It's a, it's a... something

I'm a bit crap at updating this nowadays. Weird things keep happening and I don't know what to write or whether to tell anyone. Suffice to say, my lovely house is not quite so lovely anymore thanks to the events of the other night. I'm not meant to know about it, which is a bit of a fucking joke, seeing as I live there. I'm sick of being the invisible one, the one no one actually gives a shit about, the one everyone talks to when it suits them and ignores the rest of the time, the one who just doesn't fucking exist. It fucks with my head. I'm always being told that I have very low self esteem. Well, why the fuck do you think that is? Maybe- just maybe- it's because people act like complete cunts. It's not just in my house. At work, there's this underlying current of duplicity, and you know, you just KNOW, that if someone comes up to you and is like "hello darling", then they're about to sell your grandmother on the black market. I hate it. I mean, come on, we're all adults and it wouldn't hurt to be civil, would it not? Clearly some people would rather stick pins in their eyes.

And then- excuse me for what is turning into a rant- there seems to be this idea that I'm stupid. Or that it is in some way acceptable to either a) act like I am, or b) insinuate in some way that this is the case. Great- there goes that final scrap of self esteem!! I'm not fucking stupid. It's got to the point where it's just ridiculous. A woman I work with started glaring at me because she found out I went to a better university than her, and said "oh, I didn't know you were, like, academic!" What the hell is that meant to mean? And other people who've been like, "oh, I'm sure you'll find a job... maybe admin or something" or have just told me- and I bear no grudge against the person who actually did this, as they don't know any better, I'm just including this as an example of a general trend- that there's no way I could do a particular job because I can't do any of the things it involves. I'm sure this sounds petty and trivial. It's not just work-related stuff though, it's on an overall level, often in such a way that if I cited anything, it would seem ridiculous. It's just people acting like they're better than me in so many ways... I'm not saying I'm better than them. Just don't undervalue me if you don't want me to do the same to you.

I don't know why I'm getting so het up about this, or why I'm doing it now. I'm okay, I'm having an alright time, things are alright (barring the obvious situational doom). I went to work, I came home, I did this, I did that. I'm okay. But sometimes you want to be more than okay, you want- and this seems to be a bit of a recurring theme- to feel. You want something more than the utter blandness of daily life. I'm not being challenged (and quite clearly I mean mentally, not physically), I'm just waking up, doing mundane activities until it's time for bed. I really think N should come back. I wasn't like this when he was here. I wasn't so awash with apathy, and apathy of the very worst poisonous type, at that. Having said that, I cried today. I sat at my desk and cried, which was quite lame. And then I nearly cried again after ballet when I basically just broke down and said everything about how I was feeling to my friend. It's stuff I haven't written about here, or told anyone, and I don't know why I told her, but I'm glad I did because I feel lots better. And I'm also hella glad that my feelings have started to return, and that I'm not actually a sociopath- though I guess I couldn't be, because I never stopped caring about other people, I just didn't care about myself.

I'm sure I thought of something witty to write to finish off this entry but I have forgotten it.

Note to self: “wicked cool” is not a greeting, so stop it!

You know when you’ve been out the night before, but you forget about it, and then something makes you realise that actually, a few hours ago, you were pissed as a newt? I was on facebook and I was like “oh my god, who changed my profile?” and then I realised it was me last night. I tell ye, they shouldn’t have been winding me up about my cleaner… Anyhow, I woke up really early this morning so I could sit in the kitchen and see what happened when #4 looked in the fridge for his sandwiches. It was too funny! Though maybe you had to be there.

And oh my god, I forgot how much I like having my hair cut! I spent the whole morning having people stroke my head and they were all like oh my god, look at her eyelashes, and she has pretty ears. As well as there’s this bit on the back of my head where my hair starts going funny and I swear it seems to be every hairdressers wet dream. It’s like my secret weapon, I just flash it at the hairdresser (not hard, it’s on my godamm head) and they go oooh. I have no idea what they’re talking about s I just smile and let the Japanese students stroke me and say kawaii. It’s all good fun. And yeah, if you’re wondering, my hair is fucking cool (better than the silly emo picture I put on my myspace profile last night… only just noticed that).

I spent the afternoon wandering around and buying books and presents and stuff. I love just wandering around during the day. I mean, yeah, I didn’t go to the bank, which I should have, but you know. Anyway, I was walking down Charlotte Street and someone shouted out my name, like my proper name. It freaks the fuck out of me when people do that, 1) because it’s always a bit weird to be accosted in the street, but more importantly, 2) I haven’t been called that in four years (other than by family and certain other people, whose rationale seems to be “your name is crap”), and it’s a bit weird to suddenly be called by my old name. I turned around, and it was one of my best friends from sixth form. I hadn’t seen him in about three years, and it was a bit awkward, but very nice to see him and all. This little group of us used to go to the pub together almost every day in the summer and generally hung out all the time. G really didn’t like him because he was convinced he was trying to shag me, and in retrospect, I think he was right, but we always had fun. Ah, Cambridge. I do kind of miss the place. The other day I was talking to this guy who knows my best friends ex girlfriend, and I just started talking about Cambridge, and it made me think about the fact that I did actually have lots of fun there, and the most wicked friends. I don’t think I would live there now, but once you start thinking about “back home”, you kind of get all nostalgic. And I was fucking stupid to lose contact with so many people.

But hey. I’m off to get pissed now.

Being....

Being pissed is blatantly well better than sobriety. A bottle of wine and 5 pints later and it's somehow hilarious to hide your housemates sandwiches and leave a note in the fridge saying "ha ha ha ha ha ha!" Ah fuck it, it's birthdays, and normal rules DO NOT APPLY.

I met up with K and B and we had a bottle of wine each and I laughed so hard I nearly cried, except for the fact my other friend is moving home to his mums at the age of 32. Still, he'll get fed, so not a bad deal. In fact- lovely jubbly. Then my pet (ie. #1) called and we went to the Comm and got pissed and so much hilarity ensued and I swear I spent a good half hour saying "oh my god!". But so much fun. Don't fuck with us. Or, at the risk of sounding like Jesus in the The Big L, "we're gonna fuck you up". Via the medium of women's magazines. No wI am listening to Nelly Furtado again cos she is so blatantly THE SEX. And yeah, I'm going to have a hangover tomorrow, and yeah, having a haircut will be a challenge, if not hell. But yeah, tomorrow we are going to looooooooooooooooooooooooooooose the pub quiz.

Monday morning drivel. You know the score.

The good news is that I am feeling lots better. Like head-swelling-jabberwocky-disease has gone. I put the head swelling down to the vast amount of learning I have been doing. All that knowledge, you know, it's got to go somewhere. And I do have a small head, so maybe all the random facts just kinda pushed itself out, Mt St Helens styleee. I spent all of Thursday and all of Friday in bed, literally sleeping the whole time, except for brief periods where I would make more ginger drink, read a bit of F1 Racing, press buttons on my computer and talk to my mum. And my god, what misery infested conversations they were.

I seem to have lost the ability to write anything. I swear I used to be so expressive, for example, when I was a kid and I used to write stories all the time and lived in pretty much a made up world. Fair enough, at times, I guess I was a little too expressive. Earlier this year I used to get really angry all the time. I was like the angriest person in the world. Someone told me that I had an anger management problem, and you know what my response was? I slammed a door and stamped my feet and listened to angry music and then, oh my god, I swore at drivers and everything. I'm not like that now. But I worry, because for the last week, I haven't been able to express myself properly. Maybe that's partly because I've been ill, and mainly because I am crippled through missing N so much. I have been all like "oh I'm fine" but inside there is a bit of me that needs at least some of those electric shock things you see on tv. I just can’t feel anything at the moment. I have stuck pins in my hand and there is nothing. But I know that if I started to cry, I would never stop. So I am stuck in this void of nothingness. Just a melancholy that won’t go away. Or maybe it will. I don’t know. I have lost the ability to question anything or even to exist without a social framework to prop me up, so to speak. When I’m around people I’m okay. But then I get on the bus and it’s a race against time to get home before this overwhelming blackness takes over, and I just sort of slump in my seat and watch the world with vacant eyes.

