Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Two Years Ago Today

Gone is the twisty. Rhymes and rhythms, gone - a serious side is here today. A serious side is needed today. There is a lot to write, a lot to say because I came home two years ago today.

Two years. Two fucking years.

My best mates took me to King's Cross on the day I left, it was a Saturday. We drove in their car through the streets of London Town, it was sunny and everything looked so familiar. And then I left. I had to leave. At the time there was simply no choice. Only hours before I boarded that train, I had been hollering Karaoke songs into a microphone in a particularly restrained fashion (Ha) and stuttering through my farewell speech at the most almighty farewell party I had ever seen. A room full of faces I loved so dearly, my London Family. A room full of the very life I was walking away from because my head told me I had to. I wonder (now) if she was tricking me? Tricky-trickster.

I remember sitting in my great friend's kitchen that morning, I remember taking photographs of her chalkboard that had had, "tidy coats" or "reduce coats", written on it for at least a year. Her shelves with assorted teas and a Miffy Jar with grass in it. Mr. Bruna would have been proud, I'm sure. I took photos of my purple tulips, that my bosses wife had given me the night before, drinking in her kitchen sink. I took pictures of her, she took pictures of me. I have the picture of her from that morning on my fridge here. She looked a bit broken that day in her pink PJ's with her red bandanna handkerchief in her hand. And she cried - because I was leaving. I couldn't understand it at the time. I couldn't understand that I was part of her family too, just as she was mine. I couldn't understand that she would miss me, that she was sad because I wouldn't be there anymore. Maybe sad for her, or sad for me; sad because that there was a Big Bad in my head that was taking me away - I suppose it matters little really, because my friend was crying, and it was what I was doing that had made her.

I, of course, was in 'hyper overdrive, coping mode'. I had the smiling, reassuring face that said: "This is the right thing to do - I am doing the right thing. We will be OK". But there was just no way to say goodbye to her or her husband who had let me sleep on their blow-up for my last week in London Town. There were no words big enough or strong enough to say, "Thank you" to the lady who was the biggest part of my London Family, she was the core, for me. She was the one who opened the door to a tear streaming face, once, when the tears did flow. The person who came into my home, the morning I crashed. Who stood in my hallway, gently walking towards me like she was approaching a demented and disorientated caged animal, telling me she wasn't going to, "make me do anything" I didn't want to. I was going out of my mind, but I remember her calmly walking inside. I remember that she came - immediately.

A super-swift exit was required at the station so I could remain The Face of Reason when all around me was falling apart, asking me not to leave. I looked back, when I sat in my seat. Boy did I look back. As the train pulled out of the station I took shaking photographs of London as it faded into a train window blur. The next photo I took was upon my arrival in Glasgow. It was sunny there too.

She's probably on her way to work today, my Kick Ass Friend. Just about now, she will be checking her email and answering calls in the desk beside mine. I suppose I should have been arriving too; swinging my office chair across the parquet flooring to gossip in her ear, or to make faces at her. Annoying her stupid and she right back at me.

Instead, today, I am going to see my Psychiatrist at the Biscuit Centre where all the other mental people go. I won't be answering phones or doing my job. I won't be fighting crime or saving the world one designful object at a time. I will be waiting to hear the results of my ECG test and see if my Psychiatrist wants to add a Beta Blocker into my Molotov Cocktail. Today is a day for: "Why me?". Today is a day when I look up at the ceiling in my flat, fully expecting to be on conference call to the Big G in the sky - or anyone else who might be listening - with a tear stained face, no words and eyes that just want to know: "Why me?"

"Yeah and there's an AIDS epidemic in Africa, effects of Global Warming visible everywhere, disaster, war, genocide, murder, kidnapping - people dying every day - so get over yourself" "Jesus!"

Yeah, thanks.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Practice The Pretty

Last night, pretty - trussed up kitty. "Out you go" No, not on show now. Listen while the singer talk. Listen-listen. Hush, not walk. Daytime, strutting townward, busy. Busy, busy. Taking back now - can't be silly. With money.

Listen now, not plain to hear. Voices loud: "Try not to appear queer..." Point is not that liking song. "Going out now, won't be long" Or maybe I will be? Practice, practice.

"Out you go now', oh (pretty)-kitty...

