Ladies, gentlemen, everyone who identifies as being somewhere inbetween...

I've come here to day to talk to you about Jesus. To share with you a vision I saw on Wednesday. It was a truly remarkable sight, and image that will stay with me for the rest of my life...

... a stained glass window in a church with Jesus with a St. George's Flag for a halo.

Because, he is of course, one of the most famous Englishmen to of ever lived. And as for his newly designed patriotic clobber... well, I don't know if it's true, but I heard that David Baddiel and Frank Skinner are having him on that football show of theirs as a guest this summer, something about blessing David Beckham.

I, being a raging Atheist should probably explain what I was doing in a church - I was in a meeting in the conference centre on the top floor. It still had stained glass windows and overlooked the churchy bit proper.

I had no idea religious iconography was quite so, um... rude.

There was the big window at the top, with the picture of Jesus with his traditional headwear, and underneath him were 5 more windows. Presumably Jesus was supposed to be looking down on the people in these windows... but if I tell you that Jesus was accompanied by the caption "Come unto me, for I will give" it might give you some idea as to the content of these other windows.

There was the window containing the picture of the girl in the grass skirt and skimpy top. Just like they used to dress in biblical times.

Then there was the, well, the Geisha. The only one of the other 5 windows I could see was possibly the most entertaining of them all. She was dressed as a Swiss maid (lace up outfit. Nice.) As if that wasn't suggestive enough, she had Big Ben above her head (now, can we say "Phallus"?) and, best of all... passing through her... central section... was a steam train. Yup. In proper Carry On sex euphemism style.

Apparently the different windows were all supposed to signfy different continents. Yup. Doesn't take much imagination to understand which global industry the window designer took his inspiration from, does it?

I should go to church more often.

Sticking pliers in your mouth in an attempt to remove your labret piercing is probably more painful than paying a stranger £25 to ram a needle through your bottom lip in the first place.

Today in Euston station I passed a gentleman in a wheelchair who stared at me and then said to the woman he was with (who looked like she was probably his mother) "I want a Quickie." I'm assuming (hoping) he was referring to my wheelchair.

I also passed a church in Hampstead, which, I have to say... I know I was looking at the sign outside (you know the one, with the name of the minister etc.) as I passed on a bus, but I'm still convinced that sign offered as one of the services available "contact Elvis." These new fangled religions. Pah.

I've just had a man with an indecipherable accent come to my front door trying to sell me a yellow felt-tip pen to "Help disabled adults..."

I should've retailiated with an offer of one of those endless Bic biros. At least I could've sold him a useful pen (unless you wanted to draw a really big Pac Man I suppose), and he could've helped a disabled adult (to afford to get pissed tomorrow night).

I always think I should answer the door in the most melodramatic manner possible... sod the wheelchair, I should just drag myself and lay on the floor behind the front door:

"Um, no, sorry... it's OK. My lesbian lover has just gone out to sell individual staples so social services will let me eat this week. Thanks anyway."

In other news... this time tomorrow I shall be 25. I think I'm now going to go and weep.

Well, well... long time, no post.

This is just a brief note to say to the two people reading "Don't take my blog off your list of websites you visit!", and to reassure recent visitors that I do actually post something sometimes.

Normal posting will resume once I've dealt with the whole "I'm about to be homeless" issue.

In the meantime - if anyone knows of any ground floor bedsits/studios going in the North London area - my Email address is on the right hand side of the page.

Despite the fact that I've spent what seems like the best part of the last two days being pushed, prodded and poked (and quoting from commercials) by "helpful" people, I'm actually feeling quite cheerful.

The one long term reader of my blog might remember that in one of my first posts, I mentioned about how my wheelchair conducts vibrations rather well, and people who pass me in the street think (hope) I'm rehearsing for a role in such a play as When Harry Met Sally or The Vagina Monologues. Well, on Saturday, when passing over a particularly mini-orgasm inducing doormat thingy in a shopping centre (in The Grafton Centre in Cambridge if any wheelchair users reading want to try it out for themselves. Go on. Give the cleaners something to do), and my friend who I was with at the time mentioned I might like to give The Millenium Bridge a try sometime, as he thought it appeared as if they were of a similar surface.

