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worry diet

House stress means not eating, not sleeping- or at least not eating properly, sleeping too late, too much. First square meal since Friday today- and I drank a little too much with it. But never mind.

Three days of eating cereal, then Tuesday I ate too much (nothing all day, then junk food), yesterday nothing except a chocolate digestive and then nothing today except a mince pie until about 7.00pm when I decided I had to go swimming.

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all the way home

Yesterday I went to a talk on the Marxist theory of origins women's oppresion at Bookmarks (the socialist bookshop and brilliant/ awful pun). This is basically my favourite thing. If someone were to ask what I wanted to do every Monday afternoon, it would be that.

Today at work my glasses fell in the big dry waste bin. The glasses we found easily, but one of the lenses had popped out. One of the guys climbed and helped looked for it. Then I climbed in and tried to look for it. Small mercies- it was mostly empty and only really full of cardboard. Bad news- the lens has disappeared.

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There was a decapated rat on the pavement today as I left for work.

Very cleanly decapitated. Huge and suprising, on a very bright morning.

"Maybe it offended the Rat King and they cut it's head of", said my sister on the phone.

"Maybe it was the Rat King," I said, "and they cut it's head off in a ratty revolution"

I got home after work to find two parcels of mine on the doorstep and two others addressed to Mal.

They're half of the books I ordered the other day.

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While this time last night I felt shit, without sleep. Tonight- sitting up in bed again, wide awake again- I feel a bit blissful. Well fed, good for having exercised.

The book I'm reading- Sheila Rowbotham- is welding together thoughts that had seemed dislocated. My heart feels like a baloon, inflating and inflating. I hope it doesn't burst.

Last night lying down my flesh felt like an old, bad matress. Spring straining against skin. I feel more comfortable tonight.

I hope I will be able to sleep soon, because I am busy tomorrow.

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I have just eaten an enourmous dinner. I had salmon in soy sauce and ginger, with watercress and couscous. Then I had thick hot chocoate with ameretto and doughnuts dipped in. It was really lovely. The watercress expecially, since that's normally too expensive and also the most delicious of all the green things. Except for rocket.

But I hate cooking just for myself. When Mal and I move into our new flat, we've decided we'll cook more and decorate. Throw cushions everywhere. We also won't leave digusting festering plates around indefinately or piles of rubbish in the front garden.

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Awake. In the middle of the night. Again.

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The scene in Jame Eyre where she plays the piano for Rochester, pretty much sums up my abilities- I'm not very good.

But since I never even need to consider the piano ever being part of a career- ever being anything except my own personal pleasure, it doesn't matter if I'm not good. Because by the time I'm arthritic and 80 I might be playing very well. I have my whole life to practise.

Also, playing music- however ineptly- means you experience it more acutely that listening to music can really let you.

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I am in withdrawel. Withdrawel from tea.

And I know that doesn't exactly sound Trainspotting, but I do have a brutal headache which even the ibufrofen hasn't helped much.

They tried to make me go to tea-hab. I said, no, no, no.

I think- probably fairly- that my increasingly bad insommnia is probably not helped by my caffiene intake. I don't really drink anything appart from tea or coffee. Especially now it's cold.

But I would like a cup of tea, now. I scoured the cupboard for something non-caffienated. I found Scout's weird Redbush tea, which came free with the Guardian.

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Area Code

It's been raining today in a way that puckers the surface of the puddles into the shape of the stars on the ceiling of the chapel at Hampton Court.

Someone asked me if my home town was posh. It sort of is. One half is and then abruptly the other half isn't. Not that's it's rough. It's just shabby and boring.

One side is all palaces and rowing clubs, the other is just council houses and the next town.

It's inconsistant.

I wish I had gone home today, but I've been going home too much.
If I go home too much then I just slip back into my family.

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I met KD at Whitechapel and we went to the amazing Pakistani restaurant. You have to queue for bloody ages and the food is fantastic.

It's the opposite of Sanho (the restuarent back home we always used to go to), in that Sanho was a huge cavernous always empty restuarant in the provinces, but it fills the same purpose. That is- we always go there and we eat too much.

In addition to melt in the mouth lamb and fresh naan, we shared a jug of mango lassi, which the actual definition of delicious- like melted icecream (but good).

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Hyper Real

The die-in was the decent part; against the war, for Joe Glenton.

Up close the Houses of Parliament look like they're an elaborate sugar sculpture of the Houses of Parliament.

It was a cold, brisk blue skied afternoon.

We lay down blocking the road, until we got up again. Photographed from tourist buses. And marched- only a short march- to stand outside Downing Street.

Later I went to the exhibition 'The Sacred Made Real', which made a case for the influence of polychrome wooden scuptures on 17th century Spanish religious painting.

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Where Ever We Go

I hope my last journal didn't give anyone the wrong impression- I'm not desperately unhappy or anything like that. And thanks to everyone who was so kind.

I'm just navigating strange waters. But that's as good a definition of the human condition as any.

Saturday I went to the Reclaim the Night Rally. I was working during the march so obviously I couldn't make that.

It rained. I admit at 6.00pm I did think gleefully about the fact it was raining, on their stupid seperatist girly bloody stroll.

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Internalised Homophobia

The night's complexities.

I write about my life in detail here, but nothing normally this cards-on-the-table personal about my sexuality.

I'm not bisexual.

When I first came out- when I was 15- it was as bi. (actually when I first, first came out it was as "probably... I think I might be... I think I might be gay". It's a shame that lots of the content of the older journals seem to be lost on this site, because I wrote about it here under a different name at the same and I'd love to read it now five- six- years on)

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You know when you've just finished a really good book?
Good enough not to want to go out on a Saturday evening- since it's raining anyway and I don't have any money.

First of all it means you no longer have it to carry around. I'm suddenly significantly lighter. For the past couple of weeks it's been in my handbag or under my arm. I've read it on the tube, I've read it in the bath, I've read in in the staff canteen. I've marked my progress through it's pages with train tickets, dog-eared pages or bits of torn up newspaper.

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Well it's true.

I'm in the kitchen, she's in the hall.

I miss you, I think as the kettle boils.

I can only see the back of her, past the coats on the bannister. We know each other are there (of course). We ignore each other the way you ignore mice in the walls.

I miss you. And I make my cup of tea. And if I dream about you- again- tonight I'll miss you even more.

I'm not in love with you. I don't even fancy you anymore. Thud, and she's walked out of the front door. I put the milk back in the fridge- and I miss her.

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