I could burst a million bubbles...

"Well, you did say you'd rather stick your head in a boiling vat of acid than watch the cricket."

"Yes, but you never mentioned Rory! A surfer changes everything!"

-It's not cupboard love at all, is it Gem?

I'm having a quiet evening, savouring the rarity. Of late it's been busy, one might go as far as to say chaotic. Everything is a mass of confused french accents and past tenses. The mocks are upon us, and Kat's just broken the happy news that Friday isn't a mock but, in fact, my forty percent. Somewhat unfortunate, really. But the strange thing is, the minute Paperbag Writer starts, I get the focus. I become sharp. I become a dancer. Music's a funny thing, isn't it?

"I keep falling over,
I keep passing out,
When I see a face like you..."

I'm going through my Radiohead renaissance this week. When I hear as much as a line of anything from The Bends...

... I'm reduced to that same emotional wreck, the part which I played so beautifully all summer. And, offically, Kate Bush makes me cry. Seriously. My muscial vulnerability knows no bounds, but then neither does A Woman's Work. So all is equal, all present and correct.

I'm absolutely desperate to read Brokeback Mountain. My friends all say they aren't buying me a book for Christmas - "But it's not a proper present!" - but they fail to comprehend just how much of a bookworm I am. I'm reading Sartre at the moment, and I honestly cannot think of anything as inspiring I've read of late, save, of course, Amis. Other People is just the most haunting, ethereal novel. So, then. To those of you on my Christmas list, if I'm on yours, I can't think of anything I'd want more than a good book.

This has been vaguely serious, but then sometimes we all are, aren't we?

Oh, and a today there's a p.s: RIP to Max, Gem's guinea pig. :(

"It wears me out".