And, this time my excuse for the long gap between entries is: I can't concentrate on writing with a permanent nipple erection. It's just too distracting.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Which is a somewhat pointless saying, don't you think? If you were taking desperate measures under normal circumstances you'd look like an utter plonker. Using the cat's litter tray could be perceived as acceptable when the toilet is broken, but, there would be something very bad and wrong about going to such an extreme when the toilet is available for use.

Don't worry. I haven't been using the litter tray. The times haven't been that desperate (and neither have I).

I have however spent 4 days working my way around the showers of everyone I know in the Golders Green area. I haven't developed a fetish for showers, or even taken a job as a shower quality inspector (though that does sound quite good). Our boiler broke. And in February, in an unheated house, I was not going to be taking a cold shower. I feared I may end up in a similar frozen and shattered situation to the T-1000 after the liquid nitrogen incident.

I'm quite a serious contender for the title of "World's Laziest Person" - so getting up at 6:45am on Monday in order to use a neighbour's shower when I didn't have to leave for work until 9am constiutes something more heinous than weeing in a kitty litter tray.

I've also had to bite the bullet (not literally... I like having the lower half of my face still attached) and buy an electric heater. This bothered me for two reasons: 1) I'm turning into Arkwright and don't like spending money (because I have none), and; 2) Because they use so much electricity (see point 1).

The weekend has therefore been spent huddled around an electric heater in my room, deperately avoiding having to the bathroom/kitchen (the role of the two rooms not to be confused). To make matters worse, my wheelchair broke last Thursday which meant I couldn't get into work on Friday. Probably the only time I'll ever say this, but I had been looking forward to going into work, just to be in a centrally heated building. So the day was spent huddled under my duvet watching Daytime TV. Which is always exciting. It also took me several days to discover the answer to the question "If you were a purple hippo hot water bottle, where would you hide?"

The tale ends yesterday morning when our boiler was finally fixed. Hoorah! (Though our bathroom radiator still isn't working. If anyone were to glance at my chest whilst in there, they'd think brushing my teeth is a far more enjoyable activity than it actually is).

If anyone would like to contribute to the "Pay Lisy's Electricity Bill Fund", please contact me. After all, if Jeffrey Archer could possibly of made money out of charity (note how I'm not saying that he did), I should be able to.

I just had an experience so good it was almost orgasmic.

Did Sharleen Spiteri just run her hand up my thigh? No. Sadly not. But that's just given me a fantasy to enjoy later on.

I've had a spot, on the bridge of my nose for days now. It was rock solid, unburstable and incredibly painful. And I just finally managed to squeeze the bugger. It was immesurably satisfying (well, that might be an over-exaggeration. Sharleen Spteri running her hand up my thigh would be immeasurably satisfying).

I'm talking about bursting spots... and I'm currently wearing white trainers. I really feel like I've come over all Essex (note the word order in that sentence. One absent minded typing error and I could be proclaiming unrealistic ejaculatory skills). Anyway....

I think the last 24 hours have fully qualified me as a hypochondriac. First I was convinced I put my back out whilst trying to impersonate George Michael (best not ask, but, I assure you that there were no toilets involved in my impersonations), then I became convinced that the pain in and around my eye was a brain tumour caused by the black mould growing around my windows that I noticed earlier on. Apparently in Holland they warn you in public information films (starring Emma Kennedy whose blog is the source of this piece of knowledge) about how mould caused by drying your clothes inside without proper ventilation causes cancer, we get no such warnings. Which is silly... Your mother tells you to always wear clean knickers incase you have an accident and end up in hospital. She negates to tell you that having clean pants could be the cause of you ending up in an ambulance in the first place.

On the subject of cleanliness in the pants region... the other night I found myself with BBC Three on as background noise, and ended up half-heartedly watching a documentary about sexually transmitted diseases amongst backpackers in Sydney. I got to see an Irish guy having growths frozen off his penis which is always what you need to see just before you settle down to sleep. They also showed Mr Irish Backpacker Man receiving his set of blood test results.

The woman in the clinic who gave him his results had a distinct Chris Tarrant air about her. I thought this was incredibly cruel, as she gave the poor scared guy his results in the follwing style:

"Hepatitis B..................................................................All clear

"Hepatits C...................................................................All clear."