Oh for the public cheap thrills. And most people think being disabled is just about discrimination, oppression, and patronising old ladies.

Anyway... this afternoon, I was at a loose end (perhaps a poor choice of phrase in this context) and decided to give The Millenium Bridge a try.

As I approached the bridge, the first thing I thought was "Fuck that's steep. I think I'm far too fat and lazy to push up that."

Upon close inspection I decided it was within the realms of my lethargy, so I gave it a try. On the way up to the top all I could think was "It's not wobbly, but Spiderman could have so much fun up here." It was only when I got to the top I thought "huh, no cheap thrills."

I decided on the way down it might be worth trying to see if any more fun was to be had at speed. So I let go of my wheels.

No cheap sexual thrills, but the noise was so cool... it sounded like I was going to take off. I could've pushed up and rolled down for the rest of the afternoon. Except, I do have a smigden of sanity. So I went home instead. But it was fun. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Ahem.

And as for the pushed, prodded and poked... I've been wondering if someone's stuck a sign on my back saying "'Help' me please. Even if I say no. I want you to break my wheelchair by not listening to me when I say 'don't lift that bit' because standing on the street putting my chair back together is really what I want to be doing for 5 minutes when I'm in a lot of pain and really can't deal with being upright. And I also really want you to grab my arm/the back of my chair and pull me about. You're not going to hamper my progress/endanger my safety at all."

I must learn to shout at these people and not be so bloody English. I'm too soft, and constantly at war with myself for not standing up for myself. A couple of weeks ago I had three parking spaces stolen from right in front of my face when, for what ever reason, they were ethically mine in the space of 24 hours.

I must learn to not take things lying down.

Especially when I've learnt from my excursions that there are so many more interesting positions. But I'll end here before I get onto those rumours about me having sex in my wheelchair and breaking it (which, if you've heard them, are untrue).

"All good things must come to an end."

Why?

"Most good things must come to an end" is a statement that makes sense. For instance, the FOCUS residential I went on last week was good - I have the bruises to support that statement. But it had to come to an end. It's not humanly possible to maintain that level of intensity for more than nine days before you collapse from exhaustion.

A good thing that had to come to an end. Granted.

But - a few weeks ago I discovered while channel flicking that I had Film Four and the associated channels.

I felt a bit like when Chandler and Joey found out they had free porn.

It had gone downhill in quality since I last had Film Four. Where have all the good films gone? And why had they been replaced with My Best Friends Wedding?

I think I felt a bit like Chandler and Joey would've done if they discovered they had free gay male porn.

Though, there is always that undertone that Chandler might actually like that.

Is there a loophole in my metaphor as it would appear to infer that I also secretly like sappy Julia Roberts romcoms?

No. Apart from Pretty Woman. But that's in a romcom league of it's own.

Despite the poor quality of films being shown - there was no need for my free Film Four to cease. It wasn't hurting anyone, it wasn't exhausting, and it had some potential for entertainment. It was, in fact, a good thing that didn't have to come to an end. But yet, upon returning home at the weekend, I discovered that it had.

There are other good things that don't have to come to an end, but for some reason do. Today I went out to buy moisturiser. Simple thing, surely?

After years of trying to find a product that agreed with my skin, I finally found one. Which I've been using now for probably about 6 or 7 years.

Neutrogena's Clear Pore Multi-Vitamin Moisturiser has been the god of facial skincare products to me. Not only is it spot clearing, but it's multi-vitamin... which leaves me thinking "Hmmm... I might not look like Dot Cotton by the time I'm 40 after all."

That is shite of bull, of course. It's in my genes to go on alright until I'm about 52 - and then to just age rapidly. And no facially applied vitamins will do anything to stop that. One night last week, 3 other female volunteers and myself stayed up quite late. One was armed with a roll of masking tape, just because that was her obsession of the day. The conversation went along the lines of "if you had plastic surgery, what would you have done?" and ended up with all of us so covered in masking tape to demonstrate that we were all weeping where our tearducts got over active after we all rendered ourselves unable to blink. It was quite worrying that the masking tape actually gave one person wonky boobs by her waist and a wrinkly chin. Surgery (or even tape) is perhaps not the way forward for her. Though the rest of us could probably get away with it if we used enough make-up to mask the masking tape.

