One day, I'll be on fire.

Hmm. I don't know. I feel funny. I have been so cold for the last few hours and nothing is making me warmer. I made some spinach and mozzarella and that didn't help. I don't think I'm ill (although we have a confirmed case of tonsilitis in the house, so I am taking something like 1000% RDA of Vitamin C in an attempt to ward that one off), I think it's more psychological. I felt fine- excited, even- before my interview. I made that mind map. I knew what a hedge fund is. The internet was working. My hair was looking quite smart (this is often an achievement all in itself). I felt, and this is probably the most stupid, confident. I suppose it serves me right for thinking that things might be okay, and for thinking that I wouldn't have to go back to my soul destroying job. But at the time, I felt good.

I sat serenely on the train. I didn't fidget like I normally do. I read my book and only now, looking back on it, do I think that I looked like a nob. At the time, I felt good.

I walked down bloody Picadilly wearing my suit with lots of other people wearing suits and I guess I must have stood out like a sore thumb. I know that I am a complete fraud if I think that it is in any way "me". But at the time, I felt fine.

I don't even know what was so wrong with the interview. But afterwards I wanted to run and run and run and throw myself into something warm and enveloping, like a pool of lava, or more likely, my bed. But I didn't. I counted each one of my steps as I walked to the tube station because if I didn't concentrate, I would fall over and never get up.

Then I went to the park and I sat on a bench and I cried. A tramp came along and asked other people for 40p but he didn't ask me because I am a fucking pitiful human being at times. I know this sounds so pathetic. And it probably is pathetic.

I met up with L and we went to the pub. He has known me for longer than anyone else in London and he knows almost everything about me. I used to wake him up in the middle of the night and ask him to sleep in my bed because I used to get so scared, even though he talks in his sleep and takes up all the space and duvet. We talked about why I was so upset, and how inadequate I feel and by the time I left, the beer and the words had started to help and I was able to come home and not burden my housemate with my ineptitude. I know that if she knew how I felt that she would be so disappointed in me and I can't deal with that.

The other day I had almost decided not to do my Masters. I am so fucking lame. I still haven't decided one way or another. I cried and went further towards eroding any sympathy anyone has for me. I really want to do my Masters. I just don't know if I can.

I am sick of being cold and I am sick of crying so I am going to go to bed. But the one thing that would make me feel better right now, better than the other strategies I used (tea, spinach, mozzarella, bamse mumse) is not here so that's pretty shit too, really.

Sorry about this.

"First I suspected writer's block, but now it turns out I just can't write!"

Look what I did:

Yes. The financial world is my oyster. Or something.

Keke Rosberg = half walrus, half god

Yesterday I managed to sort out the internet on my computer at home. However, me being me, it wasn't quite as simple as that. What I actually managed to do was delete the wireless network we have and basically fuck up everyone elses computers. I got shouted at. I knew I shouldn't have done it myself. It eventually took over five hours to fix and get my PC working, but this all means that I am in my very own home, on my very own computer, writing to you. Which means that there is a potential for drunken journal entries, so lucky you, lucky you.

It's Day 4 of my weekend and it's been quite fun, barring me crying, hitting my head against the wall, and throwing the house phone at the wall in frustration yesterday. Highlights have included going to see Boredoms last night, the glorious glorious sight of Michael Schumacher being sent to the back of the grid for being a cheating toe rag, David Coulthard in a cape and the prospect of seeing Christian Horner jump into a swimming pool naked (this is only good in theory - I don't think my stomach is strong enough to cope with the sight... it would be like when I went to Gunter Van Hagens exhibition = not pleasant), eating far too much generally, and being looked upon as some sort of Property guru. I like to think of myself as a poor man's Sarah Beenie. Lowlights include falling over twice in the bathroom and being a bit worried about my lack of co-ordination, my phenomenal skill with electronic devices, the end result of the grand prix, and an old man hitting me with his umbrella on the bus.

More from me later, as I have to revise (yes, revise, implying prior knowledge, acquired yesterday) hedge funds. And then read "Principles of Corporate Finance" because I'm going to be a fund manager and I'll eventually be able to afford to buy Phil Elverum and keep him in a cupboard in the living room.

"And remember not to talk to strangers!" ............................ "who are you?"

Remember how I said I'd dicked up my interview? Well, they rang me today to say that although I was obviously nervous, I seemed like a very nice and very genuine person, and they want me to come in on Tuesday to meet the COO (what is this? wikipedia is not being forthcoming), so it looks like maybe I didn't make such a mess of it in the first place.

Also, HRM at my present job just gave me another contract for a further month, so I think I'm almost justified in saying that, in terms of employment, I'm on FIRE!!

"Remember the family holiday you won? Well, here we are!"

Ach, so, yesterday’s drama is over and I have decided I don’t really care all that much about cocking up the interview. I’m annoyed with myself for being so stupid mainly, getting nervous and awkward and instantly forgetting everything I knew about hedge funds (which are lightly regulated private investment fund sometimes characterized by unconventional strategies, according to my good friend wikipedia). This was a bit irritating as I had memorised four pages of information about hedge funds and illiquid assets and fund of funds and other stuff, but didn’t manage to retain the information once my goddam nervous disposition came into play. I don’t remember any of it today, and I think the lesson I should learn from all of this is that I should probably not work in corporate finance.

It does grate somewhat that I have no skills. Sure, I can read at phenomenal speeds (when everyone else got sent on the speed reading course, I didn’t have to go), I can write (sometimes with a fair bit of coherence, although not in this journal, it being in the vernacular and all that), I understand complex ideas, I can learn things quickly, I am IT literate, I am far more numerate than I let on, I am personable (when not cripplingly shy), I take initiative… However, the world of employment does not want this. It wants civil engineers or accountants. And these I am not.

Still, I have decided that in September, when I am a student again, I am going to start going to ballet five times a week. I am going to be a ballet machine. Between now and then I am going to get really thin and strengthen my ankles and sort out my hip. One of the reasons I wanted the job I had the interview for yesterday is that you get private medical insurance, and I have an ongoing problem with my hip flexor. It’s going to be amazing. Yesterday at ballet my legs really hurt from Wednesday’s killer class but I still tried really hard and my feet ache today, but it’s a really good I-worked-really-hard kind of ache. Plus, we’ve got another member for our ballet club! Last week we were discussing how people think adults who do ballet are really weird, and the others in the class were saying how I can get away with it because I’m younger than them, but they just seem really geeky. Somehow the idea of supergeekiness appealed and we decided to form the South London Ballet Club. We’re going to have badges and membership cards and shorts with our names on and we’ll watch Darcey Bussell videos at my house while eating Maltesers (“chocolate before the performance?”). Quality. There are five of us in the club now (although one of them is really annoying so I won’t invite her to my house- I know it sounds petty but she’s brain numbingly dull), so I reckon it’s time to get started on badges! Woo!

Anyway, I promised you all my views on Mt Eerie, so here we go. Let’s set the scene… It’s a Tuesday evening in the Luminaire, and I’m standing by the side of the stage with my lovely N, drinking a beer and smoking a fag. Some music is playing over the PA and although we agree that we like it, we don’t actually find out what it is. The music stops and onto the stage comes the first act, Woelv. As I said before, she’s French-Canadian, called Genevieve. What I didn’t say before is that although she’s pretty, she’s so awkward. She really reminded me of someone but I still haven’t figured out who. Anyway, she played overly cutesy wannabe political songs, which really grated. She sang in French, so thankfully most of the audience were spared the lyrics, although they were not spared the “chat” between songs, where she talked about, amongst other things, the Olympics, prostitution (“it seems to me that junkies and prostitutes seem to have certain things in common sometimes, and sometimes they live in the same places”), large corporations, Hiroshima (“I went to the Hiroshima Museum but it made me sad because everyone went to see the cool stuff like things that were melted by the bomb but I wanted to see the history of it”), nuclear weapons (“did you know that the UK has nuclear weapons?” – yes of course we did, dummy). It was all rather odd because everyone was so silent and it was like in school assembly where someone stands up and sings a song and everyone claps politely but thinks “pah, I could do better”. It wasn’t like her songs were particularly special either. Her voice seemed quite affected, like she was putting on this act of simplicity and innocence (maybe in reality she’s a porn fiend?). One thing of note was that one of the strings on her guitar snapped, and it reminded me of when I used to play the violin a lot more and one time I didn’t have a spare string, and even though I could see the string unravelling and about to break, I carried on using it anyway. It lasted a surprisingly long time, although I wouldn’t recommend it and you should always carry spares, kids.

Anyway, next up was casiotoneforthepainfullyalone (it’s surely better one word?), who is essentially a kinda fat, nay, rotund, hairy man playing what I can only hope was ironic keyboard style music. It sounded a bit like a rubbish version of The Buggles, although without the nostalgia that is associated with the likes of Video Killed the Radio Star. Most of the time he was playing, I was talking to N, who was being super adorable (and dressed in a suit- which I thought was actually quite cool because it wasn’t what everyone else was wearing (ie jeans and tshirt type combo) and it looked really smart, like he’d made an effort for the gig, showing respect and so on), and my cousin JS, who I haven’t properly seen in ages.

Finally it was time for Mt Eerie, and we went to sit on the stage. I was too scared to go first so N had to lead the way and I felt like a wally. Anyway, we were in the corner, behind and to the side (maybe left, maybe right, I don’t know these things) of Phil Elverum. N had a minidisk player that he balanced carefully on his hand to record the whole thing (initially this was to be my job but there was very nearly a beer-minidisk collision so I gave it back to him). It was splendid. Phil Elverum is amazing. He writes such beautiful songs. He ended up playing for over an hour, and given that he didn’t talk very much, that’s a lot of music. And it was all so good. He’s like a real version of whatever it is that that Woelv woman/girl was trying to do. He does this absolutely endearing thing at the end of every song, where he jumps backwards. It’s adorable. N said that he thought it was so we could tell it was the end of the song, but he did it at the end of every song, even ones that were quite obvious. I just wanted to pat him on the head, although obviously I’m not that patronising, nor would I take such liberties in assuming I could go anywhere near him. I think I’ve got some very sad adoration thing going on. But truly, it was beautiful and even when my hip cramped up so much that I couldn’t move, I loved it. I was slightly annoyed that my phone wasn’t working as I’d have liked to have taken some photos, but N took some photos, so I guess that’s okay.