It sounds pathetic, and it probably is.

Still, that – and being ill – aside, the past few days haven’t been solely unproductive, although I haven’t done the few things I was meant to do (ie. get some citronella candles (my room has been taken over by flies, and they’re pissing me off), sort out a big pile of old books and clothes, and make a card for #1’s birthday using my sub-standard art skills). On Saturday, I mooched around and ate some toast, which is pretty much all I am eating at the moment. Then I got my act in gear a little and went over to Shoreditch to go to L’s night of music and fun. I’m really glad I went actually. I have such a fear of going to new places and meeting new people, because I reckon I suck at it. But going was actually cool, as it sort of proved to me that I’m not so much of a social retard, and maybe, just maybe, I can make new friends, and maybe university won’t be such an unmitigated disaster, socially at least (I won’t consider the academic or financial side at the moment: too scary). Having said that, perhaps I was just kidding myself and actually the general consensus is that I’m a buffoon. I don’t know. I think it was cool. I met a really sweet girl and I actually said “I’ll facebook you”, which probably deserves a bullet through my temple, but there we go. I ate a marshmallow that had been on some meat on the barbeque and ran around pulling a disgusted face until I spat it out in the bush. Man, it was gross. And no one understood until they tried it too, and realised that pork flavoured marshmallows are wrong wrong wrong. What else? I have a bruise on my face from an apple fight. I almost successfully avoided having any pictures taken of me. I marvelled at just how small the world is, what with everyone seeming to know the most random people from other people’s pasts. Lots of Nelly Furtado got listened to. But yeah, it was all nice, basically.

Yesterday, I finally ran out of bread, so I couldn’t have my now quite satisfactory meal of a piece of toast and soya spread (no dairy in that, although there is the worry of the monkeys and the over farming of soya crops… and that explanation is crap, so yeah, sorry). Drama indeed. I went up to Islington to watch the football. I know… me? Football? Seemingly so. It was a rubbish game though, and the Holland v Portugal match was much better, what with the 16 yellow cards and 4 red cards, and basically, mayhem on the pitch. I played pool and proved to the world that I’m the worlds crappest pool player. But it was a good day, talking to A, having proper discussions. I miss discussions. I feel like I don’t think anymore and the only way to stop my brain from hibernating is to set myself stupid philosophical questions. I got home and chatted on msn to one of the kids I used to teach, four years ago. It was so silly, as I’m only a year and a half older than him, so I wasn't like a proper teacher or anything (and I commanded precisely zero respect). Anyway, we just hung out all the time, and rode our bikes around and he dyed my hair blue by accident. Good times.

This weekend #1 discovered skype. I have never seen anyone so excited about a bit of software (is that the right word?). The weird thing is that we have such a groundhog day situation with skype, as I’m SURE she told me about it, but then I told her about it, but she forgot... And then this weekend she found out about it again. Anyway, now we both have skype but still no headset or anything, so a bit pointless.

I can’t be bothered to re-read what I’ve just written, so apologies if it’s boring and miserable etc. It’s not all bad, I guess. N called me this morning, which was the nicest way I’ve been woken up in, oh, I think it’s ten days now. This is such a rubbish entry. I’m sure I used to be vaguely amusing, or at least, not quite so laden with apathy and utter boredom within my soul.

Boooooooooooooo

Yesterday I had a conversation that went like this: "I'm so miserable. I'm scared of everything. I'm really lonely. I don't know whether I want to go to uni. Everything is rubbish. Booo!" and then I cried for ages.

Having felt like utter shit for the last couple of days, I woke up this morning in so much pain. Any light and/or noise is excutiating. My glands are swollen like a hamster and my ear is super painful. And I can't stand up! I have no balance and am completely disorientated.

I went to the doctor and she said I had a virus that is making my brain and head swell up and that there might be some excess fluid on my brain. Because it's a virus, there are no drugs I can take. BUT my doctor is a super doctor lady who knows about Chinese medicine and all kinds of stuff, and has told me that I have to drink a vile smelling ginger drink every couple of hours.

But worse... this is what I am allowed to eat for the next week:

-rice
-lentils
-toast
-peeled apples
-mashed potato

That's it. No dairy, so no cheese. Why don't you kill me now? I'm going back to bed now because I feel r-o-u-g-h.

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner...

One thing that’s for sure is that south London can sometimes only be seen as bandit country. I was getting the night bus back home, sitting on the bottom deck (as girls should do when getting night buses alone, doncha know), and the bus stopped to allow a driver change at Camberwell Green (which I always think is a piss take, as it’s not like the driver has gone very far, but it obviously did not make me quite as mardy as some people). When the new driver started letting all the people on the bus, one quite fat white woman pushed a fairly young black woman and told her to get out of her way, as her and her boyfriend wanted to get past. The black girl started shouting at her and pushed her back, and an almighty fight broke out. As in, they were rolling around on the floor, punching each other, tearing each other’s hair, one stamping on the other ones head, ripping each other’s clothes. All their belongings started flying all over the bus- lip gloss, hairbrushes, etc- which made it even more amusing. It would have been even weirder if I had been listening to music (these things always are, like when I was attacked in the park) but the battery on my mp3 player had given up the ghost. Still, all I could hear, loud as if I was actually listening to it, was “take me away I’m dying, take me away I’m dying…”, which gave the situation yet another surreal edge.

Oddly, considering there was an out and out brawl happening literally at my feet, I did not feel in the slightest bit worried or scared, and viewed it more as an interesting experience, possibly because I had just been reading some anthropology book. I didn’t really want to intervene, as I am not a big fan of being punched in the face, and the fat woman clearly had a screw loose, although the other woman was winning the fight. In the end- probably only a minute or two after the whole thing started- someone did intervene: the campest man in the whole world. He was wearing a pink jumper, was carrying a giant poster of “Mamma Mia” and was Portuguese or something, and all the time he was grabbing hold of one of the women, he was saying “calm down, darling, is okay, she very stupid, you know, is okay”. The two women had a bit of a slanging match from opposite ends of the bus, which I wasn’t too appreciative of, as the fat woman, whose voice bore an uncanny resemblance to a fog horn, was about six inches from my ear, and I kept thinking I was going to laugh, and probably get punched as a result. The usual “you better watch yourself, if I ever see you around here I’m gonna get my boys and they’ll fuck you up” kind of stuff went down, and the black girl called her friend, who came and decided the fat woman wasn’t worth punching. The gay man and this incredibly tall Rasta managed to successfully mediate and some sort of peace was restored. However, the bus driver had called the police, and told us none of us were going anywhere.

