It's Gonna Be A Bright, Bright, Bright, Sunshiney Day

It is so definitely spring! Blogland is alive with it, and I took a shortcut yesterday from the World of Work and walked past The Posh Houses... buds, and catkins, and shoots galore in the gardens. I have a hankering to buy some freesias today; tulips are gorgeous but they don't have a scent. Freesias, which we always used to buy on the way to my grandma's, are deliciously scented. Hell, I might even buy a tiny car-type hoover so I can keep the floors Properly Clean. (Don't tell anyone, but the henry's been up on the top floor since the christmas tree nicked its spot...)

Of course, I am already overjoyed by this morning's news that Jedward will be doing eurovision for Ireland. And that Colin and Justin are going to be on Let's Dance for comic relief. Oh, the aching sides I can feel coming on in the weeks to come, and the finger poised on the button to dial-a-vote for them all...

Some more sunny-colourification came our way yesterday in the form of itv's May The Best House Win. A former male model, now head to foot in yellow in Margate, with not only his own nude photos  splashed over every wall in his kitchen but with permanent christmas decorations everywhere. He was quite endearing, but couldn't stop himself bitching at the magnolia clunch walls in the minimalist's house.

Moving a notch up the colour spectrum, Mary Portas of the Tangerine Hair was on the back of some norf london estate agents this week. She mocked the bed-head look of their star salesman and got him to realise that while west may be the new south in terms of house-orientation, taking a good look at a property before trying to flog it was a better way to do these things. There are probably many fashionista blogs, from which we may learn how to source Ms P's exotically-patterned hosiery, but in the meantime here's some stripey legs:

We also liked the way a few notes of Bela Lugosi's Dead were slipped into the Andrew Graham-Dixon piece on Westminster Abbey on Thursday's eye candy that was the Culture Show. That'll be 17p in royalties then....

Salsa Spaghetti Arms

I know spending Friday night overdosing on rolos never used to be my idea of fun, but hey. I've got old german footage of Echo and The Bunnymen on, and that storm that only Scotland were supposed to get is raging on outside, part 2. Dreams tonight may be random, as they will be sugar-fuelled and broken by the crashing of loose debris on the roof. Last night, unaided by sugar, alcohol or indeed any stimulants at all, I conjured up a wilful hamster, stage-diving into a water dish then rolling in sawdust, plus my mum getting married again, with my cousin particularly enthusiatic in a rainbow-hued flamenco dress.

No idea where either of those came from, given that I'd watched something about Abraham Lincoln earlier. Mind you I couldn't seem to get that into it. Electric 6's fault.

Before that I checked out what was irritating Mary Portas this week: phone shops. Some grey wigs, and lots of striding about like a praying mantis on heels. We learnt that one man with waxed eyebrows plus his body-popping brother equals a lamborghini.

Am praying deeply that parents' evening is not imminent, as the 11 year old has told his design teacher that mum met Lee McQueen where she used to work. Like the leopardskin coat, that might be a detail they aren't ready for round these parts.

A Postful of Orange

Tonight we have cd's flying out of the cupboard, left right and centre. The rotting joists are dipping even more with the weight teetering next to the cd player.... Why I have not yet become an iPod convert I don't exactly know... maybe something to do with liking to have sleevenotes, cover art, info that comes with cd's, shards of plastic shearing off cheaply assembled cases...

So far we have known and lurved Sawdust (on which lurks a far more listenable version of romeo & juliet and an interesting Shadowplay cover), His'n'Hers, Urban Hymns, and now Electric Landlady. This one's getting all a bit samba-esque, albeit underlined by the tragedy with that speedboat. S'pose if I had an iPod I'd move on swiftly to There's A Man Works Down The Chipshop Swears He's Elvis.

Last night I flicked over to the many-shades-of-tangerine that is Mary Portas' dynamic coiffure. The marvellous Ms Portas was battling on behalf of people allegedly daft enough to buy pieces of furniture too large for their homes. She spoke to a salesman who earned £57k in commission by selling sofas to such people. Amazing.

And then, for a bit of late-night retrorama and pathos, I caught the Ruth Jones being Hattie Jacques thing. It came over pretty well, although ended with sadness and broken vases in a hotel room. However I lurved the delightful styling details du jour, such as this CatherineHolm kitchen ware. I may even be buying the Hattie biog, as long as its packed with Smiths-cover-worthy photos.