A return

It felt like old times when I got off the bus in north London to go see San. I used to always take the underground in London, it was faster and simpler than the buses -- but it's also very temperamental, and so one day when the engineering works made it difficult to go straight to San's I started taking the bus. Since then I have become a bus-convert -- I like to sit on the top deck and stare out fo the window at the city. Sure, it takes longer but you don't get the feeling you could be trapped in a tunnel and it's more interesting.

I got to San's and although it had been less than a week since we last saw each other, things were different. There was a renewed passion between us, a rediscovered desire to just sit on the couch and make out that I can't remember us doing in Leicester.

Our plans for the day were simple. The Tate gallery of Modern Art were hosting an Edward Hopper exhibition, and being a big fan of his work it went without saying that we would go. When I called the gallery, however, I discovered that booking in advance was "strongly recommended". We went anyway, and although it couldn't have been very late in the afternoon we were told (after standing in line forever) that the earliest we could be admitted was 17.30. We booked tickets for 19.00 instead -- so we could take our time with the rest of the day.

It was one of those days where you can forget everything else. I could forget about exams in Law and Public Affairs, and my search for a job. I could even forget the uncertainty of what might happen between us.

The exhibition was more or less all I could have hoped for. Hopper's canvases were often bigger and more dramatic than I had expected, and I was only slightly disappointed that the exhibition hadn't included New York Movie.

It was late when we got out of the gallery -- having been side-tracked on our way out because I wanted to see something by Damien Hirst -- and we decided to walk a different way to the way we'd come in. Instead, we crossed the Thames on the Millennium Bridge, taking our time to look at the lights of the city and to stop and stare down-river and the lights of Tower Bridge. There was some confusion over where to catch a bus from -- San has no sense of direction -- but we were in no real hurry to get home.

The first time I ever met San we went to the Tate Modern gallery, and she tells me now she thought I hated her because I was so quiet. I tell that I loved her even then, and had always tried to be sure I knew where she was the whole day -- but didn't think it necessary for us to be at each other's side the whole time. I uphold that Saturday wasn't meant to have any significance, I would have wanted to see the exhibition wherever it was being held. It was just coincidence we'd spent the day together there once before.

The questions still remaining are: Is San right, and were we complacent seeing each other all the time? Will it be better to have a chance to miss one another now? Will our relationship stand up to this change of pace? And of course, what the sam hell am I doing with my life?

Tune in next time for all this and more...

Farewells

Sometimes it feels like my life is punctuated with goodbyes. Over the past few years I have given up thinking of anywhere as home for any length of time, given up thinking of anything as permanent. Anything, that is, except for goodbyes. It might sound over dramatic, but saying goodbye, so long, see you later –- these seem to become permanent farewells.

I stood in the car park of San’s flat and watched her leave. I’ve never been properly introduced to her Dad, and have no idea if he knows who I am or if San even has a boyfriend. Just the same, without caring if he would see and ask her questions I held her hand, wiped away her tears, and kissed her goodbye. I then just stood and watched the car pull out, and drive away. I lingered a little to watch her flatmates leave too. Then I sat down on the curb and wondered what to do next.

I remember years ago, Fiona and I spent New Year together and at that time I had held her in my arms and thought how I could spend my life with that girl, if only given the chance. Just a few days later, I stood in a bus station in London and watched her crying, as her bus drove away. We said it would only be temporary, we’d pick up where we left off when I got back from Utah – we’d be a little older and a little wiser and it would be good. But of course that didn’t happen. She moved on, or I moved on, and what we intended to be a brief farewell really did turn into goodbye. The couple of times we have met in the years since then haven’t changed that.

I have moved from city to city, moved back home, left again, and then now face the prospect of moving back once more with little to show for it. I don’t feel at home anywhere, and I have so many nights that feel like my last night in town.

San knows I’m scared this is it, and I think she feels the same. It will be at least a month before I see her again – after we are used to seeing each other almost every single day. Even then I don’t know what I’ll be doing, or how long for – but San will return to Leicester this September, and possibly on to Maryland in January. I don’t know if we will make it.

I want somewhere that feels like home. Not somewhere where I feel I’ve been forgotten that I’m here, or somewhere that I only get to call home for only a few months or a year. I want to see the world, but I want somewhere to return to. And as sappy as it sounds, I want a love.

My life was ruined when the Green Dragon closed

It was about 8am today when my phone rang. It was late enough in the day not to be an "Oh God, what's wrong?" sort of feeling when it rang -- but just the same, I didn't know why anyone would be calling.

I answered to San in fits of tears, telling me it hurt to pee and asking me to take her to the hospital. Of course, I paused only to dress and headed over to her flat -- where I expected I would wake the whole place up.

I'd forgotten that today San and various flatmates were meant to be going on a road trip to Blackpool, and kind of final group bonding outing for the girls. So they were all already awake, and reassuring San while she looked up things like "cystitis" and "urinary tract infections". With San suitably convinced that she wasn't dying of anything, and that I hadn't passed on anything I might have caught off any random slutty (and entirely fictitious) girl, she dressed and a plan was made.

We would take San to the chemist we knew was open, she'd tell them what was up and most likely they'd say to see a doctor when the surgeries reopen and to drink lots of water. And then with a free space in the car, I'd accompany the hotties -- sorry, flatmates -- on their roadtrip to the coast.

These things never really go to plan. The chemist couldn't help, because they weren't sure if San had cystitis or a urinary tract infection, and so San insisted on going to the hospital while the others went to Blackpool, without us. They practically begged San to go with them, and San even said I could go. But, really -- if San wouldn't, then I couldn't leave her.

The hospital.......
...................gave San a prescription, and said to see her doctor. They could have done that tomorrow, and we could have gone to t'pool. But never mind. San took me to the hospital when I needed her to, twice, and instead we just had a low-key day together and I cooked a roast dinner tonight.

San leaves Leicester tomorrow, I've got about a month left. She said she turned down a place at Derby university originally because she felt it would be weird seeing all the places we'd gone to when she was visiting me there. But now she feels that way about it here, I won't be here next year -- but first I've got a month without her here. The weekends without her seem quiet enough.

All day staring at the ceiling

It's Sunday, and San has only just started talking to me again.

We didn't even really have a row. She and I don't really argue, she has said before that she thought we should argue more -- though I can't remember exactly why, maybe it was for the making up afterwards? I can't say.

Anyway, on Friday it was much like this. I went over to San's, she was tired from the night before and so she slept while I used her laptop -- mostly trying to sort out a mess on ebay that we got ourselves into. But that's a long story in itself, and generally requires a passing familiarity with different models of Nokia mobile phones.

So San slept for an hour or so, until a friend of hers stopped by to pick up some clothes she had left behind the night before. San was in a bad mood with me when she woke up -- because she had a dream that I was ignoring her, and when she woke up it seemed to be real. I think that's where it started -- San can take hours to calm down once she's got mad, even if she forgives you.

After her friend left I think I mostly finished what I was doing online and San got out of bed to use her computer herself. Once she was using it, however, she was behaving exactly how she described I was behaving in her dream -- that is, more or less ignoring me. Eventually I got fed up with it, and with nothing better to do decided to go home. San showed so little interest that it annoyed me further, though I didn't show it.

San got the hump that I was leaving, and wouldn't so much as hug me goodbye. The argument for the rest of the day was, from her side, that because she was a little grouchy I got in a mood and just walked out.

The way I tell it is like this. When it's not sunny, San will be in a bad mood. When San has a cold she claims -- literally -- that she is dying. She will insist over and over that she feels like she is dying. So she was in a bad mood, and when I felt ignored I did decided to leave and when she made no indication of wanting me to stay, or noticing I was there, I was less inclined to stay. I did not just walk out, I even asked San for a hug before I left and she refused me.

By the time I got home I wasn't really that annoyed any more. I find it hard to hold a grudge for long, and I was more bothered about trying to get it sorted out. I called San and we tried to talk about it, but she was mad at me and didn't want to talk to me, and even when I explained to her how I felt and apologised there was no apology forthcoming from her.

Like I say, that was Friday and only now is she talking to me again properly. She confirmed yesterday when I spoke to her she was still mad at me, and expected to be for the rest of the weekend. All because I apparently walked out, when she knows full well that I didn't even.

Next weekend San moves out of halls here in Leicester for the summer, and it will be at least a month before I leave here. What happens between us after that -- after being used to seeing each other whenever, to not even knowing where I will be in a few months time, not to mention San most likely going to college in Maryland from January. It feels very familiar and I wonder if San isn't pushing me away to make anything that comes next easier.

Saturday night

I wasn't planning to update quite yet, but since barely anyone actually still reads this I might as well -- especially since I found my notebook in my bag. So this will be part three of my writings from Ireland.
-----

Saturday night, 8.30pm

I almost feel as if I am at home here. I'm pleased to see Juan-Manuel (one of [Dave]'s flatmates) come home, even if our conversations are limited and in broken English. I just like him, he seems like a genuine, and honestly friendly person. I love to listen to him talk, imparting his 30-odd years of life lessons in his clumsy and stilted English.

And there's Julie, too. I have no romantic or sexual designs on her -- which is unusual, I just like her, and am happy to just be around her, causually.

I feel, in some way, as if I belong here, or at the very least that I am welcome here, with these people.

Not to leave out Dave, my very generous -- and modest -- host.

I spend the days mostly on my own at the moment, or I go to the pub, and I can almost forget how so very cool, and -- yes -- welcoming he is. I didn't realise that he was a shy person, and often he can't be convinced to discuss what is on his mind. Even though he knows that I know, or I at least have an idea, of the basics -- but just the same he can't be drawn on it.
----

The second entry ends there, almost abruptly. I can't remember now if I was writing that before we were going out, but it seems to but off suddenly -- as if I had to stop writing in the middle of a train of thought. But I like it like that.