By now, everyone on the bus was downstairs (many people had come down onto the stairs to watch the whole thing), and asking the bus driver to move. I said to him, “Dude, come on, we want to go home! They’re not going to fight anymore!” but he then asked me if I was looking for trouble. “Fuck this shit,” I said, and rolled a cigarette, precipitating a mass smoking session. It was like the blitz spirit, we all bonded outside and chatted about what we’d been up to, and how the fat woman was clearly in the wrong (I had to explain the phrase “thick as pig shit” to a Spanish girl). She was still sat on the bus, with her boyfriend. Someone said that it was commendable that he hadn’t gotten involved, as if he’d punched the other girl, even more of a ruckus would have broken out. I pointed out that he was clearly a shit boyfriend, as who’d let their girlfriend get into a situation like that? The police didn’t arrive, although that’s no surprise (I was told by one person that they knew someone who’d been stabbed and the police didn’t come at all). We had to wait ages for the next bus to come (night buses… like clockwork, you know) but by the time we got the bus, everyone was chatting like they’d known each other for ages, and the black girl apologised to us all, and it really was like the proper blitz. Nothing like a crisis, eh, and it was quite fun to get off a night bus at 3am and say “ciao!” and “have a good night!” to a bunch of complete strangers. Having said that, I am glad neither of my brothers have any inclination to live in London, as I wouldn’t want them seeing all this kind of stuff.

I didn’t realise quite how late it was until I got home, when I realised it had taken an hour and a half to do a journey that took me 20 minutes the other day. Still, I managed to do my obsessive email checking (it’s got to the point where I wake up every hour throughout the night, get out of bed and go to the computer, and click ‘refresh’…) before falling asleep.

And all this quasi-drama has eclipsed everything else I was going to write about.

“The girl misses a bus and it’s like the whole world has ended” – yeah, well, fuck off

Today I am feeling some proper abject misery. I won’t take this moment to say why as I think it’s abundantly clear, and I don’t want to whinge. Actually, I do want to whinge, but it’s all a bit too pathetic really. So I won’t (this is a lie, I have been doing exactly this in the kitchen just now, and #1, bless her, is being very sweet, but there is only so much Virgin Radio I can take before I shout “why don’t you just fuck off and die, Bryan Adams?”). So yeah. Blah. #1 is going out tonight in a sports car to some swanky restaurant with one of her ex boyfriends. I am so far not dressed, and am wearing the worlds most skanky shirt. It’s this bright yellow, really ancient, silk shirt, and the reaction it usually provokes is thus: “you’re not actually going to wear that outside, are you?” No, I’m not. I don’t plan on going outside except to smoke on the back step. Can you go to Sainsbury’s for me and get me some soya milk?

I tried to write an entry yesterday but I had writers block. Hah! That sounds pretentious for a blog that no one reads. Writers block my arse. I kept writing sentences and then inverting them. It bored even me, so consider me compassionate for not putting it in here. I feel like quite a fraud because some people think I am a bit interesting, when the truth is just the opposite. Meh. Anyway…

One rather spectacular thing about this weekend was that I managed not to say anything wildly inappropriate or deliberately antagonistic. This is quite an achievement as last Sunday I fucked up quite badly, and the social ineptness continued onto Monday when I probably would have started a fight with a lamp post. Sometimes I think that I become more of an arsehole when I’m drunk, but Sunday I wasn’t drunk, so I guess it must just come naturally. Wolf is the same. He’s given up drinking because he says he acts like a cunt all the time, why spend money and get an even bigger beer belly if you can do it for free? However, talking to M on Friday, it was pointed out that I am a complete twat when I’m drunk. I can’t really argue with that. But in any case, this weekend I have not been a social retard, nor have I instigated campaigns of hatred. So I guess it can be classified as a rip-roaring success.

On Friday I managed to forget both my age and my name. I was in the shop buying some beers, and making a really half-hearted attempt at haggling. The woman behind the counter was having none of it and in the end she ID’d me. Well, she tried. She asked me how old I was, and I kind of snorted, because 1) I honestly couldn’t remember how old I was, although I knew it was between 20 and 23, and 2) Whatever, it’s too old to be ID’d. Anyway, it turned out she was a big gay and she started telling me what nice skin I had and where was I going tonight, and I said bye. Then later on, we were sitting in Fitzroy Square, and someone asked me what my name was. It may or may not be an excuse, but I have had many different names, and sometimes I forget what name I am using with which people. That makes me sound completely schizophrenic but it’s not like that at all really. In any case, Friday night was mainly dominated by an overwhelming sense of nausea, although only one person was sick. It was turquoise vomit though, if that helps. We sat out in Fitzroy Square for a while and of course were joined by a gang of youths, whose mental capacity seemed such that they couldn’t shoplift a brain cell if they tried. M was very funny and kept telling them to shoo and I studiously ignored them and tried to fathom what the northern people were saying. We went back inside and D made us listen to probably the vilest music in the world. I normally find misogyny funny, if only because it winds up feminists, but this was probably a little too much. I bruised my spine, as per usual, and lay on the floor, before weighing up the pros and cons of going home or sleeping on the floor. In the end, the thought of my bed won, which was quite ironic as when I got home, #4 was also getting in and was even more wasted than me, so it being 5.30am, we decided to smoke some spliffs in the living room (living on the edge, we are, smoking in the house and all that… I guess it goes without saying that #2 is away all weekend) and then we both fell asleep on the sofas. Not before, however, I had come up with what I thought was quite an intelligent insight into mathematics, although I could have just been stoned. I seem to talk about maths and physics quite a lot when I’m stoned. When I was about 16 or so, I remember coming back from some club and spending literally hours trying to apply chaos theory to the question: “How many ecstasy tablets would fit inside a Renault Espace?” Needless to say, we never got a solution because a) we were too stoned, b) we had a rather rudimentary understanding of chaos theory, c) those who hadn’t left school at 16 with no GCSE’s were arts students, and most importantly d) there are too many variables, such as passengers, seats up or down, sunroof open or shut, etc.

I spent most of Saturday asleep, although I did make it to Brixton to buy a bookcase and to go to the continental deli (as I pointed out the other day, I should probably choke myself to death on my fair-trade organic tea bags) where I fought the urge to buy yet more rice (“But they have paella rice!” “Shut up, self”). I came home and only hammered my thumb twice while assembling the bookcase, then managed to pour boiling water over my hand. I should concentrate more when making a cup of tea. Anyway, I am very pleased with my bookcase although not all my books fit on it, and I am very tempted to get another one, not least because then I would have the perfect excuse to buy more books, and anyway, it was only fifteen squid, and thus a bargain (I know it’s only a bargain if you need it, but I can convince myself that I need anything (I am such a child of capitalism), which is why glittery black eyeliner is ALWAYS a bargain).

Last night I went to the Troubadours on Old Brompton Road with A, the girl from music college. This guy, V, from RCM (our college, wooo!) was the one putting it on. I hadn’t seen him since I was 17 or so, and it was awesome to see him. We used to speak all the time, and once he drove down from Hull to Cambridge to go for a pint with me, but I am notoriously shite at keeping in touch with anyone. At RCM there was a little group of us, mainly banded together by the fact that our heads were not firmly lodged up our own arseholes, and that we were generally regarded as being common as muck (“Oh my god, so you go to state school? Do you know any… you know… black people??”), as well as being not quite as ruthless as the rest, having never contemplating selling our own grandmothers to get ahead. There was me, A, V, this Chinese girl called J, a goth girl who used to tell us about her exploits the night before (which often included anal sex on the bonnet of a car) and a couple of others. They were good times, and if it wasn’t for them, I would have gone completely nuts, what with the absolute bitchiness of some of the other people. Anyway, much fun was had by all last night, and the Paul Stacey Band were good and V’s dj’ing was cool. He’d booked a suite in the Hilton Olympia and told us to come along, but A had a rehearsal early in the morning (she is directing what will be a rather excellent play, which everyone should go to) and I didn’t want to go by myself, as fair enough, I know V, but I didn’t know any of the other people, but in the end it took me fucking ages to get home as I had to walk back from halfway to Norwood. But it was a good night anyway, so I was very ‘appy, as an Italian Formula 1 driver might say.

