Wednesday 5th June

How refreshing it was this Bank Holiday Monday to see Cherie Blair grooving along and singing her heart out to Beatles songs next to her model-of-decorum husband at the Party at the Palace on Monday. How refreshing when Prince Charles, in a mad moment of spontaneity, greeted the Queen thus: "Your Majesty...." (crowd cheering) "....Mummy!" (crowd laughter, more crowd cheering), to which the Queen raised her eyebrows but otherwise managed to conceal her surprise. How refreshing for Prince Philip to keep his mouth firmly shut for once (although Prince Philip's gaffes are extremely funny as long as you are not anorexic, disabled, foreign or an ethnic minority - here is a list of some of them, although by no means all - when I remember I will copy type the full article which appeared in the Evening Standard and included some other classics). Ah, Prince Philip. Skulking around like a tortoise. How refreshing. How truly royal - rude, non-politically correct, doesn't really give a damn for decorum. Hurrah.

The Jubilee is all over and done with, Chinese lanterns extinguished, newspapers making their last ditch efforts to boost sales with coverage, fireworks fired, speeches made, the last of the Jubilee chicken eaten, the barriers coming down, Buckingham Palace being tidied, its temporary stage dismantled. The celebrity singers, from Eric Clapton to Paul McCartney to Ozzie Osborne to Atomic Kitten (everybody was right - they can sing) have warbled their last in honour of Her Majesty surviving 50 years of reign. I spent the Jubilee at home, scraping wallpaper, playing Farwest Trivia on the new Forest, and probably eating too much. Not terribly patriotic of me - I didn't attend any street parties or hang any flags out - but I watched some of the concert (in between watching Life Is Beautiful - what a wonderful, funny, sad film). And I really, really appreciated the two days off work.

But alas, all good things must come to an end, until they begin again, at least. Two days off work begins again for me tomorrow! - when I board the train for London and begin a four day social whirl in which I attempt to see as many friends as possible without gaining weight or killing off my liver.

More drama at the Tree. Yul said this week that affairs are like buses - none for ages, and then they all show up at once. Indeed, it seems that one can have affairs without even having to participate these days (marvellous what they can do with technology these days...), as demonstrated by Shrekess, the ex barmaid of the Tree. Yul and Me'Julie had a lovely holiday in Greece, punctuated by portents of SMS doom from Shrekess who had appointed herself chief bottle washer and shit stirrer in their absence, which made them slightly apprehensive about what they were coming back to, although everything was fine really. Well, everything apart from the rumours of the virtual affair, between Yul and Shrekess. Unfortunately, setting a new record for idiocy among the young of Oldland, some people decided to believe these rumours (which Shrekess later flatly denied spreading, much to the chagrin of the people she had told) so there was quite a lot of shouting and bad feeling which culminated in Shrekess throwing a hissy fit and Me'Julie losing her rag and breaking her toe (on Shrekess). For this she blames Martin, who, she points out, was holding her arms so she could not throw punches. People at the Tree seem to break a lot of bones, between Ben's toe, and Martin's various ailments, and now Me'Julie. Maybe Stella causes osteoporosis.

So that was some major drama, sadly all missed by Mr Z and myself since the 45 minute walk between our house and the Tree is just a bit too much for midweek sessions. Presumably Shrekess will not be back at the pub for a few weeks, although she has expressed a desire to remain friends with Me'Julie (after claiming she was shagging her husband, well I'm sure anybody would jump at the chance). Maybe she will not come back at all, but I don't think anybody should underestimate her gall. Apparently she has already got a new job, at a new pub, which she will not reveal the name of because, she's not being funny, but "if anybody from the Tree goes down there they will be dead". Maybe she has put poison in the beer? Who knows. At any rate, things are quieter now, although sadly Yul and Me'Julie were feeling a bit blergh after all the drama and are thinking of living. It would be such a pity to see them go. Don't go! Well I mean, do if you want. But...don't go!

Mr Z and I have made a very good start on ridding our master bedroom of all things bright turquoise (the wallpaper) although I have a feeling the colour will haunt me in the way Mother Hand is haunted by the shade of red I painted her bathroom - spots of colour on the light switch, plug socket, a dash on the ceiling - like Lady Macbeth, I am seeing it everywhere. But most of the actual wallpaper is gone now, we scraped most of it down over the Bank Holiday. Well, Mr Z scraped most of it down - I mostly lounged on the bed and watched. I also managed to unpack all of my books, papers and other paraphernalia that might belong on a bookcase, with a view to helping me organise my rapidly diminishing study time better. Am questioning the wisdom of this now, as the vast majority of the books and notes relates to Romania, Yugoslavia, Russia, &c. &c. (and for those of you who haven't read Jane Eyre, such as Mr Z, &c. is the same as saying etc) and I am supposed to be immersing myself in all things relating to British history.

I have made a start on this by watching the excellent Simon Schama on History of Britain. By happy coincidence, Schama lectures in his one hour programmes in exactly the fashion I find most easy to take notes from, so I have found him quite a boon, and I am sorry I missed the first episodes, which aired while I was abroad. My only gripe is that the programmes cover a lot of ground in a relatively short space of time and I wish he would go into more depth - but that is purely my laziness, as if he went into more depth I wouldn't have to do as much reading. Still, it's a very good survey of British history and the interactive bits on the website are keeping me amused.

Monday 10th June

The long weekend of drunkeness has passed; my liver is still intact, although I am not sure the same can be said for my 3 stone 3 and a half pound weight loss, but I had a fabulous few days and didn't take any notice of the diet and I don't really care. So ner. Between two lunches with Bernie, a lunch with Zoe, a dinner with Justine, a dinner at SSEES and the obligatory "You must drink cider" command from Jen, I didn't really stand much of a chance.

The SSEES party was lots of fun, it was good to see everybody again. My old travel writing lecturer, Wendy Bracewell, tells me that the idea my graduating class had for future travel writing classes (we were the first class ever to take the course so were a bit of a focus group) has been implemented, and all students now have to write an unassessed piece of work entitled "What I Did On My Holidays" shortly after beginning the course. Apparently they all grasp quite early on that they have to be fairly ironic and self-deprecating. It was nice to see Roger Bartlett again, he who is retiring. One of his esteemed colleagues, in his speech, was giving examples of Roger Bartletts on the web, ranging from holocaust deniers to car restorers, so I thought I would mention the name here and then if anybody else does a search they might find this. How mercenary of me. There were lots of people to catch up on, either directly or indirectly, lots of wine to be drunk (I had a fair old crack at that one) and lots of cake to be eaten (I had a fair crack at that one, too). Afterwards, we cleared up ....well actually the organisers cleared up, while I stood outside with the new German history lecturer and discussed the nationalism brought on by the world cup, drunkenly and presumably at best incoherently, at worst idiotically. Afterwards Sue Bailey and I trundled back to her halls, laden with cake and other nibbly bits, and sat up talking until it was starting to get light. It's always nice to catch up with people; we caught up so comprehensively that I was nearly late for lunch with Bernie the next day.

