Locked, Out and One Pair of Pyjamas
2003-04-17 || 4:20 p.m.

Hey Gods! Keep heaping that shit on - don't stop, not when its just beginning to get funny.

Clearly my earlier unwashed pyjamaed humiliation wasn't enough for the cosmos. No. Far greater humiliation was in the making.

Now picture this scene:

I'm recovering from my encounter with the socialist. My sofa cover is on the line. I'm now shaking my seat cover out. I'm not a stupid girl. Not me. Hey, I hung a picture earlier. I can do stuff. So, being reasonably practical I put the latch on! Yes. But the wind blows so hard the door locks anyway. And there I am. In the street still in my stupid bed outfit and holding a dirty seat cover.

I decide to go pay my friend over the road a visit. The last time I saw her I was locked out too. But then I was fully dressed. Hey! I've come visiting in my pyjamas I say. Can I use your phone? Sure she replies. So I ring my mum. I'm offered a cup of tea but I decline and talk piercings and dumpings with her daughter. My mum turns up but the damn door has slammed shut still on the latch so the key won't work.

Its 'fucking this' and 'fucking that' and 'shitting this' and 'shatting that'. My mum is looking suitably horrified. My swearing like a navvie offends her middle class sensibilities. It gets the guy up the road out though. There's nothing a recluse likes more than a swearing girl in her pyjamas.

Fucking hell the man's an angel. He must be 70 but he got his ladder, climbed over my fence and unbolted my back gate. I want to buy him a present. I think I may be in love with him.

Am I dressed now? Am I fuck. Nothing like tempting fate further.

Bring on humiliation number three, I'm ready for ya.