And today the "Freak of nature that Lisy Babe should've slapped award" goes to:

The woman on West End Lane in West Hampstead who said to me "Oh, I'll let you go first, you're quicker than me. Though, it must be hard work up hill."

Because, of course, the pavement isn't wide enough for two people. Mind you, with an ego like that, I'm not sure I'd of fitted past her head. And there is the issue around the fact that I am in a wheelchair, so therefore require space the size of a bus to fit through. I'd forgotten that one.

I have to say that I do love those "quirky" people. My favourites are the ones so convinced that my wheelchair takes up the whole pavement (I know I'm obese, but I'm still not that wide) that they start flinging themselves into hedges, gardens, oncoming traffic etc, in a desperate effort to avoid my path.

Still, living in London I suppose I should be grateful for the personal space.

Something that happened while I was in Uxbridge this morning has lead me to wonder if I might be the next Messiah (after all, I'm neither very naughty or a boy). Though according to Dictionary.com, one definition for a 'Messiah' is "any expected deliverer." Slightly generous word for describing the man with one GCSE and a driving licence from Sainsbury's, don't you think?

I was in The Chimes and before I rounded the corner, I could hear a baby having a massive screaming tantrum. Her scream was possibly louder than even my laugh. I round the corner and there's this kid, screaming her lungs out, face bright red and tears streaming. One sight of me of course and she forgets whatever it was she was crying about because she's too busy staring in amazement. If my presence does that to all children, then if I ever have any I could look forward to a very peaceful motherhood.

I started thinking about this. Every time I leave the house, I get random strangers telling me that they think I'm wonderful. These are people that know nothing about me. For all they know I could've just been selling drugs to school children, but I have some weird status in their foolish eyes. Then there's the fact that people are always wanting to touch me - I thought those people who kept breaking my wheelchair were misguidedly (and mannerlessly - ooo I like that word) attempting to be helpful, but maybe I was wrong.

I suppose I should be grateful for this - I probably get treated more like a celebrity than Marco off of Big Brother, who has only been out of the house for a week and has already found himself in the desperately clutching, wanting to be a star position of being prepared to spend an hour and a half on a Friday morning signing autographs in a mobile phone shop in Uxbridge. And, no... that's not why I was in that awful town.

There's the fact that I'm a tortured soul. Phoebe could quite legitimately say to me "It's been so long since you last had sex, you're wondering if they've changed it?", and will I ever get over having seen Neil Hamilton in fishnet stockings in The Rocky Horror Show a few years ago?

I'm off to contemplate this some more over the bar of chocolate that so far today I've already managed to:

a) melt, by leaving it too close to the cooker
and b) freeze, by then putting it in the freezer in an attempt to rectify a, but forgetting to take it out.

Still... maybe I can turn it into a huge chocolate cake. After all, didn't someone famous once turn water into wine?