I give up. I have a headache and it's the weekend already.

Don't ask. Html and I just don't mix. At all.

Check this out

Someone translated my website into a sexy-sounding European language! Cool, huh?

Anyone know what language it is, btw?

Winner gets kudos.

Mortal coils

Well, it may appear that ole Nance didn’t have any cancer in her body when she popped off the perch this week in the presence of the Youth-In-Asia Masssster Pip. I consider this to be unfortunate on one level because it doesn’t really set the best example for the pro-euthanasia side of the debate, does it?

And on another level, did it really matter whether she actually had cancer in her body or not? I mean, the woman’s quality of life was shocking, she said so herself. So where do you draw the line? She knew that she was going to die, and felt (obviously) that dying would ease her suffering far better than any drugs or hospital treatments might. But she was cancer-free. So should she still have the right to take her own life?

But we’re all going to die. Many of us are probably dying as we speak, without even realising it. Does that then give us all the right to end our life when we so choose, for whatever reason/s we believe?

What does it mean to die?

When I am hit by a particularly bad bout of depression, I feel as though I can sense every cell in my body slowly and achingly degenerating, dying with every breath, and there is nothing in the world I can do to change it. So I lie down, and listen to my breathing, feeling these cells crumble away under my skin, and think, I’m really dying. I’m lying here, listening to myself die.

It’s hard to come back from that place sometimes, to a place of relative normalcy; perhaps shuffle into the kitchen, full of laughing happy housemates and their partners. But I try.

It’s just hard sometimes.

And I know that if it ever got too hard, I’d want to go, too.

Some things can surprise you

Aside from mentioning my two weak points, which are layouts (no experience) and proofreading (just forget to concentrate sometimes), my review went extremely well. I thought that it would take the form of my boss critiquing my performance since I arrived on the scene, ending in me crying but in fact she was very empathetic. She wanted to know if I was happy, how I thought I was going, where I saw myself in a few years time.

She said she hoped that I would stick around for a while.

She really listened.

She apologised when I said that I felt like I was stuck in the middle of a power struggle between her and another 'of-equal-status' manager. And for being thrown to the lions as fresh meat when I first arrived.

We only just got back to the office. Three hours, two coffees, lunch and an orange juice later.

Doomsday

I have my three-month performance review today. Now, if any of you have been paying attention and are even rudimentarily (? I think that's a word) half-decent at maths, you will have worked out that I have been gainfully (ahem) employed by The Company for more than three months now.

Which says two things to me. One, they aren't going to sack me, because I'm still here. During the three-month probationary period, which is standard in an Australian employment contract these days, the employer can sack you for any or no reason at all, at any time. The employee can also leave at any time and not give notice or reasons.

And two, that they're slack bastards. I've been here for just abouts five months. How long is it going to take them to get me the key to the lift if it takes them this long to do a three-month performance review?

Besides, my head is full of snot. Melbourne's pollution can really go suck eggs.

On the bus this morning

Girl 1: Oh, hi, didja go to John’s party on the weekend? How was it?

Girl 2: It was so cool. We danced and danced and everyone was drinking, but no one got piss-drunk, so that was good.

Girl 1: So, like, what happened with Justin?

Girl 2: Oh yeah, like, it was so funny. We were dancing, right, and then Mike yells out, get away from her, you jackass, she’s got a BOYFRIEND!

Girl 1: No! Really?

Girl 2: Yeah, fully.

Girl 1: So then what happened?

Girl 2: So Justin goes, why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend? So I go, well, you didn’t ask me if I had one.

Girl 1: Have you got Mrs Mathers for English today?

This I remember

Peeling the skin back from my eyes
I felt surprised
that the time on the clock was the time
I usually retired
To the place where I cleared my head of you
But just for today ... I think I'll lie and dream
I've got you under my skin - where the rain can't get in,
But if the sweat pours out - just shout
I'll try to swim and pull you out
A howling wind that blows the litter as the rain flows
As street lamps pour orange-coloured shapes
through your windows
A broken soul - stares from a pair of watering eyes
Uncertain emotions
force an uncertain smile

I am 19.

The sun is burning my right arm, as I hang it oh-so-casually out the window of my sky-blue 1979 Corolla sedan.

It’s March.

I’m driving to university.

Today I feel happy, because it’s Friday.

