After a rather energetic weekend in which I managed to bleed copiously from my left knee, feel the brunt of Couple Sunday, not be able to blag my way into a gig and drink my very first and not only cider and black, I am now battling with the sensation of razor blades taking up occupancy in the back of my throat like Romanian squatters armed with machetes to warn off council workers ,and the kind of half sleepy, half feverish sensation of the serial caner.

Being at a party of a friend of a friend is always an interesting proposition. You have two choices - mutter in the corner quietly with all the social skills of a smelly hermit with leprosy and get viciously drunk to which people not-so-subtly stare and ask pointedly, who invited THAT?, or get swingingly merry, use the kind of charm that American presidential candidates employ and make a million new friends whose names you'll never recall, but you'll have 20 new friend invites on Monday morning....

I went for the middle ground; cling like a limpet to the one or two people you know and keep them close to you by bitching wittily about strangers. Later, most of us ended up in a late night gay bar until close at 3am, I walked out onto the road and slipped over. Bang, down I went like a bag of spuds. If that wasn't enough, as I struggled to my feet, I slipped over again and gashed my knee. My dignity was bruised, my knee really hurt. Granted I was wearing wearing very slippy boots, but the nice thing was that no one came to my assistance!!! Aaah, the English. My sister once saw a man have a heart attack on Oxford St and people merely stepped over him, which scarred her so much she never wanted to come back to London.

On Saturday night, I was confronted with my media mortality as I failed to blag my way into the Get Well Soon gig at the Forum. No way. Not that I was bothered, it was more Gemdrop's desire to go, so I positioned myself in the pub down the road that played The White Stripes, The Smiths and Nirvana, and supped a pint while she stayed at the gig. I spent half an hour on Facebook talking relatively smut with Smaller Rocker (do you send naked pics or not) and utter (but jokey) filth with my mate Jonty. When she returned I was all hazy eyed from talking tits and cocks without any actual action coming my way (no pun intended!) and had to go home on the last train, which unfortunately got stuck in a tunnel and we had to endure some upper middle class teenagers talking like a bad episode of Skins and drinking white wine from a bottle. It was like, well, HELL.

There's a reason I don't venture out on Sunday - the city is full of loved up couples looking dreamily at each other as they go for a nice lunch/IKEA/Tate Modern. It's pretty much like submitting yourself for excrutiating torture and screaming, is that all you've got!!!! Bring it on!!!! I am not one for PDA's, I find it just a bit nauseating. No, I lie, I want to throw acid on people sitting snuggling on trains or filling their pavement with their smugness so that the wildly independent souls of the world who have places to go and people to meet have to manouvere round these fuckwits like mines in the South Seas.

I am ready for a little kip under my desk. I have been mixing Xanax with Citalopram, which while gives you a great sleep (though filled with 20 foot high, Dolby surround sound style dreams) makes you rather dozy the next day. Add to that my impending lurgy and you have one very sleepy girl. So if my spelling is shit and my sentences incomprehensible, then I beg forgiveness and ask that you bear with me. Or even better, bring me a duvet and pillow.

xxxx
taylor