...and I'm feeling very twitchy. My stomach hurts and I'm doing my best not to ring him and demand he come home right now and make me cups of tea and change the channel when I can't find the remote. Anyway, he can't come home because he'll be totally rendered by now and if he could even manage to find his car, he's got no chance of driving it sensibly. He'll wind the windows down and yell at people in a phoney Irish accent with a fag hanging out of his gob and make the car swerve all over the road and wave at policeman and end up in a hedge, asleep on the airbag.
I'm going back to Wales tomorrow anyway, as I can feel all this horrible anxious tension building up inside me, and if I don't get out of Chichester soon, I may end up on a murderous rampage in Tesco's with a breadknife. Actually I'm far more likely to hide under my bed for a week, but that's not an appealing option either.
My strange African flatmate is dousing the entire downstairs with chemicals. When I ventured down to make tea, he was on his knees, scrubbing the underside of the radiator. I feel guilty as I have taken over the lounge this week and it's been festooned with screwed up bog roll and biscuit crumbs, which is bound to have driven him crazy. He doesn't like mess you see. He's the kind of person who uses a different piece of dental floss for each tooth, and gets up at 5am every morning to stand naked on the roof, blowing a bugle and saluting the dawn.
I really want to ring him, but I musn't. They're having a roast. I must not ruin it by phoning up and blubbing about the pointlessness of life. I think I will go downstairs and extract our cat (a fellow neurotic) from behind the sofa and force him to sit with me, and drink some chamomile tea and read my library book about Palestine. How I wish Heartbeat was still on the telly.
