There were two drunk homeless men in the park today, picking on the pigeons, the elderly, a small dog...I honestly heard one of them call a squirrel a 'fucking cunt'. All while I was trying to have a panic attack, most inconsiderate. But I didn't point this out to them, because the squirrel was looking quite offended and I didn't want to cause more of a scene.

My dad went to Delhi for six days. He was spectacularly unappreciative of the whole experience. His exact words were: 'it's a shithole'. He said the poverty was unbelievable, and everywhere was dirty and hot and smelled bad. I'm just impressed that he managed six diarrhea free days, because his approach to any kind of illness is 'eat something'. eg. 'Hello, I'm feeling slightly queasy. I'll have a milky coffee and a tin of tuna, that should sort it out.' I thought this approach could pose all sorts of gastric problems in the bacterial playground that is India, but there you go, what do I know? I got funny about drinking the water in Amsterdam.

Sussex news, it is very cold, and I have a mild hangover. My cousins just came over for tea and I made mars bar cakes, weighing in at just under 1,000 calories a bite. I now feel even sicker, and the only thing I can think to do is keep on eating.

When I got to work on Wednesday, I was confronted by a mad girl. There was nobody in the office and I'd barely taken my coat off when she came marching in, demanding to be taken to college. A long argument ensued during which she called her social worker, the college and the bus timetable service, threatening them all when they didn't offer to come over and chaffeur her to Havant personally. She then went on to try and ring a counselling service, her solicitor and the police. There was no milk at home so I hadn't even had a cup of tea and after an hour or so of being shouted at and stomped about in front of by a total stranger, I'd was considering giving up the bleeding hearts business and becoming a media tycoon. It wasn't until her social worker visited in the afternoon that I found out she does actually have mental health problems, and I'd spent a whole morning taking her name in vain and generally being very unfair. She's run away now, which am quite upset about, as she's about one of the most vulnerable people I've ever met, and could teach most toddlers a thing or two about tantrums.

I partied on down with a vengeance at the weekend. It was my cousin's 30th birthday, and he decided to throw a party aboard a tiny barge on the canal. But wait, it gets better, the vessel was to be filled with thirty odd Christians, all of whom were supposed to bring a bottle, and most of these turned out to be squash. Just before setting sail, we were required to say grace, something I haven't done since primary school.

I'm off to work in a bit. Yes that's right, off to work. It's been a while since I've said that. My first day was Monday, and by 11am I'd had two cups of tea, half a packet of biscuits and was about to start my hour and a half lunch break. To say that they're easing us in gently does not really do justice to the situation, it was more like we'd come to live there than work there. Hopefully tonight will be slightly more challenging, I might even get to meet some asylum seekers.

Split up with the boyf again last week. It's seems to happen on a three month basis, we have a row about something insubstantial, it snowballs, I get paranoid, suggest we split up, he agrees, I am horrified that he has taken this suggestion seriously, hang up phone, ring back half an hour later, both admit we don't really want to split up. It sounds a bit like a recipe, and I suppose it is, a recipe for tears and lots of sex and days and days of wondering if this is going anywhere at all?

My mum went to work yesterday with a bag of magic mushrooms in her car. True. My sister found them on a cliff top at the weekend and was planning to poison half of Sussex with them, but she left her booty on the back seat, in full view. Still, it's not illegal unless they're dried out is it? Although by the time she gets round to moving them, they probably will be.

I GOT A JOB!!! IN FACT, I GOT THE JOB!!! There just aren't enough exclamation marks to sum up how I'm feeling. It starts in two weeks, I'm going to be a project worker with young asylum seekers. I hope I can remember how to do it, it's been a while since have done anything remotely work related. I hope they like Neighbours, always a good conversation starter. I know I said that I was going to let my breasts do the talking at the interview, but despite wearing my clingiest top, they refused to play ball. Chicken fillets would be a flattering way of describing them these days. So instead I just had to ramble and ramble, and they nodded and seemed to like it, so I rambled some more about equal opportunities and multidisciplinary thingummyjigging. I've now got ten days to learn what these things actually are.

Man on the train today, coming out with the most brilliantly boring things eg:
'The car park cost 90p. I put a pound in, but didn't get any change'
'Have you ever been to Southampton on the train before? The line runs parallel to the M27.'
I knew without even turning round that he would be wearing brown leather slip-ons, golfing socks, and nylon trousers. I was very pleased that he met my stereotypical assumptions to the letter.

What a day. I was feeling so cocky last night, after going over to le boyfriends and eating dinner with him and his flatmates, followed by a trip to the pub and a bracing round of MarioKart. I was all, 'look at me, I can do it to, I can be normal, and sociable, and venture out after 7pm!'

Joe Mangel turned up on Neighbours today! He's possibly replaced Janelle as my new favourite charcter, after shuffling off for a pee muttering 'just going to drain the spuds'. I used to have a real crush on him was younger, but time has not been kind, and he's actually starting to look a bit like Harold.

