Smash, fsssh, grunt.....

Spent the last two nights down the leisure centre with other members of the House of Rats.

Badminton is the new crack.

On the way to work this morning.....

1 cormorant

2 herons

9 moorhen chicks (4 new)

4 cygnets (new)

6 Canada geese goslings (three new)

EIGHTEEN ducklings

I love them all.

Bird watching is the new crack.

Bank balance: -£1,600
Credit cards: Maxed
Wages left one week after pay day: £0.00
Amount of unnecessary shit littering my room, house and life: Lots

ebay is the new crack and I’m giving up. As of now.

I might just run a quick search to see if they have any dolls house teapots though....

Last night, Turtle proposed that we call our future sons "Kenwin" and "Higgen."

I said no.

Synaesthesia is bad today. Here I sit, checking through images of textile sculptures and battling intense cravings for porridge and milky bars, brought on by the voices of my colleagues.

This is probably due to the fact I am hung-over to the teeth, having whiled away last night cosy & chatty in a beery, smoky booth at the Angel with Richie Roo. Excellent way to spend a Monday evening.

Beep-beep.

Wonderfully fragmented and fuzzy memories of Supacom abound:

Boudicca gifting the House of Rats with three gigantic platters of
sandwiches and copious amounts of fruit for the burners.

Dougaldutch and Pepper creeping up on me and Turtle at Liverpool St
station on Friday night. Hugs, grins and very expensive engagement present whisky all round. Ah bliss.

Pepper gifting me a gun slinging Muffin made of fimo.

The companionship that comes from sewing costumes together and
chatting while the rain patters on the kitchen window. Thanks Pepper
darling for helping with my tail.

The house filling up on Saturday with Burners all so happy to see
each other and talking nineteen to the dozen, mixing white Russians,
sewing, smoking, producing amazing gifts and bantering. Woo-Hoo!

Dougal happily posing for an impromptu photo shoot on our sofa with
a plastic pistol in my Marilyn Monroe dress at 9 in the morning.

Meeting Zootie & Zero properly when they jumped out of a taxi in my
street at 7am shouting, “That’s the house we want to go to!!!” as
Turtle and I leaned out of the bedroom window smoking.

Seeing random burners in the loos or just crashed on the floor
stroking each other with our peacock feathers in a rather e-tarded
fashion. Excellent gifting.

The Somalian chavs at the tube station calling tutu-d up Alan a
“batty man” until he silenced them with just one look.

Turtle loving every minute of his first burn event in a rather
dapper el-wire peacock waistcoat.

The string quartet in the toilets.

Seeing the virgins of our crew head straight for costume camp and
emerge with bonnets, wigs and wire mesh horns within 5 minutes of
arrival and dance for the rest of the night. Ah the warm glow.

Jo’s skittle vodka.

Intimate and lovely foot massage moments with Michelle, one of the Lotus girls, in my basement post party.

Dougal turning up at my house on Monday afternoon, once again well
medicated, and brandishing a bottle of Rose as a gift because he thought
it “looked pretty” and joining Turtle and I as we ate sushi in bed.

Oh how I love you one and all. It was, as usual, a party to remember and my burn yearn is stronger than ever.

Life is fuckin ace.

Oh wow.

Tomorrow, Turtle, Pepper and Dougaldutch are arriving. We are going to make a nest.

Then as if that wasn’t enough joyfulness, 7 other Burny Cariads are coming on Saturday for the long awaited Brit camp summit, some of whom I haven’t seen since we were covered in dust. Some of whom I have never met.

Pepper and I are going to make Moop cakes again. Hysteria is once again likely.

THEN we are all going out to play in a cloud of glitter, tulle and feathers.

Also, the sun is shining and there is a new set of Moorhen chicks on the canal. I have heard rumours of a set of Canada goose goslings but this is as yet unverified.

Boo, Helsy and I are going for a sauna and a much needed catch up tonight.

Excellent stuff. The darkness of last week is but a distant memory. How could I ever think life was dreadful? Hmmm. The fickleness of the western woman.

Random thoughts from the weekend:

I am too old to inhale microwaved vodka on a Saturday night as a leisure activity.

Porn is excellent.

Pies are excellent.

Bare footed football on Barry Island beach is also excellent, as is crazy golf.

My fiancé hates the cold ocean but likes cliff hopping.

The Welsh National Museum has the most amazing collection of fine art and, more excitingly, displays of bees, moorhens and foxes. Anyone who is in Cardiff should go there. NOW.

The more time spent in bed reading about King Arthur, the better, frankly.

There is nothing more heart-warmingly appropriate than the sight of a Welshman in waders slowly fishing great festering bucketfuls of algae out of the Log Flume at Barry Island Pleasure Park while pasty legged families watch and mutter “Well I don’t think it’ll be open for Monday do you?” Ah, the faded seaside glamour.

The first shellfish of the year tastes the best.

Megabus journeys are not always bad. You can make friends therein.

2am voicemails from Burners who have clearly consumed too much are a joy to wake up to.

It is possible to get sunburnt whilst still wearing your winter coat. In Wales only.

There still are lots of teenage Goths in the world.

“Under Pressure” is a great song.