I’d already decided that I would call in sick the next day, and so I did (I had a “migraine” and was pretty damn convincing even if I do say so myself), and treated myself to a lie in. that wasn’t easy, just so you know, as there is a construction site opposite N’s flat, and they start breaking up slabs on concrete at silly o’clock. Still, I did rather well. I watched a bit of Jeremy Kyle, but if I’m honest, the magic has gone and I no longer find him the hero I used to. I spent half an hour brushing my teeth. Then I went to LSE, as I’d promised JS I’d help him. He didn’t actually need much help so in the end all I did was put up a couple of posters and some things saying “donations are welcome” (and in the end they were forthcoming, with around £70 being collected). Anyway, I sat right at the very front of the Shaw Library, feeling quite excited. Woelv played first, and thankfully she was less talkative and didn’t mention politics once, although I found her constantly stating how tired she was to be a bit of a pain. If you’re that tired, piss off. We want to see Phil anyway! She only played a few songs though, and up close she’s even prettier, and I took some pictures of her. Then Phil played. He was wearing the same trousers as the day before, which was a bit skanky because they were white trousers and they were quite dirty. I didn’t really like them for that reason and others, although he obviously did like them and even mentioned them (ish) in a song, although he called them “pants”, being American and all that. He seemed genuinely excited to be playing in a library, which I thought- again- was endearing. Genuine excitement is such a beautiful thing. He sang a song about the rain (it had been raining outside), called “In The Rain”, and told us that where he grew up, it rained so much that it made people go crazy. Clearly he has not been to Ireland. He also played some Thanksgiving songs, as Thanksgiving will be playing in London in July. It was all really fun. I could probably go on about how he stood on two feet, then one foot, then two feet again, but do these things really matter? He asked everyone which station you’d need to get to Bristol, and I told him- aha! I knew my tube/train/transport knowledge would come in use one day! You may all mock me for knowing the tube map and for being the world’s geekiest transport type person, but who told Phil Elverum how to get to Bristol? Me! Yes, me! Anyway, this is pitiful so I will shut up. You all should have been there. Shaw Library + Mt Eerie = lovely jubbly time had by all.

I did take photos of it all but they’re on my phone and I forgot to upload them last night, so I can’t put any up here. You might like to see Undereducated's flickr page (I hope JS doesn’t mind me doing this) at the following link:

www.flickr.com/photos/undereducated

anyhow, after a nice cup of tea and some silly conversation with people I probably should have spoken to before if I wasn’t so rubbish, I met up with M who advised me on where to buy a suit (seriously, the man is officially my fashion guru), bought said suit, and then went to see S, and had tea and got the coolest birthday present and had wonderful chats like in the good old days. I know she thinks she has Lois Lane hair but I think she looks splendid and we’re going to swim in the lido this summer. I’d really missed her. Then I went to ballet, danced so hard my legs nearly fell off, got soaked in the rain, came back to Peckham and fell asleep in N’s arms, which was a good end to the day.

Yesterday nothing especially of not happened, barring the interview and so on, other than that we got a new oven (or “overn” as #1 spelt it). what had happened was that #4 decided that he didn’t like the old one so he called the landlord and told them that it was a fire hazard and very unsafe and a whole load of other stuff, and they came and fitted a new one!! Next week he’s going to try getting us a new hob (I think this is what he wanted in the first place) and he reckons the floor in the kitchen should be replaced. Lesson to be learnt from all of this: do not be scared of new housemates (or change in general) as it brings with it new ovens and floors and a toaster with a special rack for warming croissants.

Anyway, the weekend is upon us, and what I thought might be a shit weekend thanks to everyone doing things that don’t involve me (ie N is studying and #1 is in Newcastle) might actually be okay because there’s the Monaco Grand Prix (and Kimi has a diamond encrusted steering wheel) and it’s a friends birthday and tonight N isn’t studying and who needs it to be nice weather on bank holiday weekends anyway when you’ve just remembered that you have the warmest socks known to man?

Meh

Just so you know, I really fucked it up. As well as looking like an idiot. Serves me right for being excited and - get this - hopeful. Every time I do that my hopes get dashed. You'd think I would have learnt. Seemingly not. Oh fuck I'm fucked. Etc.

"I know it’s wrong, but it’s how I feel"

First things first, I would just like to say that I am wearing a suit and I look like a chump. What’s vaguely funny in a not-really-very-funny way is that this morning, after waking up early and going back to Herne Hill and washing my hair and blow-drying it and choosing a shirt and putting on new tights and all that kind of stuff, I got to Elephant and ended up having to almost swim through the underpass. There was a puddle about three metres across, a good four inches deep. I couldn’t run and jump as smart skirts don’t allow this kind of thing. Two women ahead of me were just wading through but unfortunately, thanks to my gullibility and overactive imagination, I am somewhat fearful of komodo dragons in every bit of water I see. Someone dragged some crates down from the market and placed them in the puddles as stepping stones, so I used those and nearly fell in but didn’t. All that practice I did of jumping from one stone to the next in rivers as a kid has clearly not gone to waste.

Speaking of my suit… Have I mentioned that I look like a chump? Yesterday I went to Oxfam and couldn’t stop laughing when I looked in the full-length mirror. I look like such an impostor. I’m not an adult! Though today I look a little more grown up as my hair isn’t in pigtails and I don’t have green eye shadow on. Yesterday I got some odd comments about the way I looked. These ranged from a bit offensive really to quite sweet. Anyway, the suit was a proper bargain at only £30 and it’s wool and everything, and blatantly cost far more than £30 in the first place. Still… I look like a buffoon.

Anyway, enough lamenting about how ridiculous I look for now. On Tuesday we went to see Mt Eerie at the Luminaire, which meant a trip up to north London, via me nearly having a spaz out at Waterloo station (too many people, I got trodden on, I didn’t like it) but managing not to. It rained in Kilburn, like always. The reason for this is that there are lots of Irish people and it always rains in Ireland and us Irish start to shrivel up if we don’t get rained on frequently. Bloody excellent the gig was, though. First of all was Woelv, who is this French-Canadian chick called Genevieve, then Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, and then finally Mount Eerie.

But unfortunately I don’t have time to write about this all right now as I have my interview to go to and I have still not quite worked out what a hedge fund is, other than, contrary to what I was told yesterday, it is probably not anything to do with sheep. So I will write about Mt Eerie later on/tomorrow, and if you’re especially lucky, you might get photos but don’t hold your breath because that’ll give you cramp, like I did yesterday.

Please excuse me, I am rubbish.

Crap shit fuck. I have just had the worst evening/night/morning in a very long time. Things were going so well (see last entry). After work I met up with N very briefly and was feeling so chirpy. Then I bought salad and mozzarella and walked into my flat with a smile on my face, but from there it all went wrong. We drank lots and lots of wine and I slept in #1’s bed and held her while she cried all night. When I finally fell asleep I had the worst nightmare, a nightmare of the calibre I would not wish on anybody and I woke up #1 accidentally. We got up at 4am and smoked and I felt guilty for having my own nightmare and useless for not being able to help. And my mobile is broken so I can’t even text N (I can’t call him anyway, he’s at work) and I know that hearing from him is the only thing that would make me feel better. Today was meant to be a really good day. We’re going to see Mt Eerie tonight. But I just want to cry and I am going to call in sick tomorrow so that I can get some sleep and maybe go and see Mt Eerie again and not have to be at work, doing someone else’s work (like today) when I feel so awful. This is so so rubbish. Normal service will be resumed at some point but I doubt it will be today.

I need a hug. Please excuse me, I am rubbish.

Where were the rapists when I was a child??

The big news of the weekend is that I got into my masters course. Wooooo!! So fuck working, I don’t give a toss what I work as between now and September as on 26th September I will officially be a student again. And oh my god, it’s going to be so cool. And I’ll make the very most of it and not be lame or shy and I’ll talk to people and have intellectual conversations and I’ll read so many books and have debates and smoke gauloises and join societies and be super geeky with N sitting at his study table together. Only a week or so ago I was feeling really shit about the fact that my life had no direction and that I was going nowhere and I was a failure and all this sort of stuff (for god’s sake, I nearly cried in Nando’s about it all), and now it all seems so alien because I’m being allowed to do the one thing I’ve wanted to do for over three years. SOAS will be so cool. I’m going to buy new folders and a bag and maybe wear my glasses every day and I can sense that really soon I’m going to piss everyone off by talking about this non stop. I’m not the first person to get into a masters or anything, so I should probably just shut up. Wow, I’ve managed to get self-depreciation into an otherwise celebratory paragraph. Maybe now you can’t say that what I write is boring (wink wink indeed). Actually, to be honest, I don’t care. If I bore you all about SOAS, so be it. I’m going to be an anthropologist and I’ve already started thinking about my dissertation (yes, I’m that geeky). Ideas so far include incorporating my love of sociolinguistics into the course somehow. Good lord, the idea alone makes me weak at the knees. One thing I won’t have to buy is a new pencil case (an otherwise essential part of the back-to-school kit) as I already have a perfect one. It’s bright pink and blue and has holograms of Chairman Mao. Mint.

My last whole week at this job and I am happy to confirm that a sense of nostalgia has not yet hit me. In a way it’s quite sad, this being what I’ve done since last August, first job after uni and everything. Plus there are some really lovely people here and I guess we’ve had quite a laugh. But everything comes to an end and all that, and the job hunt isn’t going as abysmally bad as I’d expected, with two phone calls this morning about positions I’ve applied for. In a way, I don’t want to do some shitty job and be bored out of my mind, as I’ve got a degree and all (Mickey Mouse or no Mickey Mouse) but really, seeing as it’s only going to be for a couple of months, I might as well just get a job so that I can pay the rent and maybe even buy some food that isn’t brown rice.

I had Friday off work, which was pretty good. I still have another two days of annual leave to use up before next Wednesday (and there’s a bank holiday as well). Anyway, I had an appointment with the most patronising nurse in the world, who bored me almost to tears. We sat in what looked like a corridor with huge locks on the door for an hour and I made the executive decision that I didn’t want to come back there again, so I lied and just made up everything. I know exactly what these people want to hear so I know exactly what to say. I used to say things to fuck up their patterns but now it’s all too boring, and anyway, that’s a bit too Six Feet Under. Then I came back home and chatted to #4, who was skiving work. He is refusing to use most of the mugs in our kitchen because “they either say ‘boys are stupid’ or they’re about periods”. Ha, boys and their period-angst. I then showered, blow dried my hair, put on my expensive skirt and got the tube into town for my interview. It seemed to go quite well. I had a computer test and a typing test and then the actual interview. My typing speed has gone up 10 wpm since I last had it tested, which I find astonishing as I normally type one handed. Though I suppose I always did that (at uni I used the free hand to smoke or stroke the cat; at work my spare hand is used for all manner of trivialities). Anyway, the woman who interviewed me seemed to like me and I think I came across reasonably well. She told me that I would have to wear a suit, and would that be a problem. “Oh no,” I said. She asked if I had a suit. “Yes,” I replied. I have never worn a suit in my life. What do suits for women even look like? I am going to have to beg/borrow/steal a suit, and pretty fucking pronto as I have a second interview for that position this week. I seriously don’t know what it would even look like. For goodness sake, today I am wearing skinny jeans and several skanky tshirts and plastic beads and no shoes and they want me to wear a SUIT??

