Belly strike

Didn't make it to my second bellydance class, the reason being that having to do it in bare feet was too much for my metatarsalgia. Having been overjoyed at Tommy's success in making my feet pain-free for the first time in years, it was dreadful to feel all his good work being ruined when the pains crept back after an hour's barefoot dancing.

I emailed Leila, my teacher, asking if it was all right for me to wear shoes, but I haven't had a reply. So next week, I shall turn up complete with tinkly scarf AND shoes, and hope I'll be allowed to wear them.

Today, with a hard frost and a cold wind, I am going out house-hunting in Bounds Green, North London, which is about the only London area where I can still afford a house, as opposed to a flat. I'll let you know how I get on. Oh, how I wish I had a pal at the seaside, though. I'm too cowardly to buy a place by the sea in a new area, where I don't know anyone. 30 years ago, even 20, I wouldn't have given a stuff, but now, in my dotage, it matters. A lot. Especially after three years of being cooped up friendless in Hillingdon. I want to say, "Whey-hey, let's all go to the pub," and have a jolly time.

Yet even that's not what it once was. People withdraw into themselves as they get older. They prefer snuggling up in front of Eastenders. I think it comes down to the fact that they are no longer interested in finding a man. Once you get to 60, Eastenders and stroking the cat seem vastly more preferable to perching on a sticky barstool with one eye on your handbag, one on your drink to make sure nobody spikes it, which leaves the third eye, the eye of instinct, the antenna of anticipation, to scan the room for talent. And let's face it, what talent over the age of 30 would be in the pub, anyway? I'd be better off moving to Peckham and going to poetry readings.