2002-01-10 - 7:19 p.m.
�James is a freedom fighter, and he lives for the moment, his parents are hippies and he sees everything through a rainbow. He�s never unhappy �cos he never wears a watch, he lives on his mountain bike and sees beauty in everyone��
Oops. Yesterday I didn�t mean to imply that this weekend was going to be anything outside the usual alcohol-fuelled bumblings and humiliating rejections�.just that I wasn�t going to have a cold, that�s all. �Kay? �Kay!
This joke works best in a northern English accent: How does Bob Marley like his donuts? Wi� jam in.
After heaving around a mobile phone that had much in common with those wind-up ones they used in the trenches in the Great War, I finally qualified for my free upgrade to one the size (and colour) of a discreet female hygiene product that doesn�t inhibit your ability to abseil or ski off-piste. It should have been a brief, efficient transaction, but sadly I got not only the trainee, but someone to whom the concept of �tills� was obviously akin to quantum mathematics or theoretical neurosurgery. 45 minutes holding up a queue that was on the verge of Bolshevik revolution and all he�d succeeded in doing was charging �178.95 to my credit card (which he�d finagled on the tenuous basis of needing it �for reference�) and creating a new contract for the old phone, which was becoming an antique curio before our very eyes. (note to self, what exactly are �very eyes�???) It was a mite frustrating. Suffice to say, if I�d have been armed, I would have been a prime candidate for the lead item in the early evening news. Thankfully, though, the time-old mysteries of number inputting were revealed to him in a blinding flash of Damascan proportions and minor breaches of the Geneva convention were narrowly avoided.
�I've got a good job, but James says that no-one understands him - he's an artist and he needs time to find out what that means��
I�m privy to the social company of several lovely couples. One such pair took me in last night and made me dinner, since they seem to be under the impression that I spend each evening spilling lonely salt tears into my uni-serving of cold gruel (or is gruel, by its nature, always cold?). My whinings about being single are kept to a perfunctory minimum at all times, natch, though if pressed, the floodgates can open. Such was the case last night. I made an impassioned address bemoaning my plight, and the social amoeba / borderline psychotics that girls I like seem to gravitate towards, how difficult it is to meet new people that you get on with, let alone want to smear with pureed monkey glands, how my burgeoning social anxiety prohibits any kind of even vaguely predatory manoeuvres and the regret that my (ahem) best years are passing by in silent yearning. �Well,� said the girl, sipping her wine thoughtfully, apparently pausing to formulate some gloriously sympathetic insight, borne from the caring, maternal instincts deep within her female psyche, �You could always start taking it up the jacksie.�
�And James says we�re gonna change the world. James says that I am his flower girl, and James and I, we�re gonna make a difference, just wait and see�we�re gonna set the world free��
