By the time I had finished my dinner this evening, I still had 1.5 hours before bed time. I thought that maybe I would watch a DVD or even start some homework (I am trying to write an article abut sustainable film productions).

Instead I spent my evening helping my temporary flatmate, Cara, learn her lines for a play she’s performing next Tuesday. The play was written for Henry VIII so the language is ye-olde-and-hard-to-understand English.

I would say the line immediately before Cara’s character’s lines, and Cara would start reciting. We went through each verse around 15 times.

I found it interesting. It seemed very difficult. Even though I had the lines right in front of me, I still stumbled over sentences.

Cara is my temporary flatmate while my actual flattie, Aoife, is in New York, also performing in a play.

At my old house, my flattie Richard was an actor, and flattie Damian was a former actor before he became a catering manager.

The creative industries is the third largest employer in London. That explains why I keep meeting people working in film, broadcasting, publishing, music, advertising, the arts, design, fashion, and the performing arts, despite me being a boring engineer.

I have blogger’s block.

I am unsurprised that other people have coined the phrase ‘blogger’s block‘ well before me. It’s an obvious one, isn’t it.

I remember when I was first on the internet. I was trying to create a character for a text-based role playing game and I remember thinking, ‘Wow, someone’s already chosen the name ‘Gandalf’.’

My brother and I tried dozens of internet handles. We ended with ‘VampireSmurf’. If we waited another week, VampireSmurf probably would have been taken.

No longer am I surprised that every idea I have is already on the internet.

This is cool. Use namechk.com check the availability of your username of choice on a whole bunch of sites.

Wow. There’s a joanium on a site called PictureTrail. Otherwise, all those joaniums are me. joanium is probably the nearest thing I’ll ever have to an original internet thought.

Damjan and I were on a mission. We were at Kensington High Street on the hunt for Damjan’s rejuvenated summer wardrobe. The targets were:

• Linen 3/4 length trousers
• Short sleeved shirts
• Sandals

Marks & Spencers was a gold mine. Within 15 minutes of browsing, we had bundled together six items and were heading to the change rooms so that Damjan could try them on.

‘That’s quite nice,’ I said, spotting a mannequin reclining on a high podium in the middle of the men’s department. The mannequin was sporting a light blue chequered short sleeved shirt. It looked chilled out, the very essence of summer.

Damjan went up to the mannequin and reached up to inspect the fabric. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I like it too. Let’s find it.’

For three minutes, we dashed around the podium. There were a few similar shirts but nothing quite the same.

We found someone at the change room to help us.

‘Excuse me,’ Damjan said. ‘I’m interested in a shirt that a mannequin is wearing but I can’t find it.’

‘I’ll come and have a look for it,’ the assistant said, ‘but it might be out of stock.’

‘Well, the shirt on the mannequin is my size… If it is the last one, can we buy it?’

‘I think so but I’ll have to ask the floor manager.’

Damjan arrived at the podium where I was waiting, bringing with him the shop assistant, the floor manager and someone who happened to be nearby inspecting M&S stock.

Before I knew it, they had wheeled over a ladder and were trying to undress the mannequin.

‘I can’t get it off,’ the floor manager said, struggling with the sleeve.

‘Trying twisting his arm backwards,’ said the inspector.

‘Lift him up off the display,’ suggested the shop assistant.

‘All this for a shirt,’ the floor manager grumbled with a smile. ‘I’ll bet he’s worn this one for weeks… Got it!’

With a flourish, she removed the top, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. The blue shirt was passed down the chain of people to Damjan.

‘Great! I’ll try it on now.’ he said.

Thankfully, after all that trouble, it does fit. Damjan looks rather fetching in it. It complements his dark hair.

After work on Thursdays, I sometimes go to women’s football training. The training sessions are organised by volunteers from work. It’s a thoroughly nice bunch of people. If they weren’t jolly and forgiving, I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I have. I’ve never played team sports before so I don’t yet have that knack of knowing where I should be and how I can help out my team mates.

I do have the advantage of being fit and, as they said to me, ‘It’s good that you’re not afraid of the ball.’ So you’ll see me chasing the ball wherever it goes. When I am after the ball, I feel a bubble rising inside me that can only be released by heckling my opponent and shouting them down. I don’t think this is the ‘done’ thing, though, so I have to suppress my more violent instincts.

In one exercise, we were trying to score a goal with our coach, Joel, as the goal keeper. My team mate Kate did a massive kick that flew straight towards the goal. Joel dived and deflected it past me.

As he lay there, splayed on the grass, I swerved past him and yelled, ‘Kick hiiiiim!’

He leaped up and stared at me. ‘Wow, Joan. You are scary!’