I just managed to tip a glass of wine into my lap. Not spill, tip. I had it in my hand and then I just sort of managed to turn it upside down and all over me.

I was watching Mary Queen of Shops, which is sort of my favourite program.

It's been a strange day. I think I'm losing my marbles.

The plan was KD would come over at 4.00pm and we'd go to the Persian delicatessan and buy the stuff for him to make us a lovely dinner and have a belated birthday meal for him.

At 6.30pm he arrives, without any ingredients after the shops are all shut- except the tesco express on the corner.

But I don't mind. Because it's him.

I went to the opera last night.

To keep things short basically my plans fell through at the last minute, so stranded in Covent Garden I was going to just go home when I thought I might as well get a stand-by ticket to see something.

I was wearing black leggings, a black and gold jersey top tied up at the waist and a huge oversized black leather jacket. My hair- which is currently in a short bob- was actually looking sleek for once. I was wearing red lipstick.

Frankly I looked great. Even if I am too short to complete the look.

Tuesday, I was walking along the river, along the south bank and it was raining. And every now then, as well as the smell of wet dust on pavement you'd get that saline whiff of sea. I wished so much I was really by the sea that I looked up the price of train tickets. Perhaps at autumn I will go. And I'll probably go with friends to Brighton for a daytrip.

You know how it is, when you're walking home late and you think think, shit this is a bad part of town and I'm absolutely smashed. You start to think what the toxicology reports might say and how angry your mother would be.

But even so the night smelt secretive; of damp dark air after the hot, hot dry heat today.

KD came over. We ate ox tail and jerk chicken from the take-away, managed to drink between us two bottles of cheap white wine. Stayed up late talking about the history of the world, the history of the future, socialism, human sexuality.

He stayed on the sofa because we stayed up talking half the night. Can't remember anything we said, but we said it with so much conviction.

This morning we carried on the conversation, drank strong tea and now he's gone and I've tidied up the flat. Might go swimming, then I'm off the to art library and the museums with Mal and Turtle.

I must admit, I've just spent money I don't have on a late 19th century French labourer's smock. Oh but it's lovely, and I've had my eye on it for over a fortnight.

It's heavy, coarse sun-bleached linin. It has heavy coarse shell buttons too (except one which is clearly a modern replacement). Mostly hand sewn, with some evidence of machine working. Painstakingly rouched at the sleeves.

I was lying my bed just now, trying to get to sleep when I thought about the woman who was rude to me at work today.

I was working on the steak and oyster bar, not the counter.

There's an underclass of people who think it's ok to be rude to waitresses, when they wouldn't even dream of being rude to other people (even other menial workers). I think it's a status thing.

I stayed up late reading a novel last night, which was bad since I'm meant to be revising. Anyway, I finished the book and uncoiled myself from my bed. My phone said it was coming up to 2.00am. Extraordinarily the reflection in the mirror on my dressing table, was of a young women wearing my crumpled clothes (pale yellow vintage Burburry jumper, tan coloured vintage '70s maxi skirt with black geometric design at the hem, black rimmed glasses). I don't know who I was expecting. But not a young- undeniable- woman.

Writing at my parents' house, in my narrow little childhood bed.

From an article in the Guardian this morning about the sculptor Marc Quinn's latest exhibition (http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/may/01/marc-quinn-interview the aricle is very interesting- Marc Quinn really is a fantastic artist- but journalist isn't very sensitive/ is a great big blundering moron). This is a quote from Marc:

It's awful, like there's a plug somewhere in my pysche keeping the sanity in and then something yanks it out and I swirl down the drain (chucking the baby out with the bathwater, as usual). And, as the text books call it, suicidal ideation is for me what happens when I'm on the platform and the train roars out of the tunnel, making that sound like hot wings angel flapping, and I think 'I could just slip myself between that train and the platform, like a vapour and that would be that'.

Oh puke, tomorrow is the day of truth- the last day I have left to finish my second year essays. Oh lord, university is bloody stressful.

I have 400 words to write before I go to bed. Then I'll be on target for tomorrow- which is to say I'll be massively behind, but less drastically behind target than I would be if I didn't finish this section about the Julius II and the new St Peter's Basilica and architecture as a means of creating/rewriting papal history an mythology. All of which I am making up as I go along. Goodbye research!

On Brick Lane I felt like the dead come jealously back to life, like some sort of voracious, vengeful ghost. Just the Sunday afternoon crowd, the young men touting for curry houses. I don't know. It made me feel sorry for myself, but glad to be living- sorry for the hours and days and hours I've wasted inside (inside my house, inside my self).

Anyway, I was there to have my haircut. I wanted somewhere that would cut it short at the back, not like my last haircut which made me look like a dinner lady.

The childs' moon has a moussey look, like the type of goat's cheese I don't like. It's a ghost moon, but by now the trees have already darkened to sillouettes outside my window (overlooking the garden we don't have access to with our first floor flat; a wilderness garden, forbidden garden) and the moon has started shining. Actually when I'm finished with my essays next week I might ask downstairs if they mind me climbing over the fence to read in that garden. It's shared between their flat and the empty basement flat.