But, alas, it now appears my moisturiser - which would without doubt of saved me from growing old, not just facially, oh no - is no more.

They seem to of replaced it with Neutrogena Visibly Clear Oil-Free Moisturiser. It apparently contains Aloe and Camomile. Why? Where have my multi-vitamins gone? And why Camomile? If I wanted Camomile on my face, I'd rub tea into it, rather than spending a fortune on expensive moisturisers.

It also claims to be oil-free so as not to block pores - but it doesn't say anything about unblocking them. Oh no. It's predecessor had its pore clearing promise right there in the title.

But Neutrogena's Clear Pore Treatment - the staple product of the Clear Pore range is still being stocked by the Boots in Brent Cross. But why? The Clear Pore Treatment is supposed to be a night cream. The Multi-Vitamin Moisturiser being the related day time product promoted. Now what are you supposed to do? Sleep all the time as you're left with just a night cream? Actually... that sounds quite good.

Product ranges - another good thing that doesn't need to come to an end.

Maybe I should just resort to making a mask out of plaster of paris one FOCUS project (this time actually for my face, rather than my left boob) and hiding behind that for all eternity. I could even write "Damn Neutrogena to hell!" across the forehead as justification of my necessity to hide.

There now follows a public service announcement

There will be no blog entries for the next 10 days (or so) as I'm going to be volunteering on a FOCUS residential, and I will not have access to a computer.

That is all.

This evening I saw the absolutely amazing The Station Agent. It's about a trainspotter, and the unusual group of friends he attracts. It's incredibly funny, and if you're a bit of a geeky "spotter" type (i.e. those playing CNPS) it will reassure you, that actually, you are (or at least could potentially be) incredibly cool. Or at least it's nice to imagine I could be incredibly cool.

The most impressive thing about the film is they have an actual, genuine, disabled person billed above such "stars" as Michelle Williams, and that bloke who plays the press officer on Spin City. None of your Daniel Day Lewis or Samuel L Jackson crap (is it a pre-requisite for being a faux-cripple to have too many names? Actually, it can't be. Look at Tom Hanks and Dustin Hoffman. Maybe it's just "desired criteria" rather than "essential"). Oh no. This is a good film.

This is where irony starts to creep in. I saw this hilarious, brilliant film, in which one of the topics covered is disability at The Screen On The Hill in Belsize Park. Why Ironic? It's an evil, cripple-hating cinema, and you're not actually allowed to take your wheelchair into the auditorium. How's that for inclusive programming?

It's an incredibly well crafted film, and I did grin almost all the way through (apart from when Fin drunkenly falls over, obviously. I shall leave my remarks on that moment at that to avoid providing "spoilers"). I think being disabled, I got a lot more of the jokes than most of the audience... but, ask any comedian who recognises me... I'm sure they'll tell you that I just laugh randomly anyway.

One of the main points in the film is that people either ignore Fin because he's disabled, or they go out of their way to be nice to him. No-one just accepts him as an equal. He does forge a strong group of friends, but these were all under the latter group of people who were extra nice to him. It's an incredibly beautiful film (so are the two lead males, if that is the gender you prefer to lust after), very warm and funny, and I'd highly recommend it.

After leaving The Fascists On The Hill, my friend and I decided to make our way into the nearest pub. Until we realised all the patrons in it were white, male, in Adidas T-shirts, shouting and cheering at a TV screen, so we guessed they were either watching football, or there was another Jim Davidson repeat on TV. Either way, we chose to walk straight past, and find the second nearest pub.

As soon as we went in the door, a guy said to me "Those are excellent wheels. I know a lot about wheels, I'm into BMX's"

"Right....." said the outer me, while my inner monologue nearly wet herself, not only at him on a face value level, but also with the irony of the film we'd just come from in mind. I also loved the fact that in the film there was the following exchange:

Fin: Horses are good, too
Joe: OK, pass me the joint.

And there was a big sign on the wall in the pub saying "No horseriding on the grass."

I tried to ignore the wheel obsessive, but he did persist, such as encouraging us to join in with his and his wife's game of "Name That Tune" - as performed by the jazz pianist. I was the first one to recognise the jazz piano cover of Stairway to Heaven. Yes - sounds as odd as it, well, sounds.

