Which to blog? Good, or bad?
Bad points of the day:
Was out till three this morning driving people home to various corners of London. Had to ask them to hang around while I put petrol in the car, 'cos I knew I'd be too scared to do that at 3am in an East London garage forecourt on my own. Never good to arrive home stone sober in the small hours, thinking about that sort, that 'will anyone even notice when I'm murdered' variety, that flavour of being on my own.
Crying (sigh. Sorry. I know, it's pathetic) at the Hallowe'en party because ex-DH was there, but she'd decided to pretend she couldn't see me in the same room as her.
But only a little bit.
At four in the morning, not content with having watched Ringu at home alone the day before (even despite the strange nightly thumping sounds in the attic), I watched Ringu 2. Alone. Through the creepy evilhourofyourdoom attic banging. Now I feel all macho and tough, but I can't look at a VCR without kissing a rabbit's foot and throwing salt over my shoulder.
Duch came round today and went a bit odd at me. It was when I showed her the pics of last night's party. Apparently, taking her photo and showing it to her has scarred her forever. I should never have done such a thing (actually, I didn't, Ulp did - but: meh) and it's all because of me that she'll need plastic surgery now. Duch was super uber hyper lovely to be around yesterday, but today was too damn highly strung.
She brought here with her the ex-DH, who came to pick up more clothes (the house is still crammed full of her things), and to hug up the peskycats. I'd wanted to be out when she got here - and to be honest, I think after last night she'd wanted me to be out as well. It's now twenty-one days since we split up and seeing an ex three times in one week is just sillypainfulfoolishness.
I ran into the shower as soon as she got here. When I came out, ex-DH was lying face down. On the bed. Not good.
That's as much past as the present can stand. I left the house, pronto.
My car was vandalised again. Yeah, the car whose locks were drilled last week by the friendly local tea-leaf. The three month old car I bought to replace the one that (a combination of my crashing it and) thieves totalled in June. They'd used a screwdriver to try to jemmy the rear window off.
This is a P-reg, wagon-sized, diesel-fuel, old, staid, pikey-car. The only thing attractive about it is that it's coloured red. Can I just quietly mutter an "ack"?
Good points of the day (read this one first):
Hallowe'en. There's no bloody point to it! Yayy....
The East End genetically criminal obsession with gunpowder means that from Diwali to Christmas, the sky hereabouts is alive with explosions every night, and at weekends through most of the day, too.
My cats are smaller, sweeter, cuddlier and softer than Berlioz's stinky puppy.
I haven't met anyone English who can spell 'sarsparilla' yet. Purely for the purpose of this declaration, Tristan is now Spanish, and doesn't count.
Now I know that my car is hard to break into. Cool!
Instead of me hanging out with the ex-DH and crying, or skulking about with our joint friends tonight (and secretly crying), Dave let me hide at his house and eat roquefort on toast / drink Earl Grey / read uber calming lists of Nineties record collections for most of the evening, which was immensely more cheering. And involved zero amounts of crying.
I've realised that if you gather enough people in their early thirties together in one room, between you you can piece together the entire musical history of New Kids on the Block.
My word, but the Dartford crossing is pretty at night.
Updated: Saturday, 1 November 2003 11:48 PM GMT
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