Developments between #1 and #4 have come to a grinding halt as #4 brought Efftits back last night. She’s this girl he met a few weeks ago but said he didn’t fancy enough to see again. Clearly her ample, errr, assets were sufficient to change his mind. #1 is a bit pissed off about it but I personally think it’s a good thing that the pair of them aren’t going to have sex now. But I can’t quite figure out whether it’s because I’m genuinely concerned that it might be a bad thing (which I’m not 100% about) or whether I just want to be #1’s favourite housemate.

Writing this has not helped to cheer me up. I’m going to have to try something else. Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. I really miss N.

134 litres (prizes for guessing what this is)

Today I got a goodie bag, and in it were the following:

- Assorted pens and pencils, including an engraved pen
- Badges
- Keyring
- Oyster card, with £5 pre-pay
- Football Foundation tshirt
- Bottle of Coke Zero (the old Diet Coke, I think)
- Pair of flip-flops
- Copy of ‘Eastern Eye’
- Copy of ‘New Nation’
- FA Premier League Community report – why??
- Box of mints
- CD of ‘Highlights from Disney on Broadway

My favourite is the CD, and I think I will spend the last half hour in the office having a listen. And then, quite possibly, shooting myself in the head.

After leaving the airport yesterday, some vaguely amusing things happened. On the tube, two girls who had just come from Singapore were talking about me in Chinese (they said I was pretty) and were trying to surreptitiously take photos of me. A woman was wearing stirrup trousers in a non-ironic way. A man thought I was Australian and started talking to me about “back home” (clearly having a bag makes you an antipodean). I accidentally offended some men by accidentally ignoring them (I was listening to music) when they asked if I needed a hand with my suitcase (yes, I was the chump at the airport with a suitcase, not going anywhere). But I didn’t cry at any point, because I promised I wouldn’t, and what is a promise for if not for keeping?

When I got home, I was greeted by two pissed idiots, aka #1 and #4. #1 gave me a hug and offered me a beer. #4 pointed drunkenly at me and told me to stop my emotional claptrap, but offered me whisky and a spliff. I chose beer and we sat out on the back step and drank and I looked at the planes going past, but was slightly distracted by the vile smell coming from #4 (his excuse for not using stronger deodorant: “I don’t want my pores to fuse closed with that stuff.” His excuse for not showering more: “I can’t be bothered, I smell like a real man.”), which wasn’t helped by the amount of curry they’d both eaten.

After a while, we went back inside and watched the rest of the Sweden-Paraguay match and did handstands and kicked the ball about until we remembered that #2 was “asleep” in the next room (read: studiously ignoring us). #1 kept saying the most stupid things. Here are her three finest moments from last night:

#1: Castration? That’s when they chop the willy off, right? How does that work?”

#1: Would you like to start doing some dance classes with me?
Me: Erm, like ballet? I already do ballet, remember.
#1: Oh yeah.

#1: Oh my god, did you hear that the Tamil Tigers have attacked Singapore!!
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
#1: Yeah, sixty people have died!
Me: Shit the bed, my boyfriend is flying to a war zone right this second!!
#1: But it’s in a rural area, and he lives in the city, so he’ll be fine.
Me: Huh? There isn’t a rural area. Singapore is tiny!
#1: Yeah there is!
Me: Oh pet, I think you’re talking about Sri Lanka.

In the end, the two of them got incredibly stoned, and we all watched Family Guy on #1’s bed, but then I thought I’d leave them alone to have some more bungled sex, and I moped around in my room. It’s a little bit weird being around the two of them- not bad, just weird- because you know that if you weren’t in the room, they’d be shagging. I like to think of myself as preserving the cleanliness of the furniture (I’ve already told #1 not to use the kitchen table). However, it may be weird, but it’s still better than when #3 was there.

Today I was talking to this girl who works in the Press Office. She’s so sweet (bear in mind she’s older, more mature and less professionally shite than me). She was getting sad that I am leaving at the end of the month, and asked what I’d been up to recently. I said about going to the airport, and she was like, “that’s so cool, you went to Heathrow! I love airports!” I pointed out that they’re a bit more fun if you’re going somewhere, although you do (mostly- unless you’re a drug dealing fuckwit like certain people) manage to avoid the security measures that now SEE UNDER YOUR CLOTHES. “No,” she said. “I really love airports. They’re so exciting.” So there we go.

Free pens and airport enthusiasm and stories about seagulls eating mustard sandwiches aside, the day is dragging by. But it’s nearly the weekend (as in, in half an hour), we’re going to a shitty indie club tonight, and a roast dinner on Sunday, so I think the obvious conclusion would be: smashing.

Morning has broken

Last night I dreamt that I somehow managed to get into N’s plane, mid flight (that would be my amazing wing-walking abilities, I’m guessing). No one looked particularly surprised to see me open the emergency door and get in. N had managed to get a window seat, and we sat and looked out of the window together. As the plane descended, it was all so beautiful. It was sunset, and we could see boats and beaches and the sun reflected in the water, as the plane was flying so low. N held me and I just kept saying, “it’s beautiful, it’s beautiful”. I realised that I didn’t have a ticket or my passport, so I said I would stay on the plane while it flew back, but then I remembered that it wasn’t the Tube or a Ryanair flight, and it wouldn’t be going back straight away. I wasn’t really bothered, and I told N that I loved Singapore and that I’d missed him. The plane landed, and started taxiing to the terminal. I was very excited but then a jolt went through my body far greater than the force of a passenger jet landing, and I was awake, and in London, and without N. I could still feel his arms around me.

What do they bring to the table (other than the hubble telescope)?

I’m not sure quite why but today I feel quite rubbish. My head feels like it’s been hit with a mallet and my face actually hurts. On the bus I started to panic that once again the spectre of unemployment is looming large and even if I could shake off the intense apathy that surrounds me on this, I probably would not be able to get a job anyway. The thing is, if I don’t find a job, I will make myself unwell with worry, but the process of finding one will do the exact same thing. I know that sounds like such a retarded thing to say. I’m worried and scared.

Tonight is Rima, which I am not going to. It would have been quite cool, in that there’ll be lots of very interesting people and an after party etc, but it’s N’s last day in London before he heads to Singapore, and I’d much rather see him. Also, what with the ongoing tension between me and my managers (as in, they dislike me but we all pretend to be happy happy), it probably would not be wise, as if I get treated like what happened before, I am liable to hit the roof (R described this a “short straw situation” but I think she meant “short fuse”). The final reason why it’s a good thing I’m not going is that Kevin Spacey will be there, and I will not be able to stop laughing. The reason being that in my new favourite book, Is It Just Me Or Is Everything Shit?, he is described as looking as if he has been glazed. It's true. Look at him and tell me honestly that you aren't instantly reminded of a Krispy Kreme donut.

It's like a little woodland brer!

Having acted like a complete cunt last night, as a result of free punch and £2 cocktails and £1 wine, I have come to the conclusion that I am a disgrace to humanity. I remember being on the bus and thinking "urgh" as we went down the Kingsway and "blurgh" as we were on the Aldwych, but I don't remember Waterloo, or Elephant, or the Walworth Road. Next thing I know I awake with a start at Camberwell, which is lucky as the bus goes to Kent or god knows where. I got off the bus, apologising to the woman I had been leaning on in my sleep, and as I stepped into the night, I realised I was going to be sick. Thankfully that's what Camberwell Green is for, and I was (very discreetly, I thought) sick in the park. Then, because I am such a lady, I wiped my mouth with some leaves. Thankfully I didn't have to wait long for my bus and I got home, remembered to double lock the door, then made an attempt at brushing my teeth, took my clothes off and fell asleep, face down, naked on my bed.