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

In a While Crocodile

Waking, waking, sleeping bluster. Finding cover, twisting under. Fighting. Breathing. Find a mean thing. Hide? No. No. Wall once here, now not more. Falling like a dark thing, fall. Fall, fall, hit. Shit. Thump. Flailing. Trailing; away. Awake again. Toss, turn. Eyes closed, "...they want to".

Ma calling. Ring. Awake now, hauling. Water. Tablets. Stuck in swallow. Find something, panic. "SWALLOW" Damp colours in egg shapes; turning to put a hand on them. Eat. Look, place on finger. Ringer. The Finger. Dangerous. Wanting same. Size. Shape. Admiring pretty to hand outstretched.

Note-book-down. She cannot but frown. Or talk. No, she's scared. Papers. Filing, finding. Looking. Look, look, look. Hiding papers - naughty ones. Numbers, words, unhappy makers. Vampire stories, morning glories. Ha. Not now. "Not you", no glory, mourning. Needs a wanting, hormone thumpin'. Whores moan. Bored moan. Smores hoan. Bore (w)hole. Ha, ha, ha. Try-pan-in. Blood and sand. Blood. They bleed not of the hand. Below the waste. Hush your mouth, must not disgrace. Dad has found you. Words like his. Him a talkin', trippety - trap! Will you come walkin'? Back here to me. Never. I joke. A jester, soot. Shoot. "Suit's You Sir". Daft.

Mutter, mutter. Too much clutter to separate them from me and eyes from us. We are here but they are not. Too many signs. Signifiers. Sigh them down. Make small they will, be. Pay. No money to pay. Call to pay, "Just call". Pay. Date wrong address wrong, charges dropped. Taxes yellow, green at most. Bluster fuster trying to muster. Strength in number - no, not at all. Alone, wanting: "Do Not Disturb". Songs and lyrics, noise that I don't want. Berlin. Felix, Mr Kubin, to you Sir. Words and wanting. A crying girl - she rocks.

No she don't. Silly. Up she get again and again. Clothes that hang, life from a neck. Porridge boils, sweet with syrup. Tea, later for sympathy. Boys they shhhhh. Quietly ignoring. Shhhh. Boring they are. No time to play or say, "Hello". Shhhh. You say to voices when they call. Go away, come again another day. If you must. Just not today. "No!" not ever. Peace I find, maybe somewhere in mind. To go.

Hair is dusty, like old attic. Static. Bathroom. Sun through dirty glass a pouring. Outside books, line walls. Words want reading. Homework needing - Thursday for her. Shouting. "Must do better". Friends want holding. Hands. Friday next and what say you? You won't come back will you? You? I know you. I think; "I knew". Old souls come crashing. Hand on heart, a craic-ing. I want you back. Please? You won't come 'till 'fixed' a-clock. Will you? No, no, no, no. Not at all. I feel you stay away. Until later. Gater, alligator. In a while, "Oh crocodile...".

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Noises That Are Different

"Don't know", today. Out last night, today - slept. Tears pop and roll. A candle, a prayer and men blowing badly. Hormones behaving badly. A bath, a conversation, some sanding, food. Blankets and cushions and incense; tucking under. Nightdress and t-shirt, cardigan and socks. Helping, helping, helping; listening. Always listening. Smiling. Dad. Dead. Thinking, reading, listening; lectures in accents. Records of biscuits and smiles made of card.

Hair's longer. Now. Piled high on top, nesty. Birdy. Eyes red and raw from staring. My face whiter - sallow. Nails short and painted, pretty in pink. Neat. Cultured. I slept long, messed up my day. Foot fell forward, badly. Dodging bank, creeping calls. Connection always stalling, noises that are different. Jumping, thinking: "skitty". Kitty-cat. Come back. Nothing in its place and a place for everything. Black things, crawling. Shifty. Worry, worry, worry. Project pinned. Fight they don't. Quieter. Quitter-er.

Visitors came, gifts a plenty. Tea with two closesnesses. A calming brown, a hand applied. Bandage me emotional. No money, benefits cut - no warning, no money for food. Ha. Films and eyes near off concentration. Always worked. Working, busy me. Workety - work, work, work. Falling down. No mouth to eat. Sown over. Plants watered, they know it's spring. Songs for the sinners and sinners for the songs. Eyes closed, brain soft, medication kicking. Softer, still, now heavy. Drifting away. Far. Away. Go Away. Come again another day.

