Kick boxing with the nifty fifties today. My mum and aunts are leading the family in their exercise drive - jogging, yoga, long walks, kickboxing, trampolining, you name it, they do it all, thus becoming the 'the nifty fifties'. This was exercise retro style. No air-conditioned mirrored gym and logoed towels, just an old school hall, a few mats and some sweaty gloves and pads. We weren't here to pose and look good, no pilates style seductive stretches, instead, jogging, dropping to the floor for push ups and burpees, squats and tension relieving pummeling of the pads. Although perhaps I need more rage. I want to write 'Bang! This is is for...' and 'Bang! For...' But I can't think of anything to fill the dots with. Revision? Well Cyprus kind of washed that away. My room and three days of tidying? That sounds incredibly pathetic (even if by yesterday I was royally fed up with it, at least now I have fully alphabetisised shelves). Maybe this is why my punches weren't always that hard, although at the time I blamed low blood sugar and barely having eaten all day.

Tomorrow I head to a supposedly v trendy and celebrity filled club (yes, I am such a peasant that I google London clubs to see if they are hot or not). Apparently it is a 'svelte combination of mirrored glass & black snakeskin furnishings' and 'London's no 1 Friday night party – and most exclusive weekly party with strong celebrity presence'. Is anything but glass mirrored? I'm not a big fan of posey clubs, velvet ropes and jumped up bouncers. But you never know, maybe it will be fun. I gotta get down with this city girl lifestyle thing - its meant to be all about being one of those beautiful people hopping from party to party. If I could choose I think I would go for the media scene with book launches and film premieres and poetry slams rather than the straight up clubbing with the latest B list celebrity (who would be hidden away somewhere behind that velvet rope anyway)... Aah, the dreams of a wannabe socialite.