And promptly slept in and took the day off with a case of "food poisoning" but really, I'm watching episodes of The L Word and playing Gran Turismo and waiting for #1 and #4 to come back so I can pester them again. It's almost like being a student again.

But yeah, I was a complete arsehole last night, so it's probably wise that I stay indoors and not see people. At least until this evening when I will be a fully functioning human being again. N finishes his exams today and we're going to go out and celebrate but I will not be puking in a park, cos that's like so passe. I need to grow up, methinks (and certainly not be so rude).

Speaking of growing up, in honour of the world cup, we've turned the living room into a football stadium. I have been showcasing my skills, and the word on the street is that I'm shit. SCORE!!

World Cup at work and a naked man and some exams

This email was sent last week:

Dear colleagues,

Management have agreed that staff can watch all 5pm games during the knockout stages of the football World Cup. They will be screened in the second floor boardroom on the plasma screens. As these games are (just) outside of core working hours we are asking that colleagues use their swipecards to swipe out and then sign back in as a visitor through reception. During the knockout stages, games that are scheduled for 2pm and at the weekends will not be shown onsite. The usual attendance rules apply, so if you wish to watch the 2pm games elsewhere, please speak to your line manager about taking flexi/annual leave.

But then this email was just sent out:

Hi All,

Please do not watch the World cup over our internet connection, it will cause disruption to the IT systems.

You've got to love the dedication of the staff here.

Last night we thought we were being broken into. There was all this banging at our door and shouting and general noisiness. #1 came out of her room pretty much naked ("fuck it, it's too hot") and we looked through the peep hole to see what was going on. There was a man, completely naked, sitting on the stairs right opposite our front door, nonchalently smoking a fag. #1 thought it might be #4, but I think that was wishful thinking and anyway, why would #4 be locked out? Naked? I wanted to go and ask him what he was doing, but #1 thought we should call the police. I don't think that would have gone down very well: "Yeah, hi, Brixton police station? Yes, there's a naked man sitting on some stairs smoking a cigarette... No, he's not smoking crack... No, he's not armed... No, he doesn't appear to be doing anything remotely dangerous... Yes, we'll fuck off now." In the end he left, but we don't know where he went or where he came from or anything, and we went to check that the back door was locked. It was all a bit odd really. #1 got into bed and I was about to go to bed myself when she sat bolt upright and said "Where's Bear? They've stolen ma Bear!" Which I thought was pretty funny seeing as no one had been in the house, and even if they had, why would they steal #1's manky teddy bear, called Bear?

It's fucking warm today, and I can't concentrate, and I have a rash on my feet from walking on the grass (grass allergy = fun!). I haven't done anything vaguely productive, other than go on and on about N's exam and making everyone give out good luck vibes. I have got the worst case of sympathy nerves, I really have. Fingers are staying firmly crossed until 4.30 tomorrow, and then, woohoo, summer can begin properly!

More of the same, but with hospitals and foxes

This may be drivel but I actually don't give a toss. If I am drivel and you are reading this then I will take satisfaction in the knowledge that I have helped to atrophy your brain. So yeah. #1 went to some mass evacuation exercise thing in Dartford Tunnel so I decided to wait up for her because it's danger danger and who knows how she will get home, and what with the bank robber and so on. So I drank a bottle of vodka and went on friends reunited at like 3 am. At first I was all "boo, these people are muppets and they went to uni" and then I thought "FUCK THIS SHIT!" cos I went to the LSE, innit, and yeah, blah. I am talking about my secondary school, the complete shit hole full of anti-semites. Admittedly I had some good times. Like chair throwing competitions, and using the measuring thing in physics class (the thing that measures stuff that it 0.001 mm or whatever) as a toy-stoke-weapon-stroke-instrument of social humiliation. But yeah, in all, it was fucking shit. I may have been miserable as sin at many times since then, but I honestly do not believe that I have felt such an intractable misery as when I went to that school. Anyway, the other thing that made me laugh was that they're all getting married! Like literally all of them. Geez, I wouldn't marry them to each other. But they have found suitably gullible/thick people who might actually want to (and this is vomit inducing) PROCREATE with them.

Having said all of that, it was nice to see that some people, the people I actually liked, are happy. Like this guy in my music class, who used to get really angry with me because I was "talented" but I preferred getting into trouble with these other two boys. He used to play the trombone. Cue endless trombone jokes. Hell, these things are funny when you're 15.

Today I spent lots of time in the hospital, which was a laugh, as hospitals tend to be. I was thinking about my other hospital experiences: the first time I remember going was when my youngest brother was born and my dad had got me and my other brother ready so we could go and visit, and I was wearing these earrings cos I wanted to look nice for my mum and new baby brother. But I lost one in the hospital and I was so upset. I remember feeling like I'd let them down, and it still makes me a bit sad to see the remaining earring, which is quite bizarre as it's 17 years ago. Today we had to wait so long at the hospital and it was painful to see N so unhappy, with nothing I can do. I was glad I went as it would have been worse by himself, which I know for a fact as I've done it myself before, but it's truly horrific to see someone so unhappy and knowing that whatever you say and whatever you do, you won't change anything. I don't know. I want his exams to be finished because I can't bear to see him so sad and so stressed. It kills me inside.

When I got home #1 laughed at me because apparently I look like I'm "off to a festival", which is something to do with my hat, apparently. It's complete bollocks because festivals are a bit rubbish. I know this because we went to for my ex's 21st and he fell asleep in some piss (not his). Hahahaha. I actually can't be bothered to explain that, but yeah, piss... piss... that's wrong, dude. But funny.

Earlier I saw some funny things from my bedroom window. First of all, some people were nearly having sex or whatever. I guess they thought no one could see them because it was sort of dark, but really, anyone who looked could have seen, especially the whole row of terraces right in front of them. Then I saw a fox. At first I didn't know whether it was a fox or a dog or a cat, but it came right onto the garage forecourt and it was obviously a fox. It found a plastic bag with some takeaway chicken inside and picked the whole bag up and scampered into my garden. I was quite chuffed because it means there is a fox family in my garden, or in the deserted house... anyway, I think it can almost legitimately be called MY fox.

In the end, everything worked out okay, which I guess it always does but I will never know that other than retrospectively. #1 got home fine from Dartford and we sat on the balcony for a while and marvelled at how light it was, or is. N is taking antibiotics and is going to be fine. I'm okay, but I'm worried that if I think too long or too hard, everything will be destroyed. #1 said the funniest thing to me yesterday. She said that she thought I was great now, but that in five years time, I would be amazing. In one, it's the the biggest compliment and the most damning indictment.

I think I need to sleep.

I am the resurrection and I am the light

I think this is my first drunk entry so please excuse me. We went to the pub and #1 called some girls fat and the fucking alarms kept going off. Back home, we had tea and I started crying and I thought I might never stop. But she told me that I was okay and it was okay and I am okay and it is okay. And maybe it's true. We tried to hug but a plank of wood came between us. I cried again and stared at the deserted train station, but soon after that something so funny it cannot begin to be described happened, and I stopped crying. I came so close to telling her the big bad thing I never tell anyone but I didn't but I told her other things. It's funny, because I never thought I would want to live with anyone like me, but she is so like me but in a good way. It's like she has all my good qualities but none of my bad aspects. She passed out and now I am drinking vodka and contemplating things, and things in particular and things in general. But if I tell myself it's okay and it's okay and I'm me and that's okay then maybe one day I will believe it.

