2004-01-30..1:04 p.m.

[To any Canadians out there reading this.. Remember last year when it snowed for six weeks nonstop and we had the mini-icestorm and the heating went for three days, so we could see our breath in the hallway and wore our sleeping bags to make coffee? Remember how the buses kept trundling? How the highways kept moving? Remember how all the shops managed to open and classes continued? Two inches of snow here and it all shuts down. I kid you not, TWO INCHES, and sheer insanity erupts. My flatmate Emma had to stay in a B&B due to bumpertobumper motorways.]

So you may well wonder how it comes that I�m now writing from my livingroom coffee table (I�m writing from my livingroom coffee table) on a Friday afternoon when I have no such dependence on temperature controlled tube lines and aging chasses to see me into work, just a Millennium girl living in a backwards world. Just a quick halfhour waltz to reap the rewards of capitalist monotony. Well, if the truth be known, I am presently unable to do that flatfooted rumba as I am presently unable to wear shoes. In the excitement of embarking on the brief love affair w the drummer boy I fell down the stairs (re: bounded down three at a time and missed), nearly breaking my ankle. Timing is everything, and nothing says, Fuck me, like an ankle the size and shape of a small gourd. A black and blue butternut squash.

So here I am, stuck stuck stuck at home w my seasonal veg foot. It�s weird, this being at home in the middle of the day. Yesterday I was uber crave-y and munched all morning on cereal, spooned straight from the box (no milk for this cowgirl); the day before I had entertainments of a whole other variety, which made it feel like a mid-week Sunday rather than an unfortunate sickie.

Actually, outside of near bone-breakage, the stay was rather successful. The plus side of not going to work meant that the drummer and I got to spend all of his tiny stay hanging out and finding ways to distract from throbbing pain; the down side was that I spent the whole of his tiny stay housebound and so the wonders of London I had promised to show off have remained unseen, and will stay that way until he comes back on tour. The punk decided to book his trip to Ireland (seeking ancestral village) so that he stayed in London for a mere three days and so that it ends on the same day he flies back to New York. Who does that? It�s fucking LONDON and he wants to swan about Eire drinking Guinness and staring at green hills? Dumbass American.

Regardless, today I�m just lumping it on the sofa, avoiding flicking on the telly and thus avoiding having my brain turned to mush by atrociously bad daytime drivel. Also avoiding showering as well, apparently. Fuck, I�m smelly. I�ve not had a shower since I had the drummer boy help me over the side of the tub and as he left yesterday morning, you can imagine when that was. So gross.. I probably still have drummer spunk on me. Is it true sperm dies after three days, or did I just think I read that*? [This may well be falling into the realm of �meepie dear, did not need to hear that�, but it�s been 7 months, SEVEN MONTHS of a not so much dry, but ARID spell. At 23 I should not be experiencing anything but the sweet fields of promiscuity, instead a total sex-drought. Me? Excited? Rightfully so!]

To encourage de-mushification of the senses I�ve been reading the Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, excellent way to pass time if you get the chance. She chose to write it in five styles, through the individual voices of five characters (a mother and her four daughters), each of which is so distinctive from the next you could take them separately and have an entirely different book. Five books about the same event. It�s one of those books I find myself wondering about when I�m not reading. Not so much that what will happen�s plotwise, rather the Will this book be read in a hundred years? Will it become a �classic� or get swallowed up in the ancient archives that will inevitably allow Joan Collins and VC Andrews to slip through the cracks and gain critical acclaim. (for the record I have NEVER IN MY LIFE read either �author� bc I�m a literary snob.)

Anyway. I just got an email from Nelle who�s got it going with this Aussie chappie (the fledgling fledge if you recall) and, because this is typical of how this crazy world works, now has the impending return of the Most Incredible Love of Her Life Ever to look forward to bc he has decided that NOW is the time to visit. Not three months ago when Nelle was all up for it, but now that she�s getting happy in love w someone else. Not that she�s told him of course, and not that I�d recommend she does (you never know! He doesn�t even know that he�s MIL so it�s not like he�s REALLY expecting her to jump back in his arms in a Victorian swoon. In any case he�d never do anything inappropriate, or pushy, bc he�s just polite and German and not like that.) It would be embarrassing, prematurely pre-empting something that may or may not even be on offer. Ah, the unsettling arena of two guys being hot for you at the same time. You don't necessarily have to chose between them, but you do have to tread lightly. Listen to me, I'm so Dear Abby.

It's my friend R's birthday bash on Saturday. So tomorrow. What if I can't go? Not that I'm particularly keen on watching Ollie try it on w R, but I do want to go. They slept together again which just pisses me off. I've told him he's just going to get caught back up in that mudslide, but he seems to think that as he'll be shuttling off to Oxford soon, there's no worry. I think this is why I've avoided sleeping w him again. He brought that up actually when we were on the phone Monday (after I shouted an offkey Happy Birthday ballad at him) and it made me so uncomfortable I changed the subject before I knew what I was doing. See? This is why you need to be careful!

Right. I should get this sent so I can get back to lying down w my foot in the air, balancing a half empty sack of mushy peas and ignoring the fact I really ought to shower.

meep

*I do that thing where you sound like you know what you�re talking about, but only bc you SOUND like it, not bc you actually do. In Canada** I could get away with it bc of the weird hybrid accent thing, I just sounded smart; but here the semi-Britspeak smarts doesn�t fly bc they all sound like that.

**Strange but true facts: grew up in Canada to very British parents in a very British �hood so have very Midatlantic hybrid scrawling accent that gets mistaken for everything but Canuck. Except for once when I met this New Zealander and he guessed I was Canadian. We became friends and then ex-friends and now pseudo �friends� due to his inability to keep his erection to himself. But he did guess where I�m from, so that�s cool.