I turn up my stereo, into which I shoved my favourite The The tape earlier. As I sing along to Uncertain Smile, thinking about the outfit I had cleverly flung together for the previous evening’s festivities, I ponder the usual array of philosophical questions that pester the mind of a suburban 19-year-old:

A. What am I doing with my life?

B. Where am I going?

C. Is that the cops behind me? Because I’ve not got my Ps up.

D. What will I wear out tonight?

E. What will I say to my lecturer about the fact that my 2500-word essay on post modern existentialism and its place in the art world is now two weeks late and I haven’t technically broken my leg?

F. Could it get any hotter?

G. Do I have any change at all for parking today? Should I risk not paying? That would mean three more bucks for drinks tonight. That’s three beers, if I get my shit together and get to the pub in time for happy hour.

H. Why don’t I think I’m pretty enough?

I. Why don’t I have a boyfriend? It’s because I’m fat, right? Is it because I don’t stand up straight, and boys think that’s really ugly, right?

And funnily enough, many of these questions still remain as pertinent to my life now as they were 10 - OH MY GOD! 10! - years ago. Apart from the essays being late, and the price of beer going up considerably.

I still don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing with my life, but I have a much better appreciation for the journey and less interest in the arriving, than I did 10 years ago. I still don't know where I'm going.

Now I wonder about whether it can get any colder, if younger people could get any ruder (because we were never that rude when we were their age, natch), and if bread could possibly get more expensive, give that I remember when it used to cost $1.45 a loaf, and that wasn't too long ago.

I still don't think I'm pretty enough, but I've also learned to ask, 'pretty enough for who?' - still don't have an answer for that, either.

Thankfully I've grown out of that thought process in which you catalogue with great ease all your faults and then attribute your single status to the fact that if you didn't have this catalogue, you would have a boyfriend/husband/lover. Boyfriend does not equal validation. Ever. Thank CHRIST I know this now.

And in Melbourne, no one cares about the cops. Not like they care in Perth, at any rate.

A day in the life

6.00am: Knock over half empty beer bottle as alarm beeps and paw bedside table in vain effort to hit snooze.

6.10am: Repeat, minus beer bottle bit. I’m not that much of a drinker!

6.45am: Finish working out just how late self can turn up at work before leaving again, and swear faithfully that today, self will work late, proving to others that self is worthy and dedicated employee, if it means ten more minutes of snooze time.

6.55am: Swing bare feet over edge of bed and step into neatly placed and fresh pile of dog poop. Swear that should the dog live to the end of the day, it will never sleep in the bedroom again.

6.56am: Turn on central heating and repeat the mantra that yes, moving to Melbourne was worth it, even if it is FUCKING FREEZING for more than six months of the year.

6.57am: Stand in front of clothes rack simultaneously debating what self can get away with wearing today that requires no ironing/effort of any kind and watching the clock to see how much more time can be wasted before absolutely, positively have to leave the house.

6.58am: Remove clothing. Enter shower recess. Proceed to wash hair, body, face, clean teeth, scrub grout between the tiles and polish the taps, colour-coordinate towels and assorted Manchester in bathroom cupboard; in fact, partake in any activity possible to avoid the inevitable fact that soon self must leave the house to fulfil contractual obligation to The Company.

7.25am: Exit shower recess. Utter silent apology to housemates for using all the hot water.

7.35am: Leave house.

7.36am: Swear violently as tram passes gleefully by, before I have time/energy to make a run for it. Resign self to a 12 minute wait for the next one.

7.49am: Reach bus stop. Begin internal dialogue about where to stand while waiting for the bus – a) in the shelter, thereby reducing chances of getting on bus first and getting best seat, but also get opportunity to sit and wait for bus; or b) stand at the actual pole that Victoria’s public transport bigwigs have designated as the official bus stopping position, thereby ensuring pole position (ahem) for picking best seat when bus arrives, but also having to remain vertical while waiting to do so.

8.02am: Board bus. Swear that tomorrow, will get up ten minutes earlier to travel across the city before 8am. Silently issue death notice to God for making the traffic so appalling this morning.

8.04am: Issue death notices to the following – loud gum chewer one seat behind me; heavy breather on the back seat; inconsiderate snotty private school sluts who don’t give up their seats to anyone older than they are.

8.54am: Disembark bus. Swear to self that next pay will start saving for car/bazooka. Trudge towards building containing The Company.

8.55am: Enter building. Ride lift to third floor.

8.56am: Sling coat, bag to the floor, punch PC to ‘on’. Exit office cubicle.

8.56am: Enter kitchen. Make very strong coffee. Pass cursory eye over daily newspapers.