Bernie very sweetly bought me lunch, at Wagamama, even though I had made a particularly ignorant and quite possibly racist comment the day before, when we had lunch at Crazy Salads ("Isn't your country going to war with India?" I asked, looking concerned, completely ignoring the fact that (a) Bernie is English and (b) his family are Bengali, not Pakistani. "You're not ignorant Sal, you just don't know," he replied when he finally realised that I wasn't joking). He is leaving the hellish portals of Edexc(h)el(l) in September, thankfully before he has had time to become completely incompetent, to further his education at my pseudo alma mater, UCL. Jen and I met him for drinks after we'd been shopping (we slagged off Top Shop's range, I tried on 2 bikinis and got very scared, we went to Burger King, et voila) and we had lots of fun reminiscing. Reminiscing was rather the order of the day, really, since after that I went off for dinner and a movie with Justine, and we reminisced about our time living together, about the hoover that caught fire and the problems we faced with the Jewish neighbours and Emily's sister and me being sick in the toilet and not cleaning it properly (it only happened once), over steak sandwiches and far too many mini chocolate croissants and in between watching Yoda bounce around like Sonic the Hedgehog (and then find it necessary to hobble around with a stick - give it up, Yoda, we know you don't really need that stick now) and Hayden Christensen doing a particularly poor acting job in the new Star Wars film (I had to see it, although I didn't think it would be particularly good). The evil kid in it with his evil cackle was especially far fetched, I thought.

On Saturday I hauled myself over to Brent Cross, where I saw everybody apart from Ellen, who was really the person I wanted to see, and got lots of gossip from Roy. Apparently, my ex-not-quite-boyfriend, Suitcase Boy, has recently been fired for making seriously disturbing nuisance calls to Sparky (another rather strange Fenwick employee who has previously featured in this diary) but Roy thinks it won't matter because he'll go back to Thailand where he'll be able to buy plenty of women. Who'd have thought it? After leaving all my Russian history books in a bag on staff entrance (Sue returned them to me, but they were getting heavier by the minute, or so it felt) I dragged myself down to Croyden to see Zoe, and we had lunch and discussed her future career choices (scarily, they are almost exactly the same as mine and she doesn't understand why I don't go back to uni and do a media degree, but frankly the thought of another 3 years of study is not very appealing) and my current circumstances and naturally did some reminiscing.

Then it was back to central London to meet Kerrie and Jen and Stu at ULU, by which point I was thoroughly pissed off with London. The way you blow your nose and it's all black; the way it takes an hour to get anywhere because the place is so big; the litter and the dirt; the way the handrails on the tube escalators go faster than the steps - it all contributed. Also contributing was the grottiness from being sleep deprived; in fact, that was probably the main contributing factor. Was so grotty that when two drunken weirdoes outside ULU asked me if I had a light, I snapped NO! at them automatically, but then relented and took my lighter over. "I'm just in a horrible mood, sorry," I explained. "We love you girls in horrible moods!" said one. "I'm pretending to be Norwegian today," said the other. "OK...gotta go," I muttered, and went to take my lighter back, only to find I was being offered a soggy looking roll up instead, which was actually a spliff. The non-pseudo-Norwegian cackled as I nearly took it in my haste to get away, but then went for the lighter when I realised he had switched hands on me. "Go on, it'll make you feel better!" he said. "Bjorn Borg," said the other one (or something similarly Scandinavian sounding). I just ran. London weirdoes (shudder).

Felt much better when I put some lippy on and got a nice pint of soda and lime in me. Jen soon managed to get me onto the cider, though, and I managed to get drunk very quickly, on not a lot, and I think Stu had a bit of an eye opening time as we girlies reminisced about our days talking explicitly about sex, loudly and drunkenly and explicitly. It's nice to know that some things don't change. Kerrie has set a wedding date for later this year so I have promised to buy her a blender.

We left when the barstaff at ULU finally took our drinks away (VERY early - they weren't half as accommodating as Yul and Me'Julie are), by which point I'd managed to drink a pint of kronenberg and lime (why? WHY?! I hate beer), Jen was looking totally out of it and Kerrie had drunk so much wine she didn't fancy her chances of finding her own way home. Only Stuart seemed fairly lucid so I'm sure he must have had a lot of fun, escorting three drunk girls out of the building and one drunk drunk girl to her train station. Jen and I meanwhile went and got on the tube, I sat next to a man playing a guitar who didn't want money (now there's a rarity) and everybody was clapping him. He said, "Wow, at least that got people talking on the tube," and I said, "Oh yes, it's lovely, people don't, but I bet I can make them: GO ON ARGENTINA! WOO HOOOO! ARGENTINA YEAH YEAH!" at which point Jen inched away and started to pretend she didn't know me and quite a lot of people bristled, and one man actually leaned forward and started having a go at me although I couldn't hear what he was saying. Most people just sniggered as they realised I was, in fact, not serious. But one woman, as she got off the train a few stops later, shouted, "COME ON ENGLAND!" at me agressively and then flicked me the Vs, which I found hysterical. It's a bloody football tournament, you know. The nationalism it's excited is incredible. I was wandering around the shops on Friday while the match was taking place and the pubs were packed - people standing outside them with their faces pressed to the glass. When the result came out, people were driving up and down Oxford Street leaning on their horns and cheering. And did you see the papers the next day? Enormous headlines such as, "Up Yours, Argentina!!" (I think that was a Sun gem). I find it mind boggling that it's become so important, I really do.

But anyway, we managed to make it back to Jen's without actually being murdered, although it was a close thing, and there proceeded to drink some of Father Z's home made wine, procured for the SSEES party but not needed, which was the final straw for both of us, because thereafter we were both just too pissed for words. I was pretty much unable to type but went and played trivia on Forest anyway, where I knew lots of questions but typo'd most of them, allowing Belgarath to increase his score by correctly typing my answers. We also went on the web cam with Jen's particularly Scouse mate Zeni (yes, he is Scouse, yes, he was wrong when he thought he didn't really have an accent, and no, I am not being insulting) which brought out hitherto unnoticed exhibitionist tendencies in Jen and Jen's teddy bear. Eventually Richard came home and Jen went to sleep and so I did too and luckily was sober by the time I woke up, although Jen had the hangover from hell, including headache and nausea, apparently shared by Kerrie. Thankfully I remain to this day hangover free. Am taking a crate of Resolve for Jen when we go to Ibiza.