I spent 9 hours in Dorset yesterday, with some people who claim to be related to me (sister and cousin) making a tribute to our all time favourite film - Nuts in May: Reloaded

My new flatmate. He's from South Africa, and something of a bible basher. Not that I had a problem with this, until he started holding prayer meetings in the lounge, and gave my sister a ten minute lecture on demon possession when she mentioned she was going ghost hunting with some friends. Also, if I leave anything donwstairs, from a hair pin to an envelope, I come back to find it all neatly laid out in my room. I spent last year living with a girl who rose at approximately 8.12am every Saturday to do her washing, whites first then colours, and kept chocolate in her room to be looked at, not touched. It seems this is my destiny, I'll probably end up married to a vicar, ironing his hankies on a Saturday night.

It's raining here, and the man next door is washing his car.

What a week. Am not sure I can even be bothered to write about it. Went to Goldfrapp. Was freaky. No panic attacks though and lots of bumping into (and being bumped into) by Mr Unsuitable. Got a job in a bar. Lasted two shifts. Had massive anxiety attacks. Went to doctor. Back on anti-depressants. Quit job. Played a lot of Mario Kart with boyfriend. Saw friends today, went to Wetherspoons it was full of old men.
End of blog.

Hmm, well that went surprisingly well. Got to Mr Unsuitable's abode yesterday, and had the distinct feeling he was up for staying right there for the afternoon. Although I do tend to read too much into, well, anything, if somebody came at me with a machete I would probably find a sign in there somewhere that this meant he fancied me. Of course, because of this impression, I immediately did my best to hustle us both out of the flat asap, like the good Catholic girl I'm not. So we went and had lunch and wandered about and it was nice and relaxed. Because I'm so used to having a really desperate crush on him, and editing my every movement to meet with his approval. But since I found myself a blokey, and him a wife, I suddenly feel a lot less self-conscious around him, and not half as eager to get his approval. Plus there's no real desire for anything to happen, other than it'd be nice to be proved right about what's been going on between us.
Goldfrapp on Monday, hmm. Really don't want a panic attack, especially not of the tears and snot variety. A bit of heavy breathing and my heartbeat speeding up will just probably make me sound a bit breathy, and maybe even give me a nice girly glow. But heaving and hyperventilating will probably have him pushing me to the nearest hospital in a shopping trolley and then suddenly remembering he'd left the oven on or his nan in the bath.

I need a job. All of this hanging around the house has brought on an extreme bout of navel gazing. It's not nice examining your every failure in life, I do wish they'd sort out some decent daytime telly. Diagnosis Murder and Neighbours aside, I'm surprised housewives don't put their heads in the oven on a daily basis.

Still no job. I'm chcecking my e-mail every ten minutes at present. Speaking of which, first contact in months from my ex yesterday, who was my best friend for two years until he persuaded me that going out would be a really good idea. I really want to make a friends style 'could he have been more wrong?' comment here, but that would be lame. Oops, too late.

I'm in the library, and they're charging me a pound for a measly half an hour on this crappy terminal. The letters on the keyboard make this horrible schlop schlop noise, probably from the sweat that has seeped underneath them.

8 minutes left, urm, urm, job hunting at the moment, horrible horrible, most horrible. Seen a job I REALLY want, must find some way of killing off all competition. It's a Christian organisation, so I can't even use my breasts as persuasion, although they're looking a bit deflated these days so they probably wouldn't even notice.

I went to the sea life centre yesterday, and now I want one in my bedroom. Well, maybe just the turtle tank, that was great, there was a tunnel underneath it which you could stand in and watch the turtles swim overhead. There was definetely a mutual interest, I've never stared a turtle out before. I want my bedroom to be in that tunnel.

There's a guy who sells the Big Issue outside Waitrose, I don't think he can walk very well because he's usually got a pair of rusty crutches. He wasn't selling much, despite being polite and friendly until now, because he's got himself a sheepdog puppy, and there was definetely a crowd gathering when I walked past tonight. Hmm, a lesson about life in there somewhere, gammy legs, not a good sales pitch, furry friend and you'll be a shareholder by the end of the week.

Although, I have to say, I find the planning my life far more enjoyable than the actual living it. In these plans for the perfect job or the ultimate holiday, the sun is shining, the friends are clinking their glasses together on the terrace and my skin has an Oil of Olay radiance. Nothing is ever dull, or upsetting and never, ever goes wrong. I even have a soundtrack for my life plan. It's very cool, and very bouncy, it's the sort of music they play at the end of a film when they've got the girl and foiled the crooks. It's got guitars and crescendos and stuff.

It's another hot Saturday night in the westest part of Wales. Earlier on this evening, my sister refused to let me watch Crocodile Dundee 2. My parents (seperated, but not divorced. It's been 5 years people!) have been standing outside in the pouring rain for an hour and a half, having a 'discussion'. The arseholes on E-Bay are charging £60 a ticket for Coldplay.

Maybe they'll repeat Crocodile Dundee 2.