9.10am: Return to office. Turn on radio.

9.11am: Check office emails. Reply as necessary.

9.15am: Decide which friend on other side of country will be blessed by phone call from self later in the day.

9.17am: Check time. Decide to make another coffee. Exit to kitchen.

9.25am: Return to desk.

9.26am: Check time.

9.26am: Check various weblogs and media internet sites. Do daily crosswords. Check personal emails.

11.00am: Make executive decision to walk down street to organic bakery for breakfast and fresh coffee.

11.30am: Return to desk. Espouse virtues of said bakery to workmates.

12.00 noon: Check news sites for midday updates.

12.34pm: Make pit-stop to bathroom. Relieve one’s self in leisurely fashion, redo one’s hair in similarly slow fashion.

1.02pm: Leave office on pretext of getting lunch. Wander streets aimlessly.

1.45pm: Return to office. Check office emails.

1.46pm: Check time.

1.46pm: Check blogs again.

1.47pm: Contemplate writing something for own blog, but cannot decide on any juicy topics.

1.48pm: Check time.

1.49pm: Exit cubicle. Head to kitchen for hot beverage preparation.

1.50pm: Swear under breath as call for self announced over office intercom system. Who dare interrupt my time wasting?

1.51pm: Make appropriate ‘I’m listening, really’ noises to squawking reader on phone. Promise to rectify alleged error. Pretend to write down their contact details when in fact am busy checking what food is in the fridge that nobody will miss if eaten by self.

1.56pm: Return to cubicle. Wonder if there is anyway to fiddle with office electrics so one’s fluro lights can be turned off without disturbing other workmates.

2.00pm: Place interstate phone call to lucky friend decided upon earlier.

2.30pm: Ring boyfriend to inform of self’s complete state of ennui.

2.45pm: Check time.

2.45pm: Check time again, just to see how much time has passed since last checked.

2.46pm: Ring housemates to check on status of puppy.

2.47pm: Pass eye over newsletter proofs. Pretend to be interested in topics and in proofreading all four editions.

3.02pm: Sigh loudly.

3.03pm: Check time.

3.03pm: Write letter to mother.

3.10pm: Write letter to father.

3.25pm: Write letter to dead grandmother.

3.35pm: Check time.

3.35pm: Write letter to 7th grade bully, denouncing her behaviour to self as appalling and trite. Demand apology. Realise have no address for letter.

3.45pm: Write sneering letter of outrage to Australia Post, denouncing their incompetence as far as sending items Express Post goes. Realise that reason item did not reach recipient within 24 hours as guaranteed by Australia Post was because self forgot to post it in time.

4.00pm: Return to kitchen for hot beverage.

4.07pm: Return to cubicle. Shuffle papers on desk.

4.08pm: Attempt to create new filing system for papers that will leave desk neat and tidy.

4.09pm: Realise desk will always be messy because self is self-described slob.

4.10pm: Check other blogs.

4.15pm: Change radio stations.

4.25pm: Check time.

4.25pm: Resolve to do at least ten minutes of proofreading before next fun activity.

4.26pm: Pick up newsletter proofs in effort to continue proofreading.

4.30pm: Exit cubicle. Resolve to walk around office at least twice without raising suspicion of CEO.

4.45pm: Return to cubicle.

4.45pm: Check time.

4.45pm: Calculate exactly how many more minutes self can spend in office before leaving.

4.46pm: Resolve to stay until at least 5.30pm to make up for arriving late in the am.

4.47pm: Turn up nose at resolution, convince self that company bastards are lucky to have self on premises for such vast clumps of time as it is.

4.48pm: Resolve to leave at 5.20pm to catch 5.25pm bus.

4.48pm: Check time.

4.49pm: Exit cubicle. Walk forcefully towards boss’s office carrying four sheets of paper and looking resourceful/thoughtful/busy.

4.50pm: Involve boss in long and tiring discussion about the value of pets and dogs in particular. Reminisce about the old school days.

5.00pm: Return to cubicle.

5.00pm: Check time. Rejoice that only 15 minutes – nay! Twenty minutes – of the working day remain.

5.01pm: Consider building George Kastanza type sleeping structure under desk. Wonder how this can be done without raising any suspicion.

5.10pm: Place call to friend. Arrange to meet for drinkies.

5.15pm: Justify to self that leaving RIGHT NOW is okay as contract states working day concludes at 5.15pm.

5.16pm: Exit cubicle. Ride lift to ground floor.