The journey nearly over, I hauled myself back to Brent Cross by means of the 210 bus, an old favourite that goes past a lot of the posh houses in Hampstead, and sat and chatted with Ellen for a few hours and felt quite guilty because I am temping in a solicitors and she is doing an Ilex course and is looking for the exact job I am doing, for experience. My train ticket, which I had presumed lost, turned up in the stack of text books, so I didn't have to pay a fortune to get home. By 3.15 I was on the train setting up the Last Meal of the Condemned Woman - a Burger King - before returning home to a few weeks of grapefruits and vegetable crudites with no-fat dips.

It was truly wonderful to see everyone again, if exhausting - I very nearly called in sick to work today because I was just so knackered when I woke up. But worth it because everyone was so complimentary -
Robin (SSEES desk man): It's Sally! Haven't you got a lot of weight off? You can see it in your face, you know...
Bernie: (cackle) OH. MY. GOD. You've lost so much weight! (the first thing he said to me)
Justine: Yeah, you can see you've lost weight, you're looking much healthier
Zoe: Ooh, you have lost a lot of weight, those jeans are far too big for you, but you look great - although I'm not sure about those shoes
Kerrie: Sally, you look - oh my GOD, you really DO look great! I was reminding myself to say how great you looked when I saw you in case I forgot, but there's no way I could forget that, you look fab!
Virginia (desk lady, Fenwick): Haven't you changed? So much thinner, different hair, and your voice has gone posh
Mickey (ex-boss, Fewnick): You must be well proud of yourself, you're looking great
Ellen: You're, you're...a bag of bones!

Compliment city. Must wait until I lose another 3 stone before I see them again, then I will get all the compliments all over again. Well, maybe not I had forgotten, almost, how much fun it is to catch up with old friends.

Mr Z seemed to fare fairly well in my absence, although pretty much lived on Alpen and cheese, and had a bit of a run in with some evil kids from a local school on Friday night, which he luckily came out of unscathed. Apparently Yul and Me'Julie had lots of trouble on Friday night with vast crowds of the Underbelly of Oldland hanging around outside way past closing time and refusing to leave. Understandably, having lost a wing mirror off of their car recently while it was parked in the car park, they are getting a bit pissed off with it. I think a few vats for boiling oil installed on the roof might be helpful, and possibly some snipers armed with tomato guns, although they might have a problem getting a licence for that sort of thing.

And now, back to the grind. Only six weeks left of office work, though, and then begins a few weeks of hurling kids around on a bouncy castle. Also, less than eight weeks until Jen and I swan off to Ibiza, yey. I cannot believe how fast this year has gone. Ah well - it'll soon be Christmas.

Thursday 13th June

The legacy of the weekend in the capital lives on - I have yet to catch up on my sleep, in spite of not switching my computer on for the past two days, and this fact has necessitated several trips to the toilets and in one case the deeds room just so that I can close my eyes of literally one minute. This might sound terribly irresponsible, but I seem to have been afflicted by some sort of narcolepsy - I literally cannot keep my eyes open sometimes, and I think it's better to go and sit quietly in the toilets for less time than it would take the average man to have a dump than to fall asleep at my desk and dribble into my keyboard. I really must try and catch up, although the builders are coming around at 9am on Saturday morning so it looks like I will have to wait until Sunday for a decent lie in.

The builders are rebuilding the wall between the bathroom and the back bedroom, which the previous owners knocked down and rebuilt three feet further away, thus making the bathroom bigger - a lovely idea, but sadly they built the wall out of cardboard, so if you're in the back bedroom you can hear pretty much everything that is occurring next door. Additionally, we are getting a new bathroom window to replace the one I spent an hour scraping black mould off of three weeks ago, and a new front bedroom window to replace the one that is sort of slipping out of its frame. When that's done we can get on with papering our bedroom in readiness for some decorating. We...well, actually probably just me....have been picking out colours for various rooms but seem to be currently stuck with all rooms being either red or blue, which might not work, but then I don't much like green or yellow and Mr Z has vetoed purple (although I must say that once he said I could paint every room in our future home purple if I was so inclined) and I have vetoed black; neither of us like pastels and white is just too cold, so that doesn't leave us with much choice. I am determined to squeeze the sparkly paint I found at B&Q in somewhere, though.

Further legacies of the weekend....The Diet: Day 256. That two pounds I lost a couple of weeks ago evidently really missed me, because it has rematerialised on my hips, or possibly my stomach, in the course of the past week. Am unaccountably happy about this. For a start, I thought I had possibly put on more, between all the cider, the chips, the big tub of mini chocolate danishes and custard danishes and strawberry jam danishes I munched my way through at the pictures on Friday night (to my credit, I threw about half of them away so I wouldn't eat them, and I HATE throwing away food). Secondly, I wouldn't say that I began the week *intending* to put on weight - that would be a little masochistic, methinks - but I didn't intend to lose any, and I wasn't that bothered about staying the same. So I did quite well considering I didn't try at all. It could have been a lot worse than two pounds. My consultant said at class last night, "Sally, you've put on two pounds this week which you're really happy about..." and everybody looked at me in astonishment. I suppose it did sound a bit weird.

I did the unthinkable yesterday and ordered not one but two bikinis off the internet. I was a bit sulky after last Friday when Jen and I trailed around a few shops to look for said bathing items, because although there were some very palatable creations, they all had ridiculously little bottoms that ended at the most unflattering point on my not-as-big-as-it-was-but-let's-face-it-still-positively-distended stomach. I sort of gave up on the idea after that, but then found some quite nicely cut options online, although the favourite has a tiny triangle top which I think might prove a bit too flimsy for one of my endowment. But nevertheless, I shall persevere. I know many women of my size would die before they went to the beach in anything other than a mu-mu, but come on, it's Ibiza, who's going to care? Nobody. If they do care, am I going to care? No. Am I going to be glowing in the knowledge that I look about fifty times better than I would have done in a bikini a year ago? Yes.

Am I going to be doing 50 sit ups every day between now and August 4th to decrease the similarities between me and a giant, opaque jellyfish with sunglasses? Yes.

(I started that regime last week. Mr Z holds my feet for me; I was complaining on Monday that they had ceased to hurt. "Put your arms across your chest instead of out in front of you," he said, and I did one and promptly rolled over in agony. They have now ceased to hurt again, but I worry to tell him in case he makes me put my arms behind my head, which makes them nigh impossible with my puny abdominals).

