When I was a child, a man tried to accost me as I walked to my friends house (his parents owned the village sweet shop, it was great). He pulled over and asked if I'd like another yo-yo, a better one than the one I was playing with. Inclined to say yes, he told me I'd have to go back to his house to get it though. I had one eye on the church clock- inesrt your own Catholic joke here- and told him thanks but no thanks (actually it was more like ta, but nah. Can you guess where I grew up now?), I had to be going.
It never occured to me at the time that good children don't talk to strangers. When I got home that evening my parents nearly had kittens "you spoke to a stranger!?" was their first reaction, followed by "just what were you thinking!?"
I think, if memory serves that the next week someone offered me a lift home from school, to get out of the rain. Of course I took them up on the offer. All this just proves that perhaps I never learn.
Tonight I got into an illegal cab with a group of strangers all of us heading in the same sort of direction. The driver got lost- such a surprise as his English was roughly as good as my Italian (pathetic and extremely limited) and all this came flooding back to me. If he'd taken us to a backstreet alley with the intention of selling out internal organs on the black market I might then and only then concede my parents were right to warn me about strangers and cars "you don't get something for nothing!" was a common saying of theirs, but I'm trying my hardest to prove them wrong.
I realised half-way through our round-about trip round East London that I didn't have any cash on me. And the other people sqeezed in the cab with me just waved me off "nah, no problem mate"and covered it between them.
Obviously not locals, I thought as I tried to place their heavily accented twang.
Ah, OK. Australians.

Toby x x x x

I have to be quick because I'm going out - and I have to leave before one of my new flatmates comes out of the shower. Somehow, she hasn't noticed... How do you NOT? Regardless of her misguided affection, which is beginning to border on scary, I'm DETERMINED to post everyday until I leave. On Wednesday. And I SHALL do a farewell dawn post before I leave. I know today's installment is pathetic, but at least it's here. And it's a genuine query!
Ready?

How many is too many?

Muchos Loveos Toby x x x x x x x

Imogen's fucked off on holiday. I've just come off the phone to her and at this exact moment she's getting extremely drunk at Manchester airport " 's medishnal," she said, "'n' 't'll make the flight shr't'r." Anyone noticed how when talking to a drunk person, talking normally becomes an effort?
Unfortunately I'm not about to go jetting off on holiday; that's next week. Meaning I'm currently at work. My boss being a nazi he might actually.. not be very happy if he finds me doing this, so I'm posting something from her dusty archives. It's a meme, but with a difference.

