Got four minutes total and a mouse that doesn't work.
Firstly, the rumour that I am about to be sacked for blogging too much - too hilarious.
For one, blogging isn't actually yet illegal, although it possibly should be. Secondly, the nature of my job involves standing in a room interacting with people - I think they'd notice if I walked off down the hall, and sat at a bloody computer, thirdly, pffft, good luck getting anyone to do the job even an eighth as well as I do, fourthly, why would some bugger on the internet be the first to know? Chucklesome indeed.

Secondly, Watford's cabbies are lovely.

Thirdly, second date looms. Oh yipes, I may panic enough to not even go.

Fourthly, IT guy is trying to punish me for my lack of an A key by threatening to withhold my laptop for eight weeks from me. How can I change his mind? What do you give the geek who has everything except the influence he craves? He's already got all my photos.

Fifthly, I'm off to Derbyshire this weekend ("no madam, you cannot buy a return to Watford, because your destination is in inner London" - good advertising from the ... erm ... Middlessex borough there), with no money or resources, and a blanket ban from the vehicle recovery company from using their services for a month. If you see a red car broken down on the M1, do wave superciliously.

Sixthly, Big Brother is making me feel cruel. Those looked like panic attacks the bedsit inmates were having on Sunday's show. Are there no psychologists this year simply because they would object?

Seventhly, were I to have any sustained access to the web, this would have bcome my favourite site by now. Fortunately for me, some of it is WAP accessible.

There you go, seven day's worth of blog, in five minutes flat. Ta-daaaaa!

Best Blo'te of the Day So Far (added later): Peeling Wallpaper
"Simple pleasures. One of the baristas at my local Starbucks calls me "hon." She is probably fifteen years younger than me. "Hon" is a word of minimal endearment patented by aging waitresses in diners serving coffee from grimy carafes to truck drivers and high school kids too stoned to go home and face their parents. "Can I take your drink order, hon?" the barista asks me. I want to respond, "I'll have the usual, Flo. A cuppa Joe and a generous helping of your sweet smile." But she wouldn't get it. She's too young and she's nothing like the TV character Flo. She would never admonish me by saying "eat my grits." All I would get is a blank stare and my $3 latte and the satisfaction that I remember some really weird shit from my TV watching youth."