After the interview I changed out of my smart shoes (the real reason for this is that they have a really cool picture on the soles of the shoes that I don’t want to wear off, lame I know) and nice shirt and I put my Primark shoes on and a dress (to cover my fat belly that I really need to do something about) and went for a wander around Soho. In a sudden rush of realisation, my stomach started making some proper foul noises, reminding me that I had not eaten since Thursday lunchtime, and I bought a £3 box from Tai. I really love Tai. Last year, for about two months, I used to go there like every day. Eventually the staff in the Islington branch knew me pretty well. Fun! Anyway, I ate that and sat in Soho Square for a while, trying to get hold of S. in the end I decided to just walk up to hers anyway, as I don’t mind the walk and it wasn’t cold or anything and you get to walk up the street where they shot one of the scenes from Peep Show (which, annoyingly, I think was filmed while I was living there, but me being me and me being shit, I didn’t see any of it, though I did once see that short guy who presents some of the Big Brother stuff on my road, so there). S did arrive in the end and told me some crazy story that made me feel bad for not being around more to help. S and D couldn’t shed any light on the whole suit problem but said that if I had to wear a suit, they would drag me around the LSE campus and that also, I would look hilarious next to N. S went to have a shower and I sat in D’s room and talked about comedy dogs and how not to answer first year history papers (tip numero uno: if you haven’t revised the Spanish Civil War, and in fact only know that it was a war in Spain with Franco somehow involved and Guernica is a painting and it was generally A BAD THING, don’t answer a question on it). S came back smelling absolutely beautiful and I inadvertently made her sad. She walked me to Euston and I amused her by telling her some shameful, shameful stories involving things I certainly won’t be writing here as I might spontaneously combust. needless to say, I don’t think she will ever look at me in the same way again but we’re actually not in the L Word after all, so it’s all good really (that was obscure, even for me- forgive my ramblings and constant in-jokes).

And then on to the Rocket. I hadn’t been in a Scream pub since The Night Of The Fight (I think it deserves capitalisation) but thankfully I was able to keep my fisticuffs to myself. I gave JA his card and his very own eyeliner and we all had drinks and were merry. N had been having drinks and being merry since one in the afternoon, so he was merrier than anyone else. Some girl came over to me and asked if she could buy a rollie from me. I said she could just have it, but she insisted on giving me 50p. then she told me how good I was at rolling, and did I smoke weed, and why did I smoke rollies, and oh yes they are far cheaper than cigarettes, and that I was a sweetheart, and then her boyfriend came over and she told me that she had to go because he was annoyed with her for talking to me. The whole thing was decidedly odd but hey, I got 50p out of it, so winner = me, oh yes. Also, plus points for managing to successfully avoid the camera that was sporadically waved in my face, and for managing to conduct a conversation with N about someone who was right in front of us. I maintain that learning sign language would have tremendous advantages, although the reasons I originally thought of were somewhat perverted and only fulfilling the stereotypes that people seem to have about me (ie that I write about sex all the time – a travesty if ever I heard one). Anyhow, we left and N got himself a burger and I tried to argue with the man in Burger King (I like arguing, I will admit that now) and then we took a cab home, although in saying that I would like to point out that I said we should get the tube but I was railroaded (note semi-pun) into a taxi, and then Peckham-wards, via a conversation about Tiananmen Square with the cabbie, much to N’s amazement, and then me rambling on about arm fat while N just wanted to sleep.

In the morning, I headed off home so that N could get cracking on his revision. I meandered back, via the shoppers paradise that is Camberwell Green (alas, the man with his bag was not there). On arriving home, I picked up the post to see whether there was anything, even though normally I get bugger all in the post. I think even the bank have stopped sending me things (unless the crack heads have been intercepting our post, which wouldn’t surprise me). And there it was. A letter from SOAS. I almost didn’t open it but in the end I decided to take it to my room, where I ripped it open and scanned the page, managing to miss the bold title saying ‘offer of admission’ and only really catching on when I saw the sentence ‘we are very pleased…’ Quite shamefully, but it’s okay because I’m a girl, I screamed. #1 came running to my room (she’d seen the letter and had been waiting nervously for me to get home) and was just as excited as me. I called N and he was super lovely about it, and then I called my parents and my little brother said “mmm” and my dad said well done, and in the process I managed to wake up #4 who was recovering from his Friday night. I spent the afternoon being very excited and chatting to #1 and calling my mum and listening to music and dancing about my room in my oh-so-mature way that just typifies the life of lamb.

After taking a typically horrendously long time to get ready, I headed for Peckham and N and I had a lovely meal at the Rye Hotel. It’s funny how parts of Peckham are really rubbish, like Rye Lane, which is always covered in fish guts and chicken blood and other awful things, and then there are places like Bellenden Road and the Rye Hotel, which are so middle class it’s not true. After some damn tasty food, including a banana/caramel/coconut/vanilla thing that was just absolutely fucking perfect, we went to London Bridge to watch Eurovision (not at the station, at a house near the station). We’d missed all the songs (unluck) so we only got to see the points, but if I’m honest, that was enough for me. It was hilarious. N saw this documentary about the UK entry and it was especially funny that a man who said that “you know, maybe I’m as good as McCartney… time will tell” came 19th out of 24th, garnering a final tally of something like 20 points. I hadn’t watched Eurovision in years, since I was about six years old and the babysitter let me stay up late to watch it. The Finns won it, for those that managed to miss the whole thing. They were monster rockers. Then we watched Green Wing, which has managed to become unfunny since I last watched it, and so home and sleep and so on.

On Sunday, we decided to go to Morrison’s in our pyjamas. N didn’t look too bad, but I have Superman pyjamas and they’re quite obviously pyjamas. I have no problem with wearing pyjamas to the shops (as mentioned last week, I’ve done this many a time) and amazingly we didn’t get any odd looks and I completely forgot that I looked like I’d been sleep walking. While shopping, I made loud comments about what some of these people choose to eat. Thankfully there were no frozen battered mars bars, but honestly, surely it’s obvious that eating crap will make you look like crap, and a fat one at that too? I’m not really healthy or anything. But nor do I subsist solely on a diet of lard and saturated fats. I don’t know. Anyway, Morrison’s is a funny place and has a far wider selection of brioche than, say Tesco or Sainsbury’s. I used to go to the Morrison’s in Stoke Newington but I stopped going after one time, I took my big camping rucksack so I could carry everything home without stealing the shopping trolley, and it was so heavy that the moment I put it on, I fell over backwards and was stuck, literally stuck, with my arms and legs flailing in the air, like a turtle on its back (or how I’d imagine a turtle on its back would look, I’ve never actually done that- and to think I used to have two pet terrapins), and no one helped me. “Well, that’s just dandy, Mr Morrison’s,” I thought to myself, “I won’t be gracing you with my custom again.” anyway, I’m sure that I sound really elitist and that you half expect me to say “ah, poor people, and their funny ways”, and in a way, yes I do say things like that, but you must remember that it’s mainly for comedy effect and I went to comprehensive school, you know, and anyway, I’m just as poor as any of these people, it’s just that I’ve got a degree and a chip on my shoulder. That and I don’t spend my money on computer games and designer trainers, and instead I buy organic fair-trade coffee and the Guardian because I am, after all, achingly middle class. Pardon is a worse word than fuck.

On returning from the shops, we cooked (I say we when what I mean is that N cooked a curry and I stirred some rice and generally made a nuisance of myself)a curry and then fell asleep for the rest of the day. Actually, what happened was that N fell asleep and I watched aeroplanes out of the window, before finally falling asleep. In any event, it was lovely. Eventually I went home and generally wasted time, and in the end #1 and I went to the shop and got some wine and got pissed and had a really in depth conversation and then got more pissed and had the most hilarious, filthy conversation and then drew pictures of lesbian porn (A-Level Art clearly did not go to waste) and OH MY GOD #2 IS GOING TO KILL US.

Waking up to Adam Green again

I realised, shortly after posting yesterdays misery-fest, that I hadn’t mentioned any of the things I’d actually planned to write about, like what I’d been up to and things that I’d seen and fun (this adjective is meant in an ironic way) things like that. So here we go.

On Tuesday I was leaving my house and I got as far as the bus stop before I realised that I was still wearing my slippers. I used to do this all the time when I was at school. A couple of times I went to sixth form in my pyjamas, which is roughly about the time I started making sure my pyjamas were at least vaguely respectable. In parts of my first year at uni I hardly ever got dressed and would happily go to the shops without any shoes on (not as bad as going to Berlin in your slippers, but then that’s a whole different story). Anyway, I hadn’t done that in a while but it was quite amusing to see that age does not bring wisdom.

But then the most traumatic thing in the whole world happened (okay, maybe I’m being melodramatic, but you will understand when you read on). I went back upstairs and put on some proper shoes, before going back downstairs again. As the front door slammed shut behind me, I bounded down the steps before stepping on something that gave a resounding CRUNCH. “Ah,” I thought to myself, “that sounds like a wotsit… but why would there be a wotsit on the garden path… maybe I should look and see what it is, being a nosy beggar and all… AAAARGH IT’S A SNAIL!!” I hate hate hate it when I stand on a snail. There were bloody loads of them as well. I’m only glad that I didn’t stand on one in my slippers. To be honest, I don’t know how I avoided the little bastards. Urgh. I actually felt sick. Years ago, my youngest brother and I moved loads of snails in the yard at my parent’s house so they wouldn’t get run over by any cars. That’s how lame I am when it comes to animals. I don’t think I could kill anything. Sometimes I think I would make a really good Jain, walking along with a brush in front of me, and then I could starve myself to death in a parody of my teenage self (I wouldn’t be a Buddhist though, not after what they said about me, and anyway, they drink piss, so they can fuck off). For fuck’s sake, when I was really little I tried to set up a fucking hornet hospital. Hornets! I ask you. Anyway, I got my comeuppance when I was at a tennis match and got stung by one of the fuckers, I’ve still got the sting in my finger if anyone would like to see it.

