In Bit of a Blur the irrepressible James recounts how he was catapulted to fame and fortune as bass guitarist of the rock band Blur. One moment he was a university student living in a slug-infested squat in Camberwell. The next he was living the high life – hanging out at the Groucho Club, driving around in a cab festooned with spots painted by Damien Hirst and generally being, as he describes it, “the second drunkest member of the world’s drunkest band.”

Those days are long behind him now. He’s moved to the wilds of Oxfordshire, where he lives with his wife and children, makes cheese and waxes lyrical about the delights of the countryside. But in inimitable style he admits: “We bought the farm on our honeymoon and if we hadn’t been in the throes of romance, we’d never have done anything so ridiculous. But like many people, we don’t look back.”

The good news is that James has been busy writing a book about his escape to the country. Called All Cheeses Great and Small: A Not So Everyday Story of Country Folk, it chronicles how he went from the easiest job in the world (rock star) to the hardest (farmer). It’s due out later this year and promises to be a treat.

Merci, their new venture, is housed in a vast disused factory in the fashionable Marais district of Paris. Alongside furniture, china and flowers, the shop sells clothes (new and vintage), pictures and Annick Goutal perfume. All the profits go to a children’s charity in Madagascar and there’s even a used-book cafe where you can sit in an old leather armchair, sip an espresso and peruse the books. Bliss – except when I eagerly suggested taking my teenage son there, he was appalled. “It sounds like a ‘do I really need it’ sort of shop,” was his crushing verdict.

My daughter, however, was entranced, especially by the plant-laden bright red Fiat 500 that’s permanently parked in the courtyard (more art installation than car) and the chic brown paper and string they wrap customers’ shopping in.

The fantastic news is that Merci’s now on its way to the UK. It’s opening a pop-up shop at Liberty in London for one month from March 8. There’ll even be an exclusive fashion and homeware range designed by Marie-France using Liberty’s famous florals. I can’t wait!

It was also one of the coldest. The sub-zero temperatures and bone-chilling wind were enough to make me think twice about walking more than two blocks at a time. Most New Yorkers sported padded coats, ear muffs (not a good look – no one can look stylish in ear muffs) and sturdy boots and confided that the weather was freezing even by their standards. CNN was breathlessly reporting blizzards and three feet of snow 200 miles away in Baltimore – so Manhattan was lucky to escape with a few snowflakes.

It was the bitter cold that drove me into a Downtown cinema on Sunday night to see Tom Ford’s debut movie, A Single Man. Starring Colin Firth and Julianne Moore, it’s based on the 1964 Christopher Isherwood novel of the same name and opens in the UK on Friday. The film tells the story of university professor George Falconer (Firth), who’s mourning the death of his lover Jim after 16 years together. Firth’s stunning performance has earned him an Oscar nomination – and rightfully so. Firth, perfectly described by t5m’s Neil Innes as “looking like Yves Saint Laurent and sounding like a mid 70s era Michael Caine,” brilliantly conveys George’s pent-up grief and Moore is dazzling as his boozy divorcee friend Charley. But even though the acting is superb and it’s the most exquisite looking film I’ve seen in a long time (everything is beautiful, from George’s gorgeous glass house to his sharply-cut suits), there’s something distinctly chilly about it. I always weep buckets at the cinema but this one just didn’t move me.

On the plane home I finally caught up with The Damned United, the movie chronicling legendary football manager Brian Clough’s 44 days as boss of Leeds United. Michael Sheen was mesmeric as Clough and his performance was matched by Timothy Spall as his best friend and coach Peter Taylor. I don’t even like football but this film knocked spots off A Single Man. And yes, I did cry.

A tough call, but in the end (and by a “substantial majority”), they voted that this year’s award should go to poet Christopher Reid for A Scattering (Areté Books, £7.99), his heartrending tribute to his late wife, who died of cancer at the age of 55. His descriptions of her last few days, when he played Schubert to her, read her favourite Yeats and “cultivated my clumsy, husbandly bedside manner” are intensely moving and are sure to find a wider audience now Reid has won the £30,000 Costa prize.