She's gone

So, Rie has gone.

Friday night San and I got a train to Derby to see Rie one last time, at least for the forseeable future. It was a typically-Rie evening. I called her from the station after we had been waiting for a while, and it turned out she wasn't in Derby herself but had been visiting friends somewhere else. So I had to call her friends Anouska and Ben, who I vaguely knew from Derby -- mostly Ben -- to get them to pick us up. It could have been very awkward, but Anouska is an outgoing person who likes nothing better, it seems, than to make a fuss of people. We talked plans for the night and after Rie arrived we headed out into the night.

Like I say, it was a night typical of Rie -- I barely saw her all night, she spent the night flitting between where we were sat and talking to the DJ she had a crush on, and god knows where else. Photos were taken and stories were told. And Rie lost the keys to the flat where she had recently been staying and where me and San were supposed to stay the night. So instead, Anouska gave us sleeping bags and pillows and a duvet and we slept on her living room floor.

It was sad to say goodbye to Rie. To hug her and call her a butt-monkey and know I might never see her again. I don't know how Matt took the news that his recently-ex wife was leaving, or how he reacted when he said goodbye to her the day before.

I know she will be fine, she's a survivor -- in comparison to some of the other things she has been through in her life, this is nothing. She will see her family and some of her oldest friends again, and I expect for her life will more or less pick up where she left it, before she met Matt and everything changed.

A dirty news bomb irradiating the reader with facts

I don't have my paper journal here with me today, so there will unfortunately be nothing from Ireland today. I'm not sure what more I have in there that's worth reading anyway, but the other entries will follow with some kind of more prosaic ramblings like before.

Instead today I just feel like writing about what's on my mind. I don't want to talk about "the beheading", I said my piece in the forums and I find it upsetting. Nuff said.

I've been working the past two nights in a Royal Mail sorting office, sorting parcels -- or "packets" as they are called. It's not very interesting, but talking to the guy next to me is entertaining enough. I start work at 9.30 and finish at 6am. Like today, I go home, go to bed, and get up around midday. Then I am spending the day being a journo and trying to find news, interview people from the fostering and adoption agency or whatever and try not to think "I'm tired".

Next week I resit my first law exam. A lot of fun there.

[Rie] emailed me today to say that on Saturday she is going back to America, never to return. Just the other week she was talking about moving to London, and inviting me to come and stay with her in Derby. Now she has broken up with her boyfriend and is leaving, and I might never see her again.

I used to be in love with Rie. Or maybe not. But there was a time, when I was first leaving in Salt Lake and missing Fiona, that I would see Rie every weekend and we would just hang out and wrestle or do fun stuff. And I had a crush on her, She didn't mention it at the time, but she liked me too. But she was married to Matt, and it was Fi that I really wanted and nothing ever happened about it. In Derby when we lived together and she broke up with Matt we talked about a marriage of convenience, where we would get the appropriate visas for each other's home countries, But it was more of a joke than a real idea.

The adoption agency aren't calling me back. I might save the copy to disk and work on it from there. I also have a whole stack of letters to send to newspapers. Aren't I just a dirty bomb of interesting info today?

The much-delayed

I know it's been forever since I last updated, and for that I am sorry. Life has been getting in the way just lately, with nights spent at San's when I locked myself out (yes, again) or weekends spent in Hull with Tom. I did actually write an entry about the Wednesday night in Ireland, but I accidentally navigated off the page and lost it all. I know it was weeks ago now, but I figure if anyone is reading at all then you won't mind what I write.
---

Wednesday (the first) night.

The flight to Cork itself was short and unremarkable. I stared intently out of the window on the descent into Ireland, trying desperately to see if I could spot the Spire that I had read about. [Dave] found this very amusing when I told him later I hadn't seen it, since the Spire is in Dublin and not Cork so he would have been very surprised if I had seen it.

Dave met me at the airport without a hitch. Among the crowd of friends and relatives looking for their own individual passengers I saw him, waiting for me. It makes a real difference to arrive somewhere to see someone waiting for you. We stepped out of the airport into the night and pouring rain and waited for the bus into the city. Dave said he felt bad that my first impression of Ireland was to be waiting for a bus in the rain. But the truth was, my head was reeling and buzzing. Ahead of me was a week, if not of adventure then certainly of good times and new experiences in an unexplored city. The truth is, I hardly noticed the rain.

On the walk from the bus station to Dave's house we stopped at a bar for a drink -- a recurring theme of the week is stopping at bars, although the last night I think was a record. We sat at the bar and talked and I had a feeling not so much of being somewhere new, but of somewhere known to me, but forgotten. It felt like I'd been there before, in some half-remembered way. It's difficult to explain. The feeling wasn't of deja-vu, an odd disquiet when something echoes a dream, but rather more was just familiar. Perhaps it's that sometimes one bar is often much like the next, whether it is in England or Ireland or North America. Maybe it was that Dave and I already knew each other, have known each other for several years, but have only spoken on the phone twice and never met before.

All the same, the bar was what you'd expect on a dark and wet night in the middle of the week. A few friends were sat in a corner talking and drinking, the bar tender was polishing glasses or reading the newspaper, when he was around at all.

I don't much remember now what we talked about. It wasn't anything life changing, and if it was important or personal I didn't feel the need to record it in my notebook. Maybe we discussed past relationships, current friendships, the state and direction of our respective lives. Maybe we talked about films or tv, I couldn't tell you.

After one drink we continued our short walk back to Dave's house. I don't remember it as a short walk. I remember the dark and the rain, and constantly looking around me at all of the streets and houses. So in my memory the walk was both short, because it was almost no distance at all -- even when you don't know where you are or where you are going -- but at the same time it seems much longer, since I was seeing everything for the first time.

We got to the bar where we had arranged to meet friends -- other diary friends, namely [Cat], Dan, [Joe], Naomi and [Tara], along with Cat's friend Anne, who doesn't have a diary and most likely won't be mentioned again. Probably ever.

The bar was the Bodgea, described in my very-short Cork guidebook as Dublin chic comes to Cork. Since I have no idea what Dublin is like I don't know what that means, but the bar was very impressive. A huge place, with impossibly high ceilings and a sweeping expanse of floorspace, and huge lampshades hanging from the lights. A bar like that you might find in London, but there would no doubt be a door charge and a dress code and you'd need proof of earnings before being served. In Cork it was none of those things, just a very cool bar with people enjoying their night.

Dave and I walked in, and I was immediately struck by the size and scale of the place, along with feeling intensely nervous about all the people I was about to meet -- people whose diaries I have read and have emailed and chatted to, but never actually spoken to any of them. We looked around but couldn't see our friends, so we decided the best course of action would be to head to the bar, get some drinks, and then armed with a couple of pints try to find them. I think I just wanted a drink.

In what may be a recurring of my stay, Dave ran into some other friends of his on the way to the bar (he had already known the other customers in the earlier bar), and while he stood talking to them Cat spotted us, and came over. We hugged briefly, then I told Dave I was going to the bar to get our drinks and where we would be. And that's exactly what I did. I was introduced to everyone at the table, who were far less scary than I had expected. Since there are my Thursday-morning thoughts and deconstructions of various people I won't go into any real detail about them -- also because any commenting here might reveal their individual identities in the Thursday morning entry. It's enough to say that everyone was very welcoming, considering that I was practically a stranger to them I was pleased to find that I was firmly treated as a friend.

I commented to a couple of people in the course of the night that I felt I had the attention span of a cat. I was constantly looking about me, there was different conversations going on around the table -- that each required my full attention if I was to decipher what was being said through the accents and the general noise of the bar, there was different things to be seen, and naturally different people I wanted to talk at great length to about everything in the world. This is starting to sound like I had drunk too much, if you imagine it as a blur of colours and noises and accents and conversations and music and body language I would study when I couldn't hear what was being said. I was drinking probably too much too fast, but I was nervous as hell and trying to project myself as someone interesting and at least a little outgoing or confident, rather than the moody and pensive individual most people know me as. Not that how I was projecting myself wasn't real, but more a side to me that has to be consciously projected sometimes rather than being allowed to show through naturally. In the circumstances, it made sense.

All too quickly the bar was closing and we were going to an alternative club -- by all accounts the definitive alternative club of the city. Dave had to go home because he'd been up early that morning, but left me in the capable charge of the others -- once armed with the knowledge of his address, if not exactly how to get there. "It's near a bridge" I said, and everyone laughed. Cork is full of bridges. I may as well have said he lived on a hill, and now I think of it, I probably did.

The club was good -- although not as good as it used to be in its previous incarnations at different venues, as many people told me. I couldn't get the girl behind the bar to understand my accent above the music and resorted to trying to point at what I wanted from the fridge. Instead of a bottle of beer I got some white wine cooler thing. Luckily for me, Cat took pity on me when I moaned to her about it and took it off my hands and bought me a beer in exchange.

As with many nights, the later parts become less clear. I remember Tara good-naturedly dragging me back onto the dance floor whenever I wandered off, and at the end of the night Tara and Dan took me to a kebab fast-food place -- it seemed strange, because although kebabs are almost compulsory in England after a night out we don't have -- to my knowledge -- any big places dedicated to kebabs like Abrakebabra was. Sometimes I really feel almost like a stray animal, like when Kyle took me in when I was down and out in Salt Lake City, or this night when I was in new country with no idea how to get home on my own and no money left. Tara and Dan looked after me, got me food and let me share their cab ride home.

I only regret I didn't get the chance to see either of them again after that first night, but I hope there will be other opportunities.

Thursday morning

My apologies for making people wait for me to get my ass in gear and start copying up entries from my paper journal -- I hope I haven't built it up too much, because it's really not that detailed or interesting. It's also edited in places.

