Am sitting here with hair dye on, dripping indiscriminately on stuff. I meant to do it yesterday, but it completely slipped my mind, so I will probably still have a nice navy blue scalp tomorrow - hope you find that an attractive look, Hetty dearest, and won't run screaming from me. My hair will be gorgeous, however - I don't think you've ever seen it in its first day glory - it won't have faded to black quite yet, and will still be a wonderful blue.

I must get on with the NaNo today, I really must. And finish the Italia Conti statement (in no more than 150 words why I am going to be the best thing ever to happen to the London stage - ha!). And I need to somehow locate my father - he has Miles' birthday list, and as I'm No. 1 Godmother now I need to get him a good gift. But not a lightsaber, as I always said Ii would be the first to own one and now I am, ha! He's going to be soooo jealous when he sees it. Plastic toy envy is a wonderful thing.

Damn, damn doctors. I could kill them all, I really could. The NHS is worth nothing in this country. You can't make appointments in advance, you have to ring up at 8.30 in the morning, and then it's always engaged, and by the time they put you through the appointments have all gone, and they never do put you through and while you're waiting they play you horrible tortured versions of Richie Valens' La La La Bamba until you want to scream and rip out your own eardrums. And you're told that 'our staff are exceptionally busy, please hold'. They're exceptionally busy? Wht about me? Wasting my day listening to bloody awful muzak in a faint attempt to get a doctor's appointment so I can tell them that a) to bloody well give me some more pills so I won't turn into a homicidal maniac when the moon is full, and no I don't want my blood pressure taken thank you so much, and b) give me some more medication because the three things they've tried before haven't worked, because they're FUCKING USELESS.

*Deep breath*. Ahem. Rant over.

Am going to the gym with Diane this afternoon, which should be fun. Haven't been in a while, so intend to do some intensive work. Although must make her keep me away from weights - my biceps are getting way too big. I can't seem to stop them, it must be the dance. When someone puts a hand on your arm and says 'blimey those muscles are hard, and you're wearing a top and a coat, you know you ought to be worried.

The bruise is progressing into marvellous new shades. It's managing to be purple, blue, green and yellow all at once, with little burst blood vessels in the middle. Let this be a lesson to you, my children. Do not walk into sharp gay boys.

Had a somewhat cryptic email from my beloved saying that everyone may be coming round to hers afterwards. I cannot possibly see your Mother condoning that, sweetie. Still, would be very amusing if she did.

And tell me, oh please, please tell me - someone - anyone - that there are no euphemisms for the o-word? Apart from coming, which doesn't count. And I could almost cope with 'climaxing'. Anything else is liable to make my brain melt.