I was just waiting for:

"HIV..................................... We'll be right back after this break."

Well, well. 6 days and no blog entry. So much for my intention to write every day. What can I say other than drawing attention to my excellent procrastinating skills. If procrastination was a Paralympic event, I could be 4 times gold medalist and world record holder. In fact, with a combination of my natural talent and years of hard training I might even be able to overcome my impairment and procrastinate in the Olympics. And the press would love me for it. After all, we're not supposed to settle for the Paralympics if we can excel beyond cripple status, are we?

Was Valentines Days as traumatic as I foresaw? No, actually. Unlike last year, I didn't even consider killing myself for one moment which is always a sign of a good Valentines Day, even if the only post that landed on my doormat was from work. "You've got another rainforest" my flatmate's girlfriend pointed out. She is, of course, correct. I also didn't have someone off the telly give me a shower of hot ash this year. Which is probably a bonus, but that depends what turns you on.

I did wake on Valentines morning in Essex, which would usually constitute the opening of a bleak day. My mother was born at 23:59 on February 13th (and in recognition was imaginatively titled "Valerie"), so Friday night was spent having dinner with my parents in a 'restaurant' in Clacton On Sea. Oh the high class of my life. On Saturday I made a speedy return to within the confines of the M25, excited about the possibilities of what Mr Postman might of brought me. A rainforest as it turns out.

I turned on my computer to find the entire internet littered with red roses and sloppy, coupley mush. Historically the internet was a safe solace for geeks like me, where we could virtually meet other geeks and be self-deprecating together whilst on opposing sides of the Atlantic. The internet should be run by single people. Couples should be having sex as far away from their computer as possible, and not be polluting the internet with their romantic poison. The fact that now even all the other geeks are loved up reminds me just how spectacularly tragic my life is. I didn't even get an e-card from anyone pledging me their undying love, or even offering me a cyber-shag. If anyone comments pointing out that I might just be too cool to be geeky, I may have to give them a virtual smack in the mouth.

I spent the evening with a friend. In fact, I spent the evening with the only person to of sent me a Valentines card within the last decade. Twas not this year though, and we spent the evening as friends watching Dogville and then going for a drink. Still, I finally found someone to laugh at the irony of my remark "Self-deprecation is the only thing I've ever been any good at". I always find saying that hilarious, but most people just tend to glare at me, peer over the top of their glasses if they wear them and say "Now, you shouldn't talk like that." The other day someone misheard me, and thought I was boasting that my only skill in life is shitting myself. How very wrong.

I had an entertaining journey home. Firstly, I got stopped in the street by a random woman in Belsize Park who gave me a red rose. It's interesting how upon a first glance someone who has never met me before can appreciate both my outer and inner beauty and present me with such a gift of her love and appreciation. That, or, she couldn't be bothered to carry the rose home and took pity on the girl who was clearly going home alone on Valentines night. Hmmm.

In almost every gay magazine you read, you will find an article about coming out. "Why should you come out? When is the best time to come out? How should you come out? What is the best way to tell your parents? [when you're not actually in the room in my opinion] Should you be out at work?" etc... One of the topics they never cover is "At what point in the conversation is it appropriate to come out to the bloke chatting you up at the bus stop who is trying to lure you back to Hendon to cook you dinner?" which was a dilemma I had for about 30 minutes on Saturday night. For future reference (because, of course, getting chatted up is something that happens to me on a regular basis), if anyone has any advice on the conundrum, do please let me know.

My breasts have been quite a recurring theme of the weekend. I had several tit based conversations, along lines of conversations that have not been had for some time (I'm not even 25 yet and my tits are rapidly reducing in quality and noteworthiness). Over brunch on Sunday I was told the following:

"How are we going to get you famous? You have to be famous. Of all the people I know, you're the one most likely to be famous. And I've never said that you anyone before. You can't waste your life not being famous. You........................... I'm sorry... I just noticed your tits." [about two minutes of silence and her staring] "Have they got bigger?"

Which actually made my day. When you're so horrific looking that mirrors spontaneously smash as you pass, being objectified is actually quite flattering.

And I shall leave you with mental images of my breasts in your mind. Though that sentence would appear to be slightly grammatically incorrect. I've long since forgotten all the theories about "the mind" that I learnt in A'level Philosophy, but re-reading that sentence gave me visions of someone thinking about a work of art in which breasts were taking over someones brain. I'm gibbering so I should perhaps sleep now.

