After spending a day in London, Beloved and I were heading home, spending the next hour on the rickety-clackety old trains that traverse the grid that lines the city. We'd just been having lunch in Leicester Square, specifically, the Burger King that overlooks the square. We sat on the bar stools and watched the numerous unmarked vans and taxi's roll by. Anybody could have driven in. We watched them conduct their business, couriers and delivery boys alike.

We eventually led ourselves back towards home. Despite being under the biggest terror threat since 9/11, the city still conducts itself just like normal. London is being bombarded by the media, telling us all that the sky is falling and that mysterious cloaked men are all out to kill us. Out to kill us in the most painful and torturous way possible.

On the way home, on the London Underground, I read the Underground newspaper, "Metro".
"Terrorist Alert Error!"
Oh here we go again, says I. Another foiled plot?

In it, were the detailed plans of a so-called terrorist who had ambitions to blow up a major London venue to kingdom come. The site specifically listed in the article was none other than the Leicester Square Burger King. Cue worried glances between Beloved and myself. Not only was the plan laid out in front of us in bold courier font, but the article also listed how the suspect had escaped capture by luring the police into the biggest radio-free zone in the city: The London Underground.

You see, police radios seem to have difficulty transmitting while they're 200m underground.

That thought scares the living shit out of me. I don't want to be here the day the terrorists use that idea to their advantage. Nuh-uh.

Today's plot was believed to involve detonating a combination of explosive and a chemical called osmium tetroxide, unleashed on the London Underground. Such an attack is both chilling and thought numbing in the imagined effects it would have on the city. Such an attack would cause devastation along the lines of the WW2 blitzkrieg.

I think I want to move to the middle of Australia where the biggest terrorists are the redback spiders.

I went to Aerobics last night. My feet are a bloody mess.

I dont quite know how I found myself in the class room, it just kinda happened. One minute, I was happily jogging along, watching the news headlines on the overhead screens and then I heard the high energy doof-doof-doof music pumping through the room. Of course, I had to go check it out.

I found a room full of adrenalin junkies, all whooping and clapping and being all enthusiastic. I must have got swept up into that wave of energy and dragged into the mirrored room. "Garry" the instructor jogged to the front of the group and started bouncing and clapping and motivating. I found myself shouting and bounding along with the rest of the class, all eager to get underway. When asked "You all ready?" we shouted in chorus: "HELL YEAH! "

Not surprisingly, I wasn't ready at all.

What unfolded was an hour worth of ritualistic pain and sadism. I kinda managed to keep to the program, just like I kinda managed not to trip over my own feet. Coordination is not my finest asset. No normal person submits themselves to that much noise, that much movement, and that much god damn energy unless they're on some illegal substance! It was a case of BYOE, and I was all out of Class B drugs.

"GRAPEVINE!" Oh shit. Here we go again.

I emerged post-ritual, redfaced and limping. My arms were sore, my feet were blistered and my brain felt rattled about from all the high impact leaping and prancing. I got home, peeled my sweaty, bloody socks off and tried to make amends by soaking in a bath tub for over an hour. The bubbled-up bliss was amazing. The whole experience was worth it simply for the sensation of relief when I slid into that tub and closed my eyes.

My feet are now held together with some carefully applied elasto-plast. Of course, I'm going again next week, but I think I might invest in a better pair of shoes.

I'm not a fan of wearing makeup.

While my sisters seem to have enviable talent with paintbrush and mascara wand, I'm artistically challenged to the point where putting on eyeliner is a hazard to my health. I cant seem to stay inside the lines. You can be sure that whenever the "fake-up bag" comes out, there'll be a lot of colourful language, hissing and swearing on my behalf.

I don't enjoy it at all, so I cant fathom any of the Cosmo girls. How anybody can spend that much time applying gunk to their face is something I'll never quite understand.

Another item on the All Time Most Hated list are trains.
I've had a few really terrible experiences lately, so lets just say that I'd rather have red hot pokers shoved up my nose, rather than sitting on a smelly, broken down train. Virgin Rail is not my friend. Not even when they give me a 50% discount ticket for running over 135 minutes late. (Yes, 135 minutes!).

Logically, it could then be assumed that having to put makeup on while in a train would be the Granddaddy of pet peeves. I wasn't looking forward to it, but the time came when there simply wasn't any time. I needed to be ready for a gig as I stepped off the train. Step onto the train looking bedraggled and forlorn, step off the train looking like a rock star's girlfriend. Could it be done? Would it be done? Should it even be attempted?