Water floating. Arms out, look up they say. Up, up. Don't look down. Red coated girl. Birthday's baking, making fat boys and skinny girls. Awful. Notes in window games. Smiling. Happier times. Babies in bellies. Naming the missing ones. They won't come along. Far. "You've come far" Remember the bad to see good. Had a God. Until... Sinners. Don't look. Look away now. Close eyes. Peeper.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Scabby, Unwashed Insomniac Seeks Similar For Love, Laughter And Long Walks

I can imagine what my face looks like right now. I can imagine what I would look like to the intrepid observer as I sit on my couch, thickly socked feet resting on my bespoke coffee table: dark denim jeans, Brooklyn Industries tracky top, blanket - given to me by my curly friend - wrapped around my neck, up and over my chin and nose, cleverly hiding a scab on my left cheek, but making me slightly light-headed from breathing in too much of my own CO2. Dark circled eyes, bed-head hair and a scabby, bandaged hand. My only saving grace is the oddly identifying Tiffany silver bracelet that dangles from my left wrist. The Who is blaring out of my stereo, Love Reign O'er Me. (I save myself from my own irony) Again and again and again and again he says the words. I get stuck on songs that fit a mood to perfection. Over and over and over they get played, 'till the feelings have worn off - or I get irritated.

The mood in here has dropped faster than the temperature outside since I woke from a cheeky nap, late this afternoon. I only meant to rest my eyes for a moment or ten after a sleepless, tablet free, night last night. "Bollocks" was the first word that came out of my mouth when I awoke at quarter-to-eight this evening. Every night this week, I seem to have re-lived a certain friendship of old. They come back to me, all those lost people, looking past me as I run, struggling to catch up with them to say something, anything - but I don't have words. And they just keep ignoring me.

The other night I dreamt my hair was falling out. What remained was a fetid, matted, mess of yellowing scab that formed a bare circle on the back of my head with clumps of long, (think "Ring" - woman coming out of the telly) lank, black hair surrounding the horror. I remember just running towards my mum, my arms outstretched, weeping with the sheer horror of what was happening to me. She just rocked me on the ground, where we collided and looked over my head at my sister, both of them tying to disguise their own terrors.

I battered the crap out of my right hand on, “… when was it?" (Asking whom, I'm not entirely sure, as we have all determined that I am alone here, apart from the ghosts, when I chose to have them wander the halls) "Monday", yes, I think it was Monday. I'd had a frustrating fight with Army boy, first thing in the morning. Frustration that he couldn't understand and the whole tower of mess and symbolic self-destruction of the boys online came tumbling down.

Turns out I was “lucky” the first time round, when I met TRD online. Or maybe it was just his constant contact that made me feel as though I was. This time round, they've all been cunts. Head fuckers. Game players. Egotists. I think I’ve had the biggest learning curve in regard to online dating in the last four days than I ever will in a lifetime. There is no etiquette to online dating. There is no personal responsibility or courtesy. One second you are in, all eyes on you - the next you are out. What I have come to realise is that I am probably one of the more stable people on there. I watch Aberdeen, slowly turn maniac in his daily changing, profile photograph. I’ve dumped them all into my wastebasket, but they are still there – looking, or not.

Army Boy and I fight all the time. What it is about him that drags me back in again and again and again, I don't know. Well, I do know, but I don't want to admit it. He is the mirror of my relationship with Triple X. He pushes all my buttons, uses me for his greater good and knows when to stroke me at just the right moment so I relent. "Fuck - maybe he doesn't - maybe this shit is all in my head?" I can feel brown, acidic bile rising in the back of my throat. The head fuckers, the nightly nutters, I let them all in, because that is what I am used to. Or that is what I was used to. "I don't think I want to be used to that anymore"

My Ex, Triple X, Thrice Removed Ex, sent me a text on Tuesday evening. The number came up as unrecognised and the message simply said: "Are you still interested in making work?" First thought: "Wrong number". Second thought: "It's TRD". My insides liked the latter thought best and leapt and roared as I ‘calmly’ sent a message back asking who it was. The return answer was not a good one. How the fucking hell, bastarding, Jesus-fucking-Christ-wanker could think that this was a good thing to do - I have no idea. I played the game, curious to his cryptic, and a few texts later surmised that he was offering me a job. A job. Doing portfolio prep. With him.