Celebrity is a strange concept, isn't it?

I tend to think of myself as generally unimpressed by the fact that someone's been on the telly. After all, I have been myself don't you know. Ahhhh.... that was a great day which I got to spend in the company of Gary Lineker sporting a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms in proper Simon Cowell style. Yes, when I was 13 I was on the great We Are The Champions. And my team won. It's quite entertaining to watch that back now, as I realise that during my school years, I did at some point get off with a significant number of the male contestants on that show. Over compensation and insecurity perhaps? Or was I just always a slapper?

I once even sat next to someone quite famous on the tube and didn't even notice until he tapped me on the arm and said "Excuse me. Sorry, did you know your pocket was undone?"

I often think of the celebrity/pleb divide as being quite similar to the student/teacher divide. They're slightly cooler than you, they're not going to want to hear from you on the weekends, and their importance is overhyped. Minor celebrities are more like Learning Support Assistants... there might be one or two that you can get on well with as equals and even maybe swap phone numbers (I'd left school before there was such a thing as Email). But you will still look up to them occasionally slightly in awe about how much cooler and more successful they are than you. Though you don't have to worry about someone that's been on the telly catching you having a fag behind the gym or bollocking you for throwing up on the school bus when you're 13 because you're so hungover from the night before. Or was that just me?

I rarely get starstruck. In fact, under normal circumstances the only person that can elicit the adrenalin pumping induced reaction of "Oh my god, celebrity! Celebrity! Celebrity!" is the one and only Sharleen Spiteri, because she is just a goddess. People who are 'famous' but I don't regard highly don't even register, and those that I do like I don't tend to talk to any differently than "normal people" that I think are cool. So, with a tremendous amount of social awkwardness then...

Yesterday morning however, I found myself suffering from a minor case of starstruckness before I'd even got in to work.

I got on the second of the two buses I catch on my way to work. Two stops after I got on, the bus stopped again to allow more people to board. I just glanced out of the window and amongst the about-to-be bus passengers, I noticed someone that I personally think is rather cool standing at the bus stop. To my surprise, she boarded the bus I was on.

I'm not going to name names, but she's a comedian turned author, and I found some irony in running into her the morning after another series of I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here had ended. I think you probably know who I mean.

I've met this lady on several occasions in the past, we once even had a conversation which lasted about 45 minutes. However, yesterday morning, I'm ashamed to admit, I did feel slightly starstruck. And I don't quite understand why, upon meeting her to speak to for the (I think it was the) sixth time, that a feeling of "oh my god!" came over me.

When she boarded the bus, I turned around and said "Hello," with surprise in my voice, as she was about to ascend the stairs to the upper deck.

She looked slightly shocked in a less pleased way. As if she thought I might of taken to stalking her. "Hello. I didn't know you lived around here..." was her opening line. Nevertheless, she came and stood next to me, leaning against the partition separating the "space reserved for a wheelchair user" from the "normal seats". It was at this point that adrenalin started to pump through my body in abundance and I started to feel starstruck.

We chatted for about five minutes. Well, I say "we chatted", I nervously answered questions about where I live now, where I was going, and accessibility on public transport with such speed that I probably sounded like I was a tape playing on a machine that had broken and was playing at double speed. She was telling me what she was up to, both career wise and where she was off to that morning, and all I could think of to say was "oh, cool" repeatedly.

I think eventually my nervous grinning and not speaking scared her, and she went to sit upstairs. But still, as she alighted the bus she gently squeezed my arm and said "see ya."

I feel like a fool, for being overcome with starstruckness, on a bus of all places. And I can't believe I'm sharing my "I'm such an uncool fan" tendencies so publically. Maybe it'll prove to be a cathartic exercise, and I'll never be starstruck again.

I should console myself with the fact that I'm a star in my own right. OK, I'm not a performer, I'm not famous, and no-one knows who I am. But I'm doing a photo shoot tomorrow. They're even sending a car for me. How is that for cool? I could claim to be a model (admittedly only to people that have never seen how hideously unattractive I am). Autographs are available on request, and hopefully I can induce a feeling of starstruckness in someone else.