So I caved. I listened to him babbling on about how great my wheels are ("I'm afraid I have to get the repairers out to them far too often to be able to concur").

"Didn't I see you walking when you first came in here?"

"Yes. I can walk a bit. There's a flight of steps to get into the pub, and I can't fly."

"You should drink some Red Bull!" said he, clearly thinking he was a genius.

"Riiiiight.... now why didn't *I* think of that. All my access problems would be solved!"

All those companies (e.g. *cough* Screen Cinemas *cough*) who are resistant to making changes in advance of October 2004 should work in conjunction with Red Bull's advertising agents. Make disabled individuals adapt to the world, rather than bringing about needed social change and equality. Yes. Let's take a step back into the Medical Model days.

"How long have you been in that thing?"

"Didn't you see me sit down about fifteen minutes ago?"

"Yeah, but you know what I mean, how did you get into that thing?"

"With a sitting motion?"

"You're not just lazy are you?"

"Yes, that's exactly it."

But, then of course, I had to explain exactly what Osteogenesis Imperfecta is.

He then went for a piss. It was his wife's turn:

"I am so sorry about him."

"That's alright. I'm used to it. I'm just finding the irony hilarious, cos we've just been to see this film...."

"Really? Wow. But, I know exactly how you feel, right, cos when I was a kid I had really bad eczema."

"Riiiiiiight."

As I was pondering on the frequency with which I've heard that: "Yeah, no, I know exactly how you feel to of spent a large part of your childhood in plaster cos you used to break your arms doing things like eating your dinner, and you can no longer move several of your joints where they've been completely shattered and destroyed, because, right, I once broke my little finger, and it was really painful, and for three weeks I had to have it strapped to the next one, and I couldn't wank because the plaster kept getting caught in my hair." - her husband returned. He caught the tail end of the conversation and told us the tale about how he got his torso covered in allergic eczema after trimming his grandmother's bush while topless in Spain.

Fortunately, my friend and I were able to break away from the conversation when we starting discussing the taxidermised animals adorning the walls, creating the overall effect of the house inhabited by Norman Bates and his mother.

Yes - it was a quirky pub. I think we fitted in quite well. A fitting end to an interesting day.

What could be so dangerous in the Swiss Cottage area that it necessitates the attention of an Austrian huntsman with full hunting kit and excessive body odour?

On Saturday night, I was on a bus on my way to meet some friends in the West End. I looked around and spotted a man, dressed like an oversized Boy Scout, with a bag on his back his back that looked heavy enough to be concealing a celebrity curled up into a ball trying to avoid photographers. He was also carrying another bag with a couple of huge poles sticking out of it.

The "space designated for wheelchair user" on a bus also serves as standing room, and for a while I found myself sitting there with his oversized duffle bag in my face, praying that the driver wouldn't brake sharply, as the bag looked quite weighty, and I was fairly confident that one hit with that would have most, if not all, of my facial bones broken. I was quite frightened.

I then became afraid of slightly more than just the weightyness of his equipment when a woman tried to alight the bus, and he just randomly chose at that moment that he'd had enough of standing and physically ploughed her out of the way shouting with an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice "Excuse me, I'm trying to sit down!"

After he had moved seats several times, a woman boarded and said to him "That looks like quite an expedition..."

"It is necessary. I am a huntsman from Austria" he responded sounding as mechanical as The Terminator

By this point I was really feeling quite nervous and wishing he wasn't sitting behind me. Why is it necessary? What needs hunting in Swiss Cottage? Is there a deadly Werewolf terrorising North London that has somehow evaded the press? Or has there been a big public story about how they've had to seek the help of Austrian huntsmen to control wild animals plaguing North London, and I've just missed it in my lethargic avoidance of news?

"Really, wow, that's interesting. So, what do you hunt?" the lady continued

"Wild goats. Mostly" said The Scoutinator in a tone so sinister it actually made me shiver as I wondered what he meant by "mostly." Especially as I'm unaware of a wild goat problem inside the M25.

They then proceed to have a conversation about the origins of language, but every now and then he'd say something that sounded like it came straight of a horror movie. I was quite glad to get off the bus and away from the scary person armed with murdering equipment.

