30.10.05..9:45 am

Last night I found myself coerced into 1940s Harlot Red lipstick and a batwing tiara, and surrounded by tattooed rockabillies in teddy-boy/girl digs listening to The Monster Mash and Love Potion No 9. It fucking rocked! There's nothing quite like being forced to listen to obscure 50s swing and trashy retro pop to make an evening sail. Every now and then I have to do the door for the Virginia Creepers nights, a rockabilly dance club wherein pencil skirts and cashmere, sideburns and pinklepickers have never gone out of fashion. It's an interesting crowd, brought together, not out of nostalgia, but out of a sense that certain fashions and lifestyles should never die.* They're a bit exclusive, a bit elitist, but in terms of the fashion, it's a glorious sight for thems that seek not the high street. And I get an extra tenner for my troules, which makes me even friendlier than my usual charming doorlady self.

* That sounds like all the men are Back to the Kitchen, Woman and the women come dressed in their aprons. It's not what I mean. Feminist sentiment is abound, women and men alike. I mean more the music, the cocktails, the dance, that sort of thing.

DO THE WAGGLE-HEADED CELERYBEAST MASH!

My mum keeps slily mentioning her intention to get laser eye surgery and be rid of glasses for ever, but I'm not so sure. I rather like easing into consciousness, waking into a blurry world of fuzzy shapes and haloed windows. I have a feeling that if I were to get the surgery done I'd be left with a permanent fear I'd left my contacts in over night. Waking up with contacts in is the weirdest sensation ever, possibly even weirder than when you open up the fridge and Smell Something that wasn't in the crisper yesterday. Everything's so sharp and gritty. I'm worried I'd end up associating the sandpaper-to-eyeball feeling with permaclear vision. (Though letting up on the permabruised shins wouldn't go amiss.)

Also, in wearing glasses you at least get the option of not wearing them. Being coccooned in a bath of indistinction. This afternoon, after some rather delightful after-lunch sex, I was lying in bed with my partner in sightlessness all snuggled and hazed. From my sideways vantage point the branches on the tree outside our window vaguely resembled a shape-shifting army of waggle-headed celery beasts brandishing pitchforks in battle with a flock of cartoon eagles.

If that's not reason enough to remain sightfully hindered, I don't know what is.

GETTING (K)NITTY WITH IT

You know how I've been rabbitting on about how awesome my money-exchange is? How I get to hang out with academic, socialist children with truly advances stages of imagination? I eat my words. They're little shits the both of them.

On Thursday I took them down to Camden Town for the afternoon and then to see The Corpse Bride, all of which was met with unusual levels of awe. This is possibly because the first person we meet coming up from the canal was wearing a grimace that could have caused Jack the Ripper to turn to flower arranging. This person was drenched in kohl, doned a pink tutu, striped leggings and a black top hat. Despite the extraordinarily large bosom that stretched across 'her' front, my guess is that it was a severely unattractive man in drag. After all, when have extraordinarily large bosoms ever defined femaleness?

Regardless, all day Arthur had been tearing at his scalp, so finally I turned to Mary on the bus and said in low, discreet tones "Does Arthur have nits?"

"Yeah, I think so." She said back, then boomed "ARTHUR? HAVE YOU GOT NITS?" At which point Arthur copped a guilty grin and the woman next to him started edging nervously towards the requisit Stinky Drunkard. I grabbed his head (Arthur's) and at the first parting was a massive louse crawling over a lock of blonde hair. "ARTHUR!" I wailed. Mary looked delighted and promptly began telling the whole bus her own history with the parasites, ending proudly with "And I didn't really get rid of them until about 3 weeks ago!" By this point the quite horrified woman sitting next to Artur was no longer sitting next to Arthur and even Stinky Drunkard had moved his stench down the bus leaving the entire back row to me, Mary and the Nitbeast.

I paranoi easily when it comes to Crawling Things so was immediately convinced I was inflicted, bought the shampoo from Fresh and Wild on my way home thinking, "Die, you Fuckers!" It's good ecologically friendly, herbal, packed with neem seed and ecalyptus stuff, highly recommended but that didn't stop me from spending my Sunday morning - my GAIN AN HOUR SUNDAY - sitting under a burning desk lamp quietly knitting while Matthew attacked with tweezers and a comb, painstakingly worked through my entire head picking out one egg after the other. Right back to sitting in the livingroom in three hour stretches with my mum slowly going over my head with a steel short-toothed comb when I was eight and had hair half way down my back. A trip down memory lane I'd rather avoid, thank you very much. I think we got most of them, but it's a fucking nightmare.

The good news is that the baby blanket (that I've been keeping well away from falling nits) is half finished. With any luck it'll be ready to send by Friday, whee?! I'm going to try try try to get Matthew to bring home his bluetooth thing so that I can upload some pictures of my little marvel, my craftiness, fuck, my all round Renaissence Woman Genius.

THE BIRTH OF THE THANKSGIVING COMPROMISE

Speaking of my recent spate of RWG, last Sunday -- days before The Outbreak, I thank you -- I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner for twelve! Right here in my poxy flat! For twelve! As I had missed the Canadian Thanksgiving (second Monday of October) and amn't American (third Sunday of November), I hosted mine on the third weekend of October and have a hearty and thankful, Screw You! to anyone who quibbles right here in my pocket.

I baked a nut roast, a tofu quiche and two pumpkin pies. I souped pumpkin, butternut squash and carrot (with ruby chard and rosemary) soup. I roasted parsnips, beetroot and potatoes. I mashed carrot and swede and steamed some brussel sprouts. And it fucking rocked the house! There's nothing quite like having a bunch of people from various walks of life mingling and liking each other enough to exchange phone numbers. We listened to funny old LPs that Matthew and I have been collecting, chatted long into the night, completely ignored the Emily Post Rule that one does not get drunk at a dinner party. Everyone went home completely stuffed and, barring they weren't totally lying to my face and puking the second they stepped out the door, quite impressed with my culinary skillz. It cost a fucking bomb, but dude. Watching a bunch of my friends happily eat a meal i've prepared was more gratifying than I ever expected. And it gives me an excuse to wear my pretty pretty apron.

Of course this does mean that I've been left with way more pumpkin than I have recipes for, I've made pumpkin pies, soups, bread. I've grilled it, roasted it, stuffed half of one. If anyone has any ideas, feel free to pass them on. I've been finding all my adventures in cookery are turning into cookbook fodder, so if they turn out I'll credit you. Deal? Ah, yes.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've some potatoes and red pepper to roast.

****emmms, covered in flour and stinking of neem seed, o so sexy..