Love Toby x x x x x x x


Whats your Favourite colour? Pink. With just a hint of pink.
Your favourite chocolate bar? Unfortunately, it's boy chocolate- Yorkie bars with biscuit and raisins; I don't mean it's boy chocolate because of the adverts, but because they're inconveniently large, which makes eating them in public difficult; dribble tends to happen, or bits get stuck in your front teeth or... Anyway, you get the very vivid picture, I'm sure.
What age would you like to stop/live forever at? With my twentieth birthday looming, I'm going to say nineteen, but eighteen would also be acceptable at this point.
If you could live anywhere else in the world other than England where would you live? Tough call, I've only ever wanted to live in London. But somewhere in Latin America; I never reached there on my gap year, and I want to go there. Now. Please.
What is your dream car? Red. Cute. Fast. Car breeds mean nothing to me, but I have a fairly clear idea of what I do want, I feel.
What type of jewelry do you prefer wearing? All of it. All the time. Well, OK. I like rings and earrings best.
Baths or Showers? Showers; I'm off of boarding school, remember? Baths were half full and tepid, and you had to fish hair out of the plug before you could use it. So showers, lesser evil.
If you could be anyone else who would you be? Cate Blanchett, Déah Miranda I guess. But on the whole, I quite like me.
If you were a farmer what would you farm? Potatoes and onions, because I love them and then I'll never run out. Of course, I might have to learn how to cook, which would probably help. Actually no, I'd farm something minimum effort. Maybe tobacco? I'd save a small fortune
If you were any kind of wood what type of wood would you be? Mahogany; expensive. Or oak, actually. J'aime.
Who was the nicest stranger you can remember? This has to go to the Big Issue vendor a little while back; I'd broken my ankle, and failed to realise that sitting down on the grass would make getting up near impossible, and he helped me up. Failing that, the guy in the queue at Music Zone, who told me he loved my hair- when I told him I adored his bracelet, he dragged me off to Claire's Accessories so I could get myself one. Or the Australian who gave me some weed in return for a wedge of cheese last summer during my birthday picnic in Hyde Park. Or the bouncer who let me into my first ever club, despite it being obvious I was underage.
What would your dream compilation be? (max. 15 tracks)
1. Nine to Five- Dolly Parton 2. When My Boy Walks Down the Street- Magnetic Fields 3. 14 Hours- The loveGods 4. Follow the Cops back Home- Placebo 5. Soft and Warm- Mothers Sisters daughters and Wives 6. Everybody's Fool- Evanescence 7. Last Goodbye- Jeff Buckley 8. Hey Sailor- The Detroit Cobras 9. New York City Cops- The Strokes 10. American English- Idlewild 11. Crows- Modey Lemon 12. Hurt- Johnny Cash 13. Soul Food- Leela James 14. Starman- Seu Jorge 15. Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground- The White Stripes
Your dream festival would be...(11 bands/artists)
1. Jeff Buckley 2. David Bowie 3. Modey Lemon 4.Fun Lovin' Criminals 5. Maximo Park 6. Placebo 7. Jimi Hendrix 8.The Zutons 9. Roisin Murphy 10. The loveGods 11. Jose Gonzalez
Shock! Horror! You dropped your iPod down the toilet, what do u do? a) flush it b) cry c)delve in after it and claim a new one on the insurance d) swear? c and b and also d.
In your opinion what is the worst film? There are quite a few contenders! But. Waterboy.
If you could be any character from a film which character would you be? Girlwise, Clementine off of Eternal Sunshine, Boywise, Ernesto off of The Motorcycle Diaries. I have a crush. Actually, I have a lot of crushes. I am officially crushed.
Your 5 favourite films: Edward Scissorhands, The Motorcycle Diaries, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Pride and Prejudice (the original) and The Royal Tenenbaums
If you were in Lord of The Rings which character do you think you'd be? (N.B. not who you want to be who you are most like). Ouch, what a question! Considering I fell asleep when we went to see the marathon all three films back to back (yes, I know, but I was bullied into it and there was a promise of Blueberry muffins) and read the books when I was eleven, this is more of a history question. But, I'm going to say probably Sam, I wouldn't let my friend starve or go alone either. And knowing my friends, they'd haunt me if I did.
Describe your perfect partner; fun, smart, surprising, interesting, social butterfly, secure, and they also have to read. Books, that is- FHM or Zoo or Cosmo or whatever, don't count. Boywise, they'd also have the magic blonde hair and blue eyes combo, but girlwise, they'd have shortish hair in a gravity defying style- I may have explained before, but I like boykind. I like girlkind too, of course, but it's different- personality and relationshipwise, I like boys best.
Guys; are corsets sexy or cheap? Girls; would you like to try a proper corset? Yes I'd love like to try one- as long as noone expected me to do anything other than lounge about trying to learn how to breathe. And probably bitching. Loudly. And old dresses too. With a fan, and also a ladys maid.
Would you change yourself for someone else? I'd like to say no but that's not true. As such.

You are cordially invited, the invitation read, to my twentieth birthday party, to be held at ***** Farm. Directions and travel information will be proved once I receive replies. You are all welcome to stay the night as I realise transport may be a problem; however due to limited farmhouse space you will be requested to sleep in the surrounding barns. Blankets will be provided if the night turns cold.

Last time I slept in a barn I managed to manouver myself under a tractor in my sleep and woke-up covered in a layer of oil and cobwebs, with many legged things crawling over me.

And I overslept.

Last night was spent applying for jobs. All the jobs.