My head, in record time, grasped the idea and rolled with it. "Ooooh what shall I wear in front of the class… My pencil skirt, button over shirt and tie?” I could just imagine “us” standing there together, side by side. Me, daring a child to say - "How do you know each other Miss?" Then I called him. And I couldn't hear him. He said he would call me back. I hung up. And switched off my phone and when I walked into the kitchen the next morning to make a cup of tea, I thought of him, just for one second and realised that I NEVER WANT TO HAVE TO THINK OF HIM EVER, EVER, EVER, AGAIN. That old familiar. Too, too many years have already been wasted. So I sent him a text, by reply at 09:52:31am, 12 March 2008: "I think this whole thing is a very bad idea. Us being in contact or working together. Please don't contact me again." I signed my name. I tried not to think about the fact that my stupid auto text had typed “contacat” and I'd missed it, when I re-read my bravery award a few hours later, but fuck that. I said "NO".

Boy bandaged hand or fucking not. I said “No”. To one of them, at least.

Monday, March 10, 2008

"Who She? Sat There On The Chair - Delete Her, I Think..."

Still Sunday.

I’m curled up in my big armchair by the window, which is jammed open with a roll of newspaper. The blinds are closed and the rain has just stopped. It’s about five past three in the afternoon; the sun is trying to blink through a layer of cloud and intermittently shining off the droplets left on the windowpane. There is a, now familiar, almost comforting smell of hops on the freezing cold air that comes in underneath the propped open pane. I can hear cars travel through puddles and the low rumble of souped up Escorts from the roads that surround me.

The last time I sat here on this chair, like this, I thought something awful had happened to TRD. We were mid relationship and he hadn’t been in touch for the whole day – maybe longer; time has apparently confused memories made. By then I had become used to his text-a-minute ways, so I knew something was wrong. So, I sat in the dark, listening to melancholic songs, calling his phone intermittently. I remember having this overwhelming and excruciating feeling, somewhere inside me – something I can only compare to the scenes in films when tragedy befalls a husband or child and the camera swoops in on the lover/mother at the same exact moment when they simultaneously feel the atrocity that has occurred. When he eventually called much, much later, he said he had been out all day and forgotten to take his phone with him. He was greeted by a torrent of frustrated anger from me – not I didn’t think, uncalled for. I was worried and had no way of finding out if he was OK. I can’t remember the specifics now, but sitting here today, on his birthday, that memory springs to mind. Funny what you remember - isn’t it, out of all the possible remnants to choose from? Today’s tune of choice is Space Dementia by Muse. If you are familiar with it, you will know a crashing song with lyrics pertaining to the destructive powers of love and loving someone. It plays on repeat as I struggle with many a confusing feeling, and not just those posed by the fact that it is TRD’s birthday and that I remembered.

Whilst struggling away in my chair, I remembered a time while I was at college in London, flailing to complete my Masters Degree. I needed some Take-Away boxes for my final piece and couldn’t get them for love or money. It was close to the end of the course – we were all wired and tired and desperately trying not to give up. I got a call from my Mum saying she had found some boxes up in Scotland and was couriering them down to me. Joy. The day they were due to arrive, she called again to say that the courier was having difficulty getting into the Art School and could I go to the front desk? I swore, irritated by the disruption, left my printing desk, and walked down the corridor to reception. At the end of the long entrance hall was my Mum, grinning at me with the Take-Away boxes tucked under her arm. She had flown down from Scotland to London with the boxes, herself. She stayed with me for a few hours and then went home again. She just wanted me to see a friendly face and to give me a hug and make sure I was OK. I am as speechless today as I was that day. I can’t find the words to say anything about that memory, but I can tell you that it completely overwhelms me, every time I think about it.

Another jump and I am thinking about the significance of my ‘profile’ on the now infamous dating website. It seems appropriately confusing that I do not see myself when I look at the pictures I have chosen to post, or the text that is supposed to give others reasons to approach me via email. It is certainly not insignificant that I have trouble associating with the person looking back at me from their glossy kingdom as I still have no idea who I am. This unsettling reality is one that seems to return most days, especially when I look in the mirror. Especially when I look in the mirror and see myself getting older. In my current state of emergence from my Depression, I often feel a great sense of grief for what I consider my Lost Years. The last time I remember seeing myself momentarily, was after I had walked out on my (now) thrice removed, ex boyfriend. I was skinny and sexy and in control. At that time I would often marvel at the reclamation of bony hips in the mirror. I had ballooned to gigantic proportions when we were at our worst and my life was falling about around my ears. The protective sleeping bag of skin and wadding that I had worn off and on for those destructive years had been unzipped and stepped out of – more of an emergent butterfly I could not have been. The current restrictions of disease and medication make it impossible for me to get back there, with those beautiful hips. Until such times as I am no longer medicated and am a little brighter in mood, I have to try and make my peace with the woman looking back at me and work out who she is.

