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Friday night was Date Night. I fixed the fingernail sitution with some convincingly french-manicured fakes and put on my glad rags to go dancing. It was good! I didn't get a lot of sleep and didn't actually part company with said date until 5pm on Saturday, when I drove home to get ready to go out AGAIN with my housemates and friends.

8pm in the Malt Cross led to to 7am houseparty at Christina's and a 72-hour no-sleep stint. I came home to my curtainless bedroom and slept like the dead until eleven, when I could sleep no more and got up to sit on the couch with Zoe, eating popcorn and praying for death.

Every muscle in my entire body, including those in my face, hurts. Badly.

Now my sleep schedule is all out of whack. I feel like I've flown longhaul inside a gas canister.

update

1. Worked in Emma's cafe, really miss Rach and Em on a daily basis, wish I was a waitress again

2. Stupidly busy at work, coping with the workload of three plus training two new people

3. Went to Bolton Abbey, old lady sang choral music in the antehall, I nearly cried because it was so beautiful

4. Zoe's boyfriend sent me an email on our joint dating site, he's no longer her boyfriend.

5. Landlords sent me a letter informing me I owed £1888 backrent, turned out to be factually inaccurate in the highest degree

6. Got a date on Friday night, so nervous I've chewed off all my fingernails

this is how we roll

In other news, I'm driving an untaxed vehicle.

Please don't call the fuzz.

turnoffs: long hair, power.

Today Andy asked me if there was anything I didn't find irritating. I couldn't think of anything.

More importantly, Baldymort stood next to me at the printer for an extended period of time, causing shaky-legs syndrome and the desire to start talking about something; anything!; to garner and nuture his attention. Luckily I am a grown up now so he had to make do with a sultry glance.

I hope he didn't notice that I've got fake-tan stains on the inside of my fingers.

she puts the weights into my little heart

On Saturday night I got a text message which underlined my innate, unthinking callousness. I do things all the time which affect other people but I never really evaluate the effects of my actions on said others. Sometimes this means badly for them; sometimes for me. More often for me but sometimes it has repercussions for all concerned.

This text referenced an email I had promised to send, but never did. I promised to send it whilst in full possession of the knowledge that I never ever would. The reasons for this course of behaviour are manifold and none of them reflect well on me. Suffice to say that I frequently come across as 'sweet' to new people, when in fact what they are seeing is just a temporary repression of my natural vitriol; and while I can fling words around like the best of them and come up with something wildly hilarious and yet touchingly personal at the same time, I resent feeling like I am obliged to provide this service.

Coming across as sweet is nice, because this is what I would desperately like to be, as I outlined to my equally drunk and effusive colleague on Friday night. However this facade leads to heartache because it's false and underneath the surface tension I am cruel and amusing and good to my friends, but never sweet. When meeting new people I am constantly on tenterhooks because I know that the first impression is wrong and eventually they're either going to be disappointed or relieved. My best friends are the ones who are relieved.

I think part of the problem is that, somehow, I sound incredibly, incredibly posh. I don't have an accent anymore, I just sound rich. This, as we all know, is very far from the case. Having grown up in what could generously be classed as a 'ghetto', my stupid poncy voice is as much a mystery to me as everyone else but it does seem to lead some people into false assumptions regarding my regal bearing and excellent breeding.

Anyone who witnessed me dealing with my Xtreme nausea on Friday night, which lasted about nine hours and involved two bathrooms and a bin, knows that any blue blood in my veins is due to alcohol poisoning and not lineage.

this cake is moist and lesbian

There's a work night out on Friday.

We haven't had one for a while.

My two best friends have moved to other parts of the business and in their place are two eager graduates. I feel like Yossarian.

I invited the new boy who sits down the office because he hasn't got any friends, and I felt sorry for him. Now I'm worried that soon it will be me who doesn't have any friends and needs a pity-invite because I suddenly hate everyone at work. I won't need to hand my notice in, my boss is going to fire me for my sarcastic and negligent attitude.

My hands are healing OK though.

I cycled to work tonight

to see how long it would take.

It turns out that it is not the distance that is the problem, but that fact that I have less road-sense than a five year old child.

I'd jumped a number of kerbs on the way down and on the way back was showboating for the crowd when I found myself flying through the air towards a predictable but unavoidable end sliding across a pavement towards the nettles.

On initial inspection I decided my left hand was broken, my left arm scraped beyond repair, both kneecaps shattered and one shinbone well and truly barked, not to mention the right hand lacerated by and impregnated with gravel. I got up and walked twenty metres to a bus stop, hyperventilating with shock and threatening to simultaneously faint and throw up, culminating in a messy and unpleasant death.

I settled for collapsing into a heap and sweating profusely before deciding that I couldn't phone for help because I would have to abandon my bike there on the road, to be taken by urban foxes in their quest for dominance. The prospect of walking it back was too humiliating so I taped my hands around the handlebars and rode like the winner I am.

Now I'm afraid to go to sleep because the continued kinetic movement is all that's keeping my hands from morphing into wooden gnarls and I know that the moment I stop moving that's it, I'm going to have to have both ragged claws amputated. I'll have to stop learning to straighten my hair and start learning to type with hooks for hands.

A life as an extremist muslim cleric is now all that awaits me, when all I wanted was to practice for the day the oil runs out.

A song for Lord Baldymort

Baldymort Baldymort oooooh Baldy Baldy Baldy Baldymort.

Baldymort.

no freakin'; no fakin' this

Zoe went on a date last night so I had some in-time with Donna, because I didn't have a date.