After stumbling and bashing about the small smelly train toilet while changing my clothes, I wasn't really looking forward to it. Would I survive my two biggest irritations in the world?

You're damn right I survived.
And I loved every second of it! It's the best thing in the whole entire world. It's "Extreme Make-Up". It should be a televised sport. It's a magical cross between surfing and art all wrapped into a flurry of noisy excitement.

I could almost hear the commentators:

"Here we go, Rabs. She's bringing out the eyeliner!"

"haha, yeah, it's hard to see through Mabeline Khoal."

Ah har!

As I bounced off one side of the toilet and crashed into the other, I magically applied the best ever eyeliner line you've ever seen. Of course, it was difficult to see it while the mirror swayed and shimmied all of the place. But then, I guess it really doesn't matter. I've just found me a hobby!

Extreme Makeup.
Who'da thunk it?

It appears that I have vanished off the face of the earth.

I haven't.

I've just been having a few mini-personal-dramas. (How do you spell the plural for crisis?)

The weekend was something lovely. Woke up early on the Saturday, but spent the whole morning in bed, chatting to and cuddling with my Beloved. In the end, I got hungry and had to venture into the kitchen to whip up some local fare - bacon butties. They're really quite simple: Cook bacon and then slap it between two slices of lightly toasted bread. Nice and luxurious. Even better when eaten hot, amongst covers and cuddles.

Portobello Road was our next destination. The place where they filmed 30 seconds of "Notting Hill". We saw several book stores that could have been the one but there were no glam movie stars to spill my cappuccino over. I didn't think Beloved would appreciate scalding coffee down his shirt, so I just drank it instead, along with the beeee-yooo-tiful apple pastry that one of the marketers were selling. Portobello Road is probably one of the more famous markets in London (along with Petticoat Lane), and it has all types of influences all over it. Antiques. Beads. Jewelry. Fresh foods. Clothes. Ganja. It was all there. I had to cautiously step over one dreadlocked dude who had hit the market produce just a little too hard. He wasn't about to wake up any time soon, but he looked comfortable enough curled up on the fruit boxes.

After the time spent in London, I had to hurry home lest I spend any more money that I don't technically have yet. Once back in the House from Hell, Beloved and I returned to the covers and cuddled and watched DVD's for hours and hours. Just being around him makes me forget all the bad things in the world. There is no price that can be put on that kind of happiness.

But without it, I feel like I'm slowly killing myself.
It's now getting to the stage where I don't know how long I can keep going like this.

This holiday can't come soon enough!
17 days to go.

The new guy is "Chris" and he's a little turd.
I probably haven't given him a chance, but the snivvelling little snot REALLY got off on the wrong foot when he just waltzed into my room without invite. I'm kinda jelous of my personal space. I dont get much, but what I have is mine. So he waltzed in, told me my laptop was shit and demanded to know why he couldn't use my secured broadband. He's like the snotty little brother I wished that I never had.

As well as my room, I enjoy cooking. I had to do a bit of cullinary therapy last night, so I was chopping, cutting, cooking and making up a random stew. He came into the kitching sniffing.

"I cant tell what your cooking"

"Oh?"

"I really cant tell."

So? Go tell your therapist, you little fuckstain.
"Oh. Good."

"What do you mean? Good? Is it good that I cant identify what your cooking? Hahaha."

"No."

"So what are you cooking?"

Are you dumb, as well as blind?
"It's stew. I'm cooking stew."

"Made up stew, or recipe stew?"

*nnnnnnggggg* Getfuckednow.

The most hated sound in the world: The Monday Morning Alarm Clock.

I dont know what it inspires in anybody else, but that sound is enough to turn this mild mannered geek into a raving sweaty-toothed psychopath. It's like the ding-ding of a boxing match that has me shooting out of bed to smash the shit out of the small beeping device at the end of my bed.

In the red corner, Miss Jacqui. Undisputed Grumpy Arse Champion of the Mornings!

C'mere and get some, you son of a bitch.

And needing no introductions - The blue corner: Alarm Clock!

BEEEEEP!!!!!!

This morning was no different. I was deeply unconscious when the alarm went off and my eyes were barely open when Beloved passed me the squarking time-bomb. He was speaking fluent Gruntish and the few rumbling sounds that came from Beloved translated to something along the lines of: "Shut this fucking thing up before I break it in half."