I cannot believe what is happening in America at the moment? 5 days to organise a relief effort? 5 days in the richest country in the world? They could probably get another war underway quicker than that. And all George Bush has to do is turn up, hug some people, churn out a few cliches and all is forgiven? He really reminds me of Yoda when he's talking, saying an awful lot whilst not actually saying anything at all. I almost wish that I'd gone and had a bash at that statue of him they toppled in Trafalgar Square in 2003 (although I thought that was going a bit too far at the time, and I was on the protest). He's like some sort of Simpson's caricature of a president. Boo and hiss!

It's not like I've never had a panic attack in a foreign country before, and the weather would probably do me good. Plus bellydancers and camels and...I really don't know anything about Turkey, do they have camels? What about monkeys? I think monkeys alone could persuade me to go and live somewhere, even if it turned out to be Iraq. Definetely something to think about anyway, it'd beat another winter in Britain, and I'd actually have something interesting to put in this blog.

It's the first day of a new month! How many times did you get pinched and punched? I really had to restrain myself from smacking my little sister when she performed that delightful ritual on me this morning, because it's therapy day. I'm always in a bad mood about this, because I dislike navel gazing that intently, apart from to perfect strangers on the net that is.

So now what do I do? I can't just stand there nodding appreciatively about for 90mins because I'll probably get deep vein thrombosis or something. I was planning on dancing like a fool. It's the only way I'll get through it. Maybe I'll fake a seizure, that's easily achieved with the help of sherbet for realistic nose frothing.
You see, THIS is why I need therapy.

I don't know why I find this little cartoon thingy so amusing. Actually I do, am a massive fan of repetitive jokes, my sister and I once had one going for 3 whole days.

http://www.weebls-stuff.com/toons/badgers/

I'm bored. Nobody's e-mailed me for days, apart from Greenpeace. The kitten's asleep, so unavailable for torture. It's raining. Mr Unsuitable is on honeymoon, so can't text pest him. Can't be bothered to text pest anyone else.

That last one should probably be first

I've been away for four days, and man did that kitten get ugly. She's turned into this massive squawling creature with very bad breath. This must be what parents feel like when thye get back from holiday and their cute little toddler has turned into some hormonally addled teenager.

She's grey and furry, and about the size of my fist. Must take after her father.

She's got a permanent cough from the straw dust and she walks like a drunk. I think she's doing this on purpose to get attention, but it's working very well. Spent twenty minutes today watching her chewing a piece of string.

Killing time on the net, waiting for my boyfriend to turn up. We haven't seen each other for three weeks, due to us somehow managing to spend the entire summer at opposite ends of the country. I've buffed, plucked, squeezeed, shaved and generally attempted shake up my body maintenance routine. It's been so nice letting it all slide, although I was horrified by how hairy my legs looked after a couple of days. Do you think it's possible to firm up your buttocks in three hours?

On another note, I notice that Karl Kennedy (Neighbours, you philistines) has now become a counsellor. Yet another string to his frankly over-strung bow, the man not only runs the entire Erinsborough hospital single-handedly, he is also psychiatrist, surgeon and runs a sexual health clinic (although to date, Serena is the only cast member to have visited, when she was planning to shag her brother. They don't have sex in Ramsay Street, preferring to burn off any lustful urges with a game of cricket or drown them with one of Harold's broccoli milkshakes).

My boyfriends are normally 'terribly nice chaps'. 'Chaps' being the key word there. Smart of shirt and shiny of shoe, the type of men whose mother's cut their hair and save all their Tesco receipts in a plastic folder.

Or perhaps, we will go the gig, and bob about awkwardly, nursing those nasty little plastic cups they give you your drink in, and maybe brush hands or catch each other's eye, but that'll be it. And I'll be happy with that, because I can kid myself that maybe he likes me too, and it's a bit of a thrill, and I can't get in trouble for that?

Enough of this relentless obsessing about dodgy Antipodean sopa operas. My sister is watching a far better programme, 'It's a Miracle' on Reality TV. They just featured this dog whose owner crashed her car, and it crawled a million miles through blistering snow and freezing heat etc. to find help. When help arrived, it used morse code or something to tell them where it's owner was.

When we were finally rescued, she would probably then sue me for post traumatic stress and loss of fur using injurylawyers4u

My sister told me a great story yesterday. Tregaron is Wales' answer to Royston Vasey, and there is a man there called Huw, who I think, pretends to be disabled so he can get a free bus pass. He also owns a shop, well, I say shop, it's more a room full of stuff he's found at the side of the road, which he guilt trips people into buying with his fake disability.

If he had any teeth left, doubtless they'd be in a basket on the counter. His wife (if he ever had one) probably spent many lonely hours dangling from a coathanger during Huw's January sale. My sister is thinking of leaving her jumper in a hedge somewhere and seeing if it turns up in Huw's bargain bin. It makes you think twice about leaving your baby outside Spar, because you'd probably end up having to buy it back off Huw, and then trying to remove the price tag from it's head.