2004-03-26..11:41 p.m.

I tried to write yesterday, but was haunted by this nagging voice of a conscientious overlord. (No Diaryland until you finish your reviews, Miss Meep. And your sprouts! For the last time, eat your goddamn sprouts!) However, today I took a paid afternoon off to come home and write, and while I mostly just accomplished making roastie potatoes and suede, and consuming a load of all things strawberry,* I did manage to get at least a basic framework for at least three. For some reason I�ve hardly been able to manage anything more than detailed emails about nothing this week.

*strawberry flavoured soy milk. Mmmmmmm. Actually I feel kind of sick. I just ate like three quarters of a tub of Yeo�s Strawberry frozen yogurt. Yummy, yes. But three quarters in one sitting = lactose overload.

I�ve been on a swirly mindfuck ever since Wednesday night. After finding out the Koreans cancelled I rather lost interest and wound up spending four delicious hours entrenched in various philosophical debates with Milan who I have developed a possibly reciprocated MONSTER CRUSH on. I�ve not crushed like this on anyone situated with this much geographic convenience in ages. Actually, not since Michael (who, though Scottish and on exchange, was still my next door neighbour for my mad dip into the throes of passionate love.) All my recent mini-episodes have involved no one living closer than 60 miles to my door step. And while in normal Canadian terms, that�s relatively standard, in British terms, it�s a lifetime of inefficient rail service. You can pass through three major cities in 60 miles on this wee island. Milan on the other hand lives a mere ten minutes from where I work.

We actually met a couple of months ago at the Betsy, this was before my mad reviewer skillz got snapped up (haha, I make the jokes) by Plum, and actually, rather embarrassingly before I even knew that the Betsy and the Water Rats were sister pubs. I never wanted to go in there because I briefly worked at a sandwich hole literally thirty steps from the Batsy�s bar. It was a sandwich hole such that not even the rats would frequent. It was primarily a moral decision to leave, and the lack of hygiene such that not even feral demon-rodents would stoop to lick the slab flooring played large part in my departure.

He�s well degreed, well read (reading Nietzsche FOR FUN! Had David Icke�s latest book with him), considerately devil�s advocate, and musically intelligent. He�s one of those unusual unaffected naturally cool skinny indie-boys who SHOULD be standing around looking bored and too cool for school, but takes avid interest in what people have to say and looks directly into your eyes when you speak. Beautifully tall tall, rivetingly blue eyes, black scruffy-but-maintained hair. He is a very pretty feast for the senses. At uni he got up to the same sort of klepto pranking that Nelle and I ran riot with, so there was anecdotal bonding abound.

However, none of this matters because I have a ball of yarn�s chance in a kitten factory of getting any of that action. For I am a mere mortal. He very kindly made it seem like I do, sending many a mixed signal, which could be interpreted encouragingly: he lent me his sweater; asked me if I would stick around, and then loaned the David Icke so I had something to read while they were cleaning up for the night; he walked me most of the way home, though he had his bike; he would have invited me in, but he had a guest and the place was a tip; he told me exactly when he would next be working and urged me to go last night because if it was the group he thought it was, they were really good. But I stand by my ball of yarn. I was shivery and he�s a decent person; Allan (Plum owner dude) also asked me to join in the after hours pinting, and I�m a geek; his place is on my way home, and *guest�s* are the best sort of excuse; and we both work for Plum, so he was probably staving off any potential stalkerlike tendencies he fears I may develop by warning me off. (Huh?) I�ll concede a possibility because it makes me feel better, but the hopes are remaining quite firmly downtrodden.

So yeah. Horrid MONSTER CRUSH sending me plummeting into vats of internal stodgy porridge everytime I think about *moments* that *passed between us* and the impending DOOM of deadlines I�ve been ignoring (can you feel the love? Buddy Christ. Why do I want to be a writer again? The second I make things like promises to abide by a submission schedule I flip out and scurry back to my den of obscurity, and then watch me, because you know I�ll end up bitching that I�m getting nowhere. Mother of Fuck and Contradictions.) have made for a pretty funny couple of days. And by funny I mean flashing lights on Skull Island funny, not Scooby Snack fuuny. All giggly and twinkly, or snarly and knotted. Either way, very distracted and non-productive.

AND I think I�ve got a cold, or budding allergies or something coming. My throat�s all scritchy on one side and I�m vaguely headachy all the time and have been getting mildly fatigued mid-afternoon.

Oy.

Anyway. This weekend, outside the writing and the panic and the fretting over deadlines, I�ll be heading down to the Betsy for a photography exhibit (an American, first name Hans. Don�t remember the rest, but I have it on good authority that it�s excellent), and boozing; and then on Sunday it�s all about the brunching at the S&M caf� in Spitalfields with some market wandering thrown on the side. Good times I�m predicting.

I think I�m going to go for a midnight stroll, walk off some of this abdominal monkey lurching and make myself tired before submitting to the sweet caress of sleep.

Bon nuit!

****mmmeep