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.