5.17pm: Wonder if self can make it to bus stop in time for earlier bus.

5.25pm: Board bus.

5.27pm: Issue death warrants to the following: driver, for driving like typical maniac; loud gum chewer two rows behind and on the left; long-haired girl sitting next to self who keeps flicking hair on to self’s fascinating novel. Begin internal questioning about why general public does not appear to understand basic rules of personal space.

5.55pm: Disembark bus.

5.57pm: Board tram.

5.59pm: Disembark tram. Flip the bird to inconsiderate, cunty-fucknuckle motorists who insist on speeding past tram just as it’s opening its doors, thereby endangering self's life.

6.00pm: Conduct brief, genial conversation with Frank, seller of beer, about day. Purchase beer or related alcoholic substances.

6.15pm: Arrive home.

6.17pm: Begin drinking.

Repeat ad nauseum.

A vignette

It rained as I walked home last night.

I walked in the door to be greeted by a sleepy housemate and a very excited puppy.

My dad called. He said he loved me. I said that I loved him, too. (Remind me to tell you some time about how I met my dad when I was 26 and it remains the single most amazing thing to happen to me, ever, even surpassing the move to Melbourne). He asked how work was going, the house, the fella, the puppy. Crap, I said. I hate my job. So what, he laughed. You hate all your jobs. That's normal for you. Thanks Dad.

Ericmonkey and I went to puppy school sans Bertie. The first week they attempt to teach the parents. We bemoaned on the walk home that we've pretty much done everything wrong. Our son is wrong! He needs reprogramming, badly. Dogs, apparently, should not -

* be allowed to sleep on/in the bed
* have more than one or two toys to play with at any one time
* have on-going access to food, they should get food at regular times and at no other time
* be fed before the parents eat
* precede you through any doorway or gate

Bertie did (but not after last night!) -

* sleep on and in the bed
* have several toys on the go at any one time, including several of my shoes and socks
* have food constantly on tap
* get fed whenever I felt like it, which was usually before I ate because he was being such a pain the easiest way to calm him down was to feed him
* galloped happily through any doorway before ericmonkey and myself

He slept in the kitchen last night. Fear not, he has a basket and an old jumper of mine to sleep on, plus one chew toy and one normal toy to keep him entertained. He scratched and whined a bit, but seemed to cope okay. And boy, was he pleased to see me this morning!

Once we got home last night, ericmonkey busied himself in the kitchen making pies for dinner while I did my homework in my room. If I look at another adjectival prepositional phrase, my brain will disintegrate into a heaving, sobbing mass of canned spaghetti.

Then I fell asleep. At about 9.30pm.

You reckon Nestle is bad

Have a look at what Kraft is doing to this poor fellow here. Just for changing a graphic around. Jeez.

Just whistle a happy tune

*whistles manically while checking the clock ... again*

I hate my job, but I try to be happy here
No one likes me, but I didn’t come here to win popularity contests
I could cry, but my skin is tougher than a damn rhino’s

Repeat ad nauseum until 5.30pm rolls around.

Is that a hole in your jumper exposing all your right armpit hair, or are you just happy to see me?

Her: Hi, I just want to make a few adjustments to the newsletters. Can we please check off where the sponsorship stories are going?

Me: Sure. Just as long as you don’t want to re-arrange any pages.

Her: Oooooooooh, sweeeeeeeeetie, you’ve got a giant hole in your jumper under your armpit!

Me: I know.

Her: I’ve heard of getting some fresh air, but that’s going a bit far, don’t you think!?

Me: The sponsorship story is going on page 2 in newsletter A, page 9 in newsletter B, page 7 in newsletter C and page 2 in newsletter D. Okay?

Her: Yeah, great, just so I can check it off my list.

Me: No problem, you fucking smug, arrogant bitch. No problem at all.

Two addendums to that story:

A) My boss took great glee in bringing said hole to my attention, while I was on the phone trying to conduct an interview with someone who had promised to write me something and hadn’t. I was on the phone. Being professional. She came into my office and pointed and laughed. Bitch.

B) I didn’t really call the marketing manager a bitch. I wanted to, but for about the second time in my life, I restrained my big, acid-tongued mouth and kept it shut.

Another day, another day

Here I am, sitting in my 5m X 5m box, lit by fluorescents, feeling rather trapped, and wondering if another 60 seconds have passed since I last checked the time.

I’m bored.

I’m lonely. And friendless.

