I don't know what life will be like at university but I'm pretty sure it won't consist of shoving my cat's arse into my mum's face and shouting "Smell the fart! Smell the fart!" and then laughing like a crazy witch. Welcome to another normal Tuesday dans le Jardine maison.

Because I lack originality I'm going to do what Caitlin and Laura have done and write my letter to television.

Dear Television,

We don't see each other as much as we used to. I remember watching The Simpsons and Robot Wars and Blue Peter almost religiously. But those days have gone, cast off into the wind along with my bright green primary school jumper and Pokemon cards.

Nowadays I watch you for about two hours a week. And when I say that, I mean that's the time I actually sit down in front of you, in a chair and watch your screen. The two programmes that have currently been given that honour are Doctor Who and Psychoville. Otherwise I guess I just sit upstairs, usually on my bed, watching all the other programmes that I can't watch downstairs. Bones and True Blood, basically. I'm going through a bit of a Bones phase right now, re-watching all of my favourite episodes and seeing as there have been six seasons that's a lot of mangled corpses to get through.

And then when Doctor Who finishes on Saturday until later this year (ahkfdkajskja) I guess it'll only be half an hour for Psychoville that we see each other anymore.

I'm sorry, my friend. But my bed is just comfier.

Love, Genie.

Yesterday at work a man and his daughter came in for cheese on toast. The girl must have been two or three years old, and she sat down at one of the tables whilst I made their lunch. They sat for a while and eventually got up, paid and left. Why are you telling me this Jane? This is boring! Indeed it is. But bare with, because it's about to get wild.

I was sweeping the floor, and had made it the rolls area, when I looked up to see a stuffed toy Piglet (as in Winnie the Pooh Piglet) sitting rather folornly, watching me, from one of the tables. I don't know why I suddenly felt a rush of sorrow, perhaps because my mum calls me Piglet (alright, alright stop laughing) and and this Piglet had been left behind. I don't want to be left behind, so I felt a connection with this little toy. Actually, it wasn't very little, it was a good thirty centimetres high and obviously well-loved. It wasn't grubby per say, but it had evidently seen its fair share of the world. Anyway I dropped the broom and cried "Oh no! The little girl has forgotten her Piglet!" to which Mork snorted and insinuated that it wasn't the end of the world or anything.

But I was determined. I spent the next ten or fifteen minutes desperatley trying to remember the company the man worked for and looking it up on my iPod. The broom lay forgotten. It was a sports company...or a health centre...Herts something? Perhaps I could ring them, get his number and tell him I've found his daughter's Piglet. That sound like something a deranged paedo might do but I'm not. I promise. I just care.

Twenty minutes rolled by and I wandered back to the broom to finish sweeping. Almost immediately upon my hand touching the handle, I heard someone say "Erm...excuse me?" from behind me.

It was the man and daughter! The little girl had obviously been crying and the man looked desperate. He asked if they'd left anyone behind and I reunited the little girl with Piglet. I swear the guy almost hugged me. I felt pretty good after that. Like I'd done my bit for the world. The little girl thanked me and they disappeared out the door and on there merry way.

Not three hours after I put up my Four Point Plan, it's already chugging away towards that oh so fabulous goal. Bring it on.

WHY I SHOULD NEVER GO TO THE BAFTAS

When I arrive outside the building, be it Grosvenor House or wherever, I'd go all silly and giggly because ohmfgkajshdakjd over there is Matt Smith! And look! Martin Freeman! Gillian Anderson! You get the picture. So I'd hurry up the carpet and probably go over on my ankle in my heels, and during my descent to the floor I'd grab onto Trevor McDonald's coat tails in order to remain upright. People would be pointing and staring so I'd run off to the loo to find that my face is bright red. I promptly down two glasses of Moet.

I take my place at my table, and Graham Norton or whoever comes out and I become aware that a cameras are flying around all over the place so I assume a facial expression that's a cross between absolute fear and tipsy embarrassment. Attractive (Anthony Head! Positions!).

Gradually the awards would start to roll out and I'd clap a lot and laugh loudly at jokes that aren't particularly funny. Like when Mr Norton says something like "The Only Way Is Essex? Really?" and people give a small ripple of giggles and from the back of the room you can hear me going BAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA when it all goes quiet. At this point the people on my table are wishing they were over there with Miranda Hart or Steve Coogan.