I sent my CV off to a million different places yesterday and I’ve got an interview tomorrow. Now I’m absolutely petrified. I know that I’ve been going on about how if I got an interview, I would be able to charm them. But that’s all bravado. I only said any of it because I didn’t think I’d get an interview. What’s more likely is that I would start talking behind my hands and laughing nervously and get a glimpse of their notes right at the end, which would say something like “do not hire this retard”. Anyhow, tomorrow should be fun, especially as the interview is being conducted in French. Still, afterwards I am going to meet up with S, and as she says, have drinks and hugs and stroking of hair, which will be lovely.

Tonight is going to be really weird because it will be the first time in over a month that I haven’t spent the night with N. in fact, since the beginning of April, we have only spent two nights apart (when I was in Suffolk). It’ll be the first time I’ll have slept in my new bedroom. Annoyingly, the mattress on my new bed is about 5 cm bigger than a normal double mattress which means the fitted sheets don’t fit properly, so I’ll have to find a way of sleeping on the bit of sheet that is on the bed. God, it’s a hard life. I had planned to go and sleep in #1’s room (I know I won’t be able to sleep by myself, and she has let me sleep in her bed before – I don’t try and shag her like JA did to JS) but her boyfriend is staying round tonight, and however much she loves me, I don’t think she will allow that. So yeah, a night by myself I think is the plan, and I can’t even smoke in bed anymore as the window is the other side of the room.

My tales of woe are such that they’re making my OWN heart bleed. I hope you all feel the same.

Was noch? [I have no idea why I keep thinking in German all of a sudden. Yesterday I was trying to tell R that I had a headache but I could only think of the word kopfschmerzen and she looked at me like I was a retard.] The days of Hotel Peckham are coming to an end, with everyone leaving. I have quite enjoyed having so many people in the flat (I say that like it’s my flat: I guess it goes back to my old philosophy of home being wherever you have your pyjamas). More people seems to equal more fun, and certainly more cigarettes and sachets of instant tea and brioche being called broccoli and actually having breakfast with someone as opposed to by myself and being woken up by the sound of a hairdryer. What I will not miss is fucking Tikka Baked Beans, which give off literally the stench of death. I was telling my friend at ballet about these monstrosities and she said that Baked Beans should only be consumed during a nuclear fallout, if you’ve eaten everything else. Which I think is the correct sentiment.

In a bit of an ongoing saga, R is having man-troubles. She’s been seeing this guy for a couple of weeks and they had an argument the other day because he said that she owed him 15p but she’d just bought him two pints and paid for a couple of games of pool. Class. Still, she just sent me the funniest email ever, with pictures of a chav wedding. I've posted the best one up here for your enjoyment.


And in a final burst of brain activity, I just wanted to say, oh my god, did anyone watch the football? (I sure as hell did not as it’s a shit sport) More to the point, did anyone see on TV this morning that there were football supporters crying? Ha. Gutted.

General synopsis: rubbish

Having nearly died of boredom at work yesterday, the evening was slightly more exciting but in a really shit way. I got home and tried to sit with the others but I couldn’t face inane conversation and a fight over whether we could put the news on or whether it should be some shitty brainless codswallop. I sorted out some of my scrapbook (at long last) and generally pottered around. And then ran out of things to do. I went to make some food, not because I was hungry but because I was bored, but the pitiful state of my fridge makes for very boring cooking. After reading the Evening Standard and pointing out the article slating #4’s company, I went to harass #1, who has been revising hard. I intended to go in and just get a hug but I ended up sitting on her bed, crying, and having a long talk. She sees through me so well, she could tell that I was going to cry. I mean, for fuck’s sake, #2 has been in the same room as me while I’m actually crying and she didn’t even notice/care. #1 is properly lovely. The reasons for me being unhappy at the moment are quite complex and I don’t know if I will write them all here at the moment. Main immediate concern is the fact that I don’t have a job. It is making me feel ill, yet at the same time I can’t seem to do anything about it thanks to my total ineptness. C has been very sweet and has given me a list of agencies I should try. Though if you see me living in a gutter in a couple of weeks, you’ll know why.

Bargain!!

I went to the library at lunch time and they're selling books for 10p! Yes, 10p!

But most of them are shit.

It's horses piss and the doctors are raking it in

Yesterday at the bus stop at the Elephant there was some proper hilarity from an old woman with no front teeth. She told me that the buses were going to the dogs and that children shouldn’t be allowed to travel for free (a bit rich coming from a pensioner, if you ask me). She said that in “the good old days” (meaning 1948), things were much better, because- and I quote: “We had an empire, we had a commonwealth, you paid in the shops in farthings and shillings, and Prince Charles was born”. I think she is my new favourite bus stop person though the man who has the bag seen in this photo (usually spotted around Camberwell Green) is also in the running.

Other recent occurrences have included pushing a broken-down car, drinking instant tea, finding out that the potential doom is probably not going to happen, looking for jobs and considering getting a hair cut. Although I have been trying not to feed my ever increasing wikipedia obsession, I succumbed as #1 and I were having a debate as to the name of the guy in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure who isn’t Keanu Reeves. How on earth people managed before the internet, I really don’t know. More to the point, how did people ever resolve (I say resolve: I mean win) arguments?

Bill and Ted sorted, my next concern is this: How did linguists write the phonetics before computers, ie when they still had to use typewriters? Did they have special massive typewriters? Or did they have to write everything by hand? It’s questions like this that keep me awake all night.

Progress report on the CV: completed.
Likelihood of getting a job: next to zero.
Fear, on a scale of 1 – 10: fifty-eight.

If God meant us to walk everywhere, he wouldn't have given us little chefs.

Only two more weeks of having a job, yet the panic has not yet set in properly. Having said that, I had a nightmare about it all last night, so I guess it must be subconsciously affecting me. Still, mustn’t let a thing like unemployment get in the way of a good time. As it was pointed out to me this morning, this is the best time of year to be at home, telly-wise.

What didn’t seem like a promising weekend actually ended on a high note. Sunday night was probably the only time I didn’t have some sort of misery threatening to engulf me (that sounds lame I know, but that’s sort of how it felt). Thing is, I should be so used to all of this by now but I’m not, or not as much as I would like in any event. When I’m sad it feels like I can’t do anything, like literally nothing. And then when I’m happy, I worry about when I won’t be happy and how it would be better to not have the highs as it makes the lows feel even worse. Still, at least I am having different varieties of moods. A few months ago I was being told that I should take anti-depressants, and that it would make the bad times less bad but the good times less good, just sort of soften the edges or something, I just started screaming “it’s all shit, it’s all shit, you have no idea!” So yeah, I guess I should take heart in the fact that at least now I don’t just have one mood: abject misery.

I don’t know where all of that came from.

Anyway, the weekend. C got offered the job she was after so we went to the pub where her boyfriend works and had a couple of pints with them. They’re such an adorable couple. N and I went to Nando’s. On Saturday I woke up a bit later than expected and nearly cried and then went back to my flat. I moved everything in my old room to my new room, thinking that the new housemate would be arriving at midday (given that by the time I got to the flat, it was half twelve, I foresaw a challenge to get everything done in time). At one, #1 told me that actually, he would be arriving at five as he’d just woken up on his friend’s sofa and was still too pissed to drive, so I sat down with a mug of hot chocolate and read one of #2’s trashy magazines. Then I cleaned my old room and made it look all spick and span, and tried to make my new room bear less of resemblance to Dresden. When finally the new housemate arrived (I guess he is #4), we all (ie me, #1 and her new gentleman friend, who is absurdly strong) helped him move his stuff, and then we all had a beer on the balcony, which was pretty nice.

Having spent a bit more time trying to sort out my room, I left to go to the pub. As I was waiting at the bus stop, I heard a couple having a heated conversation. I wasn’t eavesdropping; they were right next to me. Anyway, it was horrible. The guy was being so nasty to the woman, just really callous and cruel. At first I just thought “what a knob” but then I realised that he sounded exactly like my ex and that he was doing exactly what my ex used to do, and it made me feel really sorry for the woman, and generally quite miserable. I tried to explain this to #1 on Sunday but she didn’t really understand because she doesn’t know what he did, but she was still very sweet about it. The woman was crying on the bus but trying to pretend that she wasn’t. I wanted to throw the man under the wheels of oncoming traffic and tell the woman to run away because he would probably hit her when they got home, but he was pure evil and I couldn’t go anywhere near him.

Once I got into town, however, I was feeling alright and apparently looking like the duchess of Hong Kong (the general cleverness and kudos of this reference bypassed me as I am culturally bankrupt). Normal stuff like being in a pub and having a drink ensued. I gleaned more important knowledge from a man I am starting to believe knows everything. Facts learnt so far: 1) Never trust a man with grey hair (being bald is fine though). 2) Cassette tapes are so much better than any other format. 3) Leonardo da Vinci was the greatest man ever to live. 4) Leonardo da Vinci did not invent post-it notes but he did invent a way of breathing under water that is more advanced than my idea of a hosepipe going up to the surface (the poor mans snorkelling). 5) I am a philistine because I said ‘The Last Supper’ was “a bit rubbish”. Almost better than wikipedia, I think you’ll agree. A large discussion ensued about most memorable gigs, and I could not for the life of me think of any. Maybe because I used to be so pissed that I couldn’t remember anything, and what I tend to remember are the weird little details, like someone in the audiences hair, or a smile, or the children (there’s always children when you least expect them), or spending the whole night throwing lit cigarettes at someone’s feet.

On Sunday I felt weirder than weird and was generally stupid, causing #1 to tell me that I should stop being such a pain in the arse and that I was acting like a silly. I went to Primark and bought some shoes and a jacket that I can only describe as this season’s key look for me, before waiting for 40 minutes for the bloody bus and being accosted by a girl from my office. Back home, #4 announced that he wanted to change the name of our flat, and that he didn’t want to be associated with “camp” anything. Upstart. He’s only just in the door and he’s trying to destroy his fellow campers. I went to sit in my room for a while, and ended up sitting on the floor with the lights off and the curtains drawn, feeling very melancholy. I’d been invited up to Stoke Newington but I couldn’t face leaving the flat, let alone going all the way to north London. I could hear my housemates talking and laughing but I couldn’t face going out and talking to them, so I just stayed exactly where I was and waited for something to change or some sort of epiphany. Finally, in the evening, I was able to do something. I made a cup of tea, boiled some rice and then sorted out some more of my stuff, at which point I found my really old Pink Floyd tape! So that helped to cheer me up. I went to the same school (ish) as Pink Floyd (when they were there it was Cambridge Grammar School for Boys, which it obviously wasn’t when I was there: contrary to popular belief, I am not a man). Full of the joys of spring and happy that I was a functioning human being again instead of a misery ridden effigy, I went to bother #1, who was pretending to revise. She’s started doing this thing whereby whenever she says something about computers/the internet/typing in general, she does this hand motion, like she is typing. But it looks like a monkey playing the piano. She’s trying to stop doing it, but I am making a conscious effort to start doing it, along with the hand motions for talking on the phone, going for a run, driving, swimming, sleeping and whatever else I can come up with. We acted out our favourite parts of the Royle Family (I’d forgotten just how excellent that programme is) before practicing the Peter Kay walking to the dance floor walk. Good times, yet if she fails her law exam because of me and my “hilarity” I don’t think I will ever be able to show my face in these here parts again.

