Jenni Ajderian

Yes, I did nearly write Desperate Housewives. Though it's hard to think of a show more different.      Normally, historical dramas bore me. They're either simply too stuffy to be really called drama or they try to make the era in question seem too cool, to have too much swash-and-buckle. So, admittedly, I didn't sit down to watch the BBC's new 19th-century drama, documenting the arduous lives of the new Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, with the most open of minds. I also didn't sit down alone- my clasicist mother and cynic father were both next to me, so between us I think we held a great enough spread of opinions to shine some sort of light on the proceedings.      The first comment to come from my parents, then, was on the costume- "Fabulous waistcoats" adorn all three of the Pre-Raphaelites, particularly Gabriel Dante Rosetti (Aidan Turner). This particular artist also seems to have been handed the long stick in terms of one-liners, and it's clear to s

Before heading off to Rhodes with 8 friends, nearly everyone I told about the trip put on a warning face.      Once they'd heard we would be spending a week in the "rape capital of Europe", everyone had their own piece of advice to give- always stay in groups of four, carry rape whistles, tasers, pepper spray, attack dogs, all of which definitely would not fit in your handbag along with a camera and those precious euros. The images the media give you of Faliraki, one small town on the island of Rhodes packed full of bars, clubs and restaurants, are of huge groups of British tourists- all members of the 18/30 club or on some package holiday- having drink poured directly down their throats, staggering along the streets and disappearing into dark alleys together. So this is, partially, what I was expecting when we got out to Billy's Apartments in Faliraki.      We got in at four in the morning, and one of my friends swore she had been smelling the "Greek air"

"Bristol, it's fucking hot up here"      I don't know about you, but I never expected the sweet-voiced writer of so many heart-achingly honest popsongs to resort to expletives quite so early in the show. But everyone appreciates the informality, and under the hanging seventies-style lamps of his set and with thick persian rugs underfoot, you could see why, by the end, James Morrison's tshirt had a crest of darker grey pooled on either side, and he was visibly gasping for breath in between songs. The strutting must have had something to do with it, too- the skulking from end to end of the stage in tight jeans and leather jacket while his masterful guitarist picked out a solo or an extended introduction to a song. The swings back and forth while hitting the strings of his own acoustic guitar, or the draws of emotion from his neck during the moodier numbers.      Morrison drew a strange mixture of people last night, from people out with their friends like me to tho