Controlled by the rhythm of blood and the day and the night and the seasons
2002-09-29 || 9:42 p.m.

You know, it would just be so much more civilised if the weekend were three days and the week were four.

I just moved Rebecca's homework to come on here - 'IMPACT MATHS' is the name of her textbook - why?! There is some sort of explosion on the front. Who thought that would be a good idea?

I just got back from walking the dog. I walked him too early tonight. I kept seeing people. I prefer to see no-one really. I looked up at the sky. The worst thing about the sky in a town is that it is a sort of reddy/orange colour and you cannot see the stars properly. When I have been on holiday in Devon or Ireland its a totally different matter. Its the street lights that fuck it all up. You have to strain to see anything at all and the stars are just these pale little pinpricks of light amongst this full on fuck off red colour.

I must be really losing it because everytime I walk the dog at the moment I want to cry. I don't know why really. I want to cry because its such a nice thing to do, because I pass houses with people and families, because nothing seems to matter.

Things I have done today: Cleaned the rabbits out. Emptied a mouse trap. (Not nice, it had half its back missing - where it went I don't even want to think about). Mended the boiler. So just keep your fingers crossed that the house does not blow up.

Things I wish I'd done today: Ha, shall I be honest here now or make something up? You know, I'd like to have woken up next to somebody and had sex in the morning. I'd like to have been able to read. To have someone go out and fetch the Sunday papers and bring them to me in bed. I'd like to be in my childhood bedroom too, so I could be having sex when the church bells are ringing just at the end of the road.

I should stop thinking about the past.

I'm beginning to think about winter dinners. Nice veggy stuff. For someone who hardly eats anything I certainly spend a lot of time in the kitchen. I fucking love cooking. Really I do. I love my kitchen. It's my favourite room. I painted the tiles a dark blue and I have lovely (if dirty) lino - that traditional diamond one with small black diamonds. I have loads of plants and crystals hanging at the window which catch the light. I also have a glass painted fairy picture which catches the light - one of the Cicely Mary Baker fairy ones. On my window cill I have lots of things to look at. Lovely handpainted jugs, my elephant bank, Pikachu, a vase that belonged to my step-gran, these glass balls that spin that I left in the grass when Rebecca was small and told her the fairies left them behind. I have a Klimt print on the wall, photos, cornishware, candles, a sooty egg cup - it all makes for a dusting nightmare but so lovely and comforting to look at.

But they are all only things.

I need to find some meaning. I don't want to be converted to anything. Not much chance of that happening to a cynic like me. You know, I truly believe there is a place for everything in the universe and everything belongs, so why can't I believe it for me? Rebecca says I'm arrogant but its a sort of anti-arrogant thing really.