----
Thursday morning, 11 am

I'm sat in a strange girl's bed, in Ireland. I'm hungover, tired and eager to see what is out there. I've tried climbing on the bed to look out the skylight at the city, but I think I might fall off.

The worry that whoever this girl is whose bed I slept in might come back and find me here has mostly dissipated now I'm dressed. I guess that she has probably gone home for Easter, wherever it might be for her. (note -- I did not sleep with her, just slept in her bed. Have not so much as met her at this point)

Everyone seems nice. I hadn't known what to expect, but it's good -- they are all good people. I'm a little concerned that [blank] doesn't like me, however. But as San would no doubt tell me, 'they' don't know me yet.

[blank] is a hottie, and I had no idea. I know, it sounds shallow, but it's true. Am I surprised? I don't know, I didn't know what to be expecting. But 'they' are an incredibly nice person, too. What's weird is how platonic I feel. I like that way though.

[blank] seems oddly familiar. Quiet, easy-going, and laid back -- perhaps to a fault. But I could be basing that more on [blank]'s rants than on anything else. 'They' seem kind, loving and generous -- although perhaps without any great convictions.
----

That is where the first day's scribblings end. I've removed individuals names and am going to refrain from any retrospective analysis of personalities, mainly because that's better left to my private thoughts. I don't want to have to choose my words carefully for potential readers, either, although I wouldn't ever have anything bad to say about the people I met. Just the same, I've tried to disguise the identities of people mentioned here.

Since this was so short, I might later on write some blog-style ramblings about the first night itself -- much like my entry about the Wednesday. We shall see. Maybe I could host a poll about it?

Start at the end

Despite that there isn't a time difference between England and Ireland, and with it no jet lag, I'm still a little out of it today. I might as well start at the end, and then write up the bits and pieces from my paper journal over the next few days.

My flight was at 9.20pm, which meant that the airline had 'recommended' I check in two hours before, which seemed unnecessary for a flight that was just under an hour long. Dave and I got to the airport around 8. We'd left the house in plenty of time, stopped at a bar for a drink, continued to the bus station, checked what time the airport bus was, went to another bar for another drink, and got to the airport for 8. I checked in and no problem so far. We got something to eat, and -- yes -- went to the airport bar for more drinks. I wanted to squeeze out the last of the time I had left with Dave.

I remember at some point over drinks telling Dave that out of principle I had decided that I wouldn't board the plane until they were prepared to ask for me by name. I was joking, of course, but even though there was one announcement which prompted Dave to ask me if it was for my flight, I ignored it. I told him we had plenty of time yet. I guess he must have heard where it was going. Only when we were finishing our drinks and thinking it was about time I got over to the departures did I hear them call me by name. It makes you feel kind of special.

Security seemed in too much of a hurry to get me through to bother checking me too thoroughly -- I set off the metal detector as always, but that could have been the coins in my pocket, my belt buckle or my steel toe capped boots. On my journey out at the airport I had been made to remove my boots and x-ray them, because security said they were large enough to conceal something in. In Cork, they just patted me down and made me empty my pockets.

I was personally escorted across the runway to the plane, whereupon in the driving rain the zip on my rucksack broke open, spilling cds and odd socks and spare t-shirts across the floor. But I managed to stuff it all back in, get the bag shut and get onto the plane -- where I shrugged my shoulders and grinned sheepishly at the other passengers. I don't think they were aware that it was my fault they were still sitting there and not in the air -- but dammit, it wasn't even time yet.

In some karmic law-of-the-universe way, I waited an hour at the airport in England for my taxi to turn up. My plane was due to arrive at 10.20pm, and I'd told the taxi to pick me up at about 11 -- since I figured planes never take off on time, and there would probably be delays and I'd have to wait forever for my luggage, and all the rest. The plane was early, my bag came out almost right away, and when the taxi driver arrived at 11 he couldn't see my flight number on the tv screens because by that time it had been and gone. So it was closer to 12 by the time he found me, I'd been wandering about with my bags on a luggage trolley trying to look as best as I could like someone waiting to be picked up.

I got home, called San because I had missed her all week, and went to sleep. My brother woke me up with a text message at 8 am, asking me to call him. I went back to sleep after talking to him, only to be woken up again an hour later with a phone call about a shirt I'd bought from a catalogue but returned because its colours didn't match the pictures and I didn't like it. I was groggy, but I think what they told me was my shirt wasn't defective but, yes, it doesn't match the picture and they'd give me a refund. I don't remember why they said it wasn't the same, but I'd rather the cash.

And so here I am. I've found that I missed the deadline for submitting my music reviews to the student paper, and I've got shedloads of work to do if I am to stand a chance at passing this damn course.

Saw things so much clearer

I really should award stickers for one thing or another every entry -- whether it be for being able to correctly identify where the entry's title comes from, or just some obscure reference in the entry itself. Last entry's sticker was won in record time, so I'm interested to see who will win this one.

There's not a whole lot to say today. After all my sulking, I'm actually sorta glad to be back in Leicester. I like having the space to myself, I like cooking for myself when I feel like it, and I like just lying around on my bed listening to music or reading. I found I could plug my computer's speakers and sub-wooofer into my cd-mp3 player, so with my newly burnt cd of epic length I am just enjoying doing nothing.

After I got out the pool yesterday and dried off I found a worrying red rash over one arm. I got chills as I examined it and remembered photographs of the rash that comes with meningitis. But I lacked all other symptoms, so I just got dressed and ignored it. Since I am not dead today, and the rash has gone away, it was probably a reaction to the washing powder or something. The strange thing about me is that I have a kind of death wish. If in the shower I come across what can only be described as a lump in a place guys dread, what do I do about it? Nothing. If I come out in a rash which could mean that I have developed meningitis and without medical attention could be dead in days, what do I about it? Ignore it. But it's a nice day out, so let's not dwell on that.

The sun is shining and it's warm out, and for what I have of the day I'm trying to get a few jobs done before the taxi picks me up for the airport, and my trip to Cork. All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go (and no, you don't get a sticker for that reference), and I guess this is my way of saying that if you don't hear anything from me for the next week, that's why.

The last day

Once again, it's my last day 'back home' before I return to Leicester. I can't say I desperately want to stay here, for a small town this place has more than a fair share of trouble and violence. But I miss my friends, and I miss the cat, and I miss not living alone. Just the same, you face forward, or you face the possibility of shock and damage (in the words of Emma, whoever knows what that's from gets a sticker).

This afternoon, after perhaps too much wine at lunch, I took a nap on my bed with the cat. Actually, the cat was already asleep on the bed -- but he was willing to share with me, if I didn't take up too much space. Which was good for him.

So it's back to Leicester I go, for all of about a day and a half, before I fly off to Ireland for a week. It's about time that I went somewhere new, digged stuff, had an adventure. Dave is letting me sleep on his couch, for which I am eternally grateful, and armed with a camera and a notebook I shall see the sights and... well, dig stuff. I'd take my battered copy of On The Road or The Dharma Bums, but perhaps the books I read when I travelled across the USA don't have the same relevance in Cork.

Outside it's a bright spring day. The sun is shining, but the air is still cold -- and I'm grateful that I didn't have to work today.

-- and as a post-script to this entry, I'd like to point out that my diary-x email is now rejecting all mail, because someone out there is using it as their return address for all kinds of shit. So for now, you have to use the comments box if you don't know how to reach me any other way...

Must see

As you might have noticed, this new layout didn't really give me the opportunity to list my favourites -- or 'required reading'. This is a shame, because unless I make a point of saying "Hey, go look at the links!" I don't think anyone does, and these truly great people go unread. I might make a separate special entry of good reading.

This is on my mind, because I want people to go read Kara's blournal. I'm not actually sure how she would like to be known, so don't be surprised if that link's name changes.

Having left d-x in favour of writing on her own domain, Kara is now writing sans inhibitions once more in a new setting, and I wanted to take this opportunity to refer you kids to it. Because she's damn good, and a cool person to boot, and should not go unread. ever.

Also, she is currently taking suggestions for aquatic pets if anyone has any ideas. These pets must like playgrounds, and slides if possible. And be well-tempered.

Getting along all right

Once again I spent a week working for a newspaper without pay.

You know what, though? It wasn't so bad. I hate the first day, but it was the morning that sucked really but it put me in a mood until about Wednesday. I'm like that.

Once you -- or, I, in this case -- get used to getting up in the mornings and wearing a suit and stuff you come to appreciate that the job isn't all that bad. It's not the best job in the world, and for the most part, yeah, it does feel like work. But like my profile says -- for now, this is who I am and this is what I do.

Working for a daily paper is a little more fast paced than a weekly, but not massively so -- you just tend to finish things by the end of the day. I didn't think I'd ever say it, but I miss going out on my district and finding news -- it isn't the same working with a desk, a phone and a computer. Not that I ever found much good in my district, but that isn't the point.

I know I can do this. Once or twice I was told by staff that my writing was good, and nothing was ever given back to me with instructions to change it completely -- like it was last summer. I may not get the best grades, I might not be sure I can pass the course, but I can do the job. And it looks like with a little bit of luck I probably will do the job.

There's little else to say. I've not seen San in a week, since I've been here and she's been in Leicester, but I'll see her tomorrow in London like old times.

Other than that, I'm tired and I'm moody -- which I've got to snap out of soon -- but I'm getting along alright.