So I found the OFF switch, hidden on the back among several other identical switches, and threw it on the floor.
And stay down, you dog!
Cozy blankets surrounded me. Cuddly Beloved cuddled me. I felt validated in my efforts to ignore the alarm. My eyes them drifted shut for what seemed like 5 seconds. Anybody in my position would do the same thing.

5 seconds later, I was running late.

So, I'm now at work feeling tetchy and irritated. I arrived about 30 seconds later than I should have done, but in the grand scheme of things that counts for squat. I'm here. I have coffee. I have email. I have every intention of waking up before lunch time.

My alarm clock is still on the bedroom floor. Does this mean I won?

I answer phones as part of my job.

Our company phone number was once used as a British Gas contract/emergency number, but they changed over to a different system about 8 years ago. That doesn't seem to have any affect on the number of calls we get per day, asking for somebody to come out to fix boilers, or ovens.

I've got the whole shpiel on auto-pilot at the moment, so that whenever anybody calls up, I can switch off the brain and relate the whole story.

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong number. This is Company Name and we deal with high speed internet connections. British Gas changed their phone number about 8 years ago. I believe you can find their new contact details in the phone directory."

This message, straight forward and informative, seems to be a good test for sorting out the different personality types that live on this overpopulated island. From their first words, I can tell what type of phone call it's going to be.

"You're who? No, I want British Gas."
This is when I cringe. This phone call is usually hampered by a significant language barrier.
"ME NOT GAS" seems to get my point across.

"Oh, thank you. Sorry to bother."
Not a problem. Pleasure to speak to you.
These rounded polished accents are always so appologetic. The true upper crust, stiff upper lip and all that nonsence. Still... I much prefer these calls....

"Can you fix my boiler?"
Not unless you want ADSL installed with it. I speak very clearly, but it seems some people dont want to listen anyway.

"Oh, so you cant fix my oven?"
That's right, but I'm sure I could break it a little more.
These calls are usually a bit of a laugh. The caller sometimes goes on to ask a little bit more about our company and what we do. I'm not sure if we've ever sold anything to a wrong number caller.

"Bloody BG. They're shitheads!"
Agreed! Can I hang up now, or are you going to rant on for a bit longer?
This type of phone call is usually from an irate customer from BG, who wants to vent their pent up anger and frustrations. So they unload on me. I usually cant get a word in, so I make sympathetic noises, while I put the speakerphone on mute.

I love my job, but I think British Gas need to be shot.

Spent the whole time with Beloved. Every second.
I think I am the luckiest person alive. We watched a dodgy copy of TTT and I was overjoyed at Beloved apparent fondness for all things Elvish. I think I'm a bad influence on him!

Of course, the weekend went way too quickly. Standing on the footpath, waving to him as he drove away felt like I was being ripped apart. I know I'll see him again on Friday, but Friday is too far away. I want to spend every hour of every day with him...

This time last year, I was freaking out about my thesis, without any idea that it was possible to feel so happy in love. My life priorities have completely shifted. My GPA means sweet fuck all. My thesis is sitting on the bookshelf gathering dust. What's important to me is beloved, now in Wales, waiting for me to arrive on Friday.

Quotes:
"Legolas is the coolest thing on the planet"
"I want me an Elvish Army!!"
"How come Gimli get's all the good lines?"
"Hey!! This music is very 'Hobbity' isn't it!?"
.... other comments have been censored. My mum reads this, yo...

What's on your bedside table?

I dont actually own a bedside table. I'm still living like a skint student, surviving with only the 'needs' and not the 'wants'. Luxury bedroom furniture is a 'want' when I can get by using a suitcase as both random storage space AND a bedside table.

Although, you must understand, it's a big fucking suitcase. It doesn't fit under the bed. I cant lift it on top of the wardrobe. I have no where else to put it. So, it stands there, next to my bed, acting all "bedside table" like.

It does a good job, too. It holds my alarm clock. It permits me to rest a copy of Harry Potter on top of it. It contains all the old clothes and random bullshit that I've dragged with me across the planet.

Who else can say that they have 10 books, 5 pullovers, a full single-bed fitted sheet set, and official paperwork dating back to the 1900's inside their bedside table?

I have declared my official hatred toward all Airlines and all airline ticket sellers.

Point blank. Hate.

