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So. The service industry. The United Kingdom gets minus ten points in this domain. America gets plus three hundred and sixty four thousand, nine hundred and forty-three. Why? Because these guys are INSANE. I'm talking snort-your-crack crazy. Perkier than Heidi Montag's new double D's. I mean eat all the chicken, dance naked on the roof, lock yourself in a room full of teddy bears and cry out for the return of Elvis from our friends E.T., The Who and Willy Wonker MAD. And I could qualify this a big OH NO! I MEAN IT IN A GOOD WAY! but I'm pre-menstrual so actually, I'll take the rude and sullen British for now. Thanks anyway. I guess I'm still pissed that the veggie option here is tofu or tofu. I've gone three days without a poo AMERICA. And it's all your fault. At dinner with my flatmate (hold on- apartmentmate? No. That just sounds wrong AMERICA) and seriously, the waitress? I don't understand why she didn't just pull up a chair and take a honk o...

So. I edited a book. It has a story of mine in it too. You should buy the book, and not just because you think I'M amazing (which I am) but because the book is amazing (it really is). It features death. Chance encounter. Lies. Secrets. Sex. It even has a man with a strange relationship with the moon. So, you know, BUY IT. If you live in the UK go here , and for my US friends, click  here  for your fill of What We Wrote delight. I'm so, so proud of this. So proud that if you buy a copy I'll give you a free footrub*. Enjoy! (And email me on mynameislaurajanewilliams@googlemail.com to let me know what you think...) *I wouldn't actually touch your manky, unpumiced feet with a sterilised teen foot bargpole. But you know. That's my creative license.

We'd talked about hanging out, but when the call came I wasn't expecting such a strong call to arms. "If you are free, do you want to come and work out with me?" he said. I was flattered he thought I might even own a pair of trainers. I weakly uttered an okay because I promised myself a long time ago that I would- rightly or wrongly- ALWAYS SAY YES TO LIFE, so we arranged a time and then I went to have a bit of a preemptive lie down. When the time came for us to leave the house though, it seemed like the Gods were smiling on me. I couldn't find my house key. And I mean I really couldn't find it. It wasn't nestled in my sock drawer between my ex-boyfriend's socks and my new Victoria's Secret knickers (Victoria's Secret gets America ten bonus points by the way. VERY NICE. But then they don't sell Quorn, so they started at minus ten anyway.) (I mean that America doesn't sell Quorn. Not Victoria's Secret. That would be weird. Could you ...

Place puff inside jar and hold in place. Invert and shake gently. Tap excess. Apply.

So it's been two and a half weeks and I've still not been on an American date. I make the distinction because Brits don't date. Not properly. We spend a series of Friday nights eyeing up some guy in a bad shirt but who seems to be laughing a lot in the pub, then one night we get drunk enough to talk to him, let him grope us on a park bench, and then seventeen years later we wake up with three kids, saggy boobs, no sex drive and his credit card debt in our name. What we don't do is hang out, progress from coffee to dinner to movie night to intimacy. W hat we DEFINITELY don't do is VALENTINES DAY, which is already is rearing it's ugly pink, sparkled head here in Michigan and it makes me want to vomit in my mouth, swallow, and then wash it down with a double hit of razor blades soaked in vodka. On the rocks. I commented to my British friend that come V-Day, I'll be watching E! in bed with a tub of Ben and Jerry's and looking at photographs of when I was hap...

You have a new me but I've got brand new sneakers that fit properly.

I'd had a whole half pint of cider, so when he stuck his tongue out at me I stuck mine out back. I could tell he was one of those guys. Not washed in a while, kind of sweaty from the effort of throwing down so many beers in tight convoy down his throat, on the prowl. So naturally he approached the table. "Ladies!" he said, swaying awkwardly from side to side and doing that point with the thumb-as-a-trigger thing as he attempted to wink. It turned out as more of an exaggerated blink. "I'm Bob." I suspect he thought he was talking to a table of nine girls. His gaze was sort of blurred. "Hi Bob!" we chorused. "And who are you lovely-" he hiccuped at this point, "-girls?" I winced at his choice of words. "Natalie," said my friend, whose name is not Natalie. "Courtney," said my friend, whose name is not Courtney. I thought on my feet, and quickly. "Lorraine," I said, offering a hand. Natalie and Courtne...