Mark that frame an eight and you're entering a world of pain

According to my ballet teacher, most of my problems with certain steps are psychological. Cue me saying “is it because I’m a mentalist?” because I have been cast as the class joker. Anyway, there’s been this ongoing thing whereby everyone has been taking the piss out of me for ages , because whenever I do chainnees my arms go all weird and fold in on themselves (like when I am asleep, for those that have seen that), and basically I look slightly special and not at all balletic. However yesterday my teacher commented that I was turning really nicely. Then some other people said that my arms weren’t acting spastic and this girl said, in quite a surprised tone, that my feet looked really good. I got shy and made a joke but was secretly very chuffed and did it again, looking in the mirror. Of course, all good things come to an end, and in the next exercise, having told my teacher that I have a serious mental block with brisees behind you, I managed to smash my ankles together so hard that one ankle is swollen and a rather fetching blue-green colour.

Walking back to Clapham, I took the opportunity to complain to my friend about how I was going to need to buy new shoes. She did not look sympathetic but she gave me a packet of tobacco because she’s quit smoking. I went over to Peckham on a bus that smelt very strongly of B.O. and I listened to all my teenage music. Then I got the shock of my life. Well, not really shock. I’m being overly dramatic because I’m bored. Surprise, I suppose. Anyway, I won’t say what it is so as not to ruin it for everyone else (or just because I like not writing about things, if that makes sense). It was really lovely to see N and he liked my new “tan”, although he did first say that I looked orange. Jokes, eh. Oh, and apparently my “big news” is a bit rubbish, but I still think it’s exciting, and the “other thing” got a bigger reception, but I suppose that’s because it’s more relevant or whatever (nb. I am deliberately obfuscating here).

The other day, some of us at work were trying to decide what to do about Britain’s growing obesity problem. A tax on “unhealthy” food would be unworkable. A tax on fat people, would, however, be a good idea, as suggested on TV the other day. Other ideas we came up with were melting bits of them down to use as insulation, and my favourite, which was to use them to replace the Thames Barrier. John Prescott, one of the leading lardies, could be in charge of this one, because he can canoe and everything, and anyway, the Thames Barrier must sort of fall under the jurisdiction of what was the Deputy Prime Minister before all his powers got taken away. However, on closer examination, this plan is fatally flawed. Firstly, the fat people would have to stay in the water at all times, because if they were to get in and out all the time it would create a tidal surge- the very thing the Barrier is meant to prevent. Some sort of mechanism for keeping these fatties in the water whilst still allowing boats and so on to move about would be quite a challenge. Secondly, the most important bit of the barrier is underneath the water, and it is common knowledge that fat floats. I saw a woman yesterday whose arms were so fat, it looked like she had arm bands on. They were gross. So now I am trying to think of alternative uses for fat people. My colleague reckons we should send them to Holland for use on their dams. If anyone can think of any other ideas, let me know.

So far today, two people have offered to cut my hair, I danced at the bus stop, I have spent far too much time on facebook, and I am well excited that the Lido is reopening, although this means I will have to put in some serious effort on the whole diet thing, unless I a) want to get laughed out of the Lido, or b) chucked in the river a la fat people.

Everything I say or write shocks me with its banality. It’s like I have all these profound thoughts, but when I try to articulate them it comes out as blaaaaaaaaaaah. Still today I am not melancholic, or tomorrow either.

But surely part of the fun of a reading list is finding the damn books?

Tonight I am going to see N and I have that feeling of excitement you get in your stomach the day before you go on holiday, when you’re really excited and you can’t sleep and all that. And it’s only been three days, so I am officially a bit of a silly. But it will be an end to feeling so miserable and not sleeping, so yeah, call me silly, but I’ll be the happiest I’ve been in a while.

Yesterday I went to the LSE library and was a bit baffled by the buckets in the entrance. Is there a leak? Have people been vomiting through stress? Very odd. I was trying to start on my reading list for SOAS but I seem to have hit a major obstacle. Last year, I seem to remember LSE making this big hoo-ha about the fact that alumni get life time access to the library, and ooooh, isn’t that so special. At the time, I thought I would never set foot in the place again, especially after last years “unforgettable” experience. But what with the reading list needing starting, I thought I would use this library “privilege”, seeing as it’s too awkward to use the SOAS library until I’m actually enrolled. I worked out the classmarks and went to the library after work, where I astonishingly managed to find the first three books I was looking for. “Aha,” I thought (or something similar and less cheesy), “this’ll do, I’ll read these and then in September everyone will think I’m super clever.”

So I took the books to the check out desk, and they told me to use the self service machines. “Can’t you just do it?” I asked, seeing as there was no queue and I don’t ever remember my library pin. “I’d like to get the date stamped in the books because I always lose the receipt and I don’t want to return them late.” I tried what I thought was a winning smile, but was told to piss off and get my pin and use the machine. So I did just that. Except the books said “error, take to check out desk” or something, so I went back to the desk.

“Hi,” I tried again. “These books aren’t working. I tried to use the machine. It doesn’t work.”

“Hmm,” the man said, looking at the books. “Ah yes, they have the old bar code, which is why they don’t work in the machine. Looks like no one has taken them out for years!”

I handed over my library card, bored and weirded out by the whole stupid shebang. The man picked up my card and squinted at it. “You can’t take these books out,” he told me, without a shred of sympathy in his voice. “You’re alumni and these books have yellow stickers, and alumni can’t take out books with coloured stickers because it means they’re recommended texts or course texts, and not for you.”

“But all the books have coloured stickers!” I argued.

“No,” the man said. “Some have white stickers. You can have them.”

“But no one else wants these books, they’ve not been borrowed for years and years! You just said that!” I tried.

“I’m afraid you can’t borrow these books. You will have to find a book with a white sticker. Next please.”

Fighting my baser instinct to strop off and maybe slam a door, I went to find any other books on the reading list. What I discovered about the white label books is that they’re generally rubbish or very random or in Macedonian. In the end I managed to take out one book, and it’s not even about China, it’s about Taiwan. I wanted to read about McDonalds in Beijing. I wanted to read about feminism in 1980s China. Instead I am reading about some woman who followed her overbearing husband on an anthropology trip and now wants to whinge about it. It’s ridiculous. I paid my tuition fees for three years (that’s a lie, I was exempt for one year, but the fees got paid by the LEA and whatnot) and I’m allowed THESE books? There’s people at LSE who’ve only been there one year, less even, and they can fucking bathe in the books if they like. Plus I spent so much money in the Plaza Café on tea and cups of soup, so that surely that entitles me to, perhaps, touch a fucking relevant book? No? Or not have to shield my eyes when I pass the Course Collection in case I sully the books with my gaze of non-academia. Anyway, I started reading the book on the way home and now I am terrified that I am not clever enough to do this masters. If I had any mental capacity, I might be able to stop and think about it, but at the moment the most challenging thing I do is the mini-quiz on the BBC website.

Anyway, I have other things to think about, such as fake tanning and being sarcastic and wondering why on earth I have such a predilection for destructive friendships and if all else fails, I guess I could get a move on with looking for a job.

Some questions

Do you know what is shit? Sharing bandwidth. It's so slow, especially if you're used to living by yourself and having the broadband to yourself.

Do you know what else is shit? Feeling really lonely in your house. #1 and #4 were playing Jenga, wrapped up in a tablecloth. I sat on the fire escape and smoked and felt shit. But I didn't let them know, you should never let people know.

Do you know why I am stupid? I turned down the chance to hang out with Kevin Spacey.

Do you know what else is stupid? Reading old emails. I don't know why I thought that would be a good plan.