Then it would come to my category and my stomach would be in knots and I wouldn't be able to focus on the little video thing before so I'd forget to clap at everyone's work and then a camera would come on to me sitting there like a sweaty, stuck-up lemon. Then they announce that I've won and I promptly burst into tears. I make my way up to the stage wobbling about a bit due to my sore ankle and wine consumption. I'd kiss the presenter the wrong way and put the BAFTA the wrong way round on the podium. My speech would go like this:

"Oh blimey. This is very strange. I feel a bit like I'm going to faint, scream, laugh hysterically and wet myself all at the same time. Oh hey Matt Smith! Anyway, this is a very nice award and if there's anything I need it's a big gold face staring at me while I'm on the loo because of course it will go on my bathroom shelf. This is very toilet-oriented and my mother would be ashamed. But it's late, and I'm drunk. Hey Matt! So thanks to everyone I've worked with and that, and thanks to my friends and stuff. Screw you Beaumont drama department you f****ing tits! G'night all!"

There would be an akward pause and then people would clap and I'd sit down and do a head desk as a joke, not noticing that the posh bangers and mash that we'd ordered for dinner had arrived so my face gets covered in potato and dead pig.

In the after party, I attempt to talk to Matt Smith but he sees my eyelashes are full of buttered starch and runs away in fear. I go home clutching a BAFTA but full of shame.

The next day the newspapers run with the headline 'LATERS POTATERS!' and I never appear on television ever again.

The End.

I could fill this first paragraph with an apology and some sort of vague explanation as to why I haven't blogged for a long time. But I'm not going to. Instead I'm going to leap straight in to productivity with two stories from my week.

Today I went on a tour of the BBC White City, Media Centre and the Television Centre. I don't want to ramble on but I will tell you I saw where they film The One Show, the Top Gear and TARDIS meeting rooms, the area where Doctor Who Adventures (along with hundreds of other BBC magazines) is assembled, the news rooms, studios and 5 Live radio rooms, the massive aircraft hangar-type two-story space where the journalists and researchers go to make sure the BBC news programmes and sites run smoothly (which was both terrifying and fascinating at the same time) and also the Blue Peter garden which was absolutely tiny but so, so cool to stand in.

Not that I was expecting it to be stereotypically 'British' and very stoic and all about the work, but I was pleasantly surprised to find walking about the Media Centre that there was a definite element of fun. It was brightly coloured with, for example, Australian and Vietnamese sections which were random to get 'in the zone' and more unusually-shaped chairs than you could shake a stick at. Everyone seemed very happy to be there and rightly so.

The second story involves, for legal reasons, a bakery chain that for the sake of this story is called 'Plimmons' and a man who is called Mork. Anyway Mork slept in a week or so ago and promised not to do it again after Plimmons head office gave him a verbal warning. He was telling a young, impressionable and highly skilled, reliable, well-trained, responsible and all round catch called (for the sake of this story) Lane, whose name is pronounced with a J, about a festival he was going to with his fiance. Mork told Lane-with-a-J that it was a horror themed festival and he was going as the Devil. He continued to explain that he was planning to wear mechanical wings that extended to eight foot (four foot each side). Lane-with-a-J thought Mork was an idiot, and that surely that would irritate anyone withing an four foot radius of him, but said nothing, after all, she's extremely polite. Mork said his fiance was going as the girl from The Ring, inside a real television set. Lane-with-a-J found it difficult to hide a look of withering scepticism.

Mork didn't come in for work on Tuesday. It turned out the Devil and the scary Asian girl had been at the front of the crowd and the TV had cracked Mork's fiance's ribs. Lane-with-a-J didn't want to question why they didn't get out of the way when they realised there was a problem, but quickly remembered that Mork had been caught and fined for possession of cannabis and cocaine the week before. Lane-with-a-J assumed Mork and his ladyfriend had been too high to notice anything. Apparently Mork had been selling some kind of inhalable gas drug thing (see how hip and 'in' I am?) at the festival and also ended up in a police station.

Mork is getting fired soon from Plimmons.

Lane-with-a-J is hardly surprised.

I was going to post this blog, in fact I was halfway through writing it, when I heard the news that Lis Sladen had died. Then I went on holiday for a week, so it's a little belated, but the general gist stands out even more now I think. This is a blog post about Doctor Who.

There is no other programme in all of time and space that makes me as excited, emotional and comforted as Doctor Who does. It is the longest-running science fiction programme of all time; a multi-award winning myriad of bizarre monsters, relatable female companions and a mad man with a box. To sum up Doctor Who in one word would almost certainly result in a total event collapse. So I won't. Instead, I'll explain why I love it so much as simply as I can.

The Doctor

A Time Lord, the last Time Lord, running from his past and seemingly having fun doing it. Nine was a moody bloke from the north, fresh from the Time War and still reeling. Ten was a converse-wearing, occasionally Scottish goofball who fell in love with Rose Tyler and bounced about the TARDIS like a child. Eleven is a bow tie wearing master of silly jokes, sillier walks and a lover of fezes. Written like that the Doctor doesn't sound particularly serious, more an inter-planetary clown with uncontrollable mood swings. But somehow, be it due to the writing or the acting or whatever, he's the most lovable, heroic, intelligent and reliable being in all of creation. And he's just like us. It doesn't matter that he's over 900 years old and an alien because just like the rest of us mere mortals he runs because he's not ready to face the big things yet.

