Mum came up today, to see the flat. She really likes it, which does validate the place in my mind (my sister Clap likes it too).

I made tomato and red pepper soup for lunch and she bought me a hoover.

Had to work this evening, because I swapped my Tuesday shift so I could go home for my birthday.
I'm sitting in front of rubbish television, with a glass of wine feeling quite tired and not looking forward to work again tomorrow- but it can't be helped, can it?

My brother is finding Year 7 quite difficult (that's 6th grade to most of you lot, and the first year of secondary school over here).

I have a theory about life.

It takes two and half years to get used to each stage, right.

The first two and a half years you're a bawling, incontenent lump of baby. Yes, you're gorgeous but you can't walk, can't talk, can't remember. Then by the time you're about two and a half years old, on clicks your memory like a bloody film camera and you can talk and walk and understand things.

Then puberty, and for about two and half years you're a spotty, weepy mess. No-one understands you and you have hair in awkward places and your breasts (or at least the starts of them) hurt and they make you play netball. Your only comfort is The Smiths back catalogue and maybe poetry and daydreaming about leaving your home town.

Then- for me anyway- adult(ish) life brought two and a half years- from when I left school up to just recently- everything was a bit shit. For details read backwards.
Then- rainclouds part- and recently I'm losing weight, doing my university work, being happy, being friendly. Being a bit more like someone I remember being. Maybe soon, things get- if not exactly simpler- then at least possible to carry off with confidence (like a waitress with plates all up her arms).