Meh. And I drank cows milk sort of by accident.

Fat Tax : you know it makes sense

Last night something really big happened but I’m not allowed to talk about it. It’s really hard, but so far I have been very good. Me writing that is the equivalent of saying, “I’ve got a secret, ner ner ner, I’m not going to tell you”. Appreciate my maturity, if you please.

Quote of the day comes from an MSN conversation R was having yesterday with her ex-boyfriend:

Him: I’m sorry :-(
Her: You can stick your :-( up your arse

My mobile is now completely defunct as the charger has broken. I can’t sleep properly because I miss N an obscene amount, as he is studying like a trooper for his exams next week. I am trying to decide what to do about certain situations/people but so far have only come out with clichés. #1 has not shagged #4 yet. That’s about all the news.

I don't consider myself a pessimist at all. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel completely soaked to the skin

It’s funny the things that can affect your mood. For example, the thing that has pissed me off the most today (or in the last couple of days) is a really sarcastic email from this woman at work. I really dislike her. I set up her department, with all the knowledge management consultants and I made her bloody database, but she has not once thanked me. She knows that she has taken my job. She came down to our office for a few days a couple of months ago to “pick my brains” but was quite rude to everyone. Then her team of half-wit advisors came to the office for a week, and we taught them everything. But they’re equally rude, and when we saw them at the staff convention, they totally ignored us. I just think it’s fucking rude. Fair enough, they don’t give a shit that they now have our jobs, and are being paid more to do them. Why should they give a toss? They don’t know us. But would it really hurt to be civil? I said, a few weeks ago, that I thought she had an attitude problem, and my colleagues laughed and said I was silly, but it’s fairly unanimous now.

In other news it turns out that I am a bit thick, as I forgot to pay my debt repayment last month, and the debt recovery people keep calling me up. Once I give them this £270, then I don’t owe them anything more, which is good. But it’s a lot of money and I kind of begrudge paying it to them. For the last six months, a fairly hefty proportion of my salary has gone to them, but y’know, now I am slightly less in debt, which is nice. Of course, come September, I will be more in debt than before. Meh.

Today I have been mainly amusing myself with this website: http://www.amirtofangsazan.blogspot.com and the follow up: http://tofangsazan-the.blogspot.com Haha. And he’s from Barnet as well. I have been laughing so much I almost don’t mind that I can’t leave my desk for another hour, thanks to my inconsiderate colleagues, and really want a cigarette.

On Saturday me and N (and S, briefly) went to the Bonkersfest on Camberwell Green. I didn’t realise at the time, but it was apparently “glorifying mental illness”, which, if you ask me, is fucked up. Amy’s comedy was really funny, and we had some cans of beer and chatted to her and her boyfriend, who looked like Dr Who, and some girl nearly got burrito on me. N managed to coerce A into going to the pub and we ended up drinking Kroenenberg Blanc in a (quite fittingly) schizophrenic pub. It’s schizophrenic in that the front half is quite yuppie, and they serve things like Kr Blanc, but then you go through a door and it is a proper old mans pub with real Sarf Lahndan people and a stain on the pool table that looked like Gorbachev’s birthmark. It was very very much fun. Until of course, the vomiting began, but y’know (and I need to stop saying that), that’s what happens if you don’t line your stomach.

For some reason we woke up far too early on Sunday, but then we had a nap, and I made my trademark dish: scrambled eggs. I am fucking amazing at scrambled eggs, which is weird because I refuse to eat eggs. They gross me out. So my trademark dish is one I have never tried. But I know it’s good. Actually, I did a lot of cooking yesterday. At home, I cooked a huge amount of ratatouille, rice/vegetable type pilaff thing, and more tabbouleh than you can shake a stick at. Because I am more domesticated than Nigella bloody Lawson, I have brought to work with me today: some olives, a small assortment of cheese, a Tupperware container of ratatouille/rice, a brioche (with nutella, of course), a jam jar full of tabbouleh as all my Tupperware containers have gone missing, despite me buying loads only a week ago, and – and this is the piece de resistance – a pink, flower shaped plate with matching fork and spoon. I have icepacks keeping it all chilled as I write this. Hmm.

I have decided not to drink cows milk anymore. I told #1 about this, and she said she didn’t care if it’s 12% pus, she wants to believe it’s just “cow tits stuff, like, udders, milk!” because she likes it. I am trying to like soya milk but the fact is that it’s rough.

Speaking of #1, the tension between her and #4 has reached boiling point and they are so going to shag. They’re going on holiday together. She asked me for my advice and I said something along the lines of “noooooooooooooooooo”. The other week she said she wanted a husband, and now look. Last night I counselled her for ages on this but I think they will just get drunk one night and have rampant sex on the kitchen table and #2 will probably walk in and go nuts. Or anyway, it will be awkward. Still, it’s like proper drama innit. I don’t want this drama, I don’t have a hungry look in my eyes for these sorts of situations, and I would quite like camp mansions to not be some crazed sex house. Also I think I am miffed that I am not #1’s favourite anymore. Things between me and #2 are still shit. #1 says it’s because whenever #2 looks at me, she sees everything she is not. I don’t know what to do about that. She’s certainly very odd. For example, she doesn’t leave her room without putting on full make up. On Saturday she spent two hours taking off her fake tan with this special cream, and then reapplying more tan.

Oh fake tan. It is the bane of my life. #1 and I decided we would try to look more attractive instead of spending our lives looking like the guy with the two guitars who sleeps on the streets by the station. So we have some fake tan. And we are getting addicted. So far I am only just less pale than Caspar the friendly ghost, but #1 has a three week headstart and she had to tone it down as she looked like she’d been tangoed.

And then last night something funny but bad happened. I had lots of really philosophical thoughts and smiled a lot. I downloaded lots of Jewish music, and pondered whether I really do have Jewish eyes. What are Jewish eyes? I got confused and thought my friends housemate had had phone sex with some girl when my friend was in the room, which was not what I was told at all.

And now I just stole a piece of damn nice chocolate cake from the boardroom. Ha! A veritable feast awaits me!!

Dilemma

Bearing in mind that #1 hasn't done her portfolio and is going to get KILLED tomorrow, is it a good idea to go to the pub?

Also bear in mind that we have just been in the kitchen playing the guitar, trying to decide what we would do first if we had a penis for the day (piss or wank) and shouting "I'd rather be a Paki than a Scouser" in the poshest accents possible.

#1's the best housemate ever.

Columbia? I love India!!

So, the coolest thing in the world happened yesterday. I met up with A for a couple of drinks yesterday which was really fun. I have been missing him lots and he made me laugh so much, what with his Filipino sister-in-law, and the Happy Shopper version of Erum and some talk of Tibetans. And did you know that men are really stereotypical women? But of course, that's why they're misogynistic lads.

Then I went to the Elephant to wait for my bus. I say my bus but really it's not my bus. Which makes the whole thing even weirder. A girl with a violin came along and I thought "hmmm she looks familiar", but I figured many people look like many other people and I thought no more of it. The bus came and everyone crowded to get onto it.

The girl tapped me on the shoulder. "Is your name Harriet?" she asked.

I nodded and my mind started working really fast to try and figure out who this familiar girl was. "Did you go to the Royal College of Music?" she asked.

"OH MY GOD!! AMY!" I shrieked and hugged her. I haven't seen Amy in years, since we were 17 and we sat together in orchestra and we were the "naughty kids" cos we smoked outside the Royal Albert Hall and we had silly colour hair and all that.