Although, in retrospect I'm not sure how impressed people are going to be by the various answerphone messages and emails I've left in my wake- think they'll take an application that came in at 2am seriously?

Someone did though- I think they were pretty desperate too. I was rudely awakened at the crack of dawn by a phonecall offering me a job. Except then they didn't call me back like they said they would- my first thought was; great, they're doing what I'd do in their position- ring the person who applied for a job in the middle of the night back in the early morning.
Light relief.
Then I realised that my just-woken-up-with-a-hangover-someone-please-get-me-water-aspirin-and-a-cigarette attitude probably didn't inspire confidence; so they can't have been suitably desperate.

And I wouldn't employ me either, frankly.

I probably shouldn't bother applying for permanent jobs, 6 month contract jobs, PA jobs... but I am desperate. I want pennies, lots of them- I'm getting card withdrawal.

And I might have sunburn.

But. I could be Julie, who has strategic sunburn borne of falling asleep on a bench after a night out in Glasgow wearing fishnet tights and a top thing with fishnet sleeves, and waking mid-morning to some seldom seen sunshine.

I have mucho hate for fishnet- my mother has a pair of fishnet tights. That's not, as such, nice, now is it?

*shudders*

Moving swiftly away from that, I'm wearing some very pretty underwear and some wonderful pyjamas- the first is Kylie, the second's off of Topshop, and I had my hair done this morning- I think it's beginning to recover from the blonde phase- so things aren't all bad. I have the house to myself for most of the weekend (except for Sunday, when penance must be paid in the form of accompanying my mother to Tatton Park's flower show) and Joel's coming over to keep me company tonight- I've been steadfastly refusing to call him after the Teenage Werewolf partybash debacle, but hopefully things'll be resolved the way I want them to be.

No, I'm not sure what that is yet, but I imagine I'll work it out tonight.

I'd ask for good luck wishes, but I am zen.

There's also a blackberry and something smoothie in the fridge, and there are carrots, and lots of coffee and milk and I've just eaten a blueberry muffin. So all is well in the world, for now.

Reading Festival.



This seems like an apt description- but I'm not going (ha! yes! double yes!) as I don't do outdoor things; mud and wellies and fields and camping and portaloo things and everything else vaguely music festival-esque I do not do.

Which is wonderful- I was bullied into going last year, but it falls just after my birthday this time round and I've begged off on the grounds that turning twenty is traumatic enough (I'll be in the pub drinking steadily for the week before and after) without being forced to wallow knee deep in mud with hairy sweaty people listening to music I have no interest in listening to and standing in a crowd I have no interest in standing in while the people around me sway slightly- whether due to heat stroke or the buffeting effect of wind- trying to see over people's heads, missing the best bit (ie last year when Maximo Park's wonderfully sexy frontman took his shirt off AND I MISSED IT), drinking alcohol I wouldn't normally drink but been driven to by the extremity of tediousness and being stood on by people wearing New Rocks or standing on people wearing sandals, going home with either rain scold or sunburn and having my worldly possessions (in this case one of my shoes and a tin of wine- yes! I know! tinned wine!) stolen.

The fact that last year I also made friends with a couple called Larry and Starling by dint of mistaking their tent for ours and engaging in a spot of drunken gatecrashing at 4am does not make up for the myriad short comings.

I'm so glad I'm not going you wouldn't believe.

I seem doomed to never sleep alone again; and this has nothing to do with my sex life. I'm back at my mother's house; and my little brother will not leave me alone.

At all.

Last night I woke up to find him wriggling his way in between the covers- "I had a nightmare Mogcat"
"Pardon?"
"I had a nightmare."
"Yes, I heard that bit sweetie. What did you call me?"

Blah. He's just learned how to spell my name; he's currently pronouncing the 'g' bit with a 'g' sound, not a 'j' one.