 But if you haven’t read Colm Tóibín’s Brooklyn (Viking, £17.99), please beg, buy or borrow a copy. This beguiling novel made headlines when it beat Hilary Mantel’s Booker-prizewinning Wolf Hall to the coveted Costa novel award and I was rooting for it from the start. It’s the story of Eilis Lacey, a young girl who leaves small-town Ireland to find work in 1950s New York. An elegantly-written and tender story of love and loss, Brooklyn swiftly became the early favourite to scoop the overall prize – but sadly it wasn’t to be.

The other finalists are well worth reading too, especially Raphael Selbourne’s Beauty (Tindal Street Press, £7.99). The winner of the Costa first novel award, Beauty was inspired by Selbourne’s experiences of teaching in Wolverhampton. Authentic and at times deeply shocking, it’s the gritty tale of Beauty Begum, a 20-year-old Bangladeshi girl who returns to England after escaping from an abusive arranged marriage to a man 30 years older.

To my surprise, I found the fourth contender, Graham Farmelo’s The Strangest Man (Faber and Faber, £22.50), riveting. The reclusive Paul Dirac, who died in 1984, is said to be one of the greatest British physicists since Isaac Newton, yet few people have ever heard of him. And don’t miss The Ask and the Answer, the hard-hitting sequel to Patrick Ness’s award-winning The Knife of Never Letting Go. Set in a sinister world where men can hear each other think, it’s aimed at a teenage audience but it’s absolutely gripping.

And it is. Aside from her sporty tracksuits, jaunty pony-tail and back flips, Melanie C was best known during her Spice Girl years for being the only one who could actually sing. Well, she can act too. She grew up on Merseyside and is utterly compelling as Mrs Johnstone, the Liverpudlian mum who, on her uppers after her husband walks out leaving her with seven children and two more on the way, agrees to give one of her twin sons away to her snooty employer. She desperately hopes that she’s offering him the chance of a better life but the two brothers, neither of them aware of each other’s existence, aren’t so easily parted.

I’ve been to Willy Russell’s wonderful play several times during its 21-year history but Melanie C knocks spots off the other actresses I’ve seen in the part. Her voice is stunning and she’s got exactly the right blend of toughness and vulnerability to make Mrs Johnstone believable. Even more impressively, she’s insisted on doing all eight performances of the show every week. “I don’t think I have ever had a prima-donna reputation and I don’t intend to start now,” she says.  “I’m new to this and I have to pay my dues.”

Even so, the new mum must be drained when she leaves London’s Phoenix Theatre every night. This emotional roller-coaster of a show is exhausting enough for the audience (on the night I went everyone left with tear-stained faces) so goodness knows what it’s like to star in it.

PS: Watch out for Stephen Palfreman, who is simply wonderful as Micky, the bad-boy twin who stays with his mum.

1: I’ve bought Kamila Shamsie’s Burnt Shadows (Bloomsbury, £7.99) for almost everyone I know. An ambitious, epic novel, it follows the “complicated shared history” of two families from Second World War Japan to post 9/11 Afghanistan.

2: Colm Toibin’s Brooklyn (Viking, £17.99) has been shortlisted for the 2009 Costa novel award and must stand a chance of winning. Eilis Lacey leaves 1950s Ireland to make a new life in America.

3: Screenwriter Sadie Jones took the literary world by storm last year with The Outcast, her debut novel. Her second, Small Wars (Chatto & Windus, £12.99), is equally assured and elegant.

4: David Nicholls’ One Day (Hodder & Stoughton, £12.99) is unmissable. A funny “will they, won’t they?” romance, it traces the relationship between university friends Emma and Dexter on the same day each year for 20 years.

5: Sue Townsend’s latest Adrian Mole book is hilarious one moment, poignant the next. Adrian Mole: The Prostate Years (Michael Joseph, £18.99) sees the hapless Mole enter middle-age.

6: Detective Inspector Rebus is a hard act to follow – but Ian Rankin is on to a winner with his latest creation. The Complaints (Orion, £18.99) introduces us to Inspector Malcolm Fox, a cop who investigates other cops.

7: I’m a big fan of Marian Keyes and The Brightest Star in the Sky (Michael Joseph, £18.99) is her best book yet, Keyes deftly weaves the tangled stories of the inhabitants of a rambling Dublin townhouse.

