On my first day of work on Monday a tray of fish fell from the fridge onto my toe, leaving me standing in an avalance of cod. On Tuesday I limped.

I also left my keys in the locker room. I realised this in front of my door. The housemates were either out or ignoring my knocking and so I had to go all the way back to Canary Wharf. It poured on the way to and from the station. When it's closed the shop becomes a nightmare building- you know, one of those endless buildings, strangely lit that crop up in bad dreams where corridors never end and doors disappear. I walked around and around the warehouse, up and down fire-escapes until I found the night manager holding court like a maffia don on the shopfloor, with my keys on her table. It was midnight by the time I was back home for the second time.

Canary Wharf sparkles. Even the river looks impersonal and glittery. Glass office blocks are like x-rays of buildings. Someone from the university who also works in the shop with me finds it very glamourous. I'm not sure. Even if I worked in an office- not fist deep in fish gut- I'm not sure I'd be as seduced as he is just being there.

I'm a bit tired and maybe won't write much tonight, except for the fact that I love the Women's Society and it's amazing to meet so many feminists. And that I am a tiny bit in love with the officer of the society and can't actually talk to her. It's so schoolgirl I could die. I'd write her name in the margins of my homework diary. If I still had one. I forget words and can't look her in the eye. It all makes me look a bit insane. I think she's the sort of person people write poems for. She's that good.

I wish I was better at life.

I have lost weight. I scrutinised myself in the mirror tonight. I thought I looked alright; a bit fat in a nice way, or a bit nice in a fat way. But I didn't have my glasses on. I'd like someone to ask for a second opinion. Some other night. Maybe I'll meet someone nice. Another night.