As Valentines Day rapidly approaches, I, like most single, people think the world is too cruel and that I shouldn't be facing the prospect of spending Saturday night home alone because I'm a nice person don't you know.

But then I look down at the olive oil stain I managed to get on my left boob when I was cooking my dinner and the fact that I've just spilled cammomile tea in my lap and suddenly everything makes sense.

I can at least take comfort that I'm more attractive than the man I saw this evening who kept sniffing his own fingers. At least, I'd like to think I was. But maybe his irresistable sexual appeal had something to do with why he was sniffing his fingers?

Excuse me. The mental image I've just given myself has made me feel rather queasy and I fear will give me nightmares. Still, I suppose I could use my time spent not sleeping to work on a parodical novel - Fingersniff.

Yesterday at work, a letter came addressed to me.

I opened it, and inside was a leaflet with a pretty picture on the front of a champagne cork popping and lots of pretty partyness. The text read "Join in our 40th anniversary celebration..."

It was from a company that makes and services sanitary towel bins.

The prospect was so exciting that I came on my period.

In other news... This evening I passed a kebab van in Oxford which promised it was serving:

Kebabs
Hamburgers
Chips

But, most interestingly of all on the menu were "Vegetarians".

I did put on a bit of a sprint in order to get away from it as quickly as possible, out of fear that I might be chucked into a deep fat fryer and served with fried onions and mustard.

I suspect if I'd read the front of the van it would've said "Armin Meiwes Kebab Co".

My bedroom smells of ice-cream.

I suppose that's what you get when you burn strawberry and vanilla incense simultaneously.

I wonder if you can get chocolate incense...

Then I could have a neopolitan scented room. Hmmm....

Insomnia.

10:50pm: I've got to be up early in the morning. Think I'll turn off the TV and go to sleep.

12:43am: OK! I'm awake! Shit.

1am: I'm bored

1:20am: I'm still bored. I'll switch on my computer.

1:52am: I may as well go to Tesco's and do my shopping. At least it'll be quiet.

2:06am: Is that police car following me?

2:07am: I wonder if I turn here if it'll follow me?

2:08am: Shit. I'm on the M1, bound for Leeds.

2:13am: It's OK, I'll use this service area to turn round and head back to London.

2:14am: Traffic merging from the right? Hee. What traffic? I'd like to see that stack of portacabins start intermingling amongst vehicles eligible for motorway travel.

2:35am: Right. Well, I'll just park in one of the bays designated for parents with children, seeing as how the two disabled bays nearest the door are being abused. Hmph. That'll teach them.

3am: I'm in the queue at the only open till, with police officers queuing on either side of me, and the guy at the front of the queue has a fake £20 note. Oh the joy.

3:34am: How.... quietly... can... I.... sneak... back... into... the... house.... and.... get... my... milk... into... the...fridge?

3:37: Yes. No-one stirred.

3:45am: Oooo! Tweety Pie on TV!

4am: Oh my god! The Ant and the Aardvark! I'd completely forgotten about this show.

4:46am: Bollocks. I knew I should've written that down. What the hell was I thinking about. I know I thought "Oh, that's so clever, I must write about that". What the hell was it?

4:47am: Shit, shit, shit. What the hell was I thinking about? I know I was watching The Ant and the Aardvark at the time.

4:51am: Why do I keep thinking about levitating aardvarks? That wasn't what I wanted to write about.

4:54am: Levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks, levitating aardvarks...

4:56am: Levitating aardvarks don't work like sheep jumping over a fence. Dammit.

4:58am: Maybe if I try laying completely still... I'm bound to fall asleep eventually.

4:59am: Oh, but my legs hurt too much. Right. Painkillers...

5:04am: I will not look at the clock anymore. I will not move. I will lay here.

7:20am: NO! I've been asleep for about 15 minutes! I don't wanna get up!

I always thought that UK Gold was about the best TV could get. Hi-De-Hi all afternoon on a Sunday. It was like reliving my childhood. Hi-De-Hi was always the highlight of my week. I adored Su Pollard, and even now, my glasses still look like the aftermath of an unfortunate collision between Su and Harry Potter. This, combined with my complete lack of intellect, is the reason why I'm never seen reading in public. Though the glasses did inspire me and a mate to write some rather dubious sketches involving Su Potter and Harry Pollard for a gig once. For some reason they all ended up being about various infections affecting female genitalia. Who said I'm not clever, witty and deep?