It would appear I was travelling on the Oddity Express. Aside from my own bizarre mental and physical features, and The Scoutinator, there was also an elderly bearded gentleman, in full waterproof clothing sitting near me with a hairy nose. By this I don't mean he had unkempt hair protruding from his nostrils, I mean he actually had hair growing on his nose. I've seen countless men and women with hirsutism of varying severity... but I have never, ever seen anyone with a hairy nose before. I would've loved to of seen the palms of his hands.

Don't werewolves grow hair in strange places? Huh...

Pampering should be good for insomnia, shouldn't it?

So, last night I had a manicure. Should be relaxing and soothing, yes?

Soaking my hands in a bowl of water... fine. Having my nails gently filed... fine. Then it comes to the cuticles.

"I used to have immaculate cuticles when I was a student. Playing with them in lectures was much more interesting than listening" said I, as the manicurist used an implement to push skin off my fingernails.

Then there was stepping up of a level. She pulled what was effectively a scapel out of her box of magic tricks, and started carving away. I was flinching on a grand scale.

"This is a very weird thing to allow someone else to do to you"

"What?"

"Letting a stranger carve skin off your hands"

"Yes, I suppose it is. It's my favourite part though"

After the scalpel, there was the buffer. The buffer was rough stuff, on a sponge. I flinched even more than when she was peeling skin off with a sharp tool.

"Sorry. I just really don't like sponge. It freaks me out"

"Really? I suppose we all have weird things like that..."

"When I was at school, I was only ever allowed to do the normal PE about three times ever. And it would inevitably be rounders. I couldn't field, cos wheelchairs and sports fields just don't go, so I always ended up batting, and I always got hit in the face by the ball..."

"... a sponge ball?"

"No, I'm slowly getting to the sponge part"

"Right, you got hit in the face with a hard, leather ball?"

"Yes. But the next time I was allowed to do the normal PE, I'd always be quite chirpy and happy to be joining in - until I once more ended up with a bloody nose. But I'd still come back for more. But, then when I was made to do the "special" PE, which was basically just throwing a sponge ball back and forth for an hour, I'd be cowering in the corner with my sweatshirt pulled over my head screaming. I don't like sponge."

I thought the manicurist was going to wet herself. It must be the way I tell them in person.

"I always got injured in PE in school too. I'm so clumsy. My two-year old godson puts me to shame - he's so much more co-ordinated than me."

"I'm so glad you told me that after you moved the sharp instrument away from my hands"

Yes. Very relaxing. Not as frightening as the haircut I had today though, but I haven't had sufficient chance to deal with that internally yet. I'm not yet up to sharing the details of that with the group.

Dearest reader of Lisy Babe's Blog. (yes, both of you);

Calm your fears - I am not dead. Not that anyone seems to of noted my two week absence. Hmmm.

I have found myself unable to write anything of late. The cause - insomnia. My sharp wit, and excellent story telling skills have gone on holiday. Along with my ability to sleep.

I am hoping all will return soon - I'm getting rather bored of spending my nights rocking back and forth in front of the telly, watching episodes of Dangermouse approximately as old as me, and thus spending my days... rocking back and forth in front of the telly, watching episodes of Dangermouse approximately as old as me.

Will post again once I've had a proper nights sleep - or I've just gone into that state of insanity and come here to wiffle.

This afternoon I found myself on my hands and knees, scrubbing away at curry ingrained in the kitchen floor. Whilst in that slightly interesting of positions, I found myself looking up at the fridge, and reading the messages that have been left for me. And realising their importance.

Yup, Fridge Poetry. One of my finer investments. It's always lovely to skulk into the kitchen before you're fully awake, searching for caffeine whilst semi-conscious, only to find "I am a shaven slut" written on your fridge as you reach towards it for milk.

And on the subject of milk... "careless breast milk and pea stew" was one of the more abstract phrases on the fridge. Is it marketed at children or adults? Would it be some kind of jarred baby food? And how is it careless? Was there a spillage of breast milk and pea stew? Or was it meant to be simply pea stew, until there was a spillage?