I continue to take notes from Simon Schama's History of Britain on Tuesday nights, but was quite horrified by this week's revelations, and have resolved to research the particular topic more to counteract any bias there might be. I was, this week, ashamed to be English. The program was on the British Empire, focussing on our presence in India and interference in Ireland in the 19th century. Bloody laissez-faire politics - plenty of grain in some parts of the country, people starving to death in other parts because the British government refused to spread the grain around for fear of damaging the markets. The god of profit, again. Possibly because the narrator was apt to go a bit softer on the British record in Ireland, it was our history in India that I found most appalling - particularly the stories of emaciated, starving peasants walking 100s of miles for food, only to drop dead of hunger in front of British soldiers guarding the surplus food.

And, in my opinion, our record since leaves so much to be desired. When we had made their country a miserable place to live, when we had tried to Anglicise them, outlawed their cultures and religious practices, we invited them to live in England - and persecuted them, religiously, determinedly, for decades and decades, and continue to do so today. "Pakis Go Home!" cry the BNP-ers in Burnley and Oldham, conveniently forgetting that our own ancestors invited them in the first place, that without them British history would be much the worse, since soldiers from our former empire made up quite a large percentage of our troops in the world wars, since we invited West Indians to emigrate to Britain in the late 40s and early 50s because we didn't have enough people to fill all the necessary jobs - to drive our buses, to deliver our post.

I am quite perturbed at feeling like this. As a historian, I was always taught "facts good, opinions bad". You read, you sit on the fence a bit, you argue both sides of the case, sit on the fence some more, and basically remain there, putting across both points of view but not agreeing more with one than the other, at least not openly. This is what makes Holocaust deniers bad historians, in my opinion - not just their ability to overlook vast amounts of historial data, much of which is indisputable - but the fact that they are vociferously expressing a specific opinion. They have ceased to be historians and become pseudo-lawyers. It's history - it's in the past - we weren't there - we cannot know. We can only *speculate*. So I am a little put out at being so roused by the Schama program this week. I feel he put across a very good case, with both sides of the argument, but still I feel opinionated, so I had better read some more, until I have no opinion left.

Well, that was all a bit heavy, I must admit. Who would have thought that I would use my diario for a rant? What a shocker!

Friday 14th June

Received another one of those "Good advice from a Yak in the Andes" emails yesterday and so am putting it up here so I can ridicule, as is my wont.

Give people more than they expect and do it cheerfully.
Give people more hell than they deserve and be cheerful whilst doing it. Don't say sorry.

Marry a man/woman you love to talk to. As you get older, their conversational skills will be as important as any other.
Marry a man/woman who loves talking about themselves. You can cite their self-absorption as a reason for divorce.

Don't believe all you hear, spend all you have or sleep all you want.
Don't believe anything you hear without hard evidence. Spend all you want as long as it's other people's money. Sleep all you want at work.

When you say, "I love you", mean it.
When you say, "I love you", mean it - until after you've had sex. Then pretend you didn't say it.

When you say, "I'm sorry", look the person in the eye.
NEVER say you're sorry.

Be engaged at least six months before you get married.
Marry in haste so long as it is financially profitable - before your prospective spouse realises you are a gold digger.

Believe in love at first sight.
Believe in sex on the first date.

Never laugh at anyone's dreams. People who don't have dreams don't have much.
Other people tell you their dreams to amuse you. Laugh all you want - laughter is good for you. If they are really committed to their dreams, they won't care what an obnoxious bitch like you thinks.

Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt but it's the only way to live life completely.
Love superficially until you have milked a relationship for all it is worth. Love yourself deeply and passionately.

In disagreements, fight fairly. Please No name calling.
Compile lists of scathing put downs for all occasions - work, school, home, supermarket etc. Practice them on your nearest and dearest to make sure they are suitably cutting.

Don't judge people by their relatives.
Agreed. Judge them on their hairstyle, their dress sense, their handwriting and their physical features - it's much more shallow.

Talk slowly but think quickly.
Talk quickly, especially when giving instructions. Think slowly, especially when somebody subordinate to you is waiting for a decision.

When someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask, "Why do you want to know?"
When someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, select your most scathing put down and yell it at them along with a declaration of their unforgivable nosiness, peppered with expletives, preferably in a public place.

Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
Remember that being obnoxious is a lifestyle choice - people may not like or respect you, but that's the risk you take. Quit whinging about it.

Say "bless you" when you hear someone sneeze.
When you hear someone sneeze, tut and sigh loudly, murmur something about people's terrible manners and whip out one of those face masks to protect yourself from the germs. A simple way to make someone else feel small.

When you lose, don't lose the lesson.
When you lose, blame someone else, accuse the winner of cheating, and generally be a bitch about it.

Remember the three R's: Respect for self; Respect for others; Responsibility for all your actions.
Remember the three R's: Rudeness, Rashness and 'Rritability.

Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
Don't let the fact that you are evidently in the wrong force you to apologise to a great friend. Wait for them to crawl to you. If it's a great friendship for you, they will.

When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
When you realise you've made a mistake, deny it, deny it, deny it.

Smile when picking up the phone. The caller will hear it in your voice.
Snarl when picking up the phone, and yell, "What?!" down it. The caller will realise that that's your way of politely informing them that you do not wish to be disturbed and should hang up.

Spend some time alone.
Try to avoid spending time alone. Keep lackeys around you to do your bidding and tell you how wonderful you are. With any luck, if you do this religiously your ego will inflate and you will become truly obnoxious without even having to try.

I should just say that I made all that up in a lame attempt to be funny because these emails promote nothing but common sense and are totally pointless. I do not live my life in this way. I accept no responsibility for anybody who takes my advice and finds themselves in trouble for it. I know I said you should blame everybody else for your mistakes, but that does not include me. Blame your parents, most people do anyway.

Something slightly out of the ordinary happened on the bus home last night. Just as we pulled in at Old Market, a diminutive man of colour punched a horizontally challenged caucasian girl in the face, and presumably broke her nose because there was blood everywhere and she went down like a sack of potatoes, bawling, while the man stood next to her, holding his crotch and gesticulating angrily with his other hand, swearing at her and the people who rushed to her aid. The bus driver and several onlookers phoned the police, and the man went back into his dwelling, accompanied by murmurs of, "Oooh, yes, that house looks really dodgy..." "It looks like THAT TYPE of place doesn't it?" and so on from the rubber neckers on the bus (I disagree, I think the buildings on Old Market are lovely...if a little derelict). A tattooed man of colour who was peering out of the window started blaming drugs and said it was good nobody else had got involved since nobody knew the ins and outs of it and were likely to get stabbed - he was actually talking a lot of sense, because nobody knows why he punched her. Maybe she'd been sleeping with his best friend or had given him herpes. Granted nobody deserves a broken nose but if he had cause to be angry and was too young to have learned to control his rage, then it's basically understandable, although that's shaky ground so I will stop moralising and just get on with my story.