I've reached a point now where I realise that TV could get better than endless Hi-De-Hi... we now have UKG2 on our screens. Many hours of Room 101 a week. Admittedly, it's only 2 different episodes, but if you miss it, you can catch it three times in the same night. And who wouldn't want to see Paul Merton and Johnny Vegas dancing in flashing novelty boxer shorts at 9pm, 11pm and 1am?

This has all got me thinking about what I would put in Room 101 if I was ever graced with the opportunity. The following is a rough list of things I would like to see banished:

* Bath sponges/foam in general - Is there a more horrible texture on the planet? I was once at a swimming competition in Germany. I, at 19, was the oldest member of the team, and the youngest was about 11. Our club colours were blue and yellow, and a local car dealership who had the same colour scheme donated some of those big foam fingers for our excursion. I don't know why. I let it slip in front of a couple of kids that I hated the feel of foam, and spent the rest of the weekend being chased around poolside by children brandishing oversized bath sponges. Fortunately there was no slapstick moment of them chasing me into the pool.

* Mushrooms - they are vile, evil and the food of the devil. No other justification is needed.

* Competitive karaoke singers - Don't get me wrong, I enjoy 'performing' an out-of-tune rendition of I Will Survive as much as the next person. Which is precisely why I hate people who take it too seriously. At university the weekly karaoke in the students union was dominated by people who thought they were on Pop Idol, and were there for only one reason - to be the best singer and win the crate of lager. Of course, very few students would pass the up the chance for a free crate of lager, but the competition was unbelievable. It put me and my group of drunken friends to shame as we wailed our way through Say What You Want on a regular basis (oh try as I may, I will never be a match for the amazing Sharleen) with the true meaning of karaoke in our spinning minds - making a drunken twat of yourself and having a laugh.

* Wooden lolly sticks - strangely this has nothing to do with bad memories of GP's inserting them into random orifices, and is for similar reasons to bath sponges. I don't like the way they feel. Though I never had small children trying to attack me with one.

* Infomercials - purely because of the complete and utter misnomer. Beginning with the prefix "info" would imply there was something informative. According to Dictionary.com, "info" does not mean "badly acted and goes on for half an hour". And why do you need ad's to be that drawn out when there are so many of such high quality of normal length? Today I actually saw "Get the bible collection today! Order Jesus at the special offer price of £9.99, and get Jacob, absolutely free!" in the middle of Garfield and Friends which made me laugh solidly for about 20 minutes.

* Mornings - Just because I can't function. I can never get to sleep at night, and I can never wake up in the morning. If the day started about 1pm, life would be so easy. I've never been able to do mornings. Even as a child I had to get mother to come and wake me up, otherwise I'd never be able to see Care Bears on at 7am on a Sunday morning. Why do we need mornings anyway? And think how many peoples lives would be enriched... all those people with SAD wouldn't have to get up before the sun if we were all expected to get up at 1pm. That is how the world should work. Yes. Mornings should be banished and we should just have afternoons, evenings and night. Night finishing at about midday (which would need, of course to be renamed).

At this point, Paul Merton would introduce an hilarious video clip of someone being murdered with a big foam finger, or an activity on Blue Peter going horribly wrong, and involving more lolly sticks than one would think ever needed to be made.

Why?

Why, when you buy your food from a supermarket online and have it delivered, must they make substitutions?

Why can't they just say "Oh, sorry... we didn't have that".

All I wanted was a squeezy tube of fresh(ish) Basil. Is that so hard?

The guy gets here with my shopping and they've substituted basil for coriander! Does coriander taste great with tomatoes to make a pasta sauce? I don't think so.... (but if you know otherwise, please let me know). Why? Why coriander? A jar of dried basil or even a basil plant would be a more appropriate substitution than coriander. Just, why?

So, while I'm busy fuming about the fact that I have very little basil in the kitchen and now enough coriander to see me through into the next millenium, I start unpacking my shopping. What do I find... a tube of basil! All my anger was for nothing. They made an error... they thought they'd substituted basil for coriander, but they hadn't.