Nothing

Let go. Let everything slide, dissolve into dust. Less than dust. True nothing. And within nothing exists, not everything, but nothing. Within nothing exists the world. As you sit in the evening sun. In the warm wind that blows across you and over you and through you exists nothing and just as the wind is nothing you, too, are nothing. True knowledge exists not in "knowing that you know nothing" but in knowing nothing. True knowledge is in being nothing. Just as the bird "scuffling in the bushes" thinks nothing, so too must we become one with nothing. For nothing is more than just merely an absence of matter, nothing is more than an opposite to matter, nothing exists outside of matter. Nothing comes where thought ends. Nothing is where the universe ends and before it began. Nothing exists before birth and after nothing exists after death. At least it should. We fill our lives with distractions in an attempt to run from the nothing we feel inside, but the soul is nothing. We must exist as nothing if we are to exist at all. The nothing we feel inside can not be filled for this nothing is the universe. This nothing is the non-thoughts of the trees. This nothing is the non-thoughts of the beasts. Within this nothing exists, not everything, but nothing. Everything is mankind. The cars. The cities. The settees. The cluttered, constant monologue of mankind is mankind. In running from savagery we turn our backs on nothing, yet it is nothing that is in the essence of us all. Nothing is beautiful. Nothing is complete. Because nothing is beautiful, and because mankind is forever searching to fill its inner nothing, mankind is essentially self-mutilating. Mankind seeks to dominate the wilderness and map the universe in order to deny its inner nothing. But it is through the wilderness and the emptiness of the universe that nothing can truly be known. Nothing can be known because it can be felt, but nothing is not something that can be understood. Nothing is not logic or mathematics, nothing is the essence of art. But art is not nothing. Art can be an expression of nothing. Art is an echo of feeling a sense of nothing. But only a sense of nothing. Nothing can only be expressed as a sense, a silhouette, because nothing is lost within civilisation. Nothing, perhaps, can not be regained within civilisation because civilisation is about the denial of nothing. Civilisation, almost by definition, is about filling nothing. Nothing has become linked to laziness -- doing nothing is a sin. But nothing is not apathy, nor is it laziness. Apathy is linked to motivation, to feelings of 'should'. Nothing is not reached through apathy, for while the consciousness is cluttered -- and it is rarely as cluttered as when in a state of apathy -- nothing can not be considered. Nothing, and thinking about nothing, requires stillness, but an inner stillness. Nothing can be found in a crowd as easily as it can be in solitude, providing you are still inside. To think nothing and to do nothing requires more than to cease doing, it requires one to totally stop thinking. To actively stop thinking one must know what nothing feels like. To think nothing one must recognise nothing within themselves, and learn how closely linked to nothing they are. And know that nothing is not bad. Nothing can not be 'bad' just as the universe can not be bad. Nothing does not operate nor exist within senses or thought and can not be categorised as such.

Note to self: get a spare set of keys

Helpfully I have managed to lock myself out of my flat.

I realised yesterday evening I didn't have my keys, but since I was staying the night at San's anyway I didn't figure it would be much of a problem. Instead, I said I'd call my landlord today if I didn't find them in university. So this evening I call my landlord, only to find I can't get through, instead I get a message telling me it has not been possible to connect my call and to try again later.

I have tried again later. And later still. I have called my parents to find out his home address from their copy of my tenancy agreement, and called directory enquries. But that number is ex-directory. Fecking useless bastard.

It looks like my only course of action will be to try and find where he lives and hope that he -- or someone who can help me -- is at home. I'm lucky I know San, otherwise I would have nowhere to go at all -- as it is, I have only the clothes I'm wearing and my law revision.

I should be revising for tomorrow's exam, instead I'm stressing out because I can't get into my flat. And trying not to stress out by playing a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy text game, and not doing very well at it.

I should leave now and try and find his house, rather than wait for San to come back from her dance class in an hour's time.

Update:
Right before I was going to leave I got through on the phone, and found my landlord had gone out. Long story short, I got in the next day. No harm done. Going home for Easter now so it might be a day or two before I get online again, kids.

Bringing back my star

I was trying to hold out on renewing my d-x plus subscription, not because I didn't want to renew but because I wanted to see what the new features would be. But the new features aren't yet here, and I had been reduced to a normal user again. I was more worried about losing the pics I had saved here than anything else, but the pics are all still there and my gold star will be returned.

Things here are much the same as ever. That is, I'm confused.

I have edited this entry to cut out what was a bit of a ramble about some issues of a more personal nature, so if you read it and have come back to find it gone -- that's why, you're not crazy. I have deleted that stuff because I have since found some medical information that has put my mind at ease a little, and where San was being cold and/or moody this morning she has since found that her essay that she thought was due in tomorrow isn't due in until next week, and has told me she isn't in such a foul mood any more. Just the same I've declined her invitation to stay the night since I need to go home for drugs.

As for me, yeah, I'm currently feeling a little adrift. I need to get out to the swimming pool and exert myself a little -- swimming, rock climbing, I exert myself and I'm not troubled with thoughts of I'm not good enough, or I need to do this right. Maybe I just forgot to take my medication yesterday, or maybe I just need some time alone.

And look at the new template I have wasted about five hours fiddling with, rather than learning about copyright, defamation and the 1981 contempt of court act. Or going swimming. But I shall put right the latter now...

Weighing up the options

I wrote a short entry perhaps last week, or earlier, about things with San which promptly got deleted after we slept on things and talked it over. But one thing that sticks with me now is that I mentioned how with our track record together we were about time for another break up. I have a feeling things might yet go that way.

I don't want to say it is a major factor, but last week San went to bed with another guy. She insists that she didn't do anything, that she only went to his house (she had met him something like the day before, which I've pointed out is not so smart) but it got late and she fell asleep. Or something. I've asked her very specifically to tell me if anything happened, but she's sticking with nothing did.

The reaction I've got from most people so far is "Doesn't this bother you?". Apparently her friends don't think it was on, and expect me to be mad. Mine are more bemused than anything as to why I'm not mad.

I've told San in no uncertain terms I'm far from happy about it, but I don't plan to make it into a big deal. If she behaved herself then that's fine, but I don't want it happening again. And it's not safe to be going to guys houses alone when you barely know them.

In conversations over the past day or two, San has seemed interested in the idea of seeing other people. She said the other day that of course she would like to be sleeping with other guys, but wouldn't want me to be seeing other people and realises that it just wouldn't work.

All the same, some of the old ideas are reemerging -- that we're still young, should be out having fun, and have the rest of our lives ahead of us to be settled down in serious relationships. She asked me to marry her once, incidentally. I didn't think she was serious, and later explained to her it couldn't work out here and now. I'm right, too. San is interested to know what else is out there, what being with other people is like, what she is like with other people. But she realises we couldn't go on seeing each other in such a context, and has said she wants to "shelve" the idea. That is, ignore it and hope it goes away.

She says to me "You want me to tell you I don't want that, don't you?". I tell her honestly, I don't want to break up -- but I do want her to be happy.

I know I love the girl, don't get me wrong, and she does love me -- but unless love is a different animal to different people, I'm not sure we would be having discussions like this. And we all know I'm not entirely without blame. I think about other girls, what it might be like to be with them. But ultimately I weigh up which I want more -- the lady and the tiger, or what is behind the door. And I choose what I have.

I expect this will all pass over in a day or week or so, just like it usually does.

Update--
San seems to have quite a different perception on our earlier discussions, almost to the point of denying what she said. But then again, she has been in and out of sleep mostly all day -- though I'm not sure why she's so tired -- and now and again starts having an entirely different conversation on her own. She just woke up, told me my hair was nice, and went back to sleep again. But I'm straying off the point -- which is I don't expect anything much, if anything at all, to change between us. For better or worse.

News and apologies

I feel kind of bad about my last entry.

While I was sat here whining about people throwing water-bombs at me in the street in the background News 24 was playing. I just didn't stop to think that hundreds of people are dead in Madrid and I was being a complete ass to complain about some water balloons. I'm sure there's plenty that would gladly trade places with me, I just wasn't thinking.

But moving swiftly on-- I got to climbing, and it rocks (no pun intended). It might not have the "rush" of snowboarding, or the more relaxing feel of swimming, but it is damn cool and something I am going to pursue further. Unfortunately I probably won't join the group who arranged the introductory day yesterday, since they don't meet in the city itself and I can't drive. I know there is at least one group who do meet in the city and go climbing on a weekly basis so I will chase up them. My arms hurt today, but it's a good hurt. Not like when my neck hurts because I've been sat in front of a computer all day.

In other news, everyone go and express their eternal love and devotion to Emma for her help in making my bravenet comments form a reality. Until I manage to get the form to have required fields, can everyone please at least include their name and email? I've got a comment sitting in my inbox that says "Cool, new comments system! Nice choice." but I have no idea who it is from, and IP lookups aren't being any help.

And that's about it for now. I need to stare at this story for tomorrow's paper some more -- it's written, but I'm not happy with it yet.

One year ago today

Guess what?

Entirely by chance, I have found that this diary is precisely one year old today. You can find my first entry all the way back on March 12, 2003. There's some interesting reading in the archives, if you have the patience -- but please be tolderant of the template changes, some of the very oldest entries had a template that has since been deleted.

But yes, there's not much to say other than that really. San's busy working for an essay due in on Monday, and however much I want to see her I know there's little point. She has no tv, and even if she did it would be distracting for her to have it on. She will be using her laptop to work on, and music would be as distracting as a tv. Also, I wouldn't be able to bug her for attention because she has to get this work done, and no ammount of chastising her for not starting it earlier will change that.

However, I am going climbing tomorrow -- finally, and again something that wasn't planned. Because I was flicking through one of my shorthand notebooks looking for someone to chase up for news today, since the stories I had wanted to cover have falled through until at least Monday which is going to be deadline day next week -- a day earlier that normal, and a complete pain in the arse.

As I was looking I found some stuff about climbing that I had drawn a bracket around to tell me it wasn't about work, but stuff I should follow up for myself. I called the first number about an event happening tomorrow, and found that not only was I planning to go but if I brought along my camera and notebook I could make it into a story, too. Which isn't bad. I may not have the build for a climber -- as people have pointed out to me, albeit in a very indirect way -- but I'm looking to get into it just the same. And tomorrow it starts.