Anyway, the bus driver seemed content to sit and wait for the police; the bus was packed but nobody seemed particularly hurried, apart from the young man with the tattooes, who quickly turned from a man of reason into a snarling, foul-mouthed maniac. He threatened to kick the bus driver's ehad in if he didn't drive off and started call him an "ijut" (as in, idiot) and shouting and yelling about how late he was going to be. It then transpired that he was late for an interview at the police station and would be jailed if he didn't get there soon.

Ah ha, the plot thickens.

When he came back upstairs, everybody with a free seat next to them had managed to fill it somehow so he had a very reduced seating option. Then this young woman sitting opposite me decided to stick her oar in and started yelling back, saying completely unnecessary, inflammatory things until he threatened to kick her head in too, to which she replied, "Well, that makes you no better than that man out there!" "I ain't no bleeping better, I is bleeping WORSE, I'm bleeping gonna bleeping do you, you bleeping tell me who your bleeping man is an I'll bleeping rip his head off bleep bleep bleeeping bleep bleep" (I would have included the swear words but they were gratuitous), he responded. "It's only cos she is white, yknow, cos she's this fat white bitch, that's why we is still here," he muttered, to an indrawn hiss from the crowd. At that point he retired downstairs to bleep some more at the bus driver, and the young woman turned to us and said, "What say we all go down there and punch his head in?", to which I nearly replied, "But that would make you no better than him" but thought better of it.

"It's like watching Eastenders," murmured a man behind me.

When the bus pulled off, the young man with the tattooes was on his phone, presumably to the probation officer, and another woman upstairs decided to stick her oar in and started yelling inflammatory things at him too, and I just wanted to stick a sock in her mouth, and my socks yesterday were three days old and it would NOT have been pleasant for her. He harangued the bus driver to let him off on the main roundabout, and the young woman who yelled first shouted, "GOOD RIDDANCE!" after him and I was really pissed off with her for being so smug, like she never lost her temper before, but then she got off the bus in Kingswood and walked into the ugly brick development on the main road and now I just feel sorry for her because that place has no soul.

Then the bus changed drivers at Lawrence Hill which meant a 10 minute wait, and I was REALLY late home.

The tattooed man was rude and unpleasant and quite scary but things would have been a lot calmer if people on the bus hadn't insisted on putting their tuppence in. It's never worth it - angry people don't often have time for other people's opinions, especially if they are delivered in a holier-than-thou tone. It only makes things worse. I suppose it's human nature to try and get one over on agressive people, as though you're so invincible that you alone know exactly what to say to cow them and make them feel sorry and small, when it's just not the case. I wish people would show some common sense, sometimes. But then, if everybody knew everything then I'd be out of the Agony Aunt business (snigger)

Wednesday 19th June

La la la...and OH YEAH! It was the start of the summer....la la la....two sunny days in a row, and I have been to my new favourite cheap shop, Primark, looking at unfeasibly small shorts. I have bought bikinis and sun glasses and I am weighing up the benefits of various sun tan lotions. Not for this country mind you - mainly for my impending holiday in the Balearics, or however you spell it. I am getting quite excited about it now, especially since all the magazines have all-things-holiday spreads in them at the moment. I can't wait to get out of this stuffy office and into the sun, be it on a sandy beach or on a bouncy castle surrounded by kids. Ah, bliss.

I see Bush has offered the Africans $500 million to help prevent infected mothers from passing AIDS onto their babies. *Sniff* How magnanimous of him, how kind. Of course, if he were to break the yoke imposed on him by the superpower pharmaceutical companies that control American democracy and tell them to stuff their patents where the sun don't shine so that the Africans could manufacture the AIDS drugs for a fraction of the cost that the Americans are selling them for, then we might actually be getting somewhere in the fight to stem the epidemic. You'd think that, being the most powerful man in the world, Wubya would have the ability to remove the patents. But it's all about the benjamins. After all, if the pharmaceuticals weren't paying him huge amounts of money, he wouldn't be able to fight a successful (if criminal) election campaign and become the most powerful man in the world and give $500 million to the AIDS fight, would he?

BAH.

I was highly amused to see last week that a Chinese newspaper with circulation of approximately one million had printed a fictitious story one of its journalists had read on that old cynics' favourite, The Onion. If you've never read the Onion, go and do so, now. Don't even finish reading this - the Onion is better. For those of you still with me, you'll know that the Onion, while sometimes pretty close to the mark, makes up everything on its pages ("Pope forgives children for being molested by priests" was a recent favourite of mine). Sadly, the Chinese journo did not realise this. The paper released a statement in which they said that the Onion was one of those sad newspapers that sometimes made things up in order to make money. Well, this isn't true at all - they ALWAYS make things up. And it's done in the name of satire, not in the name of money, or keeping the public informed. The editor of the Onion replied, "Wow - even journalists believe everything they read these days." I chortled long and hard.

This Sunday past, I finally caved in, after months of resistance, and watched Harry Potter and the Philopodopodist's Stone. I had until that point scoffed at the notion that I might like to see the film, and avoided the books and all the swag that accompanied the world wide craze for all things Hogwarts. But Me'Julie offered to lend us the video on Saturday and I thought, well, how bad can it be?

And the answer to that, my friends? VERY. I don't wish to be uncharitable, but if I am honest I waxed my bikini line immediately afterwards and found it more enjoyable (and no, I'm not some sort of masochist). I know it was very popular, IS very popular, in some quarters. I had hoped that with all the hype it might actually be a sort of, yknow, ripping yarn. But alas, it was not. The first half was quite good, I like Zoe Wanamaker and Maggie Smith's Irish accent didn't jar too much - although I must admit that when she said, "I'll be with you momentarily" I snarled and gnashed my teeth - bloody Americans...momentarily means FOR a moment, not IN a moment. But then I went to cook dinner and on returning to watch the second half, the film just seemed to fall to pieces. There were holes in the plot you could have driven a double decker bus through. Why didn't that ginger kid jump off the knight when it was going to be taken? How come the baddy was already in the Philopodopodist's Stone's hiding place when Harry arrived, even though the door was locked and the chess game unplayed? And why did Slitherin seem so elated and surprised to have won the house cup, and Harry's house so disappointed not to, when the dining hall was decked out with Slitherin banners? If *everybody* in Slitherin is turns evil, why don't they expel everybody the hat places in Slitherin?

No, I was very disappointed. I had hoped it would be better, and my hopes were cruelly raised by the first half, only to be dashed like a small ship made of plywood on impenetrable Cornish rocks by the second. What's totally galling about it is that now I've seen one, I will have to see them ALL - it's in my nature, I need that sense of completion, it's why I go and see Star Wars even though they're acted by people more wooden than a petrified forest. I'll probably be forced to read the books, too - which some have said are better than the film, although I won't hold my breath for another disappointment. But I promise you one thing - I won't read them on the bus, or the train, or at work, or on holiday, or anywhere else where people can see.

