So Saturday morning wake up and account for mystery bruises and grubby knees. Had gone to bed with the birds singing, first night out in months where I haven't cried, haven't left early, haven't left sad.

We drink and dance. I drink more than usual, dance more than usual. Same old pub, same old club. The dj is terrible, I mean terrible and normally this is a pretty good night- indie, motown and disco- but does it matter? We were almost the only girls there which made us hot property. Sometimes intimidating, sometimes fun. Let a Russain speaking man with a French accent who never lives more than seven years in one country buy me a drink, flirted with his friend. When asked if I have a boyfriend go from "total lesbian" to "it's complicated", as the night drags on because, well, I don't know. Because I haven't spent enough time on feministing.com to turn down a free drink once I start to run out of cash? Feel ashamed. Dance and dance and dance. Go to the toilets to see our sweaty faces. First time ever the queue for the ladies' is shorter than the queue for the gents. We look a mess by 3.00am (and probably sooner) but it doesn't matter.

It must be summer because we're out without wearing tights. I fall down on the dancefloor get heaved back up by my friends, I'm not drunk it's just my heels are high and the floor is wet. Explains the dirty knees. But not the mystery bruises.

Drag AC to one side, demand to know why I'm flirting with all these men.
Because it's funny, she says. None of us went home with anyone.
In transit from pub to club rather than icy silence I shout back at the groups of boys who call out to our group of girls, me, AC, RL and two friends without acronyms, and we laugh, not because I'm being especially funny but because the night is funny.

So eventually they stop the music and I get a taxi home. Talk to the cabbie about starsigns and wanting to be a journalist. Drink tea, eat toast watch Starksy and Hutch at four in the morning.

And Saturday I spend slowly, black coffee and a bacon sandwich. Buy books and records from a charity shop. Try to mend my crappy turntable. It only works if you hit it. To chage the RMP you just have to slap it harder. I'm buying a new record player.

Worked in the Shop With No Customers today, no customer so I stood outside and blew bubbles with a coffee stirrer and a cup of washing-up liquid.

And just now we had a barbeque in the back garden, dog ambled, bonfire smelt of vanilla, air smelt hot and after me and my siblings clear the table and dance savagely to songs from musicals, the Long Blondes and the Buzzcocks.

I don't really want to go to UCL any more, I want to go to Goldsmiths. If I get an A in my biology resit I have to go to UCL, but if I don't I go to Goldsmiths. It's almost a dilema, but it's in the lap of the gods and god this is what happiness was and is still. I'm happy again. How quickly that happened. Eight months of the dark over my eyes and then a miracle, faith healer, pagan gods, migration who knows? But happiness and fear, of course, but normal fear.

Listening to Puccini now on my useless record player. I like the sound of dust and crackle. And I'm happy.