Not lonely outside of work, mind, just while I’m here. And before I really begin to explain this, let me tell you that I know you don’t go to work expecting to make good friends. You go to work to work. I know this. But you can usually expect to make at least one half-decent connection while you’re there.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve been very conscientious about leaving my office door open so anyone can walk in, at any time (thereby showing that I am a friendly and approachable person). I always look people in the eye and acknowledge them with a smile. Usually I will even ask how they are or how their day is going. Never a frown, never a frown, with golden brown, I say (thanks, Stranglers).

Dammit, I even walk around the office, not because I am on a work-related errand, but because I want to connect with others who work here and show that I’m not just stuck on my arse in here all day, every day; that I do want to get to know people and become friends of sorts. I show my face. I go to all the functions. I drink the complementary drinks (do I ever). Laugh in the right places.

Perhaps I smell. Although my mum did buy me a giant bottle of Sunflowers perfume for my 30th, and I’ve been using that on a fairly regular basis.

Is it because I don’t buy into the office politics? Is it because I make a point of not gossiping?

Perhaps this is the problem. I don’t fit the norm so I am treated with suspicion.

But maybe everyone else is just too busy to have friendly chats with me.

I’m a nice, friendly person. Why isn’t it paying off?

Sigh.

Goodbye, and RIP, to a most honourable VIP

"Dear Grandma, I see you lying down in the coffin so pretty and peaceful. Lie down with Grandpa.

"I hope you are having a nice time flying across the moon and through the stars."

Not happy, Jan

It’s taken around about 24 hours for me to realise why this organisation is making me sick. I’ll try not to sound as though I’m whingeing below. I’m really just trying to outline (for myself as much as anything else) why this situation isn’t working for me.

A) I am so tired of working in an office with fluorescent lighting. I don’t really care so much about anyone else, but I want to have control over the lighting in my little box. I don’t like fluro, it’s bad for my eyes and for the feng-shooey, and I’d rather work by daylight or funky lamplight, thanks very much.

B) Everyone is very conservative and people appear to spend more time gossiping about other people than they do working. Much of this rumour-mongering takes place at the printer, which is conveniently located just outside my office. I wonder if people are aware that sound carries and if they want to discuss someone’s affairs privately, then perhaps right in front of my office might not be the place to do it?

C) Far too many of the women here are bitchy and petty and behave as though they are in a high school quadrangle, not in a professional organisation. Case in point: when I first started working here, the marketing/PR manager insisted on taking me under her wing and dragging me out for coffee with her cronies (‘sweeeeetie, you can’t sit in that office aaaaaaaall day, come and have a coffee, will you?’) for about the first three weeks I was here.

When it became apparent that I wasn’t ‘fitting in’ with the general vibe of the clique, ie, I refused to gossip about workmates or other professionals associated with this organisation, or pass judgement on passers-by, I was dropped faster than the proverbial hot potato, and haven’t been asked to coffee since.

Not that this bothers me, of course. I've far better things to get my knickers twisted over, like world peace, ferinstance.

D)I'm tired of having to justify leaving work on time, instead of staying back for an extra hour like the Good Workers do (hello? I have a life outside of work, thanks, and believe it or not, I like to enjoy it. So goodnight, already). Tired of feeling guilty when I do leave on time, worried about how my behaviour will reflect on my job performance here in the eyes of others.

Just be straight up, people. Got something to say? Say it out loud. Got a problem with me? Tell me about it first so we can discuss it like mature people, rather than leaving me to catch the tail end of a whispered rumour in the hallway.

And, finally, THANK GOD IT’S FRIDAY AND I CAN GO HOME SOON.

She's baaaa-ack

Yes, I am. And my neck is killing me. On the positive side, I have been to DJ's food hall this morning to buy some organic apple and cherry juice and a big scoop of roasted macadamia nuts. At least lunch will be good!

Still resting.

And enjoying it, too.

Right, folks, here's the deal:

I'm off from work for the next seven days, thanks to a nifty little medical certificate in my hand that just says that I'm "sick". Posts may be irregular as I take time out to sleep, dammit, and try and get my head around what the funk I'm doing with my life.

I don't know why I bother

No. I really don't. This job is over.

A conversation

Two dollars, thanks, just to St. Kilda Junction.

Just use your tram ticket.

Pardon?

Didn't I just see you get off that tram?

Yes.

So use your tram ticket.

Erm .... I don't have one?

What do you mean, you don't have one? You just got off that tram, right?

Yes, but I don't have a ticket.

Oh well, it's your own fault if you get caught. Two dollars, please.