And in other news, it bugs me that I am still jumpy about going out since my attack. Twice since the attack, I have been walking past the pub where it happened and have had water balloons thrown at me. I think it happened once before the attack, too, but back then I just found it annoying. Last time it happened I actually called the police to report it when I got in. I only called the local number, rather than dialling for emergency help, but I reported it because it really shook me up and I hadn't known what it was they were throwing. For all I knew, it could have been rocks.

Last night I was walking up the road, and noticed people further up the road, by the pub. I don't know what I saw, or how I could tell, but I got the feeling it wasn't 'normal' behaviour of people walking one place or another, probably because I could see one or more people running into the road. So I just took the early opportunity to cross onto the other side of the street, away from the pub. As I walked past I could see people on the other side of the wall behind the pub -- the same place they had been before. I think they were checking me out, and trying to remain hidden. I laughed to myself as I walked on, saying to myself that I had out-smarted them by spotting them early and there was no way they could reach me from their hiding place.

I quickly found they weren't going to try to, instead they ran into the street to try and hit me with the balloons as I was getting away. Obviously they didn't have the courage to get close to me, which is why they normally hide behind a wall, and even though they ran into the street they didn't get close enough for a good shot. They all missed, and ran away again.

I didn't call the police this time, because I knew it was only balloons and unlike last time didn't think it was a personal attack on me, or that I was going to be followed up the road and assaulted. Just the same, it annoys me that I should have to put up with this -- that I should have to walk a different way home to avoid trouble down my own road. But I expect I will be out of here by the end of the summer.

A girl named Bob

It was a little after 10 last night when I left San's flat. Rather than just go straight home and read for a while I figured that instead I would come here, to the library, and check my email. Not for any real reason, I just like to check it when I can -- since I can't back at my own flat, and hadn't been able to at San's since one of her flatmates was using San's laptop to make her CV.

It's important to the story that I was planning on coming here, because if I was going home I would have walked in a completely different direction -- that is, I would not have been walking past this one particular bar just as a very drunk girl in big black boots and a very short skirt stumbled out, and almost fell down the steps. I hesitated for a minute, when I thought she was going to fall down the steps, but she regained her balance just as her equally-drunk friend came out behind them.

I think they might have seen me hesitate for a minute, because as I started to walk away from them towards the library they started calling out to me. So I stopped walking and let them catch up. Like I say, they were very drunk but they weren't obnoxious so I was happy enough to walk with them a little way and humour them. They asked me my name, and introduced themselves. They were Vicky, and Bob. A girl named Bob. I didn't really believe that was Bob's real name, but it was nothing to me what she claimed her name was so I let it lie.

They asked me where I was going, and not having a good explanation ready I told them the truth -- to the library, to check my email. They were far from impressed, and instead insisted I should go to the pub with them. I quickly weighed up in my head what would be more fun -- checking my email, and getting a very uncomfortable neck (much like now), or going to the pub with these two drunk, but friendly, girls.

Of course, it was no contest. So we got some cash out a little way up the road, and by this time the rest of their friends had come out of the bar and caught us up. I was introduced to the others -- albeit awkwardly, because they were too drunk to remember my name -- and we all carried on to the pub.

Bob was attractive, but in a way that is difficult to explain. I can describe her long legs, big boots and short skirt -- but it wasn't this that made her attractive. It wasn't even the oversized cardigan she was wearing, with big holes in the sleeves where she persistently stuck her hands through. In some way, I think she reminded me a little of Kath -- both crazy and a little bit quiet at the same time.

In the short time we were in pub Bob got progressively quieter and withdrawn, while her friends tried to get her to wake up or join in. Bob's quietness turned instead into tears, although she was refusing to tell anyone what was wrong. Vicky did manage to get her to talk, but only on the condition that everyone else move to a different table so as not to be able to hear what Bob was saying.

By this time, the pub was closing and before long we had been asked to leave so we waited outside for Bob and Vicky. I talked a little to one of their sober friends, who it turned out had gone to the same school as Fiona -- although I didn't ask her if she had known Fi. I just mentioned that I knew a girl that had lived in Shropshire.

Bob and Vicky took their time while we waited outside, but eventually they turned up and it was decided that -- despite Bob protesting that her feet hurt and she wanted only to go home -- that we were going clubbing. It was to be an indie club, so I was happy enough to join them. Unfortunately, the only way Vicky could get Bob to stop complaining about her feet (I personally think they should have taken her home, but it wasn't my place to get involved) was by promising her a piggy back.

From me.

So she jumped on my back, with her legs wrapped round my waist, and I carried her down the road for as long as I could. She wasn't excessively heavy, but just the same it wasn't an easy task to carry her -- but not wanting to offend her by saying I needed to put her down, I continued down the road with this drunk girl who was almost a stranger to me hanging on to my back and occasionally screaming when I pretended I was going to make her hit something. I had to amuse myself somehow. There's probably other ways to amuse yourself with a drunk girl who has her legs round your waist, but I'm not that kind of guy.

In fact, one of the only reasons I had agreed to go to the pub with Bob and Vicky was not because I fancied them -- which I didn't, they were just not my type -- but because I thought if I didn't go with them then another guy would, and someone else might have other ideas on how to treat two drunk girls. I figured it was no inconvenience to me to have some drinks with them and have a laugh, especially if it kept them out of trouble.

I did have to put Bob down before too long, although she didn't seem to take offence to it. She was too busy insisting to Vicky she wanted to go home, and Vicky insisting Bob had agreed to come to the club and have a good time (because you really can just agree to have a good time, apparently) and that she would be able to sit down when we got there. This was all fine until we got to the city centre and Bob recognised a shop which meant she wasn't far from where she lived. And more or less refused to go on.

Bob was refusing to go on, but instead insisting she wanted to go home -- and go home on her own, too. Naturally nobody was prepared to let Bob walk home on her own, and Vicky was still insisting she come to the club. Eventually it was decided that we would go on ahead to the club, and Vicky would talk to Bob and catch us up. I think it was clear that Vicky was more than likely just end up taking Bob home, however much she was protesting.

So I walked on with the less drunk and semi-sober friends, until they decided they'd go to a different club, and not the indie club. Without Bob and Vicky there was nobody to insist on my company, it was coming up to midnight and I wasn't prepared to go to a club I didn't like just for the sake of it. And I went home.

I can't tell you how it ends. I don't know if Vicky let Bob walk home on her own, or if Bob agreed to go to the club with Vicky. But most likely, I think Vicky just took Bob home.

An interesting sidenote -- at one point in the evening, someone asked what Bob's real name was. Apparently, according to Vicky, it was Charlotte -- she just doesn't like her name, and calls herself Bob instead.

For a minute there, I lost myself

As usual yesterday I went swimming. Since I have my phone on nearly 24 hours a day, sometimes it's a relief to turn it off for an hour or so while I go swimming. Maybe it's an ego thing, I can imagine people are wanting to get in touch with me. I don't know.

Anyway, the mood I was in before I went swimming had more or less lifted by the time I had got out of the pool. I turned my phone on to a message from San telling me that her friend Kris was over, along with some people called Eric and Mo, and I should come over. I then got an almost identical message from her a second time (she probably couldn't remember if she sent it the first time, since she got no reply) and when I answered her she told me again to come over.

It turned out Eric and Mo were her friend Maureen and her boyfriend Eric, who we had met briefly before one time. I remember that we had been meant to go out with them for a drink, but they opted to stay in and get stoned instead so we gave it a miss.

San was bugging me that they were hungry and wanted to go eat, and since I wasn't sure how long I would be getting back (I had to wait for a bus) I told her to go on without me and I would catch up with them later. I figured I'd just spend the evening on my own. But the bus arrived, and they waited for me, and we all headed out to a Mexican restaurant in the city center.

It must have been a good restaurant, because they had no tables. So we went to a Tapas restaurant, who told us it would be an hour and a half before we could get a table. But as we stood outside in the cold discussing what other options were open to us, the manager came out and told us if we still wanted a table one was just leaving and we could have it.

It felt like being on holiday.

The restaurant was of course dark and mostly lit by candles in wine bottles on the tables, and as we talked I imagined that the traditional Spanish music was being played by a real band and we were in a Mediterranean country. I told San how good it would be, there would be windsurfing and rock climbing and hiking and snorkelling -- even if she didn't like the sound of any of those things.

Kris, San's friend, had given us each pictures. These pictures are hard to describe, but they were roughly hashed images of messy lines and we were to write whatever we wanted from the pictures. So I wrote descriptions of what I saw -- a man fighting with a demon, a bride standing over her dead groom, a couple waltzing like in Jack Vettriano's painting "The Singing Butler", but since they had no feet they seemed insubstantial as ghosts.

Me and San would swap pictures and read each others interpretations -- what she saw as a soldier walking home along a mountain path I saw as a prostitute walking along a deserted road.

It was a night to forget yourself. To forget that tomorrow morning I am missing classes in shorthand and public affairs to meet up with a mediation service in hope of getting a story for Tuesday's news page.

It's now a cold and grey Sunday afternoon. I should perhaps go home and get a fresh towel and dry shorts to go swimming again today, maybe then I can kick these blues.

I wish I'd killed a foreign king

I swear, I have been meaning to update for days. Except when I sit down to it, I can't think of anything really worth writing about it. Things right now just seem to be carrying on as normal without any real development or drama.

I'm feeling sort of apathetic -- perhaps shades of the body-snatched feeling of a few months back. It's not that bad, but it's sort of around there. It might be the meds, blocking me off from really feeling anything. Or it might just be me. I think the latter is more likely, since this feeling isn't unknown to me.