So I carry on unpacking feeling slightly smug about the fact that I got my basil after all. But wait.... what's that? A tube of coriander? I checked my receipt... I've not been billed for both. But yet, I've somehow still got a tube of bloody coriander!

Why?

I don't need coriander! I've already got an unopened tube of coriander in the fridge! I don't need another one!

What am I going to do with a lifetime supply of coriander? It seems like a frustrating waste. I didn't want coriander. It's like a Christmas present that you really don't want. You should be grateful because you didn't have to pay for it... but, still, why?

I would say I'd cook myself some lemon and coriander cous cous... but, oh, wait. They didn't give me any free lemon juice to go with the free coriander. That should be a policy they adopt from now on.

Unlike the Christmas present you didn't want, you can't sell a tube of coriander on eBay, can you?

It's that time of year again when I forget that I'm only in my twenties.

Is it my birthday, and I suddenly have become concious of how life is passing me by and I'm achieving nothing?

No.

It's all snowy and icy outside. And like a true 85-year-old, I'm terrified that if I put one foot outside my front door that I'll break my hip. The fact that I probably actually would makes my fear less irrational and makes me seem less crazy. Though, if I did have an irrational fear of going outside because the temperature has dropped below zero, I'm sure I'd justify it by saying "but, it probably would really happen" just to make myself sound less crazy. But these things do always happen to the people who are most phobic. Like Mr Play-It-Safe. He was afraid to fly. He packed his suitcase, and kissed his kids goodbye. He waited his whole damn life, to take that flight. And as the plane crashed down he thought "well, isn't this nice."

I once had a grand debate in Cambridge's least classy nightclub, Route 66 (I don't think it exists anymore, which is no great loss to those who inhabit the city), with a gentleman in a similar state of drunkenness to myself about whether Mr Play-It-Safe survived or not. I was seventeen and optimistic about the world. Still, people can survive plane crashes. I was reminded of this three years later when I was on a flight back from LA which flew through a hurricane over the east coast of America when the guy sitting next to me said "I've been in a plane crash before, it wasn't so bad". I think he was trying to get revenge for the fact that I'd dug my fingernails into his arm. Total stranger that he was....

I do have justification for having a fear of snapping a part of my skeleton if I step on the ice. Like most elderly people, my bones also have the tendency of breaking with the greatest of ease. For different reasons of course, but, the same end result of having had more broken bones than most rugby players (fortunately my ears don't look like vegetables though).

When the blizzard hit London yesterday tea-time I found myself having to push through it for half an hour to get to Westminster station so I could get on the tube to get to Hammersmith. Times like that the fact that I can only use a tiny percentage of tube stations bothers me most. And, of course, sitting in a wheelchair your knees are at the perfect angle to catch every drop of rain that falls. So, the snow was hitting me and melting on contact, despite the fact that it was freezing. So, my lap was so wet and then cold that someone could quite easily of used my knees as a skating rink.

To add insult to injury (if frozen trousers counts as injury), I had to talk a wheelie-jump off a kerb at Cambridge Circus and land in what was effectively a Slush Puppie. The impact of my four wheels landing in the slightly brown (must've been a cola Slush Puppie) sludge sent it splashing up and hit me right in the arse. So not only was my lap wet, but now my bum was too. And it's hard to be happy when you've got a wet bum. I'm sure babies would be happy to tell you that... if they could. I now understand why they cry so.

And it got worse, Trafalgar Square is on a hill... yup, I had to try and stop in sludgy snow despite the fact that my hands were so cold, the only thing I could feel was pain. That was exciting. Fortunately the green man was flashing when I shot across The Strand like.... someone in a wheelchair going down a hill through ice and snow who can't stop.

By the time I actually got to Hammersmith I was in a vile mood. I got to Riverside Studios and immediately headed straight for the toilets to individually dry all my clothes (including socks) under the hand-dryer (until it decided it had overheated and stopped working). Life is better when your bum is dry.

After seeing Die I proceeded to head back home. It took me two and a half hours, I could no longer feel my feet, and after pushing up Golders Green Road I'm very surprised I had any skin left on my hands after having to push over smashed ice like that. Finally I came to the bit of the evening I'd been dreading ever since the snow fell... having to stand up out of my wheelchair to get up my front door step. I was convinced that this would be the moment that my hip was going to be snapped. For the first time since I saw the builders butt crack of an ageing Sex Pistol while I was trying to eat my breakfast on Tuesday morning, fate smiled kindly on me. We have a thingy over the front door! The door step was snow free! (If anyone has any kind of vocabulary, I'd appreciate being told what the name of one of those thingies that shelters front door steps is). And, most importantly, I managed to get through yesterday without breaking myself.