(Incidentally, his teacher's a complete and utter prat and fool of the first water; when doing a story about his thrilling weekend, he asked her how to spell my name and she told him to change it, because she didn't know. Just how difficult is it?)

iMOGen; he wrote it out for me- in eyeliner on the window- just in case I wasn't keeping up. He's been spending entirely too much time with my mother; she's very good at spreading the patronising bug.

The 'cat' bit is not entirely unfounded, and might make sense to an eight year old brain- my cat is also refusing to let me sleep alone.

Which would be fine, as it's all very well and cute, except the one- imaginatively named Felix- wakes me up before dawn to go hunting (I imagine, from the amount of partially dead things he keeps bringing into the cottage) and the other- Theo- wakes me up at actual dawn. He's very keen; back in the day I'd get up at the last minute to be on time for school, but he's up and about a good three hours before school starts.

But, being so blonde and cute- I have a weakness for blonde people with blue eyes, I let them walk all over me- when he wakes me up and asks nicely for me to make him breakfast, I do it.
Which surprised even me; I don't make myself breakfast- on the grounds that it's too much effort- but all he has to do is bat his eyelashes at me, and I'll look up Delia's wishfully entitled Idiot Proof Guide to Pancake Making.

---------------

He got his school report on Friday; the summary reads - Theodore is a wonderful addition to our class, he joins in with all classwork and is a vocal member in group work. He will go far.

My school report for the same year (3) read - Imogen has a delightful sense of humour but needs to curb her impulsive side.

But it's a good sign; he can pay off all my debts (ie my outrageous student loan one) when he's rich and doing more than I'm going to do with my life. I could even be the spinster sister who gets up at dawn to make him pancakes and walks him to school/ work wearing enough makeup not to embarrass him in return for a penthouse apartment in central London.

I am indeed at the beck and call of an eight year old.

I agreed to walk him to school this morning along the scenic route- through the foresty bit while wearing flipflops and a skirt; my legs are now completely covered in insect bites.
And my right thumb, for some reason.

I'm still learning to curb my impulsive side.

Wandering up the pavement towards Sam the party host's place, my phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Stop."
"Katy?"
"Yes. Stop."
"Yes, but why?"
"I have a water pistol in my bag, and I'm not afraid to use it!"
"I spent hours straightening my hair, don't you dare!"

I don't know why I bothered getting all worked up; she missed spectacularly and someones petunias got a thorough watering.

We went in together, and I went into little raptures of delight over the rampant glitter (red and black) and the fairy lights scattered through the house.

Sam came over- "Im! Fabby to see you babe *air kisses* whats the news from London? Seen Queenie lately?"
And force fed me chipolatas with lashings of tomato ketchup- yum.
I'm a bad vegetarian.

"What's that smell?" I asked.
"Oh bloomin' heck, not again," he said, racing off towards the kitchen.

"What was that about?"

Flora joined in "oh, some people in the kitchen keep trying to cook pieces of sausage in the chandeliers."

Ah.

"Is it working?"

Dance dance, achey feet, pause, dance dance, trip out to the garden to cool down.

Joel made his way over to me, taking forever to do so- in flirt terms, he's worse than Toby. When he finished dancing with every reasonably attractive girl between the kitchen and me he stumbled out of the french windows and gave me a big hug- and I got death looks from half the girls in the room; they needn't bother though.
"I missed you Cupcake," he said.
I've only been away a week!
He looked all sad and gave me a cuddle, then stole some drinkies for us from a group of girls loitering in the corner near the open windows wearing obscure amounts of fake fur; to the extent I had to pick stray floaty bits out of my drink- before thinking better of it and casting it aside.

In fake fur terms, you off of blogland were right; while funny, extra hair does not enable a girl to pull.

Can't imagine why though.

------

The early part of the night was a big let down. I finally managed to get with Liam, who I've been vaguely lusting after for years- and he was rubbish.

"If I'd known you liked him, I'd have warned you," Anya said laughing as I tried to hide behind her.

------

Come 3am people started leaving in dribs and drabs, and as those left started arguing over who'd sleep in what corner I wandered outside in search for a fellow nicotine addict I could beg, borrow or steal a cigarette from- so, I managed to miss the sleep negotiations and found myself standing alone in the living room, all lights turned out and snores emanating from various corners.