8: For a pacy, unputdownable read, try Who Dares Wins (Century, £18.99). Chris Ryan tells how brothers Sam and Jacob Redman have watched each other’s backs right through their military careers. But then Jacob is kicked out of the SAS . Six years on, the brothers find themselves on opposing sides in a deadly war.

9: My top book for teenagers is Robert Muchamore’s Brigands M.C. (Hodder Children’s Books, £12.99). The eleventh in Muchamore’s hit CHERUB series has a cracking plot. Dante Scott is only eight when he sees four members of his family brutally murdered by a biker gang.

10: For children over nine or ten I recommend Geraldine McCaughrean’s The Death-Defying Pepper Roux (Oxford University Press, £12.99). When Pepper Roux is born, his Aunt Mireille predicts he’ll be dead by the age of 14. But when he hits 14 the resourceful Pepper decides he isn’t ready to die and instead sets sail on a string of adventures.

The 130 or so shops include all the names fashionistas worth their salt dream about, from Vivienne Westwood and Anya Hindmarch to Dolce & Gabbana and Versace. They stock clothes, bags, shoes, you name it, from last season at knock-down prices - perfect for these credit crunch times. Reductions range between 33 and 60 per cent but eagle-eyed shoppers make a point of watching out for “further reduction” periods, when some prices drop by a staggering 70 or 80 per cent.

The place attracts more than four million bargain-hunters a year from all over the world and is virtually always packed. With Christmas round the corner, Bicester Village has even organised late night shopping evenings till 8pm on Thursdays, complete with carol singers and mince pies. Armani, Gucci, Superdry and Phaidon Books have recently opened but my favourite shops are Mulberry, where last year I bought a gorgeous Bayswater bag at half price, Jack Wills (my stylish 18-year-old daughter says it’s too preppy for her but the staff are delightful), All Saints and L’Occitane for lavender bath oil that reminds me of Provence.

You can shop till you drop and then dive into Villandry, Pret A Manger or Starbucks for lunch. I’m a fan of the vast Carluccio’s, with its long, stylish tables and speedy service. The manager once told me it’s the busiest branch in the country and I’m not surprised.

Twenty-five miles west of Bicester Village is my other favourite haunt - the ultra-chic Daylesford Organic Farmshop. Daylesford owner Carole Bamford has opened other branches in Notting Hill and Pimlico and the shops have been garlanded with praise. Deservedly so. Some critics reckon the Gloucestershire shop is like stumbling across Harvey Nichols in the middle of the Cotswolds, but I love it. Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Moss and Kate Winslet are fans, but along with the superstars in dark glasses you’re just as likely to see locals like me picking up delicious freshly-made soda bread and a modest wedge of Daylesford organic cheddar. It’s absolute heaven.

It’s only a fortnight since I was in Cumbria for the weekend. It rained non-stop but we had the time of our lives. We picnicked in the drizzle, climbed majestic Maiden Moor and Catbells and strolled round Newlands Valley, best known for its associations with Beatrix Potter. Although she lived further south, Beatrix Potter often stayed at Lingholm, a massive pile on the shores of Derwentwater. It was on one of her walks nearby that she met Lucie Carr, the local vicar’s daughter, and she later wrote The Tale of Mrs Tiggywinkle for her, complete with sweet drawings of Skelgill Farm and the isolated village of Little Town.

But in the last few days the landscape has been utterly transformed. My elderly father-in-law was staying near Keswick with friends when the rain began and said he’d never seen anything like it. His house is set halfway down a peaceful valley, but even so, his long, sloping drive was turned into a wild, tumultuous river in Friday’s storms. Water spewed into the house and the sturdy wooden bridge crossing the stream at the bottom of the valley was completely swept away in the deluge. He, however, was one of the lucky ones – able to sit tight at home and keep warm.