Somewhere in those Lost Years, I became that woman in the mirror. I missed that particular transition and still feel as lost as the kid that fell into the depressive coma all those years ago. I would imagine this current state being something akin to the stories one hears of people being aware of their surroundings, hearing voices and feeling procedures that were done on them, while in a hospitalised and catatonic state. Unable to move or make others aware that they were trapped inside and finally waking up to find that life had indeed carried on without them.

I this stream of (un?)consciousness I am drawn into thinking about the Internet Men and the combat I feel I have become entrenched in with them. Dundee Bloke, who writes (he thinks hilariously) like he is a Ned/Weegie; albeit a 39-year-old Ned/Weegie. Army Boy, who has an an ego the size of a porn star that thinks he can make women ejaculate by looking at them and I, are currently fighting a battle of wills (our latest squabble) about a project we are/were considering collaborating on; and the rest – well they’re frankly, just unsuitable. I suppose having these drifters and shape shifters drop in and out of my inbox whenever the fancy takes them, only highlights the lack of something bigger. The big fat lack. It allows snippets of my (as I then thought idyllic) relationship with The (not so) Recently Departed to pop into my head as She helpfully reminds me of all the things I thought I had with him, that I don’t or never will have, with my current bag of mishaps waiting to happen. My fingers swither over the “Delete This Profile” button so frequently that I begin to think that the word I hate with a viciousness I cannot replicate through words: ‘fickle’, might be true.

On that thought and that thought alone, I set down my laptop and go to pace my hall and shake off the enormity of the immediate decent of hideous, violent rejection and simultaneous contradiction of belief/disbelief that such thinking instigates.

Saturday, March 8, 2008

"I Got Junk In My Trunk..."

I am wandering round my house whacked out of my mind on sleeping tablets. Woo. Hoo. "Who knew" "Knew who?" Rhymes. Knew looks funny when it's written down. Ha. Funny. "Cuh-nyew"

I've been singing "I got junk in my trunk" too - for ages now, just repeating it over and over. I was sitting in the lav a minute or twenty ago when the singing started, thinking: "Does that mean "I have a fat arse", or "I am constipated", or "I come with baggage"?" Then that was funny because all of those could apply. Forthwith, pronto and immediately.

"I got junk in my trunk!" Hilarious. "Oh fuck off you old goat" She's so boring... "I got junk in my trunk! I got junk in my trunk!" She's gone now. She's not impressed. So funny.

"I got junk in my trunk!"

*My Friday Counsellor would not be impressed, I am writing my Blog in my bed and the lappentoppen shall lay beside me 'till I fall asleep. All night long. Munching away at my brain I would imagine. Munch, munch, munch. Just like An Apple A Day by Matthew Herbert.

"I got junk in my trunk!" La. La. La. Nighty night.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Don't Piss Me Off, I Can Shoot A Twelve Gauge

Yes I can. A big, boy gun. As of yesterday when I went shooting for the first time in my life and I am now addicted. Big day out, on a bus with loads of people I didn't know - my idea of hell, but I was so bloody distracted by the double barreled gorgeousness I was playing with (safely of course) I didn't notice a thing. My perfectionist/competitive streak was standing out like the stink off a skunks ass, but I didn't care. For the first time in a long time I felt about twelve feet tall and as strong as a freakin' ox.

The thing that irritates me so much about depression is that it makes you (well, me or one) feel like a weakling. Weak as a wet paper bag and it just goes on and on and on and then you start believing it. You think you deserve the shit and the crapola that everyone dishes out. But yesterday... Ha! Not a fucking chance. I saved one of my cartridge shells as a memento, not to mention my kick ass score. Second in a team of men, shooting with a man's gun because they tried to give me a "lady" gun and I made a fuss.

I rocked.

Today I am back home, and was quite enjoying my flat upon arrival. Now I am pissed off and hungry. Those online boys are driving me nuts by either being demanding or all whimsical and blowing hot and cold at the same time. (She throws her hands up in despair to illustrate the point) Give me a break I can shoot a shotgun.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

I Can't Have An Affair With The Pool Attendant Because He Thinks I Am A Buoy

Quite possibly the most bizarre situations to be in: sitting typing and clamping your arse cheeks together because you’ve just shoved a suppository up there, sweating profusely as the cramps engulf your stomach; valiantly pretending it ain’t happening. For someone who has always been of the opinion that things should only come out of there, never up – this is an interesting game to be playing. One thing is for sure – I’d rather my hand was up there than my GP’s - which is what’s going to happen if I don’t crap soon.