Bus drivers with attitude. Who needs 'em?

I want to lie on the grass and watch the clouds blow gently by

True. I do. My Inner Child is begging to be let out. Job be damned! Let her out, I say. ('but what will you do for money?' - thanks mum, I'll work something out)

No more alarms at the ungodly hour of 6.15am. No more dealing with fuckwitted ego-centric dick-knuckles out to get their own way and tear me from limb-to-limb in the process. Hang me out to dry? No thanks.

I'm off to watch the sunshine on my puppy in the back garden of my lovely and loving home.

What am I doing?

This morning I awoke after a refreshingly stress-free weekend. And I thought to myself, 'what the hell are you doing with yourself, missjenjen?'. the funny thing is, I reckon that deep down I do know exactly what it is that I am meant to be doing, but cannot seem to find the courage/conviction/wisdom/eyesight to follow it through. This in itself is making me depressed. When I feel this way it is as though there is no point to carrying on any more.

A big part of me wants to make the leap and study full-time next semester (which is not that far off, really). This is the same big part of me that drags her heels coming to work everyday, the same big part of me that spends hours on the internet, ignoring what little un-challenging work she has in front of her.

The same big part of me that gets resentful about how tired she is, how unwilling to enjoy her relationships with others she is, how stressed she is and how she keeps getting those tiny little flashes of anger, white, hot, blinding anger when she stumbles or knocks into something. The part that crumbles and whimpers when nastyjennifer whispers and snarls to her: you're just a stupid, dumb, lazy little fat bitch, aren't you? Eh? What have you ever done right? Always in it for yourself, never thinking of others, selfish cow. Well, you'll learn. You'll get yours. Stupid, that's what you are. You just never THINK.

So what to do, what to do? There is no question that I am depressed, clinically so, and have been on medication for a while now to deal with it. And while my meds do offer a modicum of support and a 'pause' element for my brain, which is constantly on overdrive, it's not giving me everything. Neither should it, mind you. I recognise that peace of mind doesn't necessarily come in tablet form, although medication can help somewhat. I know that there are other factors in my life that are causing me to feel this way - namely, the excessive amount of travelling I do to get to a job I don't like and from which I don't get any satisfaction.

What is more important to me? A career? Or mental health? Corporate suits that cost me a fortune? Or quality relationships with people I care about? Whoring myself for money (which is never, ever enough, in my opinion)? Or returning to full time study and following my dreams?

I suppose when I put it that way, the answers are all too clear, really, aren't they?

Time, people, move along

Only 17 seconds to Sophie. This a really stunning piece of animation, well worth the look. The film-maker painstakingly shot two frames per day of his naked pregnant wife, and this one minute film is the result. A small clip of this film is featured in the film Amelie.

I think it's quite thoroughly beautiful.

Ahem.

Oh my freakin god

I am hungover beyond belief today. I am beyond belief because I really didn't have THAT much to drink last night. Well, there was that one beer at lunch, and I didn't have any dinner, just loads of nibblies at the art exhibition opening with ericmonkey, Bertie-Boop, SuperAnge and Daniel-san. Plus there were free drinks at the gallery, so add another five beers on to that, plus the one I had when I got home that I didn't really need .... but still, I was in bed at ten thirty, which is pretty good for me, and yet I am hungover - painfully so - today. It's so bad I'm contemplating a) having Hungry Jacks for lunch (and you know it's bad when you think about how good schlops from this awful, satanic place will taste to you) and b) chucking a sickie after lunch and going home to ease my death metal of a headache.

And having just read the paragraph above I do believe that someone may have just a teensy-weensy tiny problem with alcohol. Methinks. So tonight I shall have a booze-free eve. And clean up my room.

I am obssessed. Officially.

I'm reading an excellent book at the moment (don't laugh, some may find this selection slightly daggy): Dawn Fraser: One Hell of a Life. Dawnie was my hero when I was 12 and also a swimmer with a chip on my shoulder. But that's besides the point. My point: I am obssessed with words. I found two typos in the first three chapters. I opened the first page and mentally began re-arranging the syntax of the first paragraph so it didn't end with a preposition.

Good or bad, it's the way it is. I gotta learn to relax more.

I have my life back

Daniel and I dropped The Mothership off at the airport last night. It's been a very long couple of days for missjenjen. As we got back into the car after waving goodbye, Daniel started to laugh.

"I can't believe you took a photo of your arse with your mother's camera," he said.

"I can."