Things with San are largely good. This isn't as good as "very good", as I was describing them last week, but they're better than just "good" or "yeah, alright". I think San is feeling insecure because I don't seem as into her recently, like she has become unattractive to me. I try to explain how I'm feeling but it doesn't much get us anywhere.

San took offence when I said that I felt she would go looking elsewhere if I couldn't start to show her more attention -- mainly in the bedroom department, perhaps, but emotionally too. All the same, I'm not entirely sure what she gets up to with other guys when she goes out -- I know she doesn't do anything that could be considered cheating, but I don't think I'd like it. She also expressed an interest in going to a speed-dating night, but I think dropped the subject when it was my turn to take offence that I'm not enough on my own. It had shades of the day we went to the zoo over the summer and she wanted to see other people.

Incidentally, she has since claimed that she was trying to make me jealous. But she has also started to try and deny that claim, since I have a tendency to not let go of things. Of course, she wouldn't have admitted at the time that was what she was doing -- and if it's what she's doing now she probably won't admit it until later. But I have faith it will all work itself out.

In other news, Fi and I are talking again. I was resentful about her almost total silence since we met in December, but gave her another chance by emailing her asking her what gives, and asking if I had done something to piss her off. It was just as I expected -- her boyfriend found out we had met behind his back, and was not happy about it. Seems the guy is threatened by me. Maybe he should date San -- she almost freaks out at the mention of Fi's name.

So you see, nothing much to say. I'm still considering the Air Force, just for a career and maybe the opportunity to fly something shiny. But journalism isn't completely repulsive to me, either, and it will be what I am trained to do by the end of the summer.

Is there anything vodka can't do?



1. To remove a bandage painlessly, saturate the bandage with vodka. The solvent dissolves the adhesive.

2. To clean the caulking around bathtubs and showers, fill a trigger-spray bottle with vodka, spray the caulking, let set five minutes and wash clean. The alcohol in the vodka kills mold and mildew.

3. To clean your eyeglasses, simply wipe the lenses with a soft, clean cloth dampened with vodka. The alcohol in the vodka cleans the glass and kills germs.

4. Prolong the life of razors by filling a cup with vodka and letting your safety razor blade soak in the alcohol after shaving. The vodka disinfects the blade and prevents rusting.

5. Spray vodka on vomit stains, scrub with a brush, then blot dry.

6. Using a cotton ball, apply vodka to your face as an astringent to cleanse the skin and tighten pores.

7. Add a jigger of vodka to a 12-ounce bottle of shampoo. The alcohol cleanses the scalp, removes toxins from hair, and stimulates the growth of healthy hair.

8. Fill a sixteen-ounce trigger-spray bottle with vodka and spray bees or wasps to kill them.

9. Pour one-half cup vodka and one-half cup water in a freezer bag, and freeze for a slushy, refreezable ice pack for aches, pain, or black eyes..

10. Fill a clean, used mayonnaise jar with freshly packed lavender flowers, fill the jar with vodka, seal the lid tightly and set in the sun for three days. Strain liquid through a coffee filter, then apply the tincture to aches and pains.

11. Make your own mouthwash by mixing nine tablespoons powered cinnamon with one cup vodka. Seal in an airtight container for two weeks. Strain through a coffee filter. Mix with warm water and rinse your mouth. Don't swallow.

12. Using a q-tip, apply vodka to a cold sore to help it dry out.

13. If a blister opens, pour vodka over the raw skin as a local anesthetic that also disinfects the exposed dermis.

14. To treat dandruff, mix one cup vodka with two teaspoons crushed rosemary, let sit for two days, strain through a coffee filter and massage into your scalp and let dry.

15. To treat an earache put a few drops of vodka in your ear. Let set for a few minutes. Then drain. The vodka will kill the bacteria that is causing pain in your ear.

16. To relieve a fever, use a washcloth to rub vodka on your chest and >back as a liniment.

17. To cure foot odour, wash your feet with vodka.

18. Vodka will disinfect and alleviate a jellyfish sting.

19. To remove cigarette smoke in your home or office mix one part vodka and three parts water and spray the clothing, then launder and let dry.

20. Pour vodka over an area affected with poison ivy to remove the urushiol oil from your skin.

21. Swish a shot of vodka over an aching tooth. Allow your

gums to absorb some of the alcohol to numb the pain.

Things need to change around here.

In my diary, I mean. I'm more or less content with the layout, and although I am still thinking of renaming the diary "Been down so long it looks like up to me", it occurs to me I will have no reason to link people to a poem by Pablo Neruda if I did that -- and I always think people need to read more poetry.

I was looking over my links page, and I was prompted to remove the link to 'Bang' magazine that I described as Britain's newest rock n' roll magazine. Since I created the link the magazine has gone belly-up, and although the website is still there it seems sort of pointless to link to it any more. There's other things I want to change, too -- like adding a link to the comic Chopping Block, and doing something about the required reading list.

Something about the list bugs me.

It's not the people that appear on it, so much as knowing how often to update it and if I should keep such a list at all. It seems a little unfair that I have this list of people I deem worthy of reading, and what of all the people I read who aren't on the list? What of the people who are on my favourite journals list one week and not the next? I know I'd be hurt to see my name left off a list, or removed from a list like this. But at the same time, I want to show off these cool people and their wonderful diaries -- and since my since the response form just emails me the responses there's no way for anyone else to know who's reading.

I'm not sure what I'll do. I don't want a list full of diaries of cool people alongside people I read for a while but stopped visiting, for whatever reason, but I don't want a small and elitist list of only the few people I deem worthy of a specific link.

Never let it be said that I concentrate on details in my life and miss the bigger picture... because it would be true.

Be a good dog

My doctor doesn't believe that I should read anything into dreaming about suicide. Nor was she particular concerned it seems that I cut myself the other day. She's renewed my prescription, saying that I seem obviously better but the effect of the medication builds up over time and I have clearly been down for some time. I bit my tongue to keep from telling her I've been down so long it looks like up to me. When I next see my counsellor I will see what he has to say about a depressed person's dreams of suicide.

This morning I was tidying my room. It has been forever since I tidied, it has become a nightmarish vision of a world where I don't pick up after myself. But my parents are due to visit this weekend, so I had to tidy up. As I was tidying I found a packet of pain killers that the hopsital gave me. I sat on the floor and just stared at the packet of tablets in my hands. I had to shake my head to get rid of the idea that I could swallow of what was remaining and that it would be preferable to sitting exams. There was only about 10 left in the packet anyway, which wouldn't have been enough -- but that wasn't the point.

I am feeling better, this I know. Unfortunately the medication has also meant that my libido seems to have disappeared entirely. So it seems that when I am very depressed I have no libido, but if I don't want to be depressed then I have to take pills which also affect that. Between us, I haven't noticed any negative effects in the actual performance in that side of things -- I just don't much feel like it these days.

Due to excessive amounts of spam I have abandoned -- or am in the process of abandoning -- my email address. I don't mean my diary-x address, instead the email address it forwards on to. Nobody should notice any real change in service, except that I am considering taking off response-o-matic. Unlike before where I was getting obsessed with constantly checking my diary for new comments and feeling inadequate if nobody left any comments, with response-o-matic I have been much better. However, there have been complaints about how it requires you to enter your name and email address -- along with your homepage now. I don't like anonymous comments, or not be able to respond to comments, and so I reallyt didn't think this was that much of a big deal. But apparently it is uber-annoying, and since I'm not really bothered about having a specific comments feature I might just get rid of it.

I need to be leaving here in a few minutes if I want to get to the pool any time soon. I also need to pick up my prescription. Both of these things are necessary today because I can feel my mood starting to fray.

It's complicated. I don't know if the medicated me is really me, or if the depressed and self destructive person is really me. I feel like the medicated side is more who I really am, and allows me to actually live and not feel angry and depressed and destructive all the time. But it's possible that I'm just running from it, or just being a good dog and taking the medication to be a kind of person society can deal with.

Maybe I should just find myself a Buddhist monastery and not come back. Conversely, I posted off the "please send me more information" forms to the Air Force today.

I can feel the flames

It occurs to me I exist as contradictions.

Somehow that first line reminds me of a Pablo Neruda poem "It happens I am tired of being a man". It's probably just me that makes such a connection. I want to start reading more poetry though, I like how it affects my thoughts and my writing. I need to read more altogether. I love the feeling of being stimulated and lying awake at night wondering about the man from Porlock and what have you. I doubt that will mean much to anyone, but this is a preamble anyway.

The point was, contradictions.

I came here originally intending to write something like maybe it's the meds I'm on, but I actually feel okay with myself and with the world and so on. Not like fully okay, but on the scale of 1 to 10 that my irritating counsellor likes to make to get me to pin down feelings and thoughts, I'd have moved up a place or two.

And the thing is, I do feel like that. I want to do stuff -- like rock climb, and swim, and chase stories and write poetry (if I had any inspiration) and even paint, if I ever get around to it. I even find myself looking at watercolour paintbrushes to buy. The morning might be a different story, but right now that's how I describe my general feeling.

Which is good, right?

It would be, but while that is true I suddenly remember that I cut myself yesterday. It's not worth going into, it was a largely trivial chain of events and miscommunication -- but I felt like cutting myself, so I did. And last night, despite things being resolved and what have you, I still dreamed of suicide.

Last night I dreamed that I tried to burn myself alive.

I have never considered this idea for suicide -- and believe me, when I'm in one of my moods although I might not intend to hurt myself the various ways that I could do are explored in my head. I haven't once ever had the idea like I saw in my dream, where I set fire to a room around me so that I would have no way of escaping. I felt the flames burn me, although I think in the dream I changed my mind and I possibly somehow put out the flames.