Amy: Have you ever run away from something because you were scared, or not ready, or just...just because you could?

The Doctor: Once. A long time ago.

Amy: What happened?

The Doctor: [gesturing to himself] Hello.

He has his fears and fails to hide them. He can go from joke telling friend to man fuelled purely by rage in a matter of seconds. He understands humans better than we understand ourselves and has proved to us time and time again there is a reason for creaky floorboards and our fear of the dark or why we got our most-wanted Christmas presents. He's totally himself all of the time and makes it okay for the rest of us to be that little bit weird sometimes, because he shows us that nothing really bad can come of it. That's why I love the Doctor.

That, and his incredible hair.

The Companion

Amy Pond is hands down my favourite companion ever. I guess because she embodies everything I loved about Rose and Donna, and Martha. She's reckless and courageous and clever and funny and just spot on. Without the companion there'd be no show. Or at least, there'd be Doctor Who but we'd have no idea what was going on. The companion asks what we want to know. They bring out the best and worst in the Doctor. They are arguably the most important character.

The Monsters

Everyone loves monsters. Sometimes, yes, they are pretty crap. Abzorbaloff anyone? But most of the time they are pretty ruthless and pretty terrifying. Watch Blink, or Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead or...well, actually, any Steven Moffat episode if you want to be freaked out. He takes our childhood fears and twists them into the scariest things you could think of. Indeed, the Silence are spine chilling and I'll be surprised if the BBC don't get complaints about how dark series 6 is so far. Especially considering parents complained about the Gelth being too scary. I mean, come on. Skeletal mind-altering men in black who you forget the minute you look away, or ghosts from Dickensian times that take over dead bodies. Take your pick, parents.

Doctor Who is brilliant because for 45 minutes a week you forget everything you were worrying about and finish feeling better about the things you were worrying about beforehand because you've just watched this impossible man and his friends prove that actually, there are far more good things in the universe than bad things. And Doctor Who will definitley add to your pile of good things.

What a day. Today was the 2011 Johnstone's Paint Trophy Final at Wembley. This is the same thing as the Football League Trophy, so it's kind of a big deal. Anyway we were up nice and early and in the Civil Service Club for sausage baguettes by half 9. The presentations went down pretty well and Lee Maddison's little interview was entertaining. We left for Wembley stadium and arrived in our seats at quarter to 12, for a 1:30 kick off.

I had a bet on either Curran or Marshall scoring in the 53rd minute, and Neil had his money on Peter Murphy scoring in the 64th, but we were both wrong. Sort of.

Murph did score, and his 12th minute goal was all the more impressive due to the fact his son was born on Friday night, and was in the crowd being held by his mum. Adorable. Promising Ben Marshall may be forced to end his season early due to a harsh tackle resulting in rumoured ligament damage, and there were some dodgy referee decisions but it didn't matter - when the final whistle blew the place exploded. They were playing Freedom Fighters by Two Steps From Hell as they went to collect the trophy and medals and there were balloons everywhere and confetti was flying about and it was just awesome.

I'm very, very happy.

Mum and I were just looking out of her bedroom window, which has a view of the back garden. We were watching Ruddles and Spider romp about in the garden, and spotted Herbie coming over for a visit too (our house has become a cat drop-in centre). Anyway, Mum was expressing her annoyance at the fact no-one bothered to get out of bed last night to find out what the strange banging noise coming from the living room was. I said I was too scared and terrified that someone was in the house, attempting to steal the Xbox. Note that I said Xbox there and not 'priceless family mementos'. Priorities, see? Anyway, my story was true, I was sat bolt upright in bed, straining my ears for a gruff cockney dialect and the sound of a shotgun being cocked.

Turns out someone had shut Ruddles in the front room all night and he'd been trying to claw the door open and wailing to no avail. Yes, I do feel guilty in retrospect. Don't blame it all on me, however, as Neil was apparently too frightened to move as well.

Anyway, so we were looking out of the window at the cats and the garden and the conversation went a bit like this:

Mum: I love the tree when it looks like that.

Me: I spent ages in Morrisons trying to decide which Empire cover I wanted. The blue one or the Fassbender one.

Mum: I love the tree when it's like that.

Me: I decided on the Fassbender one because, well, it's Fassbender. Everyone loves a bit of Fassbender.

Mum: exasperated Jane, that's nature out there!

Me: Fassbender is nature too, he's a human being!

The point I'm eventually trying to make is perhaps my priorities are not as well thought out as perhaps they should be. Who cares? I just priority booked my ticket to Empire's Big Screen event at the O2 arena in August. Movie previews! Secret screenings! Amazing guest appearances! I'm excited already.