Yep, that’s Lister, Rimmer, Kryten and the Cat of the good ship Red Dwarf, as created by the magnificent revision-avoiding hands of Nicky, James and Tom.  I do love how, even in gingerbread form, Rimmer is losing his hair.  (I’ve only seen the first episode of the reunion special thingy, but so far it falls into ‘not at all bad and surprisingly non-cheapo-looking given that they allegedly made it for ninepence’ category: phew.  Weird having no laughter track, though.)

Keep them coming, people!  I think the Bake-A-Boy gallery is going to need a Gingerbread Spock before long…

  I’ve been a bit hopelessly distracted, so nothing new on the bookish front (though I am itching to get my mitts on Sally Nicholls’ Season of Secrets, because Ways To Live Forever was great; Zombie Queen of Newbury High by Amanda Ashby, because ZOMBIES; and The Teashop Girls by Laura Schaefer, because in places it sounds spookily like Girl Meets Cake…). In the meantime, here’s Tanya Gold’s brilliant Guardian piece on YouTube ’starlet’ Susan Boyle.

  I seem to be doing more unwriting than writing at the moment.  File The Becky Book under ‘You’ll Read It One Day, Probably’, because now I’m writing… something else.  Watch this space.  (Not literally, or your eyes will go funny.  At least get yourself a cup of tea or something: I might be a while.)  In the meantime, I’m at the final copyedit stage of My Invisible Boyfriend (ie the US version of Girl Meets Cake) – just as soon as I can get OpenOffice to play nicely with Word, sigh  – and they’ve been taking pretty pictures of pretty people for the cover!  It’s going to look so very gorgeous.

Getting sunburnt in Wales in April (???); having deep and meaningful discussions about the hobbies of mermaids with Small Person (“on weekends, they like to go to the garden centre”); melting into a very happy puddle in a turkish steam room (followed by a MINTY SHOWER, oh bliss); wondering why there’s still water dripping through the kitchen ceiling when my flat has been full of plumbers all week; feeling happyhappyhappy.

Clockwise from the left: Cally, Avon, Vila, Jenna, Servalan, Gan, with Blake in the middle.  Before hordes of fellow nerds beat me over the head – yes, I know Servalan isn’t actually one of the 7, but Gingerbread Orac was beyond even my skills.  Vila is a bit rubbish, alas, but I am terribly proud of Blake – and Gan was sort of accidental, but actually the resemblance is uncanny.  (Here’s the real Team Blake demonstrating what sleeves will be like in The Future: personally, I can’t wait.)  I still have a few distressingly naked gingerbread men left in the kitchen, so I may have to make Tarrant and Dayna and Soolin.  Or possibly a nice crickety Fifth Doctor…?

And yes, this is a perfectly sensible way to spend one’s time.  Ahem.  Feel free to join in, anyway: the Bake-a-Boy gallery needs more gingerbready lovemuppets!

  I’ve just finished Luisa Plaja’s brand-spanking-new Extreme Kissing, which I’m happy to report is every bit as sweet, funny and clever as Split By A Kiss.  Bethany and Carlota are best friends, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have secrets from each other.  Bets is terrified she might be pregnant, while Carlota’s not quite the girl everyone assumes – and their day of ‘Extreme Travelling’ (every move dictated by the random pages of a magazine) isn’t the escape from their troubles they’d hoped for.  The story whizzes along, alternately narrated by ‘good girl’ Bets and ‘wild child’ Lots, and even if you have a sneaking suspicion you’ve worked out Carlota’s secret, there might just be another one underneath… This is Plaja’s real gift: there’s a sense of absolute authenticity about her characters, whose lives (family, school, friends, boyfriends, past relationships, future hopes and fears) are so convincingly fleshed out that you really do end up caring about their multiple worries – and their triumphs too.  And of course, the whole thing feels effortlessly witty: Carlota’s ‘Reverse Goth’ fashion crusade, her tendency to knit under stress, the numerous moments where the girls completely misunderstand one another.  Perfect for Louise Rennison fans who like a little angst in with their teenage escapades!

  It’s publication day!  Girl Meets Cake is properly out in UK shops.  I’m celebrating by eating leftover cake from yesterday’s tea party while writing notes for The Becky Book (which isn’t called The Becky Book at all, obviously, but it’ll do for the minute).  Nom nom *pause for typing* nom.

  baking, baking, looking at pictures of Blake’s 7 costumes, baking… :D

The Lesser Spotted Bigwoo is by nature quite timid, but its magnificently shiny plumage should make it easy to locate. If in doubt, apparently look for it amidst books about cake. And geese. (Yep, I’m in the Cake & Geese section. Who knew?) And do please report any further early sightings of this fine fowl: it’s quite exciting seeing it on a shelf like that…

Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris (adult, contemporary). Office workers at a failing ad agency trundle through their mundane lives, which are shared through a collective voice. I haven’t come to the end yet, however, so I’m not in any position to pass judgement: so far file under ‘interesting conceit, but actually quite uninvolving’.