I dont have the £££'s to fling around securing the best seats, nor do I have the savvy to spot the time wasters from the real McCoy. I've followed freaky links, endured endless pop-ups and tolerated the most annoying sound bites in an effort to ensure that Beloved and I can get to Australia without burning a hole in the side of our pockets.

I've been on the phone to the whole industry, to no avail.

It's actually cheaper to get an "around the world" ticket, than it is to get a one-way ticket from Brisbane to London. Some executive somewhere is rubbing his hands with glee, while the rest of the people in cattle class have to pay through the nose for the privlige of sitting in the same seat for 24 hours, in a pressurised, sanitised, homogenised flying tin can.

Remind me why I'm going?

Today’s lesson is on personal embarrassment techniques for the socially inept.

How to be a complete dickhead.

I was only out to buy some computer supplies. Blank CD’s. Fairly common in geek shops. So, being a geek, I entered the ‘zone’ without much thought for personal presentation, grace or composure. Geeks don’t usually bother about minor details like brushing hair, or correct attire. My shirt was buttoned up all awkwardly (I got dressed in a hurry this morning) and birds had recently moved out of my hair because it was too damn messy. I had a smear of dust on my chin. My own reflection was too ashamed to show itself in public.

Of course, that’s the exact moment when I happen to meet a fellow Aussie. A fellow Aussie from Brisbane who was into Wi-Fi and has been in London for 2 years this Easter, who used to live in Newstead Farm and managed the Valley’s Mountain Designs store. Store Manager of the Geek Shop. Who just so happened to have a really really cute smile.

I had a great ol’ chat with him, standing around the shop like a prized pair of geeks. His parents live in Bundaburg, he lived mostly in Melbourne. I called him a Mexican. He called me a Bumpkin. I’ll be damned if he wasn’t the nicest guy I’ve met in ages. I’d only known him 180 seconds and I was ready to leap across the isle and hug him.

So.

What I really meant to say was: “Hey, would you like to join me for a coffee?”
but it somehow came out as: “Hey, how much are these CD’s?”

The price was written below them. In big black print. Twice.

Price check on Dickheads, Isle #4.

I bought said CD’s and walked away cringing.
Sounded like a dickhead. Looked like a swamp donkey.

Way to go, Doyle. Surpassed even your own high standards of personal embarrassment there!!!

Somebody put me out of my misery.

What do you get if you cross 450 passengers with 20 million litres of coffee and a 10 hour time delay?

Answer: Lethal Jetlag.

I'm sitting here at the Singapore International Airport accessing the internet via a sweet little card that my boss has lent me for work. The technology enables me to pull broadband out of thin air and let my thoughts invade the network.

I've emailed everybody in hopes that they're awake, online, and ready to reply. Despite the lovely nifty network card, I'm still bored out of my head. The electrical storm in my head also reduces my attention span down to unreasonable levels, so I'll have to resort to listing off mindless thoughts as they come to me, rather than creating a structured intelligent entry.

I have a packet of crispy M&M's and a bottle of water.

It's fun watching other lost passengers storm about the airport, looking for what they think they've lost.

Music sounds really good, when your ears are too used to hearing 'Jet Drone'.

It's easy to tell who's paranoid about SARS. There's people getting about in gloves, masks and glasses.

My new headphones rock the casbah.
They're flash "noise cancellation" headphones that silence everything except what you're trying to listen to. Ace on airplanes. They shift soundwaves by 90degrees and the interferance cancels the unwanted noice. Nice huh.

Wireless Internet isn't better than sex, but sliced bread is in trouble.

Australians and Kiwi's are easy to pick out of a crowd.

I cant access my work email. *pout*

Anyhow, I'd better dash.
I need to find something to eat that doesn't resemble airport food.

Jac.

You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, France is accusing the US of arrogance and Germany doesn't want to go to war.

What is this world coming to???

Oh well. At least the Aussies won the cricket...

--Original Message-----
From: MUM
To: Doyle, Miss Jacqui
Sent: 13/03/2003 11:04
Subject: Re: Hi Mum!

Hi Jac,
Had a phone call from RoB to say Aunty Ol had died.
It's very sad as she was the last thread that tied a lot of the Lushes with our childhood memories. I don't know if you are able to help but I am sure you will have offered. Jean will be devastated as she was at her mum's place almost every day for one thing or another.