There’s no doubt that the floods will take a terrible toll on the whole area. The Lake District economy depends on tourism and it’s going to be months before hotels, pubs, shops and other businesses are up and running again. The latest news reports say more than 1,300 homes have been affected, more than 1,000 families left without power and by yesterday around 94 people were still sheltering in reception centres. Worst of all, the family of PC Bill Barker, who was swept to his death when a Workington bridge collapsed, are now facing life without him…

RCA Secret was launched back in 1994 and is now an annual event.  Each year hundreds of artists, from penniless students to household names, create a one-off work of art on a postcard. The public can then buy one of the 2,000 cards on display for £40 (all proceeds go to support student artists training at the RCA). But the catch is that you don’t know who designed your card till you’ve handed over your money.

The first time round I queued for three and a half hours and failed to buy anything. So the following year we set the alarm for the crack of dawn and arrived at 6.30am. Big mistake. By the time we got to Kensington Gore the queue snaked right round the college and back again. Some intrepid art fans had pitched sub-arctic style tents on the pavement outside and rumours were flying around in the darkness that they’d been there for three days.

We thought we were well-equipped for the wait with coffee, iPods and thermals but our efforts paled into insignificance next to our fellow queuers. Most had sleeping bags, blankets, chairs and ski gear.

When the queue hadn’t moved an inch after 90 minutes my son whispered in my ear. “Shall we go home?” he said. Freezing cold and fed-up, I agreed. But my daughter wasn’t having any of it. “Don’t be so feeble,” she instructed us firmly.

It was an agonising five hours till we got to the front of the queue. By the time we got inside the RCA building we were so numb with cold we could barely speak. And just like the year before, when we made it to the basement saleroom virtually all the cards we liked had gone. Electronic score boards flashed green for cards that were still available, red for ones that had sold. My daughter gave a running commentary as we inched closer and closer to the sales desk. “There’s one of your choices left, and one of mine,” she told us cheerily.

“Numbers 113 and 1898,” she told the saleswoman, when we finally made it to the front. And guess what? They were still there!

“You were right to make us wait,” I said as we trudged out, clutching our precious postcards. “But I’m not coming again next year.”

Except now it’s nearly time for the 2009 event… and I’m wavering.

Find out more at  www.rca.ac.uk/secret

It’s not quite as nail-biting as last year though when we were both rooting for Diana Vickers - the shy Lancashire teenager with messy blonde hair and a stunning voice. Diana, it turned out, used to go to Lottie’s old school in Blackburn – an all girls’ establishment with a dashing purple uniform. Before her big X Factor break she’d been busy studying for A levels in classics, drama and psychology and had intended to apply for a place at drama school.

This week, exactly a year on, we pitched up to see her make her West End debut in The Rise and Fall of Little Voice at London’s Vaudeville Theatre. The show boasts an all-star cast – the wonderful Lesley Sharp stars as monstrous mother Mari, Marc Warren as her small-time impresario boyfriend and Vickers as Mari’s painfully shy daughter LV – and has attracted stupendous reviews.

I feel a bit mean-spirited saying this but the play (written by Jim Cartwright and first staged at the National in 1992) could do with having at least 20 minutes lopped off. Not only that, Mari is such an appalling mother (far more interested in gin, men and whinging to her overweight neighbour) that it’s hard to understand why LV didn’t leave home years ago. Those quibbles apart, the night definitely belonged to Diana Vickers. Her acting scenes don’t require her to do much more than hug her knees and look wounded when her domineering mum tries to make her sing in public, but when she finally steps into the limelight and takes the floor at a seedy working men’s club, she’s mesmeric. There’s an amazing sequence when, clad in a floor-length glittering dress, she moves from Dusty Springfield to Edith Piaf, effortlessly taking in numbers from Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Marianne Faithfull and Shirley Bassey along the way. I don’t know if Simon Cowell has slipped by to see her performance, but if he hasn’t, he should. She knocks this year’s contenders into a cocked hat.

As we left the theatre I checked my emails on my phone to find that current X Factor contestant Olly Murs is now following me on Twitter. And when we stopped for a coffee at an M40 service station on the way home the first person we saw was Rikki Loney, who the public booted off the show last week. Clutching a carton of coffee and looking pale and wan, he was busy looking at the front pages of the red-tops, all dominated by twins John and Edward and predictions that they’ll win this year’s X Factor. Oh dear. I feel as though The X Factor is taking over my life…