25.04.05..5:21 pm

Once upon a time, in a land far away I lived with Mango. That is of course not her real name, but became was dubbed so, unbeknownst to her (at least so we thought) by Nelle and I because she �didn�t like mango.� She was, and probably still is, one of the most awful people in the world. She had no capacity to register the pitch of her voice, she had no social graces, she hadn�t the ability to see that people�s grimaces were because of her madly inappropriate laughter rather than because we were all in the joke. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot because twelve days after we all moved in together she sat with us watching the news. It was the first time all nine of us had managed to be in the house together, so we considered it a bit of a bonding session until the footage of a woman beating her four year old daughter after she had put up a bit of a fuss in a shopping mall was aired and in the midst of our outrage and horror she stood up and said, �Well if the kid deserved it�� It was that moment that made me realize she wasn�t simply rude, obnoxious or socially inept, but a total psychotic nutter I wanted very little to do with.

(Michael� my boyfriend at the time, the one who would eight months later break my heart - had already dubbed her �Yappy� a couple of weeks before hand because of the inappropriate laughter, which obviously was just the tip of the Mango Iceberg. Incidentally it was three days later that Michael and I were making dinner for everyone, thai curry and vegan chocolate-mango cake. That was when we discovered she �didn�t like mango.� That was also when we discovered that Lena, the kindest, gentlest, sweetest person you�ll ever meet had even less tolerance for her than Nelle and I put together. She snapped quite ferociously that �The rest of us do, so if you don�t keep fucking quiet about it.� Mango left rather quickly after that and that night became our first real bonding session.)

In any case, the yappy Mangoism seems to have become some sort of unfortunate demographic over here too. I had some of the most IRRITATING FUCKS sitting next to me at the caf� this morning while I was a. obviously trying to study (i.e. laptop, mountain of books, papers everywhere) and b. attempting to quietly imbibe my first coffee. The first was a trio who could not TALK but HAD TO YELL. EVERYTHING THEY WANTED TO SAY. AT EACH OTHER. ACROSS THE TABLE. IN A ROOM WHERE THE MUSIC WAS NOT LOUD. AND NO ONE ELSE WAS YELLING. BUT THEY HAD TO YELL. And then they started to YELL at ME. Fucknuts. They left shortly after the STABBING ANGER* and I thought, �At last some peace and quiet� and got all of ten minutes actual work done before until Smoochysmooch the Smoochy Couple from Smoochville who spends all day Smooching sat down opposite me and started smooching. There wasn't enough Stabbing Anger in the world to stop them. I actually very nearly told them to stop right there and then vomit pointedly, but didn't. I rather like the caf� and would rather be allowed back than make my opinion vehemently known.

*M always teases me about this. Apparently, though I totally disagree and think he�s just seeing things, when I�m dooring at the Betsey and someone who does not know the score comes in and complains that they have to pay, or peers over my shoulder �just to see� if they�re on the guestlist, or blanks my attempts at politeness, or looks down my shirt while they�re paying, or is a Stupid American (opposed to the Smart one�s of which there are many, and most of them in London do come down to the Betsey, but sometimes one of the Assholes sneaks past security). Apparently while I�m dealing with this my eyes glaze over with the Stabbing Anger.

A couple of nights ago we got broken into. Or rather a couple of nights ago an intrepid got wind of the fact M�s flatmates never lock the back door and waltzed in breezily to open cupboards, leave the fridge door open and take only a credit card and a mobile that was charging on the kitchen table. M heard noises in the kitchen over the roar of my snores shortly after I fell asleep, that �Sounded like someone had come home drunk and was trying to work the toaster.� But somewhat wrong too, so he went down, as nothing was out of the ordinary he got a glass of water and came back upstairs to bed. About ten minutes later, just as he was drifting off he heard it again, but louder. So AGAIN he went downstairs whereupon this time he discovered the backdoor was left open, the fridge door was open and all the cupboards were open.

Paddy cancelled the phone the next day and rather oddly only 80p worth of calls had been placed. I don�t think anything at all had been charged to the card either.

So today on my way home from coffee and irritation, I ran into one of the Next Doors who tells me that they got broken into as well, last night I think it was. The weird thing is that only a DVD cord was taken. Apparently the DVD itself was hanging off its little shelf, a mondo-expensive professional camera, TV and stereo were all in the living room but left.

Dude Next Door was though saying that they're kitchen window doesn't lock at all and it would be really easy to break in should anyone want to. (And know that it's really easy to break in which means we are NOT allowed to. Despite the fact it�s really quite tempting. Otherwise they'll know it was us. Or at least me.) Apparently he heard someone knocking about downstairs just like M did and went down to investigate and the backdoor was ajar too. Paddy reckons it's one of the crack-addicted wenches that hang about the neighbourhood. (I added the wench part. he just calls them whores.) Regardless, it�s most peculiar (Though if someone has been scoping the place out, it might explain the I�m Being Watched feeling I�ve had for the past couple of weeks.)

Rather exciting weekend actually. Not just the burglaries, but M smashed his head open too. I got a cheery call at 4.30am Sunday morning saying �Not to worry, but M�s in hospital.� He had decided that the BEST THING IN THE WORLD when one is pissed and pilled would be to climb onto a courier bike (push, not motor) and attempt to pull off the stunts. He thinks though can�t be certain that it happened when he tried to mount some stairs just outside of the club. He�s now got a head full of glue and isn�t allowed to wash his hair until Thursday. My perpetual impression of him being gorgeous and smelling of roses and M-scent will be pushed just a little methinks.

Right. This fucking essay. The one on voyeurism and masturbation and Jean Genet. It will be done by tomorrow. As soon as the chick next to me STOPS MINDLESS HUMMING. What is WITH people today. It�s like the world has gone Mango and there�s nothing left but to join it. Well Over My Dead Body.