I have swollen to thrice my normal size over these past few days. My face looks like a barrage balloon and all I can think about are the toxins that have to be building up inside my gut, largely because of the current blockade that appears to be forming. Stress makes you constipated, medication makes you constipated; not eating properly makes you constipated. So I’ve eaten all the roughage I can, I’m drinking that weird fibre stuff from Boots, I’m drinking litres of water, I’m jumping around like an idiot and smoking like a fiend… Scientifically speaking I should be tied to the toilet, but sweet F.A is happening.

Today is my fourth day north. It’s been OK (apart from the lack of bowel movement). I have been up and down mood wise, which is to be expected - and has come to be expected. The adjustment is always difficult; being away from my routine, my life, my way of doing things, extracting myself from my way of keeping sane and landing in amongst a busy house with friendly faces that all want to help and make things easier. It’s hard to relax and unwind. It’s hard to let go and lean on someone else when you are terrified that if you let go – even an inch, you’ll unravel. (No wonder I’m constipated) I’ve been getting frustratingly confused these past days, finding the simplest of tasks complicated. I couldn’t work out how to print off some work from my laptop the other day and got really upset about it, only because I know how to do shit like that in my sleep. I tried to help my sister sort out her iPod, something else I’ve done many a time, and failed miserably. I couldn’t get my head round the simplest of instructions. I am also finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate – especially when someone else is about and talking to me, the added noise making me irritable. My dreams are as chaotic as my head seems to be. I gave up on sleep early this morning because the dreams were so annoying and transparent that I might as well have been awake, so I got up. The ‘breathe and reboot’ system of going back to bed for twenty minutes to half an hour has also been an active participant in my days. It worked this morning, until I went shopping with Mum. Then I got cranky - all by myself. My form still distresses me. I hate walking around in this body and assume that everyone else is looking thinking that I must eat a fuck of a lot of pies. I should just make a t-shirt to that effect. Then again, that all just sounds like bull eh? “It’s my medication” “Aye right.”

Sunday was, of course, Mother’s Day and involved both bowing and backing out of the door when the slurring started and my eyelids clamped shut. Honestly folk must think I am the most unsociable creature…

Yesterday I did something I haven’t done in a while, um, four years plus to be (kind of) exact - swimming. Can you imagine my surprise when my emancipated body, actually did what I asked of it? 50 odd lengths of the pool later, I emerged, pretty damn pleased with myself.

God, I need to sleep dearest. More tomorrow after shooting: “Yes, with guns”. Tally-bloody-ho.

Saturday, March 1, 2008


Today March 1st, is Self-Injury Awareness Day. Nobody knows what that is. Might need to do something about that. Google. Google. Google. Google. Google. Google. Google. Gooooooooooooooooogle. Google. Google. Google. Ghoogle. Goggle. Google. Google. Google. GOOGLE it.


"Yes, you"

A Plane, No a Train and a Car, There Were People, and Noise and Talking..."Thank You. Lovely"

Baaaaaaaaaaaack at the family pile. Pire? Pile. Pial. File. Twile. tile. While. A while. Yup.

It seems a very long time ago that I was here last, and ages since the four of us sat round the dinner table talking and eating. I am looking forward to some days off from 'doing'. Someone killed my Buzz. ("Poor Buzz") At the moment the bed in the spare room is calling my name and bloody loudly too. In a freshly-laundered-sheets kind of way that is both manipulative and devious. Naughty sheets. Naughty bed.

I'vebeentravellingsinceninethismorningandbeenontrainsandincarswhatseemslikeallday.Ihavealsobeenverytalkative.Verytalkativeindeed. Both my parents came to meet me from the train - the first time that has happened. We had dogs...

Christ this is dull and my eyes need to close. "Hush annoying voice of reasoning, I can't be arsed. And yes I'm still mad" My hair is full of kirby grips. They're beginning to hurt. And I have lady face on so everyone says I look pretty. Not now - I've rubbed my eyes a billion times. Probably y look like a bat. A moth, no a badger.

Nighty nigh. Bloggo. Diary-iest of all diaries.......................