It would be nice if you would be there to go to the funeral, not a very nice job.... to represent me as well .... I'm sure Ron and Christine will be there too. It hasn't been a very good last few months has it ?
Anyway will finish here, if there is anything I can do to help let me know. Pass on my condolences to John & Cynth and Jean & Phil
I know they will miss her a lot as they were all so close.
Love you,
MUM x x

-Original Message-----
From: Doyle, Miss Jacqui
To: Mum
Sent: 13/03/2003 17:16
Subject: Re: Hi Mum!

Hi Mum.
Last night was a bit of a sombre affair. Scott and Claire arrived, so the whole family were together for a chinese meal and wake. Vast quantities of Jack Daniels were consumed, many tears were shed.
I bought a nice pink candle from downtown Wrexham so i lit that in memory. Everybody was really rattled about what she looked like at the end of everything. Cynth had suggested I not see her at the hospital the previous day, so my last memroy of Aunty Ol was speaking to her through her kitchen window on saturday, handing over two of her magazines and her weekly lottery tickets.

She had a lottery ticket for last night.
It didn't win.
I cant help thinking about the three. Colin, Lily and now Olive.

At first Cynty told me not to bother with the funeral, as I was supposed to be going to London. Even before I read your email, I had made it clear that I was going to be there, come hell or high water.
Scott, Grant, Byron and Ross have all been asked to be bearers - I spoke to Scott this morning and he was a little mixed up as to what he felt about it. A very sad day for everybody.

Am having a crappy day, as every order that I touch seems to end up taking me 12 goes at getting it right. I was just over speaking to Debbie about another one of my stuff-ups when a magical cup of tea appeared on my desk. I love it when the tea-fairies come through the office. Despite the fact that I drink coffee.

On a positive note - my bad day cant get much worse!

Anyway, I'd better go.
Love you lots and lots
Jac. x x x x

Squashed Frog.
Thats right, I haven't died. I've just been a wee bit busy, what with the whole interhemisphere immigration thing, as well.

When people panic, they're amazing to watch. Even the slightest little irritation, and they're up in your face, demanding you head on a spike. I recognise the symptoms of panic simply because I've been there too many times. Panic City is not a nice place to be.

For anybody reading this who has lived their lives in a padded cell, panic is what your feeling when your hair stands on end and your spine starts to jangle and the walls of your mind seem to close in around you. Your eyesight seems to vanish, quite strangely, especially if you're looking for that Important Thing that has vanished. If you're freaking out about a situation, then it seems like the world is going to end. Its just as impossible to think "outside the box" as it is to think, in general. Nasty voices start whispering in your mind, as the cynical part of your brain goes into hyperdrive. Panic seems to amplify every negative thought in the universe and direct them all to your poor fragile little mind.

People, when panicked, seem to run about the house like their arses are on fire. No clues as to what they're doing, or where they're going. As I've said before, its quite astounding to sit and watch somebody rise through the various stages of panic and phobia.

Like today...
"Jac, you seen my keys, sweetheart?"
"Do you know where my keys are?"
"Can you remember seeing me with my keys?"
"Would you be able to check your bedroom?"
"Where the hell are my keys?"
"Where the fuck are they?"
"Get off your arse and help me find my god damned fucking keys."
"For fucks sake. Where the fuck have you put them?"

.... what? these keys here? The ones you've been walking past every minute for the past half hour? These ones right here with the big yellow key-chain? The ones right here on the kitchen bench, right where you left them?

Ouch.

Did I mention that panic is often associated with violence? I think I need an X-Ray.

I have Welsh skin.
I hate my Welsh skin.
My Welsh skin hates the Sunshine.
Sunshine really loves my Welsh Skin.
I am now a patchwork of reds, pinks, and whites.
Damn my Welsh skin.
Damn it all to hell.

Its all itchyscratchy, although I'm unwilling to trade one minute of the sunshine as I'm trying to enjoy it while I still can. I just wish my Welsh skin didn't have to enjoy it as well.

These are several scenes from the "The Day after Yesterday"

[Scene 1: Appartment Building, 6pm]
With a gaping yawn, Bethany settles into her comfortable bed for a quick nap, enjoying the unfamiliar silence of an unusally hectic day. Her eyes just start to drift shut, her breathing regulates when the phone blares out its irritating sounds.

Bethany: "Mmmmh... Bethany speaking."

Nicole: "... Jesus, did I wake you Bethy?"

Bethany: "Nah, Nicole. Was just folding the washing. Wassup?"

