2004-08-11..4:13 p.m.

Today has been one of those very horribly long days that seem to have no end in sight at all. Today is one of those days I welcome the bare tedium of stuffing envelopes and binding endless presentation packages simply because to be asked to attempt anything else would be met with a wan smile and though I would indeed make a gallant effort at the end of it everyone would agree they should have just done it themselves. Today is one of those worthy of inconsequential and ill-structured run-on sentences that pass through coherent thought and meander into inane rambling with surprising and worrying fluidity with which the mere turn of a corner can cause my internal monologue to switch gear without my noticing and I will cease to be amused by the ongoing Disco Sensation that my mental jukebox has on rotation and be suddenly entranced by just how grey the walls are.

For once this rather shoulder-shrugging state of meh is not due to PMS gone wild (that so should be a Spam tagline: PMS SLUT�S GO WILD! WATCH PMS BARELY LEGALS SPIT VEMON! PMS BITCHES RAGE AGAINST THE WORLD!) No it�s due entirely to sleep deprivation of my own making, so I can�t even really justify complaining. I�m not complaining actually. I�m kind of just taking it. With an indifferent shrug. Anyway, the reason is because I was not in bed at ten last night. Nor eleven nor midnight nor even one. I think I was in bed by two, but that may be wishful thinking. At ten I was at White Heat being introduced to some of M�s friends, who (if they think at all) will remember me as the one who hid beneath her fringe and smoked too much. I don�t know why I felt so painfulkly painfully shy, but I could not bring myself to speak above a whisper. At eleven I�d relaxed a little with a couple bottles of the attractively packaged Le Coq�s in hand (two for one baby!), enough to get snarky about the screamy loud angry band with the obligatory Velociraptor Bassist stomping around in front of the drumkit and lead singer who clutched the mic stand like it was his mothers apron strings. I�ve decided I could be in a band like that. I like screaming.

Somewhere between eleven and midnight we left because, HELLO! I have to be up at half6 and we made it almost as far as Tottenham Court Rd before running into yet another one of M�s friends and then standing on a street corner for half a fucking hour while they tried not to be the first to ask if the other wanted to look for a place together. As it was boy stuff, I didn�t interfere, and that was one pretty display of self-control if you ask me. After then I have no timescale to work with: I fell asleep on public transport, I popped myself eyes closed against M while waiting for the next of the three buses it took to get home, I sleepwalked between stops and was carried to my front door. And of course by the time we got in that nap was enough to keep me nice and wired for the next hour. So I took a shower, and dragged M in with me. It was, ahem, fun.

Hey, does anyone use that Cusson�s Imperial foamy lather stuff? That shit�s AMAZING! I don�t go for bottled soaps at all (I like them slippery and in bars thank you), but Jesus! The lather is fantastic; it spreads so easily and works up like a little bephosphated dream. M picked it up when he was buying duplicates for his toilette because he digs the schmancy stuff. His toothbrush is mental (just one letter from �dental�, coincidence?) Fairly standard issue bristles in serrated rows in two colours to indicated which their esteemed difference in height and then out of nowhere these red plastic tentacles show up gripping along the periphery of normal brushdom. It�s like you�ve got a tiny octopus going wild in your mouth (and in this corner: aquatic fetish), attacking plague and gum disease while increasing circulation and producing a high-finish gloss. It�s the brush that keeps on giving. It�s a multi-tasker.

My Nan came and took me out for lunch this afternoon. If I had a pound for every friend who�s proclaimed Ah! She�s! So! Cute! After meeting my Nan, I�d have a lot of pounds. I�m hoping it�s genetic, along with sag-resistant breast and bum, and having fab legs until the age of 74. I wasn�t in much of a mood for talking, which is never a problem when Nan�s around because she could talk the pollen off a bee. So I just sat back, asked the occasional question and was allowed to giggle a lot at her stories. Grandparents are great for that.

****meeped out and flagging on avocado dreams