"I think Louise is spreading rumours about me..."

Jesus Christ on a laminating machine ("I just think the Commandments would look better all shiny and plastic-covered, Dad. Stop riding me!"), today is dull. We are all so bored we might resort to cannibalism just for the rush. In fact, I am so bored, I am going to reveal part one of my epic new undertaking, viz sharing my teenage diary with you. Don't worry. I'm going to cut most of it.

I used to sporadically write a diary. It was my Winnie-the-Pooh journal, which my parents gave me. I was 12 when I got it, and the bulk of the entries are from when I was 12/13. I came across it when I was getting some writing paper for today's letters. And I'd like to say this: OMG READING THE CRAP YOU WROTE AS A TEENAGER IS JUST EMBARRASSING. It's not even emo and fun, it's just boring. But I'm going to share, anyway. PLEASE NOTE I WAS ANNOYING AND IMMATURE AND APPARENTLY QUITE MIS. DO NOT JUDGE ME.

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[1] Chris (who is 2 years younger than me) had been doing Latin since he was 7. Prep schools, eh?
[2] Oh, the tragic irony.
[3] I'm really unclear on why he was "wonder boy ii" and not just "wonder boy" - this epithet will now remain a mystery forever.
[4] I hope this modest dream has now come to pass.
[5] I know. Shocking. It sends little thrills of horror down my spine. I don't think I done anything weird style-wise; I suspect the mockery was due to its ginger hue.
[6] Really? Was she really? I was the most boring 12 year old in existence, there wasn't much anyone could say about me.
[7] As it happens, I passed.
[8] WRONG, TINY PAST SELF!
[9] I assume this was one of those hilariously ridiculous lines ("Goodbye, Vikings") that stays with you but makes absolutely no sense out of context.
[10] Ah, the Star Trek novelisation. I went through a lot of these in my youth. Yesterday's Son was a particular favourite, as it heavily featured Spock.
[11] Enemy Mine was the first Mills & Boon I ever read. I loved it. I still love it. I recently bought a reissued version from Amazon. Still it was the beginning of my literary end.
[12] So. Yeah. Odd, you may be thinking. This doesn't read like her, you may be thinking. Who is this David Crapper?, you may be thinking. Is this an epic romance the likes of which we have never seen, whose twists and turns will lead us on a breathless journey of love and sacrifice?, you may be thinking. The answer is no, this is not an epic romance the likes of which you have never seen. David Crapper lived down the road. He was at Birkdale in the year below Chris. And, in collusion, I suspect, with my dear young brother, he wrote that entry himself (in bright purple ink).

"Red! Like the colour of blood!"

I submit that one of the most valuable consequences of the film Psycho is that the famous shower scene renders completely unnecessary any attempt to describe the appearance of one's bathroom after the application and subsequent removal of red hair dye.

"Let us sit upon the floor and tell sad stories..."

I overheard two Australian girls talking on the tube this morning. One of them said she thought the summer was probably over. The other agreed, and said she just hoped they had another nice day for something they were doing. The first one said, yes, and wasn't it something when you had to hope for one nice day in the summer. I laughed a little inside. Welcome to England, my darlings...

In other news, I made a courgette/marrow, tomato and goats cheese quiche (with parmesan and chilli pastry), so that's in the oven at the moment. And, excitingly, I made chicken korma! Properly, from scratch! I've never made a curry or anything before, so it was vee exciting. Tasted OK, though I need to tinker with the spice ratio, and also make sure I use the whole can of coconut milk next time. Still yay and also yum.

In yet more news... well, no way to beat about the bush, poppets. I've been a little bit stupid again. Sit back, and pray allow me to lay the scene.

Many years ago, when the world was bright and young and was but a nubile eighteen year old, I started to dye my hair. I continued this trend faithfully until I was about 25. Come rain or fall, I would be there with my trusty home dye kit. I varied my colours from time to time, but never did I depart the well-beloved spectrum of blonde-auburn-ginger. Time passed, and I came to realise that my hair constantly kept fading to its natural colour in about three minutes without me noticing, and dying it was a bit of a waste of time. And so, I stopped. That were four year ago come Michaelmas-tide.* But darlings, I've been wavering recently. I've missed having the ginger hair of my youth. It grieves me to have a hair colour that cannot be named (so, in fact, I'm blaming all this on klo_the_hobbit for rubbing it in). And so...

I... I...

No. I can't. I--

IboughthairdyethatwastootootootooredanduseditandnowIlooklikeafuckingpillarboxandIhatemylifeandmyhairandtheworldandI'mneverleavingthehouseeveragain.

Pray for me.**




* Insert Cold Comfort Farm-esque accent here, please.
** Standard disclaimer: not actually.

WAAAAAAAAAAH. (And she said it with vim.)

THIS IS THE MOST TRAGIC NIGHT OF MY LIFE, A NIGHT I MAY WELL NOT SURVIVE. A NIGHT OF WOE AND WAILING AND WEEPING (AND PROBABLY THE GNASHING OF TEETH ETC). I (A) CLEARLY NEED SOME SORT OF HAIR CHUM (THOUGH KATIE HAS BEEN DOING HER TINY BEST) AND ALSO (B) NEED TO FIND NEW FRIENDS WHO DO NOT LAUGH AT MY TRAUMATICALLY TRAGIC AND TRAGICALLY TRAUMATIC LIFE AND DEMAND PAINFUL PICTURES OF ME LOOKING A FOOL. I HATE YOU ALL.

I LOOK LIKE A PILLAR BOX. AND OUR SOFA. AND JANICE RAND'S UNIFORM.