I wasted yet more time and then took the bus to Camberwell, and walked to Peckham. Walking always makes me feel better, so I thought it would be a good idea to walk off the last bit of my weird mood, even though I don’t particularly like walking through Camberwell. Still, walking late at night while talking to yourself is always fun, and by the time I got to N’s, I was in a really good mood and I think he was pleased to see me without a face like I’d been slapped with a wet fish. Which made me even more happy.

Progress report on the CV: nothing done.
Estimated time of completion: end of day.
Likelihood of getting a job: next to zero.
Fear, on a scale of 1 – 10: twelve.

I heart dragons

I want to go here:

www.brimhamrocks.co.uk

I went years ago and it’s fucking cool. You can climb up the rocks, and it’s the most fun, especially when it’s really sunny. Does anyone fancy a trip up to North Yorkshire in the summer so I can fulfil my rock climbing urges? If I remember rightly there are loads of different rock formations and a couple of ice cream vans, so to be honest, I can’t see that there’d be a problem.

I have no idea why I’m thinking about climbing rocks today, as my feet are killing me. At ballet last night I decided to wear the shoes that make my feet work really hard, and fucking hell, they do make them work. For the last 15 minutes I put my normal shoes back on because I was a bit worried about the giant blister forming on the heel of my foot. I managed to get all the way home without it popping (even though R kicked my foot for some reason I can’t remember) and then showed JA (who said I was disgusting) and N (who just looked slightly horrified). I don’t know why I just shared that with you all. I have left out the really gruesome details because public perception of me is looking about as flimsy as Charles Kennedy’s efforts to stay out of the pub.

Progress on the CV is looking fairly minimal. Today I have read a story about tarantulas that grow in cacti, as well as a number of articles about Popworld. I also made up loads of facts when telling my colleagues about some recent court ruling because I couldn’t be bothered to look it up, and as a result they now believe that Mauritius is very close to Indonesia. Serves them right for believing a word I say. I have also been practicing writing with my left hand. Yes, I’m that bored.

six seconds from barefoot

I am currently trying to make my CV look less shit, but failing miserably. Mainly because I keep getting distracted (I say that like it’s a bad thing). First of all, it’s so sunny and I just want to go outside. Secondly, I am enjoying banter with S about impending midget-porn-and-beer session. And thirdly, holy shit, my new Primark clothes are cool! I have the office to myself so I just held a fashion show (which means I just tried on my clothes and went “eeeee!” at my reflection). I would love to give up work and just be a fashion type person, like a stylist or something. Not only would it be a fucking cool job but also it would be a resounding fuck you to that “friend” who said I looked like I dressed in the dark and my style could at best be described as ‘hotch-potch’.

At lunchtime I walked up to London Bridge as the WHSmith there is the only reliable vendor of F1 Racing, my magazine of choice. Once I’d got that far, I decided to go and sit by the river, so wandered over to City Hall, carefully avoiding a guy from the legal department who I think has social problems but always, without fail, tries to involve me in a conversation, even if I tell him categorically that I’m busy or in a rush. I hadn’t been to City Hall in ages, probably not since last summer. There are loads of water features, which are lots of fun if you’re like me. The best ones are the fountains that come out of the ground and work on a timer, so they look like they’re dancing. I absolutely love these things. When I was 17 I spent a summer in Montpelier, and when it got too hot I used to stand in the middle of it. The City Hall version is a lot smaller, and of course it was about 10 degrees cooler than Montpelier, but it was still brilliant. Loads of kids were going in the water, and I was quite tempted but I didn’t think it would be much appreciated if I went back to the office soaking wet. Plus I didn’t want to get F1 Racing wet.

On the way back to the office I saw a man with his kid, a proper little baby, maybe six months old or so, and they were playing in what looks like a gutter but is probably just another water feature, unless town planning has resorted to open sewers in the middle of the pavement. The kid was loving it, splashing water and stuff, and although I smiled, I did not do what happened next: a whole crowd of Japanese tourists swarmed up and started poking the baby and waggling its feet and taking pictures. The man looked really pissed off and was going to tell them to fuck off and find another baby to molest, they’re not public property you know, but the baby started laughing and he couldn’t really. Yet more Japanese tourists appeared literally out of nowhere and took more pictures and pinched the baby’s cheeks and waved its arms around. A few years ago I was working with this Chinese man called Edward and I had to tell him to stop going up to children and taking photos of them as he nearly got punched. He really didn’t understand why it was a problem.

Now that summer, or at least, a hint of summer, is upon us, I’ve been thinking (albeit fleetingly) of going back to my old summer job. Not because it was a good job (it wasn’t) and not because it paid well (it didn’t) but because I got to spend lots of time outside, and I suppose £250 a week is manageable. Right? Actually, they paid for my travel as well so I was actually better off then than I am now. I’ve said it before and I fear that it may become the motto of my life, but I don’t know why I went to uni. Having said all that, I don’t actually give a toss and I’m going to enjoy the last of the sun and sort out my CV tomorrow (ie give it to C to re-write for me). One day I will get some motivation and ambition, but for the moment ambivalence and apathy seem to be the flavour of the month.

It's summer and it's time to play cricket.

Ultimate hilarity this morning as instead of going straight to work like any normal person, I have been having a variety of adventures. The day kicked off at six am when N had to get up, and I managed to keep my eyes open for all of ten seconds, which is some sort of record for me at that time in the morning. Anyway, I vaguely remember Classic FM for a while and it being sunny and me telling N not to go and to call in sick or something (I am SUCH a good influence). Next thing I know, it’s two hours later and I am completely tangled in the duvet. For some reason I thought I was in my room at my parents house (maybe because of the classical music?) and I was a bit worried that I couldn’t remember going there last night. Anyway, I went to wake up JA, who put me to shame by already having showered and being ready for work. After failing to adequately explain what a brioche is, I went to have a shower, where I saw that JA had left his tresemmé in the shower, so for the first time in ages, I could use conditioner on my hair. Mint. I have no concept of personal property when it comes to the bathroom. My philosophy is, if it’s in the bathroom, I’m going to use it (some sort of variant of ‘the grass is always greener’ is at play here, something like ‘your soap is better than my soap’). I hasten to add that I am not a complete skank and I do have my own shampoo and soap and everything, I just have conditioner-envy.

As I was locking the front door, I met N’s next-door neighbour and we had a chat. She was very sweet but VERY dykey. Anyway, I headed off to the bus stop. As I got there a very polite lady gave me something “to read on the bus”. On closer inspection it was a leaflet entitled ‘Do You Have an Immortal Spirit?’ Yes, the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Although normally I would say “ewww! Take it away!” I was feeling benevolent so I smiled and then stood at the other side of the bus stop.

An old man came over and stood near me. “Alright darling,” he said. “You going anywhere nice? Off to spend all your money?”

“No,” I told him, wondering whether I had a neon sign above my head attracting all the weirdos in southeast London, “I’m going to the post office and then I’m going to work.”

“Lovely,” he said, grinning apeishly. Lovely??? Is that REALLY lovely, or are you talking out of your arse? “I like your dress,” he told me.

“Thanks,” I said and decided to forget about the bus and walk to the Rye instead.

I’d got no further than two hundred metres down the road before some dude in a car shouted out of the window at me: “Hey, nice dress!”

“What is it with my dress?” I shouted back. “Do you want to wear it or something?”

Needless to say, I didn’t get a response.

While walking to the Rye (which today smelt of chips and chocolate, instead of the normal fried chicken aroma), I got accosted by another woman who was actually hissing, but I declined to acknowledge her, and then had to walk in the road for a while as there were literally fifty small children on the pavement. Standards are slipping in the British educational system, it seems. I walked past another bastion of education, a city academy, and thought about the poor kids there whose fancy new school will be shut down within a decade thanks to the forward thinking government and the business men who run the whole project. Whenever I go past the academy, they’re having PE lessons. But they don’t have any grass. They have all their PE lessons on tarmac. I guess all inner London state schools must be like that, but it’s certainly very different from the field that we had at secondary school, with the wastelands next to the school where we did cross country (or in my case, hid, while everyone else did cross country, cos I hated it). Anyway, just as I was thinking about this, I came across a patch of tarmac on the pavement that was new and soft. I had an overwhelming urge to take my shoes off and dig my toes into it but I couldn’t really face the necessary scrubbing of feet that this would involve, so I kept my shoes on and pushed my foot down as hard as it would go. I love the feeling of warm, soft tarmac. It’s surprisingly sensual. Now, that may make me sound like a pervert, wanting to submerge my feet in warm wetness. But yeah, I guess I am, so fair dinkum.

After waiting for ages for a bus (I lie: I did at this point go into Primark and buy a very cool dress, but I don’t think I missed a bus while I was in the shop, so I might as well have been waiting outside), I finally got one. But – fun!! – it got as far as the Aylesbury estate before it broke down! I really like it when things break down and I’m not in a rush to get anywhere. I mean, I had to go to work and I was already late, but I wasn’t LATE late. By the time the next bus arrived, however, I was LATE. This bus didn’t seem in a particular hurry either, and stopped to chat to the broken bus. Then it too broke down just up the road. I briefly considered calling work to explain but couldn’t be arsed. I finally got to work an hour late but in a far better mood than I normally am at work, so if you ask me, the bus should break down everyday because if there’s one thing I like, it’s a disaster.

Yesterday turned into quite a cool day as my ballet class went really well. Normally there are certain things that I always mess up, but I got most of them right, and I actually did the enchainement at the end perfectly. And this was despite the fact that we couldn’t open any of the windows and it was about 30 degrees in the room, with fifteen people. I have never seen the class look so collectively sweaty. I was wearing tights. I nearly died. I came home and we all drank tea (me) and Horlicks (the boys) and watched a documentary about Bernard Manning, who sang a song about how great Manchester was. I tried and failed to stop myself pointing at JA and saying "hahahahaha!"