She was getting the same bus, and we sat together and chatted about what the fuck we'd done since we last saw each other, and it turns out that I met her ex boyfriend when I went to visit my friend D in Oxford, and she went to uni with my cousin. Now she's a comedian and musician and all this crazy stuff. I badly wish I'd kept in touch with her properly because she's probably the coolest and nicest person I have ever met. But I kind of spazzed out and didn't keep in touch with anyone, and all the people I knew back then, I don't see anymore. But all my RCM friends are going to meet up and it will be fucking awesome.

Anyway, so Amy is doing some sketches at the Bonkersfest in Camberwell today, so she was going to stay at a friends house in south London, rather than her own house in Kentish Town. As the bus turned onto Southampton Way, I said "this is my bus stop" and she said "me too".

If it wasn't the festival thing, if I had decided to go to Strawberry Fair, if I hadn't met up with A for a drink, if the 343 hadn't taken so long to come... So many if's but it's like something is saying "okay, you were stupid and you didn't keep in touch with all these people but you've served your time now and you can see them again". Fate, whatever. I don't care.

I was so unhappy for so many years but in the last six months everything in my whole life has really come together, and it honestly makes me so happy. I've never had anything so good as I have now and I am so full of happiness and love.

Shu'up, I'm not a child!

Today I had an interview with a recruitment agency. It went pretty well, even though I forgot to bring my passport, and I was wearing really scruffy clothes in clashing colours. I've got to say- and this sounds so wank- the public/voluntary sector fucking LOVE my ass! Everything I said, the guy was like ooooh that's really impressive. He asked what kind of job I wanted. Instead of saying "don't know, don't care, going to uni in September" (which is the WRONG answer), I said some rubbish about being young and wanting to expand my knowledge base and (get this) diversify my CV. God, I am full of shit. But impressive sounding shit. He asked what I wanted to do career wise and I said that I wanted to work in international development, but not for 5-10 years as I wanted more experience/maturity etc. He nearly fell off his chair. "Oh my god!" he said. "No one ever says that! You're very mature, that's such a sensible move, I have so much respect for you, blah blah blah". I didn't mention my hair brained plan to work in corporate finance (I went on Goldman Sachs website the other day, shoot me now). In fact I made him laugh with my comments on the private sector "with their shiny floors and bottled water and money spent on pens". Ho bloody ho. Yeah, but where's my job?

I have a great skill of impressing people at recruitment agencies. And then NOTHING. The tumbleweed of the job market sets in. I didn't get the hedge fund job but I don't really mind all that much but I did buy a suit, y'know, and like, people saw me in it and were frankly very rude to me.

Although it may seem like I am in a belligerant mood today, I am just tired and I am drinking. Earlier I had a nap (albeit 30 secs or less) and now I am drinking at my desk. Yes, drinking at work. Get me. You wouldn't get that in the private sector. Then again, you wouldn't get such shit wine in the private sector either.

Some fucker has stolen my chair and I am having to sit on a chair with suspicious "chicken soup" stains. Can I have my one back please?

Anyway, I found out on Wednesday that I am a rubbish friend. Yesterday me, R and C went for a couple of pints (at £1.50 a pint, I think binge drinking is more than acceptable) and I realised that anyone looking at us would think that we were such stereotypical late-20s women, what with our talk of erectile dysfunction (R's ex - I hope one day he finds out that we all know) and house prices and anal sex. But C also said how her brother beat her up the other week, so it's not all sweetness and light. Hmm, more beer, a bus, home, made supper. #4 tried to spit on me (long story) and #1's ex (ie the one who went to Dubai (and America) and had/has OCD and she's sure he's gay anyway) talked to her on msn. Sadly enough, it actually turned out that he'd gone to the cinema by himself and was on his mobile, on msn. It is really depressing. But you have to laugh, really. Then I went to Camberwell where I paid £2.80 for a pint (of the same beer) and some guy was really rude to me, and then back to N's, where the remainder of the night involved teenage lesbian drama, some comedy moments I won't share with you, other stuff and sleep.

Fucking hell, re-reading that, my explanations astound me. I'm like top spec Jackanory (ish). I would recommend sunglasses for the next installment. I'm THAT dazzling.

This wine is making me feel sick. I am not, repeat NOT going to Nando's tonight. I am, however, going to go to the park tomorrow. I'd say going to the park - literally opposite my flat- once every three months is more than enough.

Shut up brain.

"I suggest you go home and hibernate on it"

You will all be pleased to learn that after yesterday's slight "episode", I am feeling okay. Just okay. Which is fine. I can do "okay". The day started off shit when I woke up late and felt so lonely to the point where I couldn't even contemplate washing my face, which is quite grim really. At work I felt weird because our department is steadily shrinking and it has got to the point where everyone can get good jobs and I can't thanks to my general shitness, hence me still being there. I'd put on loads of clothes so I wasn't cold, but fuck me the office was freezing and I had to sit on each hand alternately to keep them warm. My line manager was rude to me. R was a bit off with me. I wanted to cry and go home.

But the day got a bit better. I decided my manager could go fuck herself and that I didn't need her to treat me like shit. I made up with R via a conversation about Super Aguri and why everyone thinks we're Jewish (it wasn't as funny as the last conversation I had about my Jewishness though). I found my emergency blanket in the depths of my desk (I often get cold). Some recruitment agency called to tell me that they really really wanted to meet me, and I said fine, how does Friday lunchtime sound?

I still didn't wash my face though.

After speaking to N, I went to ballet. The balls of my feet are a bit sore after standing on my toes on Monday when we went to see Boredoms (damn tall people getting in my way). But it was such a good class. Really really good. Sometimes when I am unhappy I refuse to look at anyone and I can't dance and I start crying in class, and Oik (my ballet friend) has to look after me. It's so lame. But I had decided I wanted to have a good class, and so it was. I did some really good steps and I made everyone laugh with my jokes and my fooling around but I was still a good student. The teacher told me that my pirouettes were very good, and I just felt on top of it, even doing steps I normally hate, like brisees. Though I did look a chump when trying to explain why I couldn't do this one step and muddled up left and right before admitting that steps that go behind you really freak me out (I don't know if that makes sense, I guess it only makes sense if you can see it...). Anyway, the only slight downer on the class was that I jumped and landed on the knuckle of my big toe, bending the whole toe over with all my weight on it and now my toe isn't moving properly and I'm a bit worried. I carried on dancing though, because I am well hard, and broken toe = nothing. I danced for a month with my ankle half hanging off (okay, that's an exaggeration). In any case, I think I may have made the right decision when it comes to ballet and taking more classes when I go to uni.

Yes, that's right. I am going to uni. I was talking to C and she just laughed at me in that French way she has and said more by saying nothing than anyone else could have said in a million words. I'm still going to read 'Principles of Corporate Finance' though.

Hmm, what else. The bathroom is flooded. Tonsilitis still rules the mansions. My mobile is still broken. I am still cold. I miss N so much that I wonder whether I actually have anything left inside me. What is left, I know, is missing S. I love having msn, especially when my phone is fucked. So yeah. I guess I'm sad but I'm okay. I thought of something insightful earlier but I'll save it for another day. I'll leave you with two (completely unrelated) questions:

1) Why do the checkout people in Sainsbury's look so mardy if you say you don't need a bag? I mean, I live 100 metres away and I have a bag I can put it in, if my arms were to fail me on that arduous journey. There's the environment to think of. Why the fuck do they make such a fuss, slamming the bags back down like you just said you wanted to rape their grandmother?

2) The ignition button on our gas hob isn't working. Is it safe to use a lighter? I have been doing this for the last week and am so far intact, though wary of spontaneous human combustion (SHC- I used to read a lot about this as I have a fire fascination).

Any answers would be much appreciated even if they're shit.