June 7

Well the Dysfunctional Grammarian has run off to the Bahamas with the Novelist, leaving the Public Servant ( i have decided that this sounds better than Bureaucrat) to keep the home fires burning and daily colonise another small piece of my soul. Under her influence (the PS) I am acquiring a dirty nocturnal look about the eyes and chronic narcolepsy as a response to the heating in the office, my breasts are swelling up painfully in protest at the caffeinated, immobile life she leads and I seem to be growing a beard as well. I feel as if I have been transplanted into some sunless alternative reality populated by grey phantoms in suits and headsets which emit moronic voices all day long (how do I get onto the internet? they ask, how do I make an overseas phone call?) Maybe this is the lake of fire, and reports of its interest level have been greatly exaggerated.

I haven't had time to discuss the main event of last week which was the exit stage left of the Hawking Goth, round about Tuesday. He owed us a certain amount of rent: we repossessed his D V D player and other electronics as surety, he called the police, who came to negotiate a truce. Which consisted of telling us to give back his things- yes officer, we said, and did. Trying hard to convince myself that money is no issue and that if somebody had told me that for $ 100 I could have him out of my life I would probably have paid ( Marcin said, I would have killed him for $50 and it would have been cheaper) but I have to admit that I still wake sometimes in the early hours in a bitter rage that despite zoloft consumption and dyslexia (emosion) he knew better than we did how to fight on the street.On the other hand, I inherited his bed, which turns out -after an exorcism- to be far superior to mine.