The images and the feelings have stayed with me all day. Not feelings of wanting to hurt myself, but the feelings I felt in the dream, and I can almost feel the sensation of the fire on my skin again.

So that's how I mean. I feel more alive and wanting to engage in society and be active. Maybe not content or happy quite yet, but definitely with a certain kind of serenity and heading that way. But at the same time, I can take a pair of scissors to my own skin -- even if with the circumstances and position and whatever I managed little more than a slightly bloody scratch, and I can have vivid dreams of voluntarily burning myself alive.

I'm going to go do something offline now, or else I will dwell on these thoughts which would be a bad thing before sleep.

A time of change

I went out with the intention of going swimming. For some reason Leicester doesn't have a pool in the city centre. My chiropractor (should that be ex-chiropractor, since I only saw him like 3 or 4 times?) told me the council knocked it down to build a car park, and never replaced it.

Anyway. On the edge of where I do my district reporting I knew there was a health and fitness club, and since I bought an all day bus ticket this morning when I was out chasing news I just headed back there this afternoon.

Of course, you can't use the pool if you aren't a member. But I didn't want to be denied my chance to go swimming, so I joined. I filled out the forms, and had a vaguely annoying but kind of cute chick show me about the place while I made non-commital comments about it all.

It's a nice place and still very new. It's more modern than any other place I've been to. The weight room was full of scary guys, but that's fine since I don't ever intend to go in there. The room with the cardiovascular equipment had about five different music channels showing on the tvs, and was less scary, so I might go in there. The pool was big enough for my liking, and had an added bonus of sauna, steam room and two hot tubs.

Okay, so all I really wanted was a decent sized pool so I could swim lengths every day for an hour or so. But the other stuff is good, too. Is it £50 a month good? I don't see why not. Was it worth the £90 I paid for joining fee, deposit, and the remainder of this month's use? It is if I damn well tell myself that it is.

This is part of my quest for emotional (or mental) stability. I take anti-depressants every day, see a counsellor every week, have cut caffeine out of my diet as an experiment, am cutting down my drinking to weekends only (though that is also an attempt to tone up) and now will be swimming daily. I'm thinking I would like to join a climbing group, I like the idea of rock climbing -- even if it would only be indoors on a wall.

I can't say I feel a whole lot better yet. Thoughts of self harm or worse are almost second nature to me, even when I am not particularly unhappy. I find myself considering how I could step out in front of a bus and nobody would suspect it was anything other than an accident. But I don't do it. And I don't harm myself. And I try to keep getting up each morning.

One of these days I will work out what I want to do with my life. I actually applied for the air force to send me an information pack. Non-violent me. Anti-war me. I haven't changed my opinions on any of that either, I just figured it could there could be some interesting career options. And there's always the option I could get to be an astronaut...

wonky(like a donkey with three legs)

It's been too long, and I apologise profusely and sincerely. It has just been...well, you know how it is.

So I spent the past week with metal brackets on my teeth and elastic bands effectively holding my mouth shut, and I got used to it very quickly. Today I went back to the hospital and they said it's not working. They said they wanted to cut my face open and put metal plates in my jaw, then wire it shut. The seemed to want me to be able to sit there and say "Oh okay then, go right ahead." or "No, I think I will give it a miss". They didn't seem impressed that i said I would need some time to think about. Suddenly when it's their time everything needs to be done right away -- when it's my jaw that they're taking their time deciding about fixing they can misplace x-rays and idle for days or weeks on end.

Anyway. I have since thought it over, and I say it's not going to happen. If I had a job and could get paid leave or something that might be a different matter. But I don't. I can't afford any time off my course (although it has been suggested to me I could defer for a year...) and if I wasn't studying I would have to be working which obviously I wouldn't be able to do. So I weigh up the other options. My jaw is, for want of a better word, wonky. My teeth don't meet and it's not aligned as it should be. The chances are though how it is now is how it's going to set, and stay. And you know what? It was wonky before all of this happened. My teeth have never met in the middle. It doesn't really my life and the only hassle right now is not being able to eat normally -- which is because of the fracture, not the alignment itself.

There is also a risk that they could damage a certain nerve leaving me with a permanently drooping lower lip.

Call me vain if you like, but no way. I have self esteem issues as it is -- I don't need something like that in my life. So I won't be seeing what's behind the door. Sure, it could be a car, or a lady with a tiger. But I will leave with my wonky jaw, thanks all the same.

Bracketed

I know it's been several days since I posted anything coherent in here. I apologise and will try to catch up.

Last weekend I was more or less eating normally again. I was avoiding anything hard or that would require too much effort to eat, but I was determined to try and regain normality in my life.

Unfortunately it seems that I over-stepped the mark with the ice cream, when I bit on what must have been a piece of still-frozen cookie dough and realized that I had done something very very wrong to my jaw. So back once again me and San went to accident and emergency, where we spent most of the night. And they eventually told me what I thought I already knew -- the fracture in my jaw that was once non-displaced was now thoroughly displaced. And at 3 am they said "come back at 9 tomorrow morning".

The next morning my jaw was still too painful to open or close, and it hurt to so much as swallow. I must have looked like a retarded person, with my mouth hanging open and a glazed look in my eyes.

The hospital had lost my x-rays from the night before (thank you, NHS) so they had to do a bunch more and again told me what I knew -- that the fracture was displaced. And that it was going to require surgery -- either the wiring shut of my jaw, or cutting my face open and putting metal plates in it. They told me to come back on Friday.

So I did, though by now it wasn't hurting any worse than it was this time last week -- my bite was just looking kind of crooked. This time they decided that maybe surgery wouldn't be necessary, and have instead put brackets onto my teeth with elastic bands effectively holding my jaw closed. As uncomfrotable as it is, this has got to beat surgery.

In other news, I told my Dad that I slipped on some ice earlier in the week and fractured my jaw. He did ask how I managed to land on my face, but seemed to buy it. I suspect however that since then he has spoken to my older brother and told him my story and my brother has said he doesn't believe it -- and given my Dad his opinion that I must have been punched in the face.

I guess that Steve has been in more than his share of fights -- and I would expect that he started more than half of them. This is ignoring his competition-level Muay Thai Kickboxing of a few years back. So he'd know how a jaw gets fractured -- just like he could tell by looking at my arms that the scars are not burns, but instead from knives. I doubt even he would suspect them to be self-inflicted, though.

Just the same, I have insisted to my Dad that I really did just slip on some ice -- and I don't regret it either, my parents are worried enough that I'm apparently this clumsy. They don't need to know the rest of it.

Note to self:

One week after you fracture your jaw is not long enough to wait before you start trying to eat normally.

Yes, kids -- I have now upgraded my fractured jaw to a displaced fracture. If I am lucky they will just wire my jaw shut. Otherwise they are going to cut me open and put metal plates in my face.

Now I just have to figure out a way to mention it to my parents. My story so far is "I slipped on some ice" and fractured my jaw, and I'm hoping they won't try and work out how that's possible.

These things happen

So it's Wednesday morning. This morning I discovered that it isn't getting up in the morning that pisses me off, it's the reason why I am getting up. My alarm goes off the same time every morning. Normally it goes off, I shout obscenities at it, and eventually get up. This morning it went off, I knew that I had to go to the hospital and not to class, and I had no problem with getting out of bed. Maybe I should do something different every day for the rest of my life...

But yeah. I had to go to the hospital so they could look at my jaw some more and compare it to my x-rays from Friday night and make sure it's straight. Which, of course, it isn't -- but it wasn't straight to begin with. My bottom teeth overlap the top, and they don't even meet in the middle. Maybe next time I have to go and have it looked at I will ask them what it would take to put it right -- but I think the answer is going to be major surgery on my face, which ain't gonna happen.

Looking in the mirror this morning and I could almost convince myself that I have just been staying awake too late and that's why I have dark rings under my eyes. But I'm not quite there yet -- you can still pretty much tell I had the crap beaten out of me.

My head still hurts more or less all over. And I hate it when the doctor asks where it hurts, I say right here, and here, and here, so she feels the need to press those places. Fuck. Yes. Yes, that is exactly where I told you it hurts. Stop doing that.

I'm still not allowed to eat anything much harder than mashed potato. I've been pushing my luck by trying other things -- like fish, and chocolate, though not together -- but gingerbread is probably just asking for trouble. Still, I expect by this time next week all the bruising and cuts will be gone. I don't know how much longer I will have to stay on mushy food, but maybe if I concentrate really hard I can will the fracture in my jaw to heal over.

I don't know how much longer it will be before I stop being so jumpy. I don't like being outside my flat, even here in the library I get uneasy every time that someone walks in. I won't begin to talk about the fear of walking home at night after class or you most likely lose all respect for me entirely.

The funny thing about it all is that I don't really feel the least bit angry about it and I don't know why. I'd far rather that it had never happened than get any sort of revenge on my attackers.

Today I found the following text in the source code of a junk email that ended up in my inbox. It's very strange:



Or maybe not. People are talking behind my back. We have certain immutable properties. We all have to make some kind of plans for ourselves.

I see your point. Then again:

Just one moment longer. Let me collect my thoughts.

This can't end happily. This isn't really sustainable, but it's better than the alternative. I don't want to be predictable. Maybe this will help us all in the long run.

Look: Help me ! I'm trapped in an e-mail factory! Like they say: Are you making up for something? Probably.

It's all just a big joke.I had fun when we talked on Tuesday.

I won't try to get in the way. This will end well. I am a boson. It's always up in the air.

I am not the wavy carpet. I am the happy kind. I don't believe in telepathy. Or astrology.

Maybe this will help us all in the long run. This is what happens: I see your point. But that's OK--lots of people feel that way. And I respect that.

This isn't much worse than an infomercial. This isn't really sustainable, but it's better than the alternative.

