27.11.05..1:00 pm

A MOMENT OF SILENCE, PLEASE

Weirdly it turns out I'm sort of at the top of my class. I figured they'd hand out distinctions to any old fuck who slept with their tutor, but apparently it's just me and one other. (Not that I have to, but you know I'm joking on that, right?)(Right, I thought so.) I'm still feeling a bit freaked out by the whole thing, but will be venturing into a night of drinks and frivolity down at the Good Mixer with my fellow former-students, so I think it will begin to hit then. At least, it will if J comes, he's got a remarkable gift for turning pleasant and trivial conversation into debates on post-modernism/Baudrillard/the concept of duree. Bear in mind that is No Bad Thing. It's half the reason I would marry him if I were at all attracted to him. I'm just saying that the surreal will either vanish into the ether or cumlinate into one big fire-ball of the phasmagorical with me hiding under a table trying not to drench myself with beer.

DOMESTIC INSANITY

I baked the best bread in the world. Just now. I mean it. I got up, cleaned the kitchen and made some bread while the laundry was on. Domestic goddess or fanatical devotion to multi-tasking? Who can say. All I know is I've got a load of laundry moulding the the machine - where it will stay moulding for the next hour or so - and a perfect loaf of bread cooling in the kitchen.

What makes it perfect is not the healthy sprinkle of poppy seeds or pumpkin seeds. It will not be the taste, nor the texture. What makes it perfect is that it rose. It rose! I felt like Frankenstein when I pulled off the cloth to reveal the perfectly risen dough. When I took it out of the oven and found it had risen even more I nigh on burst into tears and sang hallelujah. As soon as I'm finished here I'm going to cut me a slice. I'll let you know if it's as perfect inside as it is outside.

IT'S NOT SO MUCH A WASTE OF TIME AS A WASTE OF VALUABLE BRAIN CELLS

Matthew stayed down at the studio last night being a musical genius while I went dooring at the Betsey and got drunk by myself when I came home. I've not done that since the last time he stayed down at the studio for the night, so it was high times and rock 'n roll all over. We - Milan and I - took full advantage of the late licencing laws and stayed at the bar until half-12. (See? I DO rock!) On my way home I kept having to stop and pull off my mitts and unwind my scarf so I could scribble plot devices and storylines. One very nearly frostbitten baby finger later I was back at the ranch typing away happily and polishing off a litre bottle of San Miguel. I ended up staying awake until 4 in the morning. I'd love to say that it's because I had continued the late night streak of productivity, but that would be lying out my arse.

I stayed up watching an appalling abomination of broadcast entitled 'Average Joe'. It's like Who Want's to Marry a Millionaire, except with ugly fat guys and a sorority girl instead of that heinous troglodyte who roamed France for a few weeks with a flock of scrappy gold-diggers. I'm still not sure what captivated me so much about it. Either the monster under the bed who would DEFINITELY come out should I turn the TV off, or the wobbling pudgy cheeks trying not to bluber when she booted their fat arses off. They also ALL and I repeat ALL had the worst sunburns I've ever seen. Each were blotchy beyond recognition except for the three model type dudes who clearly took note when sitting in the make-up chair down at the runway. Those poor blotchy fat-arses never had a chance. Actually, Mikaila, the sunny upbeat Doris Day of the reality game show bag-me-a-man gal of the moment, was neither blotchy nor tanned. Rather fake-tan porcelain. She dimpled graciously at the blistered chosen ones as she broke their hearts and flicked her hair a lot.

I didn't have any dream when I finally fell asleep. I think my brain was trying to recover from the horror that was.

Only 8000+ words to go. Fingers crossed.

O, and toast! Prefect toast!

****emmms