And, I'm not leaving the house until Golders Green defrosts. I do hope whatever supreme being is responsible for weather gets his/her microwave fixed soon. I'm having to get food shipped in by Sainsburys because I can't get out to buy milk. Still, better than last year when I was living in student halls so couldn't get supermarkets to deliver and had to get someone to post me toilet paper.

Last night my friend and I were discussing "Weather. Why?" over a paper cup of tea in a theatre bar (oh yes, we are trendy). She has this theory about "the circle of life" and so we have to have winter so we can have summer. I don't get it, why can't we just have one level of blandness all the time? After all... a circle is symetrical, if it was different on both sides then it wouldn't be a circle, it'd just be like a blob.

I quite like this being housebound thing. You get the perks of being ill, like not having to do anything except watch daytime TV, but you're not actually ill. Entertain me while I can't get out. Your essay topic is "Weather. Why?". You may Email essays, or post them as comments. Anything overly scientific will be immediately discarded. I failed A'level biology don't you know.

Today I found myself quite sitting opposite a most spectacular character.

He was tall, rugged, and dressed all in black, with the exception of the bright red scarf, which looked like he'd spent 10 minutes in front of the mirror trying to position it perfectly so there was not a crease where one shouldn't be, and the ends were perfectly positioned as if he'd just come from modelling it for a catalogue photo shoot.

I would imagine he was aged around 40.

I was immediately struck by his eyes and mouth. Despite his height and broad shoulders, the aforementioned facial features looked so delicate and soft, almost feminine.

This is all irrelevant to the story, but I thought I'd give you a physical description. Just cos.

It's not unusual in London to see people talking to themselves. It's also not unusual to see people who you think are talking to themselves, but actually it transpires that they're just a posh nonce with a hands free kit (slight tangent, but I love seeing people in public having arguements on the telephone using a hands free kit. It always makes my day, and I can't help laughing hysterically at them).

This man wasn't talking to himself. He was clearly having a conversation in his head, but his lips weren't moving.

There were sympathetic gestures, raised eyebrows, shocked gestures, nodding, the "I'm listening" head tilt to the side, even though he didn't make a single utterance.

I confess, I do occasionally chatter away to myself when I'm alone (or at least I think I am), most particularly when I'm driving. Or when I'm hungover and I know I've behaved particularly appalingly the night before, I'll have an extravagant conversation with myself to try and distract my brain from remembering throwing up in the Belsize Park region. I do sincerely hope everyone reading this concurs, or I may have overshared, and I'm at the point of a pending laymans diagnosis of "nut."

I will even occasionally go to the point of such elaborate facial gesturisation as I witnessed today. Especially if my imagination is running wild and I'm fantasising about such things as accepting the oscar, receiving my honours from the Queen for my outstanding services to... well, just being an amazing human being and the day that Sharleen Spiteri and I get married (she will be mine, oh yes, she will be mine).

However, I'd like to think that in public I can maintain an inner monologue (I haven't just been defrosted you know) and keep my facial expressions to ones that befit my current situation (which living in London is pretty much a permanently fixed scowl). If anyone notices that I behave otherwise, please notify me.

It leads me to wonder what was going on inside his head that would make him produce such clear and distinctive facial expressions in public, while not moving his lips? Had he just come from a listening skills course and was practising his "I'm listening, honestly" faces? Was he re-enacting his scarf modelling photo shoot in his head, and feeling particularly sympathetic towards the state of his over-talkative scarf-positioners life? Or had he just got twatted last night and puked in Belsize Park and couldn't deal with the embarrasment in his head?

Or was he simply trying to give me a straw to clutch at so I could try and write something at his expense?

Last night I came second in a game of musical statues. I don't understand how, or quite why. All I know is by the end of it I was in so much pain that I couldn't move. Slight self-fulfilling prophecy, and thus surprising that I came second. And I was dancing my socks off just because the DJ promised to buy the winner a drink (the delightful DJ Fatboy and DJ Slim. Yes, I was in Essex).