Going back to the subject of disasters, I was having a conversation the other day about how I thought we were due another catastrophe of some sort. Natural disasters are always good (volcano, tsunami etc) although earthquakes are a bit rubbish because you don’t tend to get it on film. I wondered whether I was a heartless bint for thinking that I wanted a disaster just for the tv footage, but then I thought back to September the 11th. Cinematic masterpiece, that was. Having said all of that, I am looking forward to bird flu as it will be reminiscent of the plague, and although it may be a controversial statement, I think the plague was pretty fucking cool, as epidemics go. R disagrees with me and thinks that a gunman running through the building would be better. I say instant gratification is a sign of immaturity and if a gunman ever gets in, I will send him straight up to her floor.

Eeeeeee pet, I've dropped ma keys down the side of the train!!

Today I have an overwhelming urge to eat crepes. It’s so quiet and boring in the office, I’m just thinking about eating a crepe (maybe with just sugar and lemon, or maybe nutella, I haven’t decided) at a pavement café. God knows what’s brought this on. On the way to work I saw lots of people cycling and I thought that I’d quite like to get another bike and cycle to work. Obviously not from my house, what with the hills and all, but perfectly feasibly from Peckham, and I could probably cycle to Battersea. Just as I was thinking this, I saw someone on a motorbike and I thought, yes, THAT’s the thing for me. Motorbikes are so phallic. I hasten to add that I would not get one because I would be shit scared. My mum always told me that they’re the most dangerous things and even though she really wanted one, she didn’t get one cos she wanted to stay alive, as the Bee Gees might sing. Also, helmet hair is so not attractive. But yeah, a bicycle might be a good idea, as I might stop being so fat. I’m so nostalgic for my old bike, the one that I had in Cambridge. The brakes didn’t work and it was the biggest piece of rubbish ever, but I loved it. Plus it had a massive basket that could fit a crate of beer, so it was the vehicle of choice for going to the shops when we were at the millpond. Having said that, it WAS a piece of shit and once I got my trousers caught in the chain of the bike and was stuck for like twenty minutes, and had to ask passers-by and yes, children, to help me untangle myself.

Part of my bike nostalgia I think was kicked off by my friend coming into my office yesterday to tell me about the bike ride he’s going on in summer, round the Scottish coast. I have a large map of the UK on my wall (weirdly enough, it’s an NHS map, so it’s all split into NHS regions and has all the “major acute hospitals” on it, god only knows why it’s in my office, or why Bath has been underlined with a thick red marker), and half way through he looked up at the map and said: “Fuck me! Scotland is massive! I can’t cycle round that!” So it looks like I have been instrumental in ruining someone’s summer plans, even if completely inadvertently. Still, solidarity in crap summer plans, that’s what I like. All of you people with your holidays and your plans... I'm spending yet another summer in London, I'll have you know, and I'm not envious of people who aren't, oh no. [NB. That is sarcasm. If anyone would like to take me away from the city, please, please, please feel free.]

Yesterday I went back to my flat, with the intention of at least starting to pack my stuff. Instead I hung out with #1, who was meant to be revising for her law exam. She took the exam a few months back but thought you had to choose between part 1 and part 2 when in fact you had to do both. She got 49%, even by only doing half the paper, so I reckon she’ll be fine, though of course, she’s like me, and so she worries. It was fun though, we stood on the balcony and told each other secrets and did silly voices and other really mature things, before she went off to read her law books (ie. make lots of phone calls and go on msn) and I went to pack (ie. drink tea and smoke out of the window and listen to soulwax really loudly).

I finally figured out that #2 hates me (quite probably a little late, but then I never said I was the sharpest tool in the box, did I? Not realising things is what I do!). I thought she was just being mardy (she was in the kitchen at the same time as me and #1 but wasn’t really speaking to us) but then #1 said that she’d been fine until I got home, and that when #1 had greeted me with a noisy “eeeeee, pet!” and a hug, #2 had stopped talking to us. The funny thing is that I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I can’t think of anything that I’ve done that #1 hasn’t, and in any case the only thing I can think of is when we got really pissed with this other Geordie girl and we were talking really loudly in the next room about how lame it was to go to bed really early, which I think is about the moment I fell off #1’s bed. I’m always civil to her. I guess I do talk about her to other people, but not when she’s actually there, and you can’t NOT mention the fact that she thought Milan was in Spain and that the popular television programme Coronation Street was called Carnation Street. Anyway, I don’t really care. She says she’s going to move out but I think she has neither the courage nor the strength of character to actually do so. Miaow, I hear you say. Well yes. But she does get on my nerves.

We got a note through our door from the lady who looks after the whole building (possibly the most boring woman in the world) telling us not to throw lit cigarettes out of our windows as it is apparently killing the grass. Now, I’m no horticulturalist. But that’s pretty shit grass if it can’t take a cigarette butt landing on it. There’s no fire risk as the grass there is pretty wet- in fact, the sodden state may be more of a factor in the limited life of the grass than any cigarettes. I am half tempted to go down and ask her if I can still throw rollies out the window, but I don’t know whether her sorely lacking sense of humour would take the strain. Anyway, what will we throw at the junkies now? #1 saw someone doing crack down there the other night. I used to keep a supply of small rocks to throw at the junkies (they go through our bins, they deserve it – I’m a philanthropist, me).

There’s still no word from SOAS. I just called them again and they said that although my application has been looked at by the faculty, there’s still “other stuff” that needs to be done before the decision can be sent out to me. I told them to get a move on and that I had been waiting for two months now, and it was preventing me from making any plans for my future. To which they said, “okay, we’ll do it as quickly as we can”, but in reality I think they meant, “piss off”. Shame really, as I’m getting quite into studying, or at least the idea of it. I’m reading a very interesting book about sociolinguistics at the moment, and it’s riveting stuff. I wish I’d given more consideration to my UCAS form. I really would have like to have done sociological linguistics or something linguistics/etymology based. Instead I did history. Why? Simple answer: because it was one of my A Levels and I therefore didn’t have to put any thought into choosing a new subject. I don’t know why on earth I want to go back to uni. I had such a shit time the first time round. The other day I went to the library to meet S, and just walking to the library made my palms sweat. Standing outside it, I thought I would be sick. In those kinds of situations it’s either run away very quickly or confront whatever it is that I’m scared of. As I couldn’t run away, I thought “what the hell” and I went inside the library. I have a very strong masochistic streak that makes me do things that I know I’ll be scared of. It does stop me being quite so scared. The only thing that this tactic hasn’t worked on is anything to do with Günter Van Hagens, as I just have to see him on tv and I puke. Anyway, educational exploits are subject to further delays as I continue to wait for SOAS, so until then I will just dream of being an academic in my paltry lunch break in the park behind our office. Which, incidentally, to get to, you have to walk down the alleyway next to the library, and my god, I have never smelt piss like you smell there.

Yesterday morning I was making a cup of hot water (I have to have a hot drink in the morning, there was no more milk and I’ll be damned if I’m having black tea, so hot water it was) and standing on a towel in the kitchen. I was thinking about how nice it was to have a nice soft towel under my toes, instead of walking on wood or on tiles, and that it would be great if you could walk around feeling like that all the time. Approximately ten seconds later I realised that two things already existed that would fulfil these requirements: carpets and socks. I am a rubbish inventor.

Stoppit. And Carryon.

I’m sure I’m meant to hold confidentiality in some sort of sanctity but unfortunately I find it hard when I have to deal with conversations like these:

Me: Good afternoon, how can I help?
Man: Yes, I sent you an email. What have you done about it?
Me: Okay. I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific. What was the email about, and when did you send it?
Man: I sent it six months ago. It’s about a problem.
Me: Right. What sort of problem was that then?
Man: The government are using lasers on people.
Me: Sorry, what?
Man: They’re using lasers on people to control their brains.
Me: Sure. Right.
Man: So what are you going to do about it?
Me: Err… I’m not entirely sure what you’re trying to tell me. You’re saying that people are being controlled by lasers?
Man: Yes.
Me: And where abouts is this?
Man: Southall.
Me: What, on the street?
Man: Yes. On Southall Broadway.
Me: And you’ve seen these lasers, have you?
Man: Yes. I took pictures of them.
Me: So you have photographic evidence that people are being controlled by lasers while doing their shopping on Southall Broadway?
Man: Yes. But I was forced to destroy the photos.
Me: By whom?
Man: The lasers.
Me: Okay… Now, I’m not convinced that this falls under our remit.
Man: What?
Me: We don’t deal with laser related mind control. Why don’t you contact the police?
Man: I did, and they told me to piss off.
Me: Really? That’s… Anyway, I don’t think we can help you on this one.
Man: Why?
Me: Well, lasers… not really our thing.
Man: So what is it that you do?
Me: Neither lasers nor mind control. Contact the police.
Man: I’m going to go to the United Nations on this one! Everyone will hear about it! It’s just not right!!
Me: Indeed. Goodbye.

Lalala. The one good thing about this job is that it makes me feel relatively sane. And a good thing about the seriously deluded is that they don’t call me names like all the “farkin’ racialists” do, they just pity me, which I find pretty damn hilarious. I don’t normally like being pitied, but sometimes, I’ve got to admit, it makes me laugh.

The weekend was pretty good in all though I did something I shouldn’t on Saturday afternoon (ie cry about what I was writing about in the last entry). I felt really REALLY awful after that and told N to forget that I had said anything. I will have to make a concerted effort to not do that ever again. Unless I want to feel like the biggest bitch on the planet, that is. So, prognosis is: less weirdness, more being cool and not letting emotions ruin my life, or, more specifically, other people’s lives, or even more specifically, N’s life. I will have to control my outbursts of insecurity to when I am alone and can sit in my room with the lights off without anyone knowing about it until I write it in here, and then you can all sit and read and mock, or whatever it is that you all do. Ha, and then I could be the one whose journal you read only to see if I’ve killed myself yet. I’d rather be that person than let anyone else be that person. All heart, me, all heart.

After work on Friday I went to the pub with R and C, where we sat on the roof terrace and discussed how this girl we know has just got married to a man who resembles a mollusc. I managed to miss the first bit of the conversation and so came out with some suitably thick things and decided instead to sit quietly and drink my pint. After nearly getting run over by my own bus (which could have either been really bad (like, getting squashed and missing the bus) or really good (getting dragged along by the wheels, thus saving myself the hassle of actually getting on the bus with all the plebs but still managing to get to my destination) but in the end was purely theoretical), I got home (I say home; it’s not home) and we went out for dinner at Ganapati’s. I had chocolate, cardamom and chilli cake, which sounds terrible but is truly one of the greatest things known to man. I tried, and quite possibly failed, to explain the British electoral system. You don’t realise how much- or little- you know of something until you have to explain to someone else. For example, I didn’t realise I was akin to an illiterate deaf-mute until I tried to teach English.

