2004-10-13..5:11 p.m.

My wrist hurts.

Actually it hurts rather badly, and it's starting to get unattractive (puffy/red). Dammit! Are attractive wrists too much to ask? I think I injured it while moving those thousands of boxes over the weekend, or perhaps indulging in too much, erm.. hand action in celebration for moving. Since lunchtime, everytime I position it funny it start feeling nauseous, though that could be the onset of PMS.* It�s really weird too. I was vaguely aware of it aching on Monday on the way home from work, and then again yesterday during my seminar, but this morning I reached for the tenner tucked in my back pocket and suddenly there was all kinds of gelatinous pressure threatening to seep through my pores like a clich�d throbbing jelly donut. But it�s the kind of gelatinous pressure that sort of dies down after a while, so I can go on and think I�m okay before it builds again and I�m sitting here like a modern day Scarlet O�Hara, wrist held limp and Woe is Me against my forehead in a meek attempt at draining the flood.

*Recent development there: EVERYTHING makes me nauseous. Fresh bread baking, smushed one-time frog-now-roadkill, whatever. It�s all the same to my delicate constitution.

I was all super busy this morning and I�ve been sitting here now for about 4 hours staring at the ceiling because I DID EVERYTHING by noon. Poo. I can't even sit here and read to myself when the phones aren't going because it makes me look like I�m not doing anything and I�m extraneous. I wanna reeeeeeead. I wanna do my homewoooooork. I wanna reeeeeead Mind you, I could probably get away with perusing a xeroxed handout. Hmm... Perhaps, perhaps..

M is apparently feeling hungover like a dead possum in the lime blossom. He rolled in sometime after half3 this morning having gone to White Heat with (flatmate and best friend) Paddy, leaving me home alone to sup (surprisingly quality) cheap red wine and read Faulkner. I I�d be all sympathetic, but it�s rather a good time playing the mock upset housewife, �Well what do you expect. Coming in all hours stinking of booze.� Still, my mock outrage and shame isn�t entirely unfounded. T�is to be expected when your loved one lurches and stomps into stools and unpacked boxes and turns on the light to rake though piles of unsorted miscellanea to find something he doesn�t remember the next morning. Muffin.

A Poem (Composed While At Work on Monday):

I like green cheese
I like green cheese
On craa-ckers, looking at the seas
Your nose screws up and you get fish dead in the breeze.. Altogether now!

da da da daaa!
da da da daaa!
da da-da da-da da daaa!
da da! da-da da! da da da-da-da da!

da da da daaa!
da da da daaa!
da da-da da-da da daaa!
da da! da-da da! da da da-da-da da!

hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmmmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmmmmm
hm-mmm hmm hmmm hmm hmmm hmm hmmmmmm
hmm hmmm-hmm hmmm-hmm hmm-hmm-hmm hmmmm

Green green green cheeeeeese!
green green green cheeeeeese!
It makes you fall off of your kneeeees
hmm-hmmm hmm hmmm hmm hmm-hmm-hmm hmmmm

Score one for the future of poetry.

****meep