I think she's very clever, of course - the writer, I mean. Harry Potter gets what every child wants - a way out of his normal life. He's catapulted to instant fame, suddenly a sports champ and, better still, damn good at magic as well. AND he's got a force of evil stalking him so he gets away with murder. Who wouldn't want to read about that? I expect there's a fair few adults out there that wish it could happen to them. And actually, as long as one remembers its written for children of what, 10? 12? - then it's not as bad as all that. Children, after all, don't usually notice holes in the plot as long as the action is good and there is plenty going on. And if it's getting them readin again, who am I to complain?

I wish I could wake up one morning and suddenly have magic powers and get to go to witch school and not have to worry about money or work anymore. Actually....I suppose I really just wish I didn't have to worry about money or work anymore. And, although I don't particularly wish to be Harry Potter, I have a pathetic confession to make - I covet the lives of the young. Well, those younger than me, anyway. I want to be them, so that I can have a plethora of different growing-up experiences. This has nothing to do with my own teenaged experiences, which I wouldn't change for the world. I'm just an experience-hog.

Oh good grief - an aside - the South African lady I work with is on the phone to Sony trying to make a complaint because her phone has been in the shop being fixed for four weeks and is now in France. And she just said, with a perfectly straight face, "I don't understand why my phone is in France - my phone doesn't speak French, it speaks English". I don't know if she was making a little joke, or whether she was serious. For everything that might be said about her (the word "please" is not in her vocabulary, for example), she doesn't appear to be stupid.

Simon Schama's excellent History of Britain concluded last night. I never realised how close we came to being just a little province of the Third Reich. If Lord Halifax hadn't so modestly declined the premiership, we would be speaking German one presumes, since he was all for signing a deal with Hitler to save England's green and pleasant lands - but not England's soul, as Schama put it. No, luckily we escaped that fate, thanks to Mr Churchill, and we aren't a province of the Third Reich - we are the lapdog of the Americans, instead. "War on terrorism Mr Bush? Right away Mr Bush! We'll support you to the hilt, Mr Bush! Just throw some of that pharmaceutical money our way, eh, Mr Bush?" At least it's not German language. Never could stand it. No offence to Germans, but it sounds so clipped and ugly.

To finish on a lighter note, I thought of one more thing I meant to say weeks ago, because it amused me greatly. I went to ring at Keynsham for a wedding a couple of weekends ago (this is always great fun because it involves being paid) and as Mr Z and I walked back to the carpark we passed the wedding party having its picture taken in the church grounds. After we had passed, I looked back to try and get a better look at the bride's dress, since there were family members and children crowded around her front, but nobody at all stood behind her. Lo and behold - the groom had his hand planted firmly on her white silk clad arse. Nothing wrong with that of course, but I was highly amused anyway (I'm easily highly amused). I bet when they get their pictures back he'll point at one and say, "Ha, when that picture was taken I was groping your arse..."

Thursday 20th June

The Diet - Day 263. I mentioned in my previous entries that I had purchased bikinis - you did not read me wrong. They have arrived. For the first time in my life, I am now the proud owner of not one but two of the said items. Well, one and a half at the moment because Freemans was out of stock of my preferred mix'n'match bottoms and I am still waiting for them. But I have a fetching pink and grey ensemble by Ellesse, and a pink bandeau top which will eventually go with the black mid-leg briefs, when they arrive. And rather smart they look too. I'm not going to lie - I do look a bit sea-cowish in them, but I also look very hour-glassy, and honestly it could be a lot worse. I am a veritable tube map of stretch marks and my skin is looking a bit baggy on my stomach though, so I have been persevering with the sit ups and have managed 50 a day every day for the past week (except on Saturday when I only did three). I can even do them with my hands behind my head now and everything. The exercises to get rid of the bingo wings (tricep dips) are becoming easier although I don't see any reduction in the flab on my arms, but as Mr Z says, I must have patience - I've only been doing it for a week.

On Sunday, I actually went for a ....duh duh DUHHHHH!.... run. There is an access road that runs next to our house for the length of the road behind all the houses, so that people can get to their garages, and there are three merits to this track.
#1 - it isn't concrete, but shingle and mud and grass, so it is soft.
#2 - it is on a slope, so I feel very virtuous for "including inclines" which the fitness magazines say is very good (basically I sprint uphill, double over and gasp for about 30 seconds, and then walk slowly down to recover from the stitch).
#3 - it is positioned such that it is virtually impossible for anybody to see me flitting past like a giant panda in my black leggings, white t-shirt and white trainers. This is a BIG bonus.
Have resolved to try to go running more regularly, like every other day or something. Or at least every other week. Also have decided to buy firming body lotion to try and firm up the skin on my stomach. Forget whether I mentioned it at the time, but a few months ago I had a horrible nightmare in which I pulled at the skin on my stomach to see how loose it was, and it just stretched out from my flesh and kept on stretching until I had a fold of loose skin about six inches long in my sweaty grasp. Am terrified that this might actually happen. Mr Z and Justine say that the sit ups will help that, but I never heard of sit ups helping skin - I thought they only helped muscles.

Anyway, in order to boost my weight loss and motivation to exercise, I am wearing the bikini around the house. That way, whenever I go to the fridge to eat something out of boredom or hunger or some other silly reason, I look down and think...nah, maybe not. The other day I spent about half an hour gazing at my image in the wardrobe door mirror, tying and retying the little bow thing adorning the bikini bottoms, posing sideways and sitting and leaning and not-sucking-in-stomach and every way imaginable. When I heard Mr Z approaching I was forced to dive under the duvet to escape detection, but he demanded to know what I was doing in bed at 8pm and I had to come clean.

Truthfully, I am becoming unforgivably vain as I get thinner. I can barely walk past a shop window without gazing at myself in it, let alone a mirror. I suppose this has as much to do with being able to see my reflection properly now that I have contact lenses as it has to do with being over three stone lighter.

Anyway, I have been digressing. This week when I went to get weighed, I lost two pounds, so now I am back to my pre-London-binge-weekend weight. I hope to lose ten pounds more by the time I go on holiday, but we shall see. If I can stick with the watermelon and grapefruit, I should be ok, I think....

