Every knock on the door this afternoon caused a flurry of excitement and then disappointment unbound when I realised it wasn�t my parcel of goodies. Apart from when it was M at the door and that was acceptable. I am in a bit of a manic frenzy trying to wash bedding, towels, clothes and basically remember everything needed to take to cider and cheese land. I am a twat when I�m anxious.

A parent came in today who had the face of a seventy a day smoker and an outfit which was crossing cleaner with prostitute. She looked like she was mid-forties but it was difficult to tell. This place is eerily middle class compared to anywhere else I have ever worked so she stuck out badly. There are Oscars, Sashas, Noahs and Sebastians tripping about all over the place. In many ways the peaceful normality of this gives me joy. No grotesque swollen, purple nosed, green finger-nailed men tell me to touch their monkey abortion. There is no purple lip liner anywhere. People wash. But on occasions like today a small part of me feels nostalgic for the eccentric outrageousness of it all. The Birkenstock-Gap brigade are good to talk to but a bit dreary to look at.

I think I have a sick heart.

Soso
One more alarm!