I'm chuffed on this BBC Television series about a team of pro soccer players' wives. (One wife is actually named Chardonnay, or "Chard" for short.) It's a mix of The Sopranos, Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives done in sniping, English-tabloid style. And because it's created by women for women, it's full of goss about tossers and slappers, tackle and kit. Lost the plot? Never mind. The DVD features a slang dictionary to keep you from feeling like a complete dozy tart. The locker room scenery ain't bad neither.

I love music ... everything from Kris Kristofferson to U2, Cure, Bon Jovi, Spiritualized and Coldplay. The one that keeps me coming back is Kristofferson. I first heard his raspy voice singing tender love songs with Rita Coolidge in the early '70s and became smitten. Since then various groups have captured my attention and passion, but I always return to Kris. Best known as a songwriter and least as a singer, I love those heart-ripping lyrics sung with angst and sweet sincerity. He writes of love, pain, struggle, God, despair, rebellion; but in his most recent release, This Old Road, there is room for hope and gratitude. He gave a stirring performance at Keswick. So glad he is writing new tunes, on the road again, singing from his heart ... at the ripe young age of 69!

I am reading a book called Reading Lolita in Tehran, which is about a former university professor choosing a group of her best female students for a secret class in which they read great works and authors that are forbidden by the Iranian censors. It is an incredibly compelling story about these women confronting Islam, an incredibly misogynistic society and their own self-images through the lenses of writers such as Nabokov and Henry James. Puts our everyday American problems in perspective to see these amazing women quietly rebel against an oppressive atmosphere we can barely comprehend. A great book for anyone concerned about women's rights.

I've been writing a lot of porn lately. Naughty, luscious, healing, skanky porn. I'm on a deadline to finish my first book and the pressure is enough to make me nauseated and hateful. I took a walk the other day to force myself to think of anything else and the only thing that stuck was my forbidden crush on my young barista. Next thing I know, witty dialogue is flying from my laughing lips, my blood is pumping with an urgency to hit my laptop and I'm actually excited about writing again. Sure, I spent the next three hours avoiding my book and relieving some pressure, but when I did get back to it, my writing was loose and clever as ever.