Not that I needed to bother trying to win a drink. I was surrounded by 'The Family' (yes, I was born into Colchester's Mafia) and thus didn't actually open my wallet all night.

I also heard a 60-something aunt use the phrase "You need some lubrication to get it down your throat."

Last night was the 40th birthday party of one of my many cousins. My parents nearly forgot to pick up her birthday card to take with them.

"I was on my way to the toilet when I suddenly remembered and shouted "Val, have you got the card?" said my father... three times until someone responded to him.

I replied "It's amazing the things you think about when you're on your way to have a poo." with a hint of exasperation.

"It is" said my father getting worryingly excited by the fact that people were listening to him "The other day I was on the loo when I shouted out to your mother 'Weren't you supposed to phone the doctor at one?' and this was about 6!" and then laughed and seemed disappointed by the fact that no-one else viewed this as a particularly hilarious anecdote.

Though, when parents don't act like that, it's just disappointing. When you arrive at your parents house and aren't greeted with the obligatory "What was the traffic like on the way up?" you notice something missing.

Of course, the day they don't ask is the one time you actually have a story to tell. I found myself telling the story about the 10 miles of solid traffic on the southbound carriageway of the A12 unprompted. And no-one listened to me. So, like a chip off the old block, I felt compelled to keep telling the story until someone graced me with a response.

If I ever start shouting reminders to a significant other from the least fragrant room in the house. Shoot me. Please.

Yesterday I was simply sitting at the computer in my office when I was overcome by the strangest feeling.

There I was just reading the mundane Emails, and I felt so cutesy.

I guess the closest way of describing the feeling would be "in love".

That feeling of holding someone amazingly special close and just feeling all amazing and wonderful, because you're with someone amazing and wonderful.

Except - I was in my office by myself, I wasn't thinking of anything romantic, and my romantic life is completely non-existant (apart from a deep seated obsession with Sharleen Spiteri and one day she will be mine, oh yes, she will be mine).

Psychologists suggest that emotions are just a physical response to a stimulation that your brain interprets in a certain way. Their theory to back this up is that people who've had broken necks report that they feel emotionless, or less emotional than they felt before their injuries.

I was once in the diner in the students union when I was at university, and a woman came up to me and said "I'm a psychology student, and I couldn't help noticing that you're in a wheelchair. I wondered if you had any opinions on [the whole theory]?"

"I'm sorry, I have no idea. I have no paralysis at all"

"I hope you didn't think I was judging you because you're in a wheelchair. You see, I understand discrimination because I'm a lesbian."

"So am I. What's your point?"

I think the whole idea is silly. If it were so, you could end up spending your whole life with someone because of the way your brain interpretted some physical reaction in your body. Just think, you could get to 70 and your therapist could pry it out of you that after all this time, your bodily reaction was just indigestion. Can you imagine that?

Though, maybe they are right. I'm a deeply romantic person. Maybe I'm just clutching at romantic straws (pink novelty ones with a swirly bit in the middle in the shape of a heart which just looks disgustingly grungy when the interior is stained with brown cola). Perhaps my overwhelming feeling of fuzziness yesterday was merely my brain's interpretation of my body's reaction to eating a bagette from the Upper Crust too quickly?

And on the subject of bagettes. Why are the large ones called "Frech Sticks"? Surely it would be more linguistically correct if they were called "bags"...

Last night I attended a party in the wonderous city of Cambridge.

I stayed with some friends overnight, and spent all of today trying to catch up with people I haven't seen for months, even years.

This afternoon, a friend and I went for a lunchy/dinnery type meal (at 4pm). During the course of the conversation, she used the following quotes on the subject of my romantic life:

"I think you're stuck in a rut. You need to go out and actively seek a girlfriend."

"You should take up golf. Then you could meet lots of other lesbians."

"Oh, so you're getting around a bit then. Was she any good?"

I have a very sore hand. Pussy injuries. This morning over breakfast I kept just finding more scratches on my left hand/arm where I got attacked in the night. Patchy knew she was in trouble. Everytime I found another scratch, Morag spoke Patchy's name in a tone which would instill fear into the most hardened being.

Everything's changed. Even my most favouritest pub has closed down. I miss Cambridge. I drove past my old house. I miss my old house.