I don't see Donna very much these days, because she works odd hours and because Zoe and I like to spend our free time running around looking for coke and boys and clothes and things to make our house nicer. Donna isn't into those things so she doesn't come with us, which means I miss out on hearing about things about her life.

Another reason that I never see her is that Donna has a sinister boyfriend who sometimes gets the train (even though he has a car) all the way from Lincoln at 8pm on Friday night and leaves again 10am Saturday morning (even though he doesn't have anything to do). He uses phrases like "cool beans" and "fair do's" which fill with me inexplicable rage and mean that I have to vacate the immediate vicinity whenever I know he's coming.

Boyfriends that behave in odd ways are, I feel, to be avoided, as in my experience it hides a deeper problem. This problem is usually 'failing to mention still being in love with ex girlfriend', which is irritating because no one likes to be lied to, but could be 'generally unenthusiastic about the relationship' or 'hiding secret past as shadow cabinet minister' or 'serial killer'. These are more serious and will lead to heartache.

On a similar front, I have decided that my current boyfriend doesn't suit me, and until he can prove otherwise he's going to have to settle for 'distant friendship'. This has lead to some heartache, but will prevent me strangling him in his sleep.

crying havoc

On Monday I threatened to mutilate a co-worker, such is the new extent of my PMT.

On Tuesday I sent a message which I'm still thinking about.

On Wednesday I trained the scruffiest new colleague I've ever seen.


Now every cell in my body is crying out for FRIDAY, because it's bonus day and because it's the weekend.

I want things to be better. Is that selfish?

stop oh oh please stop me

This morning I had in fact died and gone to hell. I woke up with a brain too large for my shrunken skull and with what felt like a number of socks in my mouth.

I went for one drink last night (stop me if you think you've heard this one before) with Zoe and our new friend Alistair at 5.30pm and didn't get home until 4.30am today. It was immense fun and this morning I considered the possibilities of going to QMC to beg a nurse to replace all my blood and sew my mouth up to prevent recurrence.

We met two French spies, a woman from Rochdale and a lady with a year-old baby in attendance. I sound posh, and Alistair was very complimentary but - typically - has a beautiful girlfriend.

Zoe told me she loves me and that she hates it when I do things with friends that aren't her, which confused me as we do literally everything together so how would she know what that felt like?! We decided that there's nothing wrong with us and the reason we can't get decent boyfriends is that we're too cute for Nottingham.

Later we went to the casino. We didn't bet (because we couldn't figure it out) but I've got a horrible feeling that somehow my membership might mean that I can never get a mortgage.

oh hey, i didn't see you guys all the way over there

Today I was busy fixing someone else's mistake so I didn't get to eat lunch and yet it was my housemate who fainted when we went to give blood this evening. Good things do happen to bad people!

I don't really think I'm a bad person, although I know some people who do. I wish I was a bit thinner and a bit nicer to people I regret, but I'd also like the moon on a stick and that'll never work, so I'm going to have to go for what I've got.

I've made a new friend who's caused some maltreated synapses to fire and now I've got this sick feeling in my stomach like something bad is going to happen, but I'm pretty sure it's already happened. At the moment I feel like I'm living in a five year repeating cycle and every time I come to the zenith it drops back into the first scene again. Sometimes the people are different and sometimes the cycle doesn't take as long, or it takes longer, but I've got a feeling if I can just get it to complete then everything will come out OK. But I'm not there yet.

sense-memory

Sitting out on my roof today, in a bikini, in the scorching heat, and overlooking next door's smoky barbeque, I was suddenly hit in the gut with a sudden incredible memory of being in Cambodia. I didn't wear a bikini then but the smell of the charcoal and the sticky heat were so incredibly and heartrendingly reminiscent that I teared up for a minute.

Now I am crying because I am sunburned pretty much everywhere it is possible to be sunburned, except on my face because the foundation I wore to Asda is SPF 15.

It was just so hard to get onto the roof that it didn't seem like sensible energy investment to get back down for suncream.

Day 42

of the Three Day Detox

Yeah so anyway I finished the detox yesterday, everything was grand and I'd eaten fruit for two and a half days running and then we had a picnic and I ate some sandwiches and quiche and then a tiny cake and then rice and tofu and then I went to the pub for a pint and a glass of wine and then Griff and I went to Asda bought a load of crap and ate popcorn in my house. So the detox is probably negated but it was good while it lasted. I just can't be strict all the time, I'm too fond of myself.

I had an odd time last night and I don't know if it was my fault, and this morning I felt a bit low, but this afternoon Jen brought in her new baby so that was OK. I didn't hold him because I'm not insured but I looked and cooed.

Today was Murderer Day. Jake still doesn't talk but now Lewis loves me and won't shut up and doesn't understand our time boundaries. It's nearly end of term and I'm going to miss those little blighters. There's a cocktail afternoon (at work, not in the school) for all the volunteers where we will be presented with a 'small gift'. I've got every fibre of my being crossed that it's a terrible macaroni picture of Luke Skywalker wielding a lightsabre. If it is I'm going to stick it on my desk and pray to it.

I'm still in a weird mood. I promised to go to the gym but I think we all know that won't happen.

I think I've abandoned my stillborn dating idea. It's stupid and hurtful and I like my non-boyfriend and think the time would be better spent with him.

As Hayfever Guru, I can tell you that the weather promises to be good this weekend, folks. Go thou forth and purchse branded medicines, for I have said: it is good.