On Saturday we went to see the Sultan’s Elephant, which was fucking cool. I took lots of pictures and will see if my limited technological capability allows me to post a couple up here. After lunch, we met up with one of N’s friends, who was on a pub crawl with his dad. I got hit on by the dad’s girlfriend, who tried telling me about “racial ecology”. I didn’t really understand what she was talking about, so I just nodded as I didn’t know what else to do. The dad thought she was talking about incest. I started off feeling quite socially inept (new people always have this effect on me because I am rubbish) but by the end I was slightly scared, not to mention completely lost. She held my hand for far longer than necessary, told me to email her, and said I should come round. Then they all tried to fit in a phone box. By now it was pissing down and we went home and I tried not to get wet-jean-skank everywhere. One day, when I am an adult (and smoking real cigarettes and shopping in Waitrose) I will have trousers that actually fit me and don’t have bike oil all over them. These days are very much in the future. Then we went to sleep.

I woke up about an hour before N but I couldn’t move because I was literally paralysed, thanks to the way I was feeling. Fun. When he woke up is when I did the crying. Bad. Anyway, we headed off to the Princess Louise, where drinks were had by all (as is done in a pub, I guess) and I ended up only moving from my chair once, which is a result if you ask me as I’m a lazy bastard. I showed people the pictures of the elephant, and everyone was impressed except for JA’s housemate who refused to believe me and said that I’d done a photoshop job with the photos. P chipped his tooth on a glass, which was fun for everyone (except him) as he kept baring his teeth at every mirror in the pub. We moved on to the next pub where I was told- by a bloody northerner- that he would never be able to look at me in the same way because I am from the countryside. You’re from the north. Shut it. He practiced being condescending; I practiced “being told”. By the end of the evening, several facts had been established: 1) I am good people, 2) You shouldn’t trust people who have grey hair, but being bald is okay, 3) Lots of people seem to want to shag each others parents, which- to me- is wrong wrong wrong, 4) Tesco Value rice and ketchup is not a meal to be sniffed at, and 5) Midget porn is good because (and I quote) “it’s like, if there’s a midget man having sex with a normal sized woman, it’s like watching a child having sex with a woman, which is brilliant”. When asked whether he had any midget porn on his computer, he replied “no, but only cos I don’t know where to get some- if I could, I’d stock up”. To which there is only one answer, because there is only one person who owns that much porn. Anyway, people went to afterschool but we went home and grilled some halloumi and I checked the F1 grid positions on teletext even though the internet was right there and wondered why I had admitted in the pub that I had once watched a race solely on teletext. It was nice not to be pissed, and despite eating cheese before bed, I managed not to have any psycho dreams, so maybe the boycott of pre-bedtime cheese can come to an end.

In the morning we woke up a little later than planned and then I pissed around for so long that by the time I got home, had a shower and left and then got all the way to Whetstone, it was an hour and a half later than planned. Still, it was a really pleasant Sunday afternoon, running around the garden barefoot and chasing the cats and emptying slug traps (I will never EVER drink Miller’s beer, not after that) and fixing a bamboo teepee and drinking tea and climbing a tree and hiding the scooter in a bush and really half heartedly playing football and admiring dolls. They asked me if I wanted to come and work for them again. I so wish I could. One of the kids got annoyed with me because I said that his cat was so fat that it looked like a space hopper with legs, however, he later admitted that he used to have a pet goldfish until the fat cat ate it, proving my point, I think (how sad am I if I am trying to prove my point to an 11 year old?). Anyway, yeah, came back down from the northern wastelands of Whetstone, via Totteridge hill, which always makes me laugh because I used to know someone who thought that was the biggest hill in the world. Ha! But then, they didn’t see a cow until they were fourteen. Call me countrified, but that’s fucked up. Back on the right side (south side) of the river I went straight to Ganapati’s where there was a little group of people waiting to eat the damn tasty food. Barring a little banal conversation and excessive checking for nuts in every dish, it was very pleasant, and despite the fact that we didn’t really know what was in some of the dishes (other than the nut content), we all stuffed our bellies pretty satisfactorily. I say that. The thinnest of the lot ate the most and I suspect he could have eaten the same again. Good lord, the boy has a tapeworm. A pint in the junkie-free (or at least, vein-free, thanks to the blue lighting) pub and then bed for what could only optimistically be called a sleep, and would more accurately be described as a nap.

Today has gone slow. In a way yes, in a way no. I got soaked on the way to work and when I arrived I was asked if I was wearing a hijab. It’s a hoodie, I am ghetto, recognise, or whatever it is that the youth say. I had inane conversations, as detailed above. I considered hitting my head against a brick wall. I called up SOAS who said that they had made a decision about my master’s application on the 30th March, but they couldn’t tell me what it was, I would have to wait to get a letter in the post. Why, I asked, could they not have a look on said letter, if it was indeed sitting in front of them waiting to be sent to me, and tell me on the phone what it said. They said to call back on Thursday, so looks like I will have to wait until then for the inevitable rejection, so that’s fun. I tried to drink a litre of water in one go, just for something to do, but it made me want to gag. I didn’t apply for any jobs. Pah.

Over the weekend, I thought that instead of boring people with my incessant emo-girl drivel (sorry, I know I’ve stolen that phrase, but I couldn’t not do it) in person, I would use this journal to put it all in. But now I’m thinking that that would be slightly disingenuous. I don’t know. All that can be said is that I am fighting very hard not to be crushed by the enormity of my ineptitude. And lalala.

Guilt, guilt, unimaginable guilt, and the doom that we don't speak of

For the second time this week, yesterday I felt absolutely dreadful about N’s revision. I know that if I wasn’t around, he would get a lot more done, and I feel so guilty about it. These exams are so important- he has to pass, there’s no debate about that- but he’s not really started revising yet, and he certainly hasn’t become the revising machine he said he would turn into. And it is at least partly my fault. I mean, maybe he wouldn’t have started on his work anyway, but I am certain that I have been a hindrance. What’s even worse is that he was worrying about how I would feel, and he wasn’t more to-the-point about needing to study because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. That makes me feel absolutely awful. My feelings are not the primary concern here, by any means. The exams are the most important thing, not me. Next week I am not going to go round until late, like 11pm, so he can work until then. Neither of us think we can sleep anywhere other than next to each other, but I don’t know whether it would be easier for him if I didn’t come round at all, as then he could work solidly until five minutes before he has to sleep and not have to have banal conversation with a stupid girl. It would absolutely kill me not to be with him every night, but I can’t be this selfish. The exams are in five weeks time and we have the whole summer to be together after that (well, two weeks after exams finish, as he’s going to Singapore the day after exams). I just can’t help but feel really bad that he’s not yet done a vast amount of work, as it is definitely at least partially attributable to me. It seems I have more in common with Yoko Ono than I would like (forgive the in-joke there).

I don’t want to whinge about this, as that would be so selfish. I just honestly don’t know what I will do without him there all the time. I guess I will just have to stop being so childish and just accept that this is the mature thing to do. I am trying to think of positive things that will result from this. For example, if I spend more time at home, I might actually get the internet working. I am moving to my new bedroom next weekend, so that will take up far more time than it realistically should, what with my endless organising and re-organising (I know exactly how long it takes me to move everything- and more specifically, pointlessly move things around- as I have moved so many times in the last four years) and sticking pictures on the wall and so on. These things should keep me occupied. Plus it’s the F1 season. Once all of that is out of the way, I will probably develop OCD or stick pins in my eyes. I don’t know.

Thing is, I used to be really good at spending time by myself. Mainly because I was a bit of a loner as a child and people didn’t really like me when I was at school. I can quite happily entertain myself (not in that way, you sick fucks… or maybe in that way, it’s not what I was talking about anyway), but now, I don’t think that I can. It’s rubbish. I sound so needy and lame. I’m sure everyone I know, and even more so, everyone (if there is anyone) reading this, thinks I am a pain in the arse, always talking about N. I can’t even say that I’m sorry about that, because I’m not (there’s nothing worse than disingenuous apologies). I don’t want to think about this anymore. It’s making me miserable.

In other news, the air con in the office has broken again. According to the head of finance, it’ll cost a million quid to replace. A million? What the fuck? The auditors are in at the moment and R suggested we tell them that we need more money, but I don’t think it works like that. My very VERY basic knowledge of auditing tells me that auditing, as far as I can work out, is essentially checking things. N tells me that I have grossly oversimplified, which may well be the case, but you know, I don’t DO numbers, so that’s as complex as it’ll ever get for me. For some reason I was in top set maths at school, but I think that is a fairly damning indictment of my under-achieving school rather than proof of me having any sort of talent in maths.

Last night at ballet, my friend (her of the shoe analogy I think I mentioned ages ago) was there who I hadn’t seen in ages. She used to come every week and then she stopped coming, and we didn’t know why. Turns out she’d slipped a disk in her back. She’s okay now though (hence being back at ballet). It did somewhat silence me though, what with my back pain and I only let out a few involuntary grimaces. N thinks I should go to the doctor. I don’t like my doctor so I probably won’t go. Paragon of sensibility, me. I was very pleased to see my friend again though. I got the bus with her and this other girl (or is it woman? How old do you have to be before you reach this transition?) who makes me want to burst my own ear drums. I have seriously never met anyone so dull. Seriously, she makes * and * (names/initials no way appearing in this- do you think I am mad? You all know who I am talking about anyway and I don’t want to get in trouble!) seem like the most interesting people in the world. No lie. She told me the dullest story ever that went like this (gaps are where I zoned out): ……………………… Honestly. I was riveted.

So yesterday was polling day and I had to go to some school near Loughborough Junction, completely out of the way for where I was going. My ward was apparently going to be “really close” so I went along to cast my vote for the Greens. No need in the end as Labour now controls the council, and no Green councillors at all. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one of my housemates who voted. Apathy huh. I think everyone should vote. And my housemates certainly should have. It’s not like they had anything else they had to be doing. I was half tempted not to go because I was running late, and my feet hurt. Next time I might try and get a postal vote- though I do like the physical act of going into the polling station and standing in a booth with a pencil on a string. Anyway, my act of democracy has cost me dear as I now have two large blisters on the soles of my feet. The soles! I ask you. I suppose it’s my own fault for wearing my cheapo Primark shoes with no socks. I have not made the same mistake today.

