21.10.05..10:41 am

The world is grey and shimmering this morning. From the centre of my flat I can look out five of the six windows that adorn our outward walls. It's not an open plan thing (a depressing thought: it would make the fucking thing look even smaller than it already is) and I do have to crane my head a little for the one in the bathroom. But from the view in the centre of my flat it looks very much like someone had gone a bit nutty with the silver glitter in the middle of the night. A rampaging queen of a giant in a Carman Miranda cum Tinkerbell get up storming Stoke Newington with sliver confetti. Now that's a thought I wish I woke up to more often.

My first thought this morning was "Fuck." My second thought was "I shouldn't think like that so early in the morning." And then I had to remind myself that it wasn't early, and my initial assessment of the day had been right. I had meant to get up at 7am. A peculiar time to be sure for one who does not go to her money-exchange until 3pm, but a perfectly rational one for someone who is attempting the whole writerly conduct, and especially a perfectly normal time for one for whom the afternoon is the time for staring at the ceiling and the morning is the time for concentration ad creativity. All is not lost, I've at least got a knitting project to fill the afternoon rather than counting specks of mould and wondering half-heartedly about doing something about it. My friend Myra (you know, the woman I used to work with), ten days overdue, at last gave birth to a rather large and very healthy baby boy very very early yesterday morning (or very very late the previous night, depending). So I'm knitting a baby blanket in celebration. He should get it sometime before his second birthday. Not because I'm a slow knitter. I'm actually fairly quick for someone that learnt how to knit at six, twelve and seventeen and largely ignored the craft entire for the years inbetween. I've just finished a bag, the strap has yet to be attached, but will be once I get off my arse and find a leather manipulator to manipulate some leather for me (being extra remaking-crafty and chopping up an old professor bag to use as teardrop anchors for the strap). Regardless, it was Arthur's birthday yesterday as well AND I got to meet my Nan for lunch AND bake still another cake, so joyous occasion all round.

Arthur is one half of the two children that make up my money-exchange. He is officially 8. Arthur's birthday wish, to terrify and scar twelve of his closest friends by taking htem to the London Dungeon. Now I'm usually an utter pussy when it comes to these things, but I found it fascinating and really quite educational. The kids on the other hand were divided equally. There were those who laughed at the wax sculptures and giggled at the naked boobs in a picture of one of Jack the Ripper's victims and came out going "Let's go again!" There were the kids that giggled one moment and clutched my skirt the next, dive bombing the floor at the slightest noise and shrieking with terrified delight during the water ride. And there were those for whom it was suddenly all too much, burst into tears simultaneously and pitifully demanded to be removed mid-tour. This last group was of course the one that leapt onto the "Let's go again!" scheme with hearty approval. It's pretty funny though watching a group of boys going from monstrous little hellions (screaming wildly at each other and attempting to run into oncoming traffic) and hilarious little turds ("Celebraties are stupid because they're drunk all the time!" "Yeah! They have lager on their cereal!") to petrified children clinging to anything that resembles an adult, and all in the space of twenty minutes. Needless to say, the Dungeons were a complete success.

Mary is Arthur's older sister. She is 10 going on 13. She's ridiculously horomonal, both in the tragic-funny way and the tragic-slightly-depressing way. She's already going through the beginning stages of puberty, i.e. spots, developing breasts, screaming at suggestions she might use deodorant, spending hours on the phone giggling about boys. Yet is still completely a child who huddled, head covered, at my feet and yelped with panic while touring the Dungeon. She's far too cool for receiving hugs in the playground, yet ducks warily behind my shoulder when passing teenagers who plain scare and bemuse her. She was adopted at the age of three months, her mother too young and too fucked up to cope with a child. I don't want to say "as a result" because there are loads of children who have been adopted who are perfectly stable, confident kids and turn into well-rounded, confident adults, but I think it is a case of "as a result" here that Mary is emotionally clingy and terrified of both change and separation. I think the very fact her body is mutating in total disregard for her own will scares the crap out of her. She'll be moving schools next year and is very concerned that her primary school is "not going to be the same" without her year. This in particular is fancinating as she is and always has been in the top year at her school. They essentially emptied the school and rebuilt it, beginning with Mary's year when they were in the year before Year 1 (forgive my total confusion on this. We call it 'kindergarten' in Canada, it might be called 'reception' over here, or 'nursery'. I don't know). The whole school around them was empty until they entered the next year and a new group was slotted in below them. Rather like a Jenga game. But backwards. So nothing like a Jenga game. Except a little. Maybe.

