiquitous fresh-ground-pepper boys with their porn sized grinders.

"So, meet any nice girls with big tits lately?" he asked suddenly. I laughed so hard I almost choked on a mouthful of rocket.

The manager and I are still at apparent loggerheads. She hasn't rung me, and in the last three days I haven't tried to ring her. While I appreciate this sort of treatment may be a mainstay of all madames' arsenals, I don't half feel like calling her up to say, 'Pardon me, but do you know who I am?'

Must resist the urge to smack-down, though. I always wondered why the profiles on the website were occasionally shuffled to put some girls above others. Now I suppose I know.

Ahh, the (relative) freedom. No particular desire to make or keep manicure/waxing/any other appointments. Though I daresay if the sun comes out and I go into the garden in a bikini, someone may be forgiven for coming at me with a strimmer.

Walking last night from a friend's house to the tube station I passed a shop festooned in the most horrible things ever: little plaster babies' feet. Painted in pastel colours. Sticking out of the wall. Someone please assure me that the biological desire to reproduce does not signal the end of taste. It's enough to put a girl off her vibrator for fear of being impregnated with jelly babies.

The papers are full of disturbing images, the sort that lead one to think about politics, war, and the politics of war, and how these acts have always happened except we could never see them before. How righteous indignation and backlash sometimes seem products of ignorance, because who could not have guessed this would happen? Did we really need pictures in order to know? Are we truly angry at governments for doing what we knew they would do?

And you think, perhaps, there is one guarantee in life (that it ends) and one fairly safe bet as well (that it is painful) and freedom and property are illusions that can only exist in the mind. And that cleverer people have already thought these thoughts and discarded them and why don't I stop this rubbish philosophising already? Oh look, a woman in a stripey hat walking a champagne poodle.

I don't mean to make light of these events, but I'm hoping for a little pickup in the terror-sex department. It would do me the world of good.

Ah. I must look like the world's largest mug, as I was just approached by three fundraising youths from the very same charity, all on the same street. Sorry lads - did you not see me brushing off the last one?

Fundraiser 1: "Where are you from?"

Me: "Guess."

"Barnsley."

"Sorry, no. Where are you from?"

"Barnsley."

Fundraiser 2: "What's your name?"

Me: "Lisa." (obviously, not my real name)

"Fantastic, Lucy. Have you ever thought about how many people will be afflicted with mental illness in their lifetimes?"

"No, but I understand short-term memory is a growing problem."

Fundraiser 3: "Can you guess what proportion of the UK will suffer mental illness at some time in their lives?"

Me: "One out of three. I just heard all this thirty seconds ago, thank you."

Things you may not have needed, but perhaps were curious to, although there are perhaps a few people who already, know about Belle.

1. I love to sing.

When alone, I am usually listening to music or singing. The As and N are cruelly and repeatedly subjected to this. I always sing in the shower. Once, I forgot myself and started singing in a client's toilet - when I came out he was laughing. I love to sing, but am not a very good singer, alas.

2. I love perfume.

Especially if it smells of citrus or lavender. I love smelling it (in small doses) on other people, as well.

3. I prefer the texture of food to the taste.

Raw mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, sandwich pickle and fudge all feel good to the tongue. Pasta, peanut butter and cooked carrots do not.

4. I can tell edible mushrooms from poisonous ones. Usually.

Admittedly, this is not a skill that comes into use very often. I can also identify most of the speedwell (genus Veronica) wildflowers. This is of no use to man nor beast.

5. The day of my birth was predicted by my mum's best friend.

Spooky.

6. I have kept diaries since the age of seven.

Not continuously, mind. And most of them no longer exist. What on earth do seven-year-olds write about? Although the years between ages thirteen and nineteen are probably best lost to the winds of time.

7. I like women. Yes, in that way.

I am sexually attracted to both women and men in almost equal number but would rather have a relationship with a man. By my reckoning this reads as 'essentially straight,' but it seems silly that there need be a label at all.

8. My dream dinner party would include...

William Styron, Katharine Hepburn, flip-flops, Noel Coward, Iman, cashew nuts, Alan Turing, Margaret Mead, Dan Savage, fruity cocktails, Ryan Philippe and a dungeon.

9. I don't want to work independent of an agency.

Regardless of what happens. The clients are vetted through them and never even get so much as my phone number. I spend enough time on the phone as it is, and I've seen the manager having to take enquiries in public. I do actually have other avocations besides what is reported here. Managing my own appointments would cut into that.

9a. I've said it many times, but...

You can not book me through this website. This site is anonymous because I don't want people to know who I am. My income does not need further enhancement. Besides, isn't it more fun to think that I could be anyone, sitting next to you on public transport, or any hooker you hire?

9b. That said, I still haven't heard from the manager.

You would think she'd at least have the decency to ignore me on a sunny weekend.

10. Je ne regrette rien.

If the textbooks are to be believed, this makes me a psychopath. If the glossy magazines are to be believed, this makes me an independent modern woman.

A few days ago I had a missed call from the agency and a text from the manager, confirming a client at half nine.

I rang her back. "Terribly sorry, you'll have to ring him back, I'm still away."

"Ah right darling. You see, this man, he is so nice..."

"No, I'm actually away. Out of the country. I'm not back until late Tuesday." As I told her, in several calls and emails through the last few weeks.

"Are you certain? Because he asked specifically for you."

Am I certain I'm not home? Yes, fairly sure of that. Unless north London has suddenly turned into a sunny seaside locale full of flowering plants. It could happen. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Can I ask him if he would be willing to book you for tomorrow instead?"

Lady, are you deaf? "I can't do tomorrow. I'm not back until Tuesday."

She sighed. For the love of... it's not as if the man wants to marry me. Someone else from the agency would probably do just as well. I said so, as gently as possible. "I think perhaps you should take this job less casually," she said tartly and hung up. Ten minutes later a text came through - LOST BOOKING.

I texted her on returning home, but have not heard back yet.

Greetings, chaps and chapesses. I'm back in London, tanned, rested and ready.

But for one problem: viruses. Not the wee cell-invading, phlegm-inducing sort, but the computer sort. I am forced for at least the next day or two to conduct all Belle related activities far from the cosy womb of my flat. This entails no small amount of guile, as my limited experience in Internet cafes leads me to believe there is nothing so compulsively readable as the monitor of the person next to you.

So if you see me out and about, do say hello.

On second thought - don't.