For a while, I used to leave collections of three words on the fridge, for people to make into sentences. "soup, pubic, eye" was one such selection. It was decided that "pubic eye soup" was sufficiently entertaining as a sentence of it's own without the need for any other linguistic ingredients to be added. Is it some kind of bean?

"mistress spider offer expensive temptation to virile Harry Potter"

Mistress Spider. I'm sure that most people seek for their dominatrixes to be slightly frightening, but really. There was a spider in our hallway last night. It had an arse as big as mine, and when it moved me and my flatmate both ran away screaming (oddly enough, both into the wrong persons bedroom)... and she's the one that usually "frees" the spiders when I run out the house screaming. I couldn't even lure the cat in to come in and eat it. Not that he would. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to do with a moth when he's actually got it under his paw. I was struck with a moments inspiration while at the window, shouting for the cat... his scratching post is heavy, with a large, flat bottom (a bit like me) and a post-like bit, meaning I could drop it on the spider from quite a distance. So I did. My flatmate then hoovered up the corpse. Which was quite impressive given the size of it. Before being reduced to only two dimensions by a feline accessory I thought we'd need to construct a coffin to get it out the door. It was huge.

And, surely, Harry Potter would be the least sensible of all teenage boys on the planet to attempt to seduce, given how little interest he's showing in sex as he plods through his teenage years. He turned 11 near the start of the first book. By that age I was halfway through the longest lasting relationship I've ever had (two years)(isn't that just fucking tragic?), and I was on a mission to be as slutty as possible (insecure? Moi?). I suspect Mistress Spider isn't the greatest of earners in her chosen profession.

"never bugger wild mice"

Useful piece of advice. "Never bugger wild cats" I think would be more fitting for this house. My flatmates cat keeps trying to bring his boyfriends home. The one on Monday night resulted in me getting locked in the flat on Tuesday morning, after I was trying to get him out of the house, and managed to leave my keys on the outside of our flat door in the entrance hall. The flat door between me and the keys which my flatmate locks on her way to work in the mornings. That was fun.

"she put a toothbrush up his bottom with a rubber hand"

A dentists surgery I wish to steer clear of.

"saucy slave Howard has a whopper in his trousers"

Burger King's new ad campaign. Just don't ask for mayonnaise.

And, a slogan to go with Burger King's new side order: "enjoy pickled vagina you kinky brunette tart"

"experience hairless crumpet"

An invitation from the shaven slut? Or just a reminder to stop shaving my legs next to the bread bin?

Days like today are incredibly bad, and incredibly wrong.

When I get up before dawn (I'm not referring to my imaginary girlfriend) you know something dreadful is going on. Like the time I was very bored with life, going slightly mad, and took to going to be in the audience for live breakfast television on a regular basis because it was something to do for a couple of hours, and involved getting a free breakfast.

This morning I left my bed unneccessarily early under duress. Sadly, not by anyone present at the time. I had received previous instructions that today, there was something I must do.

The way things go in the first hour or so of the day is usually indicative of what the day will be like on the whole. This morning, 20 minutes after leaving the house, I had a woman with bad teeth come up to me in Belsize Park. Initially I couldn't understand what she was saying, but then I caught "when you get your finger caught in it or have to blow your nose?" I figured she was talking about my facial piercings - after all, what else could I get my finger caught in that could be affected by me blowing my nose?

This was the second time in two days my facial piercings have attracted attention. On Thursday, a boy of about 3 was in the queue behind me in the Post Office. Usually, if small children want to pose questions about me to their guardians, they will ask either "what is wrong with that lady's legs?" or, of course, "why is that lady in a wheelchair?". Once or twice "why is that lady so fat?"... but the piercings seem to go unnoticed. This boy was persistant.

"What's in that lady's nose? What is that in the lady's nose? What's that? Answer in English. What is that in that lady's nose in English?"

As my friend said, it was like hearing the boring half of a phone conversation as I couldn't undetand what the father was answering. The most odd thing about this for me is that we were only a couple of miles north of Camden Town. Surely by this point in his life, and living in this area, the boy must've seen people with more facial piercings than my measly 10. And why was he only remarking on my nasal accoutrements? I think the fact that I've had a needle shoved into my mouth is far more interesting.