Anyway, so she's horomonal and loopy because of it, and way (street) smarter than a kid her age ought to be, constantly initiating serious discussions on drugs, teenagers, smoking, homelessness, etc. and coming out with very well thought out opinions that don't necessarily match up with those of her parents (i.e. she's not actually being fed her answers and opinions). Arthur on the other hand is thoughtful, monstrous (the furry blue variety), literary, socialist, activist, sensitive and creative. If he were writing poetry about social injustice and sticking it to the man instead of drawing Super Coconut Man vomitting down himself while a mysterious hand throws lyme disease at him from above during his art classes, you could totally mistake him from a twenty year old student at Birbeck. Arthur kills me in every way. We have grass fights in the rose garden in the park near the school, we talk books, we discuss film, we debate on the effects of Nestle and MacDonalds (both of which he buoycotts), we ponder the merits of Toxic Waste and gummy bears (the sweets rather than some sort of environmental crisis), he plays Crash Bandicoot and laughs maniacally whenever Crash does a belly flop yelling "I like apples, I like apples" (if you've ever seen it or played it, you'll get the reference), he makes up animals that drool "Whaaaat?" (called "Whats") and others that leer "Inniiiit" (called "Innits"). He is the most atypically typical 8-year old I've ever met. A walking paradox and I completely adore him.

The two of them are extremely interested in the progress of Lula, asking about her everyday. When I told them she had a brain tumour there was an endless outpouring of "Is it cancer? Cancer's bad. I think breast cancer is the worst, but brain cancer must be pretty bad too. How did she get it? Will it spread? Can she speak? Can she walk? Will she die? You can die from cancer so you can probably die from a brain tumour. Are brain tumours bad? Will she be able to walk? Will she die?" On and on it goes. Their parents see no point in shielding them from the world, speaking frankly and honestly about everything, and I am happy to follow suit. Fortunately, for the most part, they are insightful and caring kids and this approach seems to work well for them.

Regardless, Lula. She might be coming back today, we have no idea. I went to see her on Wednesday and though she looked a lot better (no paralysis, fabulous haircut - the hospital had to shave half her head, leaving the rest of her hair in this wild Medusa-esque mohawk) but her speech is far worse than I expected. She tires really easily and her hands a shakey because of the medicine. She's been having trouble focussing on the page when she reads, though I wonder if it's the potential strain to an optical nerve as the doctors claim or something to do with the fact she had surgery directly over the language centre of the brain. Her boyfriend Arnau (pronounced arrr-NOW, rolling the R, please) is finding it all very difficult, though not for reasons of not being able to cope, rather because her family keeps interfering. He just wants to look after her, but her mother is determined to be primary care-giver and Lula's stapled head is in the middle of this tug-of-rope trying to placate both sides.

Meanwhile I've got the worst period cramp-wise I've had in years. I've been in clutching-body-parts pain for days now with no sign of respite on the horizon, and very much holding back on the bowel-emptying front. I weighed myself on Wednesday, having gone four days without a shit, and was 8st4 (116 lb). I weighed myself this morning having had the most relieving poo and I'm 7st12 (110 lb). Aside from the wary lack of general weight about me, that's a SIX POUND DIFFERENCE! SIX POUNDS! OF POO! I don't know about you, but that's a little on the gross side as far as I'm concerned.

And now that we've come out the other side of Too Much Information, I'll end by commenting that The Toxic Toadburger Conspiracy, despite the awesome title, is gravely disappointing. Too much Fast Food Nation for kids and not enough story to keep it interesting throughout. A shame, because judging the book by the title, it has so much potential.