Friday 21st June

Oh, woe is me. Honest. I am really gutted that I won't have to put up with constant football talk anymore, and that the country might actually return to normal. Do you know what those idiots on the GWR breakfast show said this morning, when one bloke, obviously facing facts, rang up and said that we should just accept that England were going to lose? They dared to call him unpatriotic! UNPATRIOTIC?! IT'S A BLOODY GAME! IT'S 22 FOPS IN NYLON KICKING A PIG'S BLADDER AROUND! What did football ever do for England, other than giving us the reputation for being louts? ("Who hosted the careers fair today, the English Soccer Fans League?" asked Zander on last night's Buffy, after returning to his school to find it all smashed up). I mean, it's hardly world significant. While millions are spent on uniforms, flags, TV rights and advertising, the wars, famines and other world issues continue, except that the media conveniently forget about any other news for four weeks (Anorak, a kind of British Onion, said it best with this article). While South Korea is in the world spotlight, glorified after beating Italy, its tourist industry swollen to bursting point, in North Korea there is a famine going on of such proportions that the citizens are eating grass. Why? Because the international food aid has dried up. Nobody is giving grain to the World Health Organisation, and now they can only afford to feed children and the elderly. Meanwhile, our hallowed sports minister Tony Banks tabled a motion in Parliament to declare a national holiday if England had got through to the world cup finals, a move that would have cost companies millions in lost man hours. But oh, if it's for the football then that's ok - that's PATRIOTIC. Never mind a few million starving peasants - it's their fault for being communists.

It really makes me absolutely sick. On the one hand is the glitziest, most expensive football tournament in the world. On the other, children are bunking off school to go into the mountains and gather grass, while their teachers bunk off to go and scrape seaweed off the rocks. And I'm supposed to buy into this crap? I refuse. I am GLAD we are out of the World Cup - now maybe people will start to remember that there are more important things going on in the world.

World's Sorest Losers Award must go to Italy. After losing 2-1 to South Korea this week, a South Korean player who was on the payroll for an Italian team has found himself out of a job. His crime? Scoring one of the goals that sent Italy's hopes into oblivion. And in the news this morning, the Italian national television broadcasting corporation is suing FIFA over lost revenue. They paid £140 million for the rights to screen the matches, and now that there won't be anymore that's starting to look like a pretty bad deal. Thus, they are suing FIFA for poor refereeing, blaming them for the poor standard of play their team exhibited. That just takes the biscuit. To quote myself, it takes the entire biscuit aisle.

I have just been narcissistically reading back over my past diario entries looking for the entry where I first said, "That takes the entire biscuit aisle" and I didn't find it - but I did find the entry I wrote about England beating Germany. In it, I said it was a great day for England, and especially for Portsmouth which can be very patriotic. So I suppose, now, I am sort of contradicting myself - it *was* a great day, and it did do something for England because it gave us some national pride - which I suppose can be a good thing. Unless that national pride becomes confused with xenophobia. I don't know. I do know that there are more important things to worry about than football, though.

I read somewhere last weekend that a bloke from up north had taken out an insurance policy against him being driven mad if England got knocked out of the tournament. He paid £125 and his family will stand to gain £1million if he can prove that his mental stability has been damaged by England's crushing defeat. Have you ever heard something so ridiculous? Apparently, the insurance company are taking it very seriously and have sold about 50 policies of this kind. Well, of course they're taking it seriously. They've made over £6000's clear proft.

Enough of all that sports stuff, and onto something even more pointless. I don't know if it's a vitamin C deficiency or what but this month I have been a lover of all things citrus. Following a world shortage of lime cordial (it has to be worldwide, I can't think why else the Tree wouldn't have any) I have been drinking watered down diet orange tango, which is surpisingly refreshing, and Coca Cola have just brought out their fantastic Diet Coke with Lemon in England (developed for the UK market, and did you know diet coke has only been over here since 1993? It seems like forever) which I thought I would hate, because I hate diet coke with a slice of lemon a la pubs. But this stuff doesn't taste of coke, it tastes of lemon. It's lush. Speaking of Lush, I bought some of their lemon and lime deoderant last weekend while I was shopping with Mother Hand in Bath. It comes in a solid block and is totally devoid of aluminium salts and all those other unhealthy sounding things they put in conventional deoderants. Mother Hand, whilst she was rummaging around in our back garden at the weekend, found a lemon verbena plant languishing in a pot and hastily welcomed it inside where it can be cared for properly, thus reminding me how much I love and adore lemon verbena and making me twice as likely to buy this Lemon Verbena Bath Milk from Boots. The liquid hand soap in my bathroom smells just like sherbert lemons. And as if all that wasn't enough, I have been eating pink grapefruits as if there were no tomorrow - peeled and whole like oranges, with watermelon in fruit salad, stirred into yogurt...I just can't get enough of them. Yum.

Thursday 27th June

Thought for the day - are we in danger of unevolving? (devolving??) I was shocked by this ghost of the future the other evening as I waited at the bus stop and watched a yoof slouch past me, narrowly missing going under a bus, with the waistband of his trousers somewhere below his hips and his not-very-clean looking underwear on full display above. As he dawdled out of the path of the bus (no hurried movements at all, not cool enough I suppose) he nonchalently put his hands in his pockets - and herein lies the horror. He had to STRETCH HIS ARMS DOWN to reach them without bending over - and I mean really stretch. Supposing this behaviour causes a change in our genetic makeup in a couple of generations? Our descendants' arms will get longer and longer as their trousers get lower and lower, until eventually they are the knuckle dragging idiots we have evolved from.

And here's another worrying thing. I'm not sure how to spell descendant - is it like that, or with an e - as in, descendent? Well, I just went and typed it into the Word spell checker and it says BOTH versions are correct. Surely that cannot be? Answers on a postcard....

I must also take a moment to warn all tourists about the worst coffee shop in Bath. Unfortunately I don't know what it is called, but it's an Italian place almost opposite the Abbey, and they sell sandwiches and wraps and that sort of thing. Do not go there. Apparently their water is not fit to be drunk. Mother Hand and I stopped there for some refreshment when we were in Bath a couple of weekends ago, and my conversation with the counter man ran thus -
Me: Espresso, please...oh, and a glass of water...tap water
(I must just interject - this is not because I am cheap. I prefer the taste of tap water. Bottled water doesn't taste right to me).
Him: Er, we have none
Me: Eh?!
Him: We do not have any tap water
Me: (ominously) What, you mean you don't have a tap?
Him: Er, well yes, we have tap, but the water is no good, you cannot drink it...
Me: Fine, fine, just the espresso then

He proceeded to give me the shortest espresso ever, made with what I can only assume to be tap water. I'm sure he couldn't have just been being cheap - after all, everybody knows that establishments serving food have a legal obligation to provide water free of charge (otherwise McDonalds wouldn't do it). Oh no, surely not that. I can only assume his water comes from a poisoned well. And yet he makes coffee with it! Avoid it like the plague, readers, it's evidently a place fraught with danger.

