Gosh, if my brain could write. "WEATHER'S CRAP, FOOD'S OK, BACK SOON X" Analyse that. Its columns would be better than mine. I should let it write them. Which of course it is, but let us not get into that sort of biological wrangling at this time of night.

I nearly named this column "Postcard from my bed," for my location, but I didn't want to be accused of titilation. Titilation - lovely word. I watched a fascinatingly rubbish programme about boob jobs tonight. Tit-elation, I hoped, but not so. My brain is forever scarred from seeing implanted F cup breasts on a very slim woman. They were veiny, streched beyond belief, and stood out like rocks from her tiny body. I couldn't believe that she'd done that to herself and actually winced to look at them. Her husband was a dickhead... A "The bigger the better" kind of man, holding an attitude that I'm sure contributed to the woman he apparently loves having 5 operations with general anaesthesia and complications (implants bursting) that meant she was without one implant for 6 months. Neanderthal, smarmy, ugly, fat, blonde wanker. I hope she leaves him for a 6'5 male model with abs you could slice cucumber on. (And breathe...)

Sometimes, my dears, I fear that I am generally lacking in common sense. I can be pragmatic, critical, analytical to the point of coldness; never, it seems, at the right time. I feel reasonably happy at the moment, though simultaneously rather disengaged from my environment. Perhaps the two things are related!

It has been so, so sunny!

I am at work 5 days a week at the moment. I am stuck away from the sunshine. I love the sun, I want to feel it warming my soul. It makes me feel alive when nothing else can.

QOTD: "Um... two syllables. Squirrel?"