So elegantly bored...

A knock on the window and a tap on the door. A ring of the doorbell. I hide behind the couch knowing whoever has come to visit is looking for the real residents of this house, not me. Why answer a door to confusion and awkwardness? Let's hide. But the visitor is persistent and as he peaks his head to the window I realise it's my Grandad. I bolt up from behind the couch and let him in.

"Asleep at 2 in the afternoon?! Well in my day..." and so he goes. He has been locked out of his house, lost his keys while playing snooker. (Don't you just love it? A 93 year old in a weekly snooker tournament with his oldest pal... a man of 71.) I bustle about the sitting room in search of a spare and we head round. Alas it is the wrong key. In fact the spare key is dangling on my mothers key ring, somewhere in the next county. Bravo Mama! We head back around to the warmth of the house and I put on the kettle and begin to phone anyone who might have a key. But no one is about. Seems today is my family's day to visit other counties.

Before I can ask "One lump or two?" Grandad is snoozing on the couch, snoring quietly. I am alarmed when in his sleep he begins a murmuring " Lay me down onto sleep, by the grace of god. Amen" Once or twice. It would be a lie to deny this is unnerving. None the less, I ring various aunts who are invariably annoyed at me, as if I have taken his key and thrown it into the Dodder (River). Aunt Mary (who lives with my Grandad, has dated the same man for 30 years and has a guide dog called Star) instructs me to search his pockets; certain she has tied the keys into them so that he might never lose them. As she barks the order I am nervous. He is still wearing the anorak. His increasing dementia has already made him paranoid. Will he think me a thief?

I begin to search and no sooner is my hand in the first pocket he stirs awake. He is confused and startled. I remove my hand and speak kindly "Mary says she tied the keys into your pockets. She asked me to check." His confusion, abundantly clear, he stands up and says he just wants go home and he can take care of himself, if only I will give him his key. I calm him down and we search the pockets together, but there is no magical key. I ring Mary again and report such. She is annoyed at me, talks as if I am some simpleton (this from a woman who practices counselling and psychology. I certainly would not appreciate telling her my darkest sorrows.) And snaps "Were coming for him. We'll be ten minutes."

Ten minutes, from Kildare? But I don't ask questions and as I put her on to explain to my poor bewildered Grandad that I do not have a key and I am not hiding I feel panic. Maybe I have missed the key too? Maybe I am that stupid! I push these thoughts aside and I once more boil the kettle. This time I actually give him the tea. Would you believe, I have spent my whole life terrified of making my Grandad tea, in case he hates it or thinks it's foul. Thinks I am stupid because I can't read minds and am too afraid to ask 'How do you like it, sir?’ He loves his tea. Thirteen years of stress eases off my shoulders. I think I grow an inch. We sit and talk about German brilliance and how he believes the UN keeps them down too much. He talks of times past and travels Ah yes....

"And I would go down to the docks at North Wall and take the boat to Liverpool. Work there a few days and get the train fare and head for London... Ah yes pet, selling ice cream in Kentish Town...Cycling about and ringing my bell. Selling tuppeny wafers and fourpence specials. All around Highbury and North London. Then I would rest my head in Ma Browns...Her and her husband adopted me in my time in London... Marvellous people and such a good breakfast...Make sure you live in North London pet."

Then the cavalry arrives and he is rescued, we hug sweetly and I kiss the top of his very bald head and wave goodbye.

I love none, like I love my Grandad.

I have spent the best part of the day looking up forums on the issue, downloaded countless drivers attempting to remedy the issue, all to no avail.

I am a shoelace away from shoving the machine to the floor and jumping up and down on it till it is but dust.

Fuck sake! I need to go get some real work done you piece of skit. And I wanna make music. Wagh. Die die die!

Last night I went to bed at 5.00 a.m. I slept for an hour and then woke up with a 'THUD' as I crashed to the floor. My side still hurts.

I have been paying alot of attention to my hands today. They have stopped looking freakish and fat. I think I am losing weight.

The weight loss is evident from only my chest and my hands. These are the most peculiar losses so I do wonder if i am imagining it. I do not particularly want to lose my chest.

Losing weight from my hands makes me wonder if I'll be able to play guitar like a proper guitarist soon. But I know this isn't really likely at all.

Yesterday I spent a large portion of the day desiring battered cod. Then my parents made a lovely stew and I started craving that instead. Days like that make me hate being a vegetarian. (8 months, woo!)

I'm a bit afraid of going home because Roisins stalker is still on the loose and now I have been informed there is a vicious rapist in the local vacinity.

It wouldn't be so bad if I would stop leaving the keys in the door all night, like a flaming spazz.

I took this picture in London, in one of my, morning-after-art efforts.
I like it.

I really want ice-cream.

SPAZZ SPAZZ SPAZZ SHOELACE.