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2002-02-12 - 5:42 p.m.

�And what costume shall the poor girl wear ,To all tomorrow's parties? A hand-me-down dress from who knows where, To all tomorrow's parties��

I think it was probably the start of the third hour sat on the runway that I started to feel less than joyous. I understand that air travel involves delays for safety reasons � they can�t just start catapulting planes up into the air and hoping it doesn�t end in a shower of molten fuselages and badly cooked chicken dinners, but sitting there like, might I add, a fucking putz, whilst the captain talks about malfunctioning engine parts�well, put me on a coach, baby, even if it DOES mean driving through France. Still, it was only another seven hours (200 people taken off the plane and plonked, fully vouchered up, in the least exciting food hall in Catalonia) before we were airborne, and central London at 2am is a virtual utopia of public transportation�I don�t think I�ve ever been so close to wanting instant major organ failure just to end the nightmare.

That said, Barca more than gets my seal of approval. The Catalans are the most miserable race on earth (in the case of the good looking girls, it�s probably because they all seemingly go out with some ugly mutant strain from a Basque separatist cloning lab) - they frown if you speak English, and positively growl if you speak Spanish, though I�m not sure what they expect since their dialect has more X�s than the top shelf of a Soho jazz mag shop. But it doesn�t matter as the city is a delight of space, planning, architecture (that Gaudi is one crazy donut) and the cheapest food and drink this side of Warsaw.

�And where will she go and what shall she do, when midnight comes around? She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown and cry behind the door��

Friday night we got ratfaced on Cava in a hole in the wall bar in the old town, where sides of beef hang dangerously from the ceilings and they make up sandwiches straight from vegetarian aversion therapy classes. The next night was Mardi Gras in Sitges, the gay capital of Spain, our Viking costumes attracting all sorts of attention, mostly as we spent most of the night beating the crap out of each other with our plastic swords. I lost my detachable horns on more than one occasion. All my friend�s friends are giants, so I was picked on as the runt of the tribe, rather unfairly I thought, though it was good for drawing sympathetic comments, none of which I understood, natch. Catalan girls are very dark, very beautiful, and very not interested in drunken English Vikings with one horn missing. Sunday we cleared our heads with a sunny stroll along the beach and Monday I spent seething, with little more for company than a tortilla sandwich (?) in Barca airport. Things haven�t gone well since.

I always thought Tartar was just a load of old guff to sell more toothpaste, but I certainly believe in it now. After no hours sleep, this morning my dental hygienist performed a 30 minute act of ritual torture in the name of teaching an unbeliever a lesson about flossing. A quick look round and then she dusted down her most medieval implements for what turned out to be like a scene from �Marathon Man� but with a moral edge. The more she saw something she disapproved of, the more she flourished her drill with a judgemental sigh - I don�t want to be too graphic, but I thought I was going to walk out of the surgery looking like Tim Roth at the end of Reservoir Dogs. I just wanted to shout, �A slightly discoloured molar does not make me a bad person!� but sadly I was too busy staring in wide-eyed horror at the whirring metal blades. I practically begged to mainline the Novocain my dentist gave me for a filling afterwards, though I have to say my mouth is now a joy to behold, or at least it will be once I regain control of my lips. I�ve turned off the phones in case anyone calls and thinks they�ve got through to John Merrick.

Oh yeah, and I missed my interview for Japan because when I reread the letter this morning, I realised that it�s in Edinburgh, not London. I sometimes wonder how I even get through the week�.

� For Thursday's child is Sunday's clown, for whom none will go mourning. A blackened shroud, a hand-me-down gown of rags and silks, a costume fit for one who sits and cries for all tomorrow's parties��

shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather

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