The Diet - day 270. In spite of the fact that I tried ultra hard during the month of May, it seems that June will be my month for losing weight, as two and a half pounds vacated my body this week, and I was crowned Slimmer of the Week. How, I don't know, since I didn't really stop eating all weekend and last week's post-Wednesday-confessional binge was one of mammoth proportions (crisps AND chocolate) and I actually drank some alcohol at the weekend (on Friday night, the heavens opened as we walked to the pub and I arrived soaked through to my underwear and in extremely poor humour, and had to be placated with vodka). I put it down to all those grapefruit and watermelon fruit salads I have been consuming. Anyway, my total weight loss now is three stone six pounds - for all you Americans, that's 48 pounds, and I have another two pounds to go until I reach my next personal weight loss goal (which is 50 pounds). I shall attempt to do that next week but let's not all hold our breath. The sit ups are still going well; they are, dare I say it, fairly easy now, and I'm sure I'm noticing some definition in my stomach muscles - although Mr Z says I am deluding myself. But they certainly *feel* harder - even he agrees with that.

It's nice going to class every week, everybody is so supportive. I am actually the heaviest person who regularly weighs in and have lost the most, so everybody oohs and aahs and claps a lot when my weight loss is read out. One lady asked me last night how much more I wanted to lose and when I said, about the same again, she looked at me like I was a mad anorexic attempting to get down to less than six stone. What people don't realise is how heavy I was when I started, (and no, I'm not saying now - I'll tell you when I reach target!) especially at this class, because the first time I went to it I was already two stone lighter than when I joined. I should dig out some fat pictures of me to take to class.

I was reading a success story on the Slimming World website this week (did I mention I have sort of nothing to do at work most of the time?) and in passing the writer mentioned that the 22 litre bottles of water for the office water coolers weigh about three and a half stone. I thought to myself, I've nearly lost that, and so off I toddled to the water cooler. I checked on one of the bottles and it contained 18.9 litres, so it probably weighs a bit less than I have lost. And I could barely even lift it! Once I had it off the ground I could only hold it for a few seconds before it became burdensome. I used to carry that around with me everywhere, every day, and I did it for *years*. I'm surprised my poor heart coped. I'm not surprised that Mr Z finds it so much easier to pick me up nowadays. It's a pity I can't smuggle the bottle out of the building and take it home as a reminder, but since I can barely lift the thing, it's just not going to happen.

Mr Z's (t)rusty steed, the aging Land Rover, finally breathed its last last week. In spite of having a vast amount of welding carried out on it to get it through the MOT last month, Mr Z noticed a strange amount of movement at the front, and on peering underneath the bonnet ascertained that the chassis had cracked in two places, almost all the way through, and this had been causing the incresingly frequent and frightening juddering of the steering whenever the left wheel met with a pot hole. Alas, getting it fixed will cost more than the vehicle is worth and so it's au revoir, aging Land Rover, and aloha, shanking the pony.

All this walking might have contributed to my weight loss last week and it's not all that bad, really. Unfortunately some places are not reachable on foot and necessitate buses, such as my local belltower at Keynsham. Getting there tonight will not be a problem, but getting home would be, since the last bus into town from Keynsham, by a quirky twist of fate, actually leaves *before* the bus I will be getting *to* the town. Dontcha just love provincial public transport? I have been examining, in depth, methods of reaching Bath Spa uni without a car, since my driving instructor is a bit less than opitimistic about me passing a test before my course starts (this in spite of him being so optimistic in the spring). Anyway, it appears that I am in some trouble as I will have to get a minimum of two buses and walk a couple of miles in order to complete the journey, which is all bad. This is according to the details on the local bus network's website, though, so it's not all gloom and doom. Yet.

If I may digress for a minute, I want to whinge just a little about my driving, which doesn't really seem to be that bad when I remember that I have to press the accelerator *before* I take my foot off the clutch (which I remember most of the time). Last week my driving instructor had not arrived at 6.05pm and I rang him to find out where he was. "Oh, er, I meant to call you....I'm in the pub," he said, "but I've only had one pint so I can still take you out." I hastily declined, saying it was fine, I was tired anyway, &c. &c. But I was a little peeved, since I had rushed to be home by 6pm. If I had not bothered to turn up to a lesson with him, he would still have charged me. To be fair, he didn't have my phone number - but he had Mr Z's. So that made me a bit cross.

Anyway, ringing tonight. I really want to go, because they're going to get me to do something new tonight. So I plucked up all my courage and rang Mother Z to ask for a lift. "Hello Mrs Z," I said, "are you and Mr Z going out...." "What's all this MRS Z, MR Z, business?!" she interjected. "Oh um, well but, I don't know what to call you...." I blustered. "Well my name's Viv and his is Les!" she replied. "Well, I suppose, but it feels weird...." I said, in spite of the fact that I call them Viv and Les all the time when they are not within earshot. "I know, but try," she suggested. I suppose I will, but it still feels weird. (Must just point out for any of you that are struggling, I did not actually say Mrs *Z* - I used Mr Z's real surname).

How embarrassing, I just tried to drink some water and spilled it down my top just as some colleagues were walking past, and it happened to hit that particular spot on my white top where I marked myself with a pink highlighter by accident this morning. Never let it be said that I am not clumsy.

After a week of having a very big bathroom with computers in it (or an en suite back bedroom, depending on which door you walked through), we now have our bathroom wall back, and with it, privacy and dignity. The days of, "I'm going to the loo - don't listen!" are gone. The builders knocked the old wall down and then put off rebuilding it for eight days, which I can't complain about too vociferously because they are giving us their labour for free, so it's not all bad. We also have a new bathroom window to replace the mouldy one and a new bedroom window to replace the one that was dropping out of its frame. The bedroom is now a good few degrees warmer than it was. We're getting there...slowly....I did a massive tidy up this week, since the place was starting to resemble half building site, half rubbish tip. Thankfully it is just half building site now. I was sick of feeling deeply ashamed and slovenly whenever Mr Z's parents came round. It's bad enough that I keep forgetting to hide my cigarettes without the piles of ironing, clean underwear, newspapers and mouldy oranges lying around too.

Found this really interesting article on tyre disposal today. Did you know that burning 10 tyres can generate enough electricity to meet the average family's needs for a week? Since 50 million tyres are disposed of every year, that's just over 96,000 homes that could be powered for an entire 12 months if we burned them all rather than putting them in landfills. The Welsh tyre dump, which holds nine million tyres and has been on fire for 11 years, could generate enough electricity to keep 17,000 homes going for a year. However, "people" don't like the idea of tyres being burned near their houses, for fear of pollution (the prospect of their cities turning into uninhabitable wastelands if the local nuclear reactor has a meltdown is fine, though). To me, it seems like a really good solution to two growing problems - too much litter, and not enough power. Go and look at the article, see what you think.