So my mum has been gone since Friday morning. This is good. I have the place to myself. But what I don’t understand is how she keeps it sooooo tidy?! I look around me and strewn across the bench are vitamins, a half drunk bottle of water, an unopened bottle of wine, empty juice bottle, brown sugar, chai syrup, her notes to me (…the rubbish goes out on Tuesday night, remember to bring the bin in when you get home on Wednesday, if you have to use my car, make sure you use leaded petrol, water the plants, close the curtains…remember to turn the heating off….), then there’s this weeks and last weeks Green Guide, my work bag, shoes…the list goes on. I must remember. Constant vigilance! De-messify!

Am going out to play some music with Chris and Mung later on, and decided that I must wash my jeans before I wore them again. So now, whenever I glance to my right, it looks very much like someone has dived head first down the heating vent in the floor. I’ve spread the waist of my jeans around the vent and the legs are sticking up, filled with hot air, supported by the back of a chair. Creepy. Oh. And just for pointers? Don’t read a blow by blow description of the Columbine shootings in (that quite astonishingy crappy) GQ magazine that someone gave you because it’s got an interview with Frank Black/Black Francis in it. You will then drift uneasily in and out of sleep, trying to work out three failproof escape routes from your bedroom. Not good for the eye bags that you stayed home last night to try and banish.