Other news: we have a new housemate, officially. It’s the engineer. He came round and said that our freezer needed defrosting and that he’d get right on it. Errrr… okay. Still, it might be nice to have someone who is domesticated and doesn’t eat solely porridge (like #2), ready meals (like #1) or a variety of dishes that only ever include rice, onion, garlic, spices and cheese (me). As long as he doesn’t eat fried chicken, the food of pure, unadulterated misery.

And my arms have gone pink again from the sunshine. Being a Celt is so rubbish. I remember last year I fell asleep in the park and burnt my back so badly that I couldn’t wear clothes for a week. Obviously I still had to go to work, so I had to wear night shirts. I looked like a cross between Wee Willie Winkie and a seven year old boy in paediatric ward in spring. When I had a bath, all the water got trapped under the top layer of my skin and I had all these water bubbles. It was quite fun but incredibly painful. In the end all my skin came off, like those kids in Vietnam. It would have been such a traumatic experience had I not found it really funny. What was the funniest was that there was this guy at my work who found it really erotic. My friend told me that he’d been talking about me with my skin falling off (though he’d incorporated a car crash into the fantasy as well). He was a nice guy, but that’s one sick fantasy. Typing that has made me realise just how much so.

Can you see how good I am at keeping secrets? Yes, I’ll keep all your secrets and I’ll never tell. Even when the secrets weigh me down and I wonder why on earth anyone told me anything because it’s not like I’m special and it’s not like I’m the one anyone would tell if they had any choice in the matter, I still won’t tell. Which makes me wonder whether what I write is really me, or am I more a product of the things I can’t write about? Ignore me. I’m having an emo moment. Less so than the unforgettable shitness of: “Things are so good. Maybe I should never see him again and then things will never have to go bad.” Hopefully I will never come out with verbal excrement of that calibre ever again (I say this, all the time knowing that I will, I know I will, I am weak and essentially pretty fucking lame).

Anyway, the weekend is upon us. There is a giant elephant to be seen – www.thesultanselephant.com which I saw, legless, yesterday by Battersea Power Station.

Welcome to the adult world…

I went to the park at lunchtime to read my book (Zadie Smith, ‘The Autograph Man’, as it’s summer and I always read Zadie Smith in the summer. I remember back in Cambridge I took all the pillows in the whole house out onto the decking and read out there, occasionally going inside to make toast (that was all I used to eat, but fucking good made-on-an-aga toast, so fair play)), which was rather nice apart from the hordes of midget drunks careering around armed with footballs, grass cuttings and e-number filled ice creams. I’d heard that kids wouldn’t be at school today, what with the schools being used as polling stations and all (I’m sure this didn’t happen when I was a kid, but I suppose in London there aren’t any village halls, whose sole purpose is to provide a place for the elections and to host birthday parties for boisterous reception class children), but these kids just erupted into the park at 3pm. One kid kicked a ball at his mums head. I’d have fucking kicked it back but I suppose that says more about why I don’t have children than anything else.

The upshot of it is (to clarify, as I don’t think I have been at all clear in the previous paragraph: ‘it’ is my lunch break in the park) that my arms have turned slightly pink and my right hand is itchy from where it touched the grass. I come out in a rash when my skin touches the grass. It’s not especially annoying, and it has served me well. For example, I spent a good month going to my maths classes and saying: “Miss! Miss! I’ve got a rash, can I go to the sick room?” and taking the rest of the lesson off to either hang around on the field or go to the library (which, being a shit school, was not used very much, except by this guy called Steven Carr who founded the Star Trek club and his chronically obese friend (the only other member of said club), and by me and some of my friends, who saw the library as a place to go to fight, talk about sex very loudly and bully Steven and the fat dude) or go to my friends house to play computer games. Ah, my school was shit. I do have SOME fond memories of it. That’s not true. I was fucking glad I left.

I really didn’t want to come back to the office, and now I am back, I know that I was right for not wanting to come back. My colleague (the one who I try so hard to get on with but find it hard not to want to stick my head down a waste disposal sink thing) has spent the last fifteen minutes on the phone to IT saying “fucking this fucking that I’m not being funny yeah what?”

As I was walking back towards the office I was hit by a wall of melancholy and thought “fuck, at least that’s something good (read: miserable = more interesting for all of you) to put in my journal” but how things change, and the wave has gone and so I’ll save it for tomorrow.

All I want to do is lie in the sun today. Is that too much to ask?

"This was definitely a good idea. There is no way that this wasn't a good idea."

The inevitable spaz out happened last night. I’d been expecting it for a while. It’s like there’s a person skulking in the shadows and I know they’re going to come out and engulf me but I can’t stop it any more than I can make it happen (and therefore be over) quicker. But it happened yesterday. After the evening of doom, I sat in the dark listening to the engaged tone of my parent’s phone, before having a weird conversation with them. Today I feel so much better. I actually feel cleansed and ready to get on with life and the world and stuff.

Yesterday we had some people round to look at the flat, and after having the most excruciatingly phoney conversation with #2, we kicked off the interviews. And my god. What a heinous task. We had five people come, at half hour intervals, and as well as showing them around, we sat down in the kitchen and had a “chat” (that’s a lie if ever I heard one- it was more an interrogation). Here’s how they went:

1. Probably the best one, 24 year old engineer who drinks a lot but seemed relatively house trained, for example, he cooks and cleans. Asked lots of questions and seemed friendly but not overly keen on overdramatic house bonding (a good thing).
2. Geeky sound technician who didn’t know how long he’d been in London and looked really furtive. He did offer to bring a piano though, which was swinging it for me.
3. Super keen 21 year old girl who seemed absolutely pledged to her company and had an irritating laugh. I think I would kill her if I lived with her.
4. Another nice one, 28 year old lawyer from New Zealand. We thought he was a square initially as he was wearing a suit (not that we're judgmental or anything) and didn’t seem very talkative but then we realised that he was just shy, and that he was actually pretty cool.
5. Oh ma days… he turned up in an anorak… his arms were as thick as matchsticks… he said he wanted to live near Brockwell Park so he could go running (on those legs? I don’t think so)… he showed far too much interest in the trains (I refuse to live with a trainspotter)… he twitched a lot… NO NO NO!

After we’d finished all the interviews, we each made giant cups of tea and #1 and I smoked a couple of cigarettes each and we laughed our heads off. It’s one of those ‘either laugh or cry’ situations, choosing a new housemate. I honestly don’t care. I probably won’t talk to them anyway, what with being a social retard and everything. I wish I could afford to live by myself. Of course, I then run the risk of becoming a total recluse, but who says that is necessarily a bad thing?

Choice quotes from the evening:

Me (on opening the front door): Hi, I smell of garlic… Er, come in.

Me: I can’t think of any more questions.
#1: What do you do?
Me: I guess that’s a question.

Interviewee: I work for the Times Educational Supplement. It’s a newspaper. About education.
Me: Really?
#1 (kicking me under the table): Shut up!

Me: Do you think that if we say there’s been a gas leak, we could get him to piss off?

I know that I am completely unoriginal for doing that (see S’s journal), but I am nothing if not resourceful (read: a plagiarist).

After being polite to the other campers for all of five minutes (the tea needed finishing), I threw some clean clothes in a bag and headed for the hills. I say hills. I headed for the bottom of the hill, where the bus stop is. Earlier #1 had been telling me how she was thinking of getting a bike, and I looked at her absolutely flabbergasted. Why on earth would she want a bike? It’s not like she can ride it all the way to work. Plus, there’s hills in these here parts. Clue’s in the name I suppose (Herne HILL, Denmark HILL, Tulse HILL, Brixton HILL, HILL HILL HILL). I’m a fen girl. I don’t do hills. Anyway, headed for Camberwell, where I was astonishingly late to meet N, despite sprinting across the green (it was never going to make all that much difference, I know, but it needed to be done- although it is probably the cause of my back being excruciatingly painful today). He had a colossal bag of halloumi cheese. I have recently introduced him to the joys of halloumi. Since I first tried it, I have been completely hooked. It’s like cheese smack.

I called my mum to say happy birthday (one of my brothers (middle lamb) had called me to tell me that I was a bad daughter for not calling before), and had a chat with little lamb, who’s still upset about the break up, which seems to be getting more complicated every day. I managed to give slightly more coherent advice this time, but there’s little I can do or say, being 80 miles and five years removed. I find it vaguely amusing/interesting that the more fucked up I am, the better advice I give. Or at least, the more appreciated it is. Perhaps it is just people being kind because they can see that I am stupid. If anyone asks me for advice today, it will be rubbish, because I am feeling okay. Store up those burning questions and put them to me in my next moment of bleakness, kids.

I had quite a weird conversation with my mum, as mentioned before. It was one of those conversations where I say one thing but mean something completely different. For example:

Mum: How are you?
Me: Fine. I feel like shit.
Mum: Are you still taking your prozac?
Me: Yes. No.
Mum: Have you heard from SOAS about your master’s application yet?
Me: No, but I don’t think I’ll get in. I really won’t get in and I can’t afford to go anyway so who cares.
Mum: I’m sure you’ll get in. Have you sorted anything out about China?
Me: Not yet, I’m waiting until I hear from SOAS. I don’t think I want to go and I might as well give you all the bad news at once.

I asked her what she’d got for her birthday and she said my dad had bought her a kettle. Apparently the old one had sprung a leak. The fun quite clearly never stops in my parent’s house. My dad was acting very strangely in the background though whether he was drunk or just naturally odd, I don’t know.

I was telling my mum about the badge I got the other day with the British flag next to the Irish flag, and saying how I was wearing it in an ironic way, as there’s no way you can put those flags together: you can’t be Irish AND British. She pointed out that I was actually Irish and British, but I told her that I felt more Irish than I do British. She asked how that could be, when I knew nothing about Ireland, and I said that that was probably a contributing factor. She said that she didn’t feel like she was from any one place, so I asked her whether she was, in fact, the littlest hobo. She said yes.

This morning I feel fine, and the sun is out, and I think I might actually be happy, which is good news for me, but not so much for you all, as I hear you’ve been saying I’m boring when I’m happy. Don’t worry, the next spaz out is never far away, and if you like, I could hold the next one in the library so we can have a repeat of last years fun and games. Only this time I’d be more business minded and I’d make you all pay a quid a pop to come and laugh at the incoherent wreck on the first floor terminals. For a fiver I’d let you feed me more pro plus and then you could really laugh, oh yes.