Nicole: "I finally finished prac! Wanna party with me?"

Bethany's eyes finally drift open at the invitation - Less than enthusiastic.
Bethany: "Yeah, sure. Why not."

The phone is replaced in its hanger after the girls organise the nightly plan. It is only now that Bethany realises that she is more exhausted than she first believed.

[Scene 2: Club, 9pm]

Bethany, Nicole and Natasha arrive at Club, which is strangely empty. They walk to the bar to order their drinks.

Nicole: "Rum and Coke."

Bethany: "Just Coke."

Natasha: "Vodka and whatever."

Nicole and Bethany turn to Natasha.
Nicole and Bethany: "Whatever?"

Natasha: "I dont know... Just want the Vodka, really. Least I'm not softing it and getting Coke!"

Bethany rolls her eyes, knowing that she's stuck being the designated driver for the night, and doomed to remain sober while her mates get shitfaced.

[Scene 3, Club 11pm, Dancefloor]
Local College team enters the club after a successful season dinner, where they retained the premiership trophy. The three girls used to belong to the team many years ago, and greet the throng of drunken newcomers happily.

Bethany: "Heya Guys!"

Zak: "Fuck, I'm flogged!"

Bethany: "Good time?"

Zak: "Yeah... flogged."

They hug, Bethany rolls her eyes and heads up to the bar for another Coke.

Nicole: I'm going home. Natasha has already picked up, and I've got work early in the morning. You ok here by yourself?

Bethany: Sure. I know about a hundred people here. I'll be fine.

Bethany turns around to stare at the tangled crowd wondering why she isn't at home in bed. She's just about to leave herself, when Ryan wanders up and gives her a hug and convinces her to stay.

[Scene 5, The Club - 1am]
After dancing up a sweat on the dancefloor, Bethany is pulled into a conversation by Alice waving her over franticly

Random Sleaze: "So, you wanna?"
Alice: "No, cant you see."
Random Sleaze: (confused) "Why?"
Alice: "Cuz Bethany here would beat you up. We're girlfriends."
Random Sleaze: "what?"
Alice: "I'm taken. Bethany is my girlfriend. We're lesbians."
Bethany has a mental jolt, but decides to play along anyway.

[Scene 6, The Club - 1.15am]
Mike spits ice down Bethany's shirt. Brief struggle where Bethany retrieves the ice and shoves it down Mikes collared shirt, finishing when Mike slaps Bethany on the arse so hard it makes her eyes water.

Bethany: Fucker!

Mike: Hey, did you hear? Ryan got hit in the jaw a second ago?

Bethany: (incredulous) No! Christ, what happened? Is he ok?

Bethany looks around, trying to find her friend Ryan in the crowd. Mike laughs.

Mike: Yeah. Some fight broke out near him, one guy threw a punch, the other guy ducked and Ryan copped it on the chin. He's ok though!

Mike laughs harder. Bethany rolls her eyes.

Bethany: Shit!

[Scene 7, The Club - 1.45am]
Bethany is dancing to highspeed techno with Alice grooving alongside. Bethany is unaware of a large group of college people until Zak wanders past and gives her a hug on the dancefloor.

Zak: "I'm flogged!"

Bethany: "Yup, you told me that already!"

Zak staggers off to the bar, Bethany resumes dancing, now among the college people. Bethany notices her ex, Christopher, dancing closely with a pretty girl. She smiles to herself, glad that he's having a good time. Gets into the tunes, dancing with a smile on her face.

Alice: Christopher keeps looking at you strangely.

Bethany: Really? Fuckit.

Bethany begins to worry that she's ruining Christopher’s mojo and relocates herself to a different part of the dance floor, feeling more self-conscious than ever. Also, feels somewhat second-rate to the pretty girl Christopher is now with. Consciously puts it out of her mind, and regains the beat.

Tuesday

Insomnia is getting worse. May have to do something extreme.
Cannot, for the life of me, wake up before 9am. There is no physical way. I set TWO alarms this morning.
Both alarms were unceremoniously chucked accross the room without me even having to think about it....

Might go to the gym this arvy and see if I cant kickbox myself to sleep...
Jac.

Braindead

Last night, what a night, ended with me passing out in my snuggly bed and having lopsided dreams. I was half-pissed, you see, resultant of a fantastic night with the gang playing board games.

Pictionary and Taboo.