This can't end happily. Hey - Thing will tend to fall apart. You are precisely on the money.

Can't we just be friends? This isn't much worse than an infomercial. It's all just a big joke. Or maybe not.

Kick me when I'm down

I have a fractured jaw.

This is along with all the lumps and cuts and bruises all over my head, and general bruising all over.

This is all thanks to three kids who were looking for trouble on a Friday night and they found me. I have learned that if people are walking towards you blocking the pavement, walk around them. Don't try and walk through them or shoulder barge them like I did.

Becuase if you do they will beat the living shit out of you, and then keep kicking you when you are on the floor. And then the kicking stops and they disappear and you lie there until you think they've gone.

but you only get a little way down the road before you are risking your life, running across four lanes of traffic just to get away, and they catch you anyway, beat you some more and give you a further kicking until they are scared away by some passers by.

it's 3am. I just got back to San's from the hospital. I'm too scared to go back to my own flat -- though this fear probably only extends to it at night. so I'm going to be something more of a shut in. a shut in that can't eat solid food, and will probably have to get taxis to take me home after class if it is dark at the time.

the police were very nice to me though, and it's to their credit they stayed at the hospital with me to get the paperwork done, and didn't just say "we'll do it another day".

So where does this leave us? I was depressed to begin with, questioning my choice of career and hating my course. Now I am depressed, hating my course, questioning my choice of career, afraid to go out alone after dark, in a lot of pain and unable to eat solid foods.

I don't think I want to play this game any more.

I've been down so long it looks like up to me

I'm actually seriously considering a revamp of this diary into a Richard Fariña themed journal, borrowing the title of his only novel "Been down so long it looks like up to me". I believe the title of his novel (along with the anthology of his work that was published after his untimely death "Been a long time coming and a long time gone") was taken from an old blues song, though I haven't found the original song anywhere I believe I did find one by Lee Hazelwood of the same title. But I'm digressing. I'm going to toy with ideas for such a layout, but the chances of anything but the title changing are slim -- since I have none of the necessary skills. I'm still trying to work out a way to have the comments box appear as a small, seperate window.

The point of all this is not that I want a new layout -- that idea only just occurred to me. The point is that I am once again in another of my moods. Did I say at the beginning of the week that working for Leicester News Service had restored my faith in journalism? I think it was just the novelty of doing something else for a change. On Monday classes start again, and we are back to the issue that I hate my course, and am being trained for a career that I'm really not sure I want.

But I don't know what I do want.

I figured that, once again, trying to deal with my moods just wasn't working out too well for me and so I should see a psychiatric counsellor. But the health center tell me I can only see one if I am referred by a doctor. I really didn't want to do that, I hate seeing doctors. I hate them looking at my medical records and every time questioning me about a suicide attempt. I hate even more having to explain it was not a sucide attempt, I spent that night in hospital because I just wasn't to be trusted with sharp objects. I made clear to them at the time I had no interest in killing myself, but it seems they ignored that in my records. I so do not want to have to see some disinterested and over-worked GP whose only interest is writing you a prescription and getting you out the door for the next patient.

I feel as if I am alone all of the time -- because even with people around, I just can't seem to relate to others. I feel cold and frustrated, and although I want someone to hold me and tell me it's all going to be okay, I can't seem to warm up enough to respond.

Sometimes I think what I need is a rest, to be someplace where I don't have to worry -- I don't need to think about essays and grades and exams, or about getting up for work, and if I'm earning enough and where my life is going. I can't go back home because it won't be like that. Sure, they'd say it will be -- and for a day or two, maybe it would, but before the end of a week they'd soon be bugging me to do something. And I don't think I could stand being around my Dad all day now he's retired. I certainly can't do it here, because there's bills and rent to pay and food to be bought.

I guess this all anyone ever wants -- and you have to work forty years of your life to get anything close to it, unless you're born into luxury.

Return to the land of the rain

I've been back in Leicester for a few days and it doesn't feel like I left at all. Christmas feels like a dream, and the few times that I saw my friends could just be memories from any other time I was around.

I got back Thursday, and I saw San on Thursday night as she was still unpacking. I'd missed her in the time that had passed since I saw her at New Year, even though her flat is cold (because the university to have heating that stays on if you want it on -- or even adjustable thermostats) it was good just to sleep beside her. Friday I had arranged to go to Derby to see my old Goth friend Owen, since I wanted to interview him about Urban Exploration for a feature I have to write. We also planned to explore a secret basement where he worked, and hoped to find a way into the city's catacombs.

It didn't work out exactly like that. Owen is working two jobs, and as luck would have it he ended up working both on Friday. I got some time to talk to him, and then called [Matt] to hang out with while Owen worked that night. Owen found us in a bar when he finished work early, but I should have remembered how Owen seems to dislike social settings like that (which is probably a major reason why he doesnt seem to carry his wallet half the time, that and he's just cheap) and he was antsy to go exploring.

And because we went exploring after several pints of beer is why I have a cut on my head, and on my hands, and feel bruises all over my chest and back. We thought we found an entrance to the catacombs, it's hard to explain why and where it was -- but basically it was a tunnel that had been bricked up. Fortunately, Owen spotted a hole and proceeded to climb inside of it. He convinced me to try and after I insisted I couldn't get in and he enlarged the hole, he did get me to climb -- head first, into complete darkness -- into the hole. He said he would catch me, which to his credit, he did. He didn't, however, give any thought to a safe place to stand -- so he fell over, and dropped me on my head.

The tunnel wasn't a way into the catacombs at all, but instead seemed to be an abandoned garage unit -- or else, a dumping ground for old cars and car parts. It was very dull. And the other end was sealed with a sheet of corrugated metal, which was only half closed, which meant we could just walk out.

I ended up sleeping on Matt's couch because Owen claimed his girlfriend was waiting up for him and she was going to be mad at him for going out. Owen has always made her out to be -- in his words from Friday -- a sociopath and a misanthropist. She has apparently an irrational hatred of him spending time with anyone else or going out, but always has seemed friendly and normal to anyone who meets her. Most likely they both have their issues, and we aready knew that Owen is a compulsive liar. I think he just didn't want me to sleep on his couch, so it's just as well that Matt had no problem with it after I woke him up at 3 am. He even cooked us breakfast.

The rest of the weekend was quiet. San and I have decided that even though we have been together for ages we will start doing date-like things, for the fun of it. So I ask her out, and she accepts, and I pick her up and take her out somewhere. So that was Saturday night. Sunday I cooked breakfast, we watched tv, then went shopping because I needed more smart clothes for this week.

And that brings us right up to date, because this week I am working for Leicester News Service -- a news agency, basically. After one day it has restored my faith in journalism. I may hate my course, but I could handle a job in journalism -- and possibly in particular a job for a news agency.

And no, it had nothing to do with the hottie who graduated off my course last year and works there.

4-5-6-7, grab your umbrella

This morning I dreamed that I was getting married to San. The church was full of relatives, and I remember seeing their expressions as I walked down the aisle (why was I walking down the aisle?) -- they didn't seem happy, more nervous or worried. This seems to have escaped me in the dream.

However, when I get to the front of the church instead of getting married, I am strapped into a chair that resembled an electric chair -- with the leather straps and all the rest -- and forced to take a test. What the test was in, I couldn't tell you.

San told me it was ok really, because what she hadn't told me before was that she was already married to her friend, Jill.



I told San about this dream and she laughed, but said that it had disturbing undercurrents. Like what? I asked her. Like that Jill is an obstacle between us.

Ahh... Jill.

As far as San is concerned, the only issue with Jill would be that I am or was resentful of her trying to convince San to leave me for her. I will take to my grave the secret that I have a little bit of a crush on Jill.

Most of the time I have got to thinking I imagined it all, or that I have control over my feelings, but then I meet her again and something goes "phrreeeeee-owww".

On New Year's Eve we went to an indie club in London -- we as in me, San, Jill, Jill's boyfriend and some friends of theirs. The night was uneventful as nights out go. The club was badly organised as there was only one bar open in the place, which meant epic length queues for a drink. San and I were stood in a queue at the bar when the clock struck midnight. I tried to be enthusiastic, and I think San wanted to be too, but the feeling just wasn't there.

But anyway. I know perfectly well what the attraction is with Jill -- it's the same thing that has all the boys wanting her. She just has this way of focusing her attention on you, and it makes you feel special. She has this upbeat, laid back way to her -- and sure, she has her issues, and probably more of them and more serious than I could speculate -- but she seems like the universe was created just to compliment her.

I honestly don't know her very well. I've never had the opportunity to have a real conversation with her, to talk to her about how she feels or what she wants from life. It is just a crush and nothing more. But I've told San that I admire her self control to not leave me for Jill when Jill asked her to -- sure, I could never leave San for Jill, either, but that's an entirely different prospect. All the same, I sometimes wonder if the two of them wouldn't be better together.

Something needs to be done

Something needs to be done. This stress over what I am going to do about my course is starting to interfere with my normal life. My dreams are disturbed and I almost welcome the chance to get out of bed today. I have dark circles under my eyes that look like bruises -- what causes these dark rings? I mean, I know that it's from not sleeping properly and feeling like shit -- but what actually causes the circles? My appetite -- what little appetite I normally have -- has more or less packed its bags and left for another town, and to round things off I have that sore-throat feeling like I'm coming down with something.

The way I see it right now my choices are more or less limited to:
-- Quit my course; get some random job or jobs until I work out what I want to do
-- Quit my course with the view to taking a job as a bar supervisor or assistant manager some place
-- Don't quit my course; continue to feel miserable about it

And to think that I was so desperate to be accepted for a place. I saw it as my way of getting out and moving up, the beginning of my life properly, and wasn't sure what I could possibly do if I didn't get accepted. Now I almost wish I had never applied to begin with.