Musicals! Everyone loves musicals, right? Right? *looks hopeful*

Finally getting round to watching Die Hard 4 (liked the way they didn’t bother pretending it was in any way related to the other films: didn’t like the startling chunk of misogyny and racism that was applied to one character); eating very fine tortilla (and salmon, and risotto, and cheese, and actually I’m quite full just thinking about it); wondering why The Great Escape isn’t on.

Sport is mostly a dull thing to me. I was your typical specs ‘n’ textbook brainiac in school, and PE lessons rolled around on the timetable like a twice-weekly Room 101, performed in bri-nylon hotpants. The only time I ever threw a javelin, it went backwards. Hurdles, being at the approximate height of my armpits, were a bit of a challenge. I did make the school hockey team, but as goalie, a position where the only skill involved is intimidating the opposition by wearing really enormous clown shoes. Watching sport therefore tends to reduce me to a pimply-legged shivering 14-year-old, attempting to do cross-country half-naked through the streets of my home town to the sonorous hooting of passing cars.

But not rugby. It’s not a sport in Wales, not really: it’s a fandom. You buy the shirt; you argue about the team selection, favourites, past glories; you bellow like a loon at the telly, as if volume alone can spur your heroes on to glory, and then dissect and revisit and delight. It’s like Doctor Who, only with really muscular thighs.

For me, too, there’s a whopping chunk of nostalgia: going into Cardiff on match days to mooch round the shops and soak up the atmosphere, then home to line up on the sofa and holler (with a half-time cake to soothe nerves). The real joy is that I grew up watching the 80s, when we were mostly crap. And now? Well, look at Ryan’s face. :D

I keep failing to babble properly about Scarlett Thomas’s The End of Mr Y – partly because I’m not sure I can describe it. It’s a university novel: Ariel, impoverished student, is writing a PhD on ‘thought experiments’ in philosophy and literature while conducting an inappropriate affair and trying not to starve to death. It’s a book within a book: The End of Mr Y is a deeply obscure Victorian novel, said to curse anyone who reads it. It’s a sci-fi fantasy with bonus time-travel: the cursed novel isn’t fiction, but a key to a parallel world. It’s a thriller with evil agents and death threats, a romance, a genuinely complex and thought-provoking reflection on relationships, on time, on selfhood. It’s twelve books at once, and yet it never for a moment feels muddled or overstretched. Fascinating, intelligent, witty, brain-breaking – all the good things. I loved it. (I’m told by several that her PopCo is equally good: one for the Big List Of Things To Get Round To Reading.)

Biscuits & Lies progresses in lurches rather than leaps and bounds, but progress is progress. I’m still having fun with it, anyway (it’s reached the ‘Susie makes herself get some work done by coming up with stupid jokes’ stage, which is quite fundamental to my working routine). Publication of Big Woo (April 7th! That’s actually quite soon!) continues to impend. I’m still working on The Website, but all will be unveiled once there’s some ‘all’ to unveil. In the meantime, the US bound proof (a pre-publication version they send out to drum up interest) has already got a few bloggers Stateside talking, and in glowing terms too. Woo!

Suspecting my house is trying to kill me (ceilings falling down, microwaves on fire: Coming Soon: LOCUSTS!); watching Sunshine (an interesting take on the ‘people trapped inside a spaceship’ genre – but what the hell is the glittery gold spacesuit all about? Did no one tell the costume guys that the official colours of space travel are white and silver?); painting my fingernails Incredible Hulk green.

Or indeed the Go! Team, who I saw this week and are still so. much. fun live. It’s like being in an unusually kawaii school assembly run by Dr Teeth and the Electric Mayhem: all splitting the crowd down the middle for a singalong and prescribing the appropriate timing of one’s pogo. Gig was much enhanced by the doorman asking me for ID (and being hilariously floored when I told him my age), a bloke on the way out telling me I had ‘the best hair I’ve seen in ages. Well, six months’, and a random after-gig club with a playlist from Grandmaster Flash to the theme from Neighbours. Anyway, here’s Ladyflash for the uninitiated.

An interesting piece in the Times about how internet nerds are all girls these days, except in the world of programming. I’m depressed by the 12-year-old who thinks that girls only like the communicative fun bits and should leave the techie business to the boys (especially the day after International Women’s Day): maybe our schools need to be wallpapered again with the IT equivalent of those cheerfully grimy girls in boiler suits waving spanners to encourage us to become mechanics. (And let’s ignore the fact that I’ve been living up to my gender stereotype all weekend, harassing Wordpress templates into minimal degrees of submission and wishing it was all laid out a bit more visually.) Then again, is content really a lesser species than code? Web 2.0 isn’t just about the back end being Open Source so we can fiddle with it: it’s about simple elegant interfaces which let you get on with writing. Bet that 12-year-old grows up to be a journalist…

Not a lot of B&L writing due to the aforementioned Wordpress harassment (more on that soon, once there’s anything worth looking at), and scribbling some Big Woo promotional material. Imminent publication: it’s like having a proper job or something.

Watching Wales v Ireland and actually getting a bit teary (I am so proud of the boys, bless them, and now I’ve heard about the gouging I feel less cross about us earning 2 sin bins); finding out that someone very lovely is getting married, hurrah; eating pearl barley; moaning about Ashes to Ashes Alex Drake’s bra strap.