"Hey," a quiet voice called from the next room. "I snaffled the couch, do you want to sleep here?"

Steady on sugar, I'm not that kind of girl.

"Cupcake, stop messing about and get over here."

-------

Now, I'm just on very touchy pins about whether this means we're going out or not.

Would you like to know what I've spent my whole afternoon doing?

Of course you do. No, really.

Skirt?

No, trousers.

Skirt.

Dress?

Trousers.

No, dress.

Which shoes?

Is black lipstick going too far?


But now I'm ready and blogging so I'm not tempted to go back and get changed again. I have so much black eye make-up on that blinking's beginning to feel like an aerobics class and I still have to work out how to leave the house without my Mother seeing me, as I look not unlike a person who's favours are somewhat purchasable.

I'm actually looking forward to this partybash; it's like being fifteen again- back in the day, every house party had a theme; ice princess, fish, regression, flora, 70s, morning, regency, rock, 1984.

Oh, and there's one with an Austrian theme coming up in about two weeks, which should be hilarious- think, The Sound of Music.

Lederhosen ahoy!

And Heidi. Heidi's set in Austria, right?

Wrong? Pray tell.

But moving on. I shall report back in detail, and share snack stories- the fish party came with fishfingers and carrots artfully carved into vague fish shapes, and this party is being held by the guy who hosted that one.
And after that partybash they were picking up bits of fishfinger from the chandeliers for weeks; I have high expectations for tonight- I mean, what will the snacksies be?
Severed dolls heads with that fake blood stuff you get at Hallowe'en? Or raw leg of lamb with ready prepared teeth marks?

The possibilities are endless.

I may have said it before, but boarding school girls are not, as such, normal.

Had you noticed?

To prove this, I'm celebrating no longer being in the White House of Doom and Gloom by going to a Teenage Werewolf party.

Yes, that's right. But, in my defence, I'm making the most of still being 19- it's the person hosting the partybash I feel for, as she's clearly having some difficulty accepting the fact that she's not an August baby and therefore is twenty and not exactly a teen.

So the partybash dress code is going to run high on black and fake fur- and I have a question for you, dear readers.

Should I go for the comedy effect of monobrow and sideburns artfully formed with fake fur, or should I go in werewolf chic and wear black with just a hint of black?

I missed the fucking train to Abergavenny- not the good kind of missing, when you realise you're running late and might as well kick back somewhere nice, but bad missing. I arrived at the platform to witness the fucking train departing before my very eyes.

I fucking hate public fucking transport, and with good fucking reason.

*breathes*

So when was the next train? An hour away. Fan-fucking-tastic, I got to spend an hour in one of my least favourite places; a train waiting room, with nothing to entertain me but my iPod and a full pack of twenty cigarettes- and, the waiting room being unnecessarily close to Millie's Cookies, I also spent the hour exercising self control.

I'm amazingly bad at that, but I chain-smoked myself into ignoring the enticing cookie smell.

Feeling a little dizzy I clambered on board the next train, and settled down in a reasonably empty carriage. Curled up in my seat, arms wrapped tight around my legs I leaned back and willed the journey not to take too long- travelling time is weird; you look at your watch, it's 10am. An hour goes by, you check your watch again, and it's 10.15. Anyway, so dozing off in my seat, iPod still going, a gentleman came over to "chat".

Chat indeed.

I'd passed him on my way down the carriage, noticed; ugly; and moved on. But he moved so he was sitting opposite me- and then felt it necessary to tap me on my shoulder, when the Blondie thundering in my ears didn't allow me to notice him immediately. And THEN he insisted on talking to me.

Why on earth do people even bother?

"I saw you smoking on the platform. You really shouldn't do that, it's bad for you."
"Really?"
"Oh yes, of course it is."
"I hadn't noticed."

-pause-

"You know, coming from me, that's not on."
"Isn't it?"
"Look" and he dragged a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
"Nice."
"Do you want one?"
"No."
"Are you sure? They're different to yours."