Always a big hit with the kids. And it was. You have no idea how much fun those games can be when they're turned into drinking games. Hides and myself formed quite a formidable team, however, I'm sure ESP is classified as cheating...

Oh well. Ya get that.

We were then split up, to try and make the game a little more interesting. It was hard trying to get onto a different wavelength, but I did my best. My best efforts were obvious when we had to draw "Distract"

Ok... think like a bloke, Doyle. Like a bloke.

Draw a book. Thats work.
Ok. good.

Now, draw a great pair of tits. Thats the distraction.
Ok. Still with me. Very distracting.

Now draw the hapless person who's supposed to be doing work, but is getting distracted by the boobs.

Coots?

Coots, stop looking at the boobs and get back to playing Pictionary.

Coots?

Ah, fuckit.

My picture of 'distract' was too distracting. My efforts of "thinking like a bloke" were obviously sucessful....

Real Programmers

Real programmers like vending machine popcorn. Coders pop it in the microwave oven. Real programmers use the heat given off by the cpu. They can tell what job is running just by listening to the rate of popping.

I like this quote, simply because popping popcorn on a processor is a rather good idea. It would work, too. With AMD's chugging along at around 50C, I'm sure the little corns of pop would explode readiy given enough exposure to the raw power of a 2Ghz processor. The only problem would be trying to get the tiny flavored bits out of the PCI slots...

A long time ago, in a galexy far, far away...

"I looked at the spelling of your name and thought, hmm I used to know someone who spelt it that way, but that was about 5 and a half years ago and I didn't really know her so I just forgot about it.

Now it'll be really embarassing if it isn't you, but did you ever go to NHS? (Abbriev. for obvious rasons) and is your last initial D? I think we went on the same bus at school...! "

Well, there you go.
I am remembered. Surprisingly, thankfully, she doesnt recall the infamous "Chocolate Cake Incident". I've been remembered for worse, but I'd rather not have that unfortunate memory dragged through the news once again. Yes, Ok, so we gave the science block a laxitive laced cake. Big Deal.

Coolies... well, Today is supposed to be all about the project. Up until now its been all about this comfy chair, and a bottle of diet coke... Perhaps I should get off my ass and actually start using my brain.

Jac.

Just got off the phone from my adopted Grandma. She adopted me as her grandaughter, when she saw my scrawney wrinkled ugly looking head in the hospital nursery. In fact, she took care of me when Mum was hospitalised, and has some very embarrasing stories about me paddling around in the laundry trough as a 4 week-old.

Its quite surprising. Grandma and her family have no genetic relationship with mum or myself, yet there is definatly a family resembelance! Grandma's real grandaughter, Bek, is a swimmer. She's stocky and a little tom-boyish. She cant catch a ball to save her life... and she's a butterflyer. She even looks a little bit like me.

And then, there's Crash. Beks animated 4 year old brother.

Ok, so his real name isn't Crash, but thats what everybody hears whenever he's around. He's the apple of Grandma's eye, and everybody knows he's going to be an absolute handfull when he gets older. But I digress...

So, the two kids are in the bath, playing with bubbles, and Macca's toys...

Aunt Linda, and Grandma are out in the kitchen sipping on coffee. When, from out of the bathroom comes the loudest little cry...

"Ow, Bek! You almost kicked my balls off."

If he isn't a Doyle, I dont know who the hell is.

Digital ESP.
"You know who you are..."

Does anybody else get rather confused by the above statement? It baffles me.

I mean, not in a psychological way, as I would like to believe that I knew who I was. I've lived with me for 22 years, and if I don't know who I am, well... then I guess nobody ever will:
Name: Jacqui Doyle
Species: Geekus Maximus
Planet: Third Moon of Pluto

However, when its written in a public forum, with comments that are only applicable to the said person, and that person "knows who they are", like theres some form of digital E.S.P involved. I've worked with computers along time, and I just don't get it.

"Glad to be back, I missed you all. Especially you, and you know who you are."

It makes me wonder how many people are gullible enough to believe that the message is actually directed at them. I guess its a good way of complimenting dozens of people in the world at once, with every single one of them feeling both unique and special... cuz "they know who they are".

Strangeness. So... As I'm feeling particularly fruity at the moment, I'm going to send out a dedicated message to one of my great friends:

You're an absolute champion. I love chatting with you! Don't stop smiling! Hope that things sort themselves out for you soon. *HUGZ* You know who you are!

*wink*