But, yes. Back to Belsize Park. Which seems to serve as a hangout for a lot of London's more colourful characters. The other day I was at a bus stop in Belsize Park and an elderly bloke came up to me and said with a Cornish accent "Are you alright? It's just that my wife, well, she's just like you."

I so desperately wanted to reply "What, a raving lesbian? That must be so hard for you to live with that knowledge," - curse these manners of mine for preventing me from saying that.

10 minutes later, I was still sitting, waiting, and I had another bloke say "Are you waiting to cross the road?" This time I was a bit more plucky. I accompanied my "no, I'm waiting for a bus" with evil eyes and a slightly impatient tone.

None of these people beat the tiny, frail old woman who came up to me and asked me if I wanted help. When I said "no, I'm fine", her reply was

"I'm sorry dear. I didn't mean to force myself upon you. I've helped people like you who were stuck before, see."

I was still cringing by the time I got to Golders Green at the mental images flooding my brain, following her suggestion that she forced herself upon me. Bad and wrong. Call me ageist - but she just wasn't my type.

I've wandered down tangent lane with these Belsize Parkian characters. Forgive me.

Yes, today, started off oddly. By the time I'd gotten as far as E16 (just one short of a boy band. A bit like Westlife now) I could sense that I would really of been better off had I stayed home and slept.

The queue of people hoping to audition for Big Brother stretched right along the side of the ExCel building. It was such a bleak morning. I was there because I'm constantly being harrassed and told that I should be on Big Brother, that I'm fascinating and would be an asset. Clearly, I spend most of my time with slightly crazy people (perhaps they secretly live in Belsize Park?), and I was not offered the option of not going. Well, I could've not gone I suppose - but I'd never hear the end of it. I'm sure, had I not gone today it would even be mentioned in my epitaph:

"Lisy lived a full and brave life, despite her 'problems'. She achieved many things during her 104 years - even if she didn't audition for Big Brother in 2004."

After about 5 minutes of sitting in the queue I found myself rolling my eyes with boredom, every time I heard someone near me speak. I have never before met so many people who are so dull and tedious, and will never get on telly due to their lack of charisma and personality (well, I say that, they could, I suppose, of all been contestants on last years Big Brother). I sat in this queue for 3 hours. By the time I got to the front I was too bored to think of anything else other than how much I was looking forward to going home.

Upon reaching the front of the queue, it was truly special to see all these people who had been so cocky about how wonderful/beautiful/experienced at these things they are just freeze and have nothing to say other than "um, yeah. You should pick me, cos, I'm, err... fun."

They were not selected.

Despite my wit, I was not selected to enter the building either. Funny that.

Embarking upon my journey home, someone who had also been rejected started speaking to me as I rounded the corner towards the DLR station. When he said to me "You used to go to Brunel, didn't you?" I realised he was someone I once had a conversation with on the long night bus journey to Uxbridge. As the train bound for Lewisham arrived at platform 4, he said that he might return tomorrow to audition again, this time with cum stains on his shirt, following tonights excursion to G-A-Y. I wished him luck with that.

Of course, the recruitment process is pointless. They're only going to attract people like me with as much charisma as Tipp Ex. And not even the pink Tipp Ex for pink paper... just normal, boring Tipp Ex. What they should do is send a Big Brother recruitment unit to Belsize Park and just wait.

That would be a TV show worth watching.

I'm sorry, but I have to rant.

The bloody Moron5 (or whatever they're called) song just came on the radio again.

You cannot begin to imagine how much I hate that song. I find it more distressing than anything Westlife ever released (which is really something. And isn't it great news that they're falling apart?).

It's not the song per se I find distressing (though it is truly dreadful) - it's how the song has been received.

Your generic Backpassage Boys type band will usually only get played on radio stations like Capital, and stations like Virgin won't touch it with a bargepole. But, for some reason, Moron5 have got the music industry all flustered and people don't seem to be able to recognise that they sound like a cross between a boy band and a pervy phonecall (you know a song is pure class when they need to put sound effects of heavy breathing over it).

I'm sorry Mr Moron - but if you're finding it harder and harder to breathe, you're clearly having an attack of either asthma or panic. Whichever, you really should seek medical help, and not catharsis through shite pop music.