-pause-

And then he said it, the most hated phrase of all time.
"Cheer up babe, it might not happen."

-pause-

"So, y'no, are you alright?"
"Not really."
"Oh yeah? How come?"
*sitting up and looking at him* "I stopped at my boyfriend's last night, I'm knackered."

Triumph, surely?

-pause-

"So, where are you heading?"

"What music are you listening to?"

-pause-

"Have you seen them in concert?" he asked.
"Blondie? How old do you think I am!?"

I made a break for the toilet, dragging all my stuff after me, then found a seat in another carriage.

And he did, of course, change at Cardiff with me.

He crossed the platform towards me. "Say, babe, we were getting on pretty well earlier, don't you think?"
"Were we?"
"So, can I have your number?"
"I have a boyfriend."

-pause-

I dragged my stuff towards my next train; Abergavenny bound, and he followed me.
"What?"
"Say, can I have, like, a hug goodbye?"

Argh.

Having been well brought up *cough* I always offer my seat up to old people and pregnant women. This morning as I made my way back to the flat all bright eyed, bushy tailed and still rather drunk after no sleep but lots of time spent with lots of lovely friends, I offered my seat up to a pregnant lady on the tube.
She looked shocked, then took me up on the offer with a smile. She got off before I did, and I angled my way back into the newly vacated seat with hard won skill.

In a move like mine yesterday but with a little smile rather than whatever my facial expression was doing yesterday, she turned back, leaned closer to me and said- "I'm not pregnant. Cheers for the seat though."
Oh, my. How embarrassing.
I love it though- you just would wouldn't you?

I'm having flashbacks to that time in Mothercare when I asked the lady going into raptures over baby shoes when her baby was due.

Blah. I might just stop being nice in future.

"How can you be girly AND clumsy?" Matt asked me, staring at my legs with enough intensity to make me feel uncomfortable, were they not covered in scrapes and scratches and bruises. And were I not an attention whore.
"I fell down the stairs."
"Right. What were you drinking?"
He knows me so well. "Oh you know, pinot, battery acid, the usual."

"White wine then?"

-----------

The scrapes don't pass unnoticed, which is a shame at this time of year, where pressing social engagements (ie, saying goodbye to everyone before I fuck off to Abergavenny on Friday) mean frequent leg exposure, with the aid of beautiful strappy sandals and short dresses.
My iPod battery dead, I was forced to listen to those around me on the tube, rather than more exciting and less mediocre things, like Placebo. So much love for Placebo at the moment.
And I kissed Brian Molko once upon a time, too.
I swished my way into the carriage and ended up standing for the whole three stop trip, when I noticed a little murmuring- charming things like cat, tramp, allergies? and also, how?

They were making me feel common, and my patience- a pathetic excuse for a virtue at the best of times- snapped on hearing the word 'tart'.

I looked at her, with her last seasons Versace teamed with last years Marc Jacobs and smiled ("be rude in a charming and engaging fashion").
"Yeah, I look like I had it off in a bush, don't I?"

-silence-

I changed at the next stop, and had the same thing; rude, tactless stares and whispered remarks. Patience frayed, I turned back to the nearest whisperer just before we came to my final stop; "Yeah, ok, look. There was nowhere else to go so we had it off in a bush."

I hate being made to feel like a commoner, especially when it's unfounded. I'm perfectly good enough at making myself feel cheap, I don't need the help of strangers.

And on this occasion, I really had fallen down the stairs.

Posting and commenting looks set to be a tad on the sporadic side for the next week, as I move house (we're moving out on Friday and as yet have no idea where I'm going. Anyone have a luxury villa somewhere hot and some friends they'd like to lend me if I promise to be nice and charming and engaging?). I'll finish the Dartmoor tales another time- next week, I promise, but I was right; I did lose my job.

Yay!

Right now though, I have to pose a question that's been bothering me for, ooh, about a three hours now.

Scars.

When I'm tallying the number of scars on my body, I always leave out a certain set- the ones on my feet.
My penchant for high heels and also slatternly lack of ownership of any flat shoes apart from flip-flops means my feet are like the walking wounded.
I don't heal cuts very well at the best of times- absolutely everything scars; I have little white marks on my arms from enthusiastically itched midge bites, and a couple of cigarette burns, which are, I guess, slightly more excusable scars.

But my feet!
There's quite a list, from the marks working their way right the way round my very lower leg- still in the red stage, but I'm living in fear they'll also scar eventually- from a nasty cheap pair of wedges, to the gash between my big toe and its neighbour is still healing after a spot of over-enthusiastic walking in flip-flops. My cute pink shoes have this nasty thing where they curve inwards at the top at the back, causing mucho blisters and general pain, and my boots have been known to give my those lovely blisters one gets, on the bottom of my feet.

Ouch indeed.

So, I spent today sprawled out in a carefully arranged heap in the park- at perfect shoe level, you'll notice- and I didn't see a single female without these marks of distinction.

Can you prove me wrong?

My inner feminist tellls me this is bad. Bad bad bad.

But.

Shoes are just so pretty! Worth every moment.

Off she goes lalala

My part time job at the local paper proved spectacularly dull, so I quit, having had my fill of writing articles about ice-cream vans and their sinister intentions vis a vis the waistlines of the nation's children or about local sporting events. Becoming unemployed brought a temporary feeling of both independence and- due to both pay day and a parental guilt cheque, a feeling of, well, giddy euphoria and carelessness brought on by actually having money to waste.

No comments about outrageous shoe purchases please.

So I spent money, got very drunk very often and bought new clothes- a bad idea when I'm moving out of here this Friday, and moving things about in black bin bags and cardboard boxes is a distinct possibility.
Then I got another job, waitressing. This won't come as a surprise, but I'm spectacularly bad at waitressing.

"Clumsy!" He snarled at me, as I tipped the contents of one plate at such as alarming angle as to disarry the carefully arranged contents.

"Be careful!" He hissed at me again, as he propelled me out of the kitchen, plates stacked high, and pointed me in the direction of the table.

I worked a fifteen hour shift: Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday. And tips get pooled. Tuesday evening I worked extra time; the new waitress hadn't shown up, and the place was packed. I worked on autopilot, smile fixed, hair slicked back (I can't describe how much I hate having my hair back out of my face) and ignored my aching feet- my black shoes give me blisters. On the way out I gave up, took my heels off and walked back to the flat barefoot, carefully avoiding discarded gum, cigarette butts and glass.

Joel met me as I leant against the door, scrabbling half-heartedly through my bag looking for keys; as he opened the door I stumbled through and landed in a dusty heap on a pile of curtains. He glanced at the clock; "Cupcake," he said, helping me up, giving me a hug and snatching up a cup of coffee from the shelf behind me- people who can multi-task simply amaze me. He wandered back through into the kitchen and I collapsed in a bedraggled pile on the sofa, ignoring my dirty feet, dishevelled hair and aching head, and fell asleep.

I woke up to him poking at my new ear piercing, "cupcake," he said again, "you need a holiday."

"Mmmf." I turned away and went back to sleep.

I woke up a few hours later to full dark, and Joel leaning over me explaining how he wanted to go away, that some friends in Dartmoor were expecting a visit.
And that he'd already packed for me.

He's just so bloody confident.

I ignored him and just went back to sleep- but in bed this time, rather than on the sofa. Then, got up on Wednesday and did the same shift- and the new waitress didn't show up again. I stayed on, pocketed all my tips with nary a guilty thought, then went back to the flat and agreed to run away from it all; something the boy does spectacularly well.

Foolishly, I didn't think to check what he'd packed for me- more on which might come later, but really, how many hats does a girl need? Much as I adore them. And how could he not realise I might want more than one pair of shoes and- this is the key thing, I think- how on earth could he not be aware that underwear simply has got to match?

So we went to Dartmoor, and slept on the train.
More to follow.