Muggy
8 August

One of the things when writing journals of this sort is the fact that what you include is, of course, very selective. Frankly, a minute by minute account of my life would be even more boring than the text you so graciously condescend to read.

So I leave things out. Some things I leave out on purpose because they are none of your business; some things I leave out because they are really other people's stories and not mine to tell; some things I leave out because I can't be bothered; some things I leave out through sheer carelessness.

Recent omissions include...

Whilst at Durham recently, the course enjoyed a wild Thursday night out at Pierre Victoire's in town where much good food was consumed, much good wine was imbibed and we were serenaded by an accordionist who could place his instrument on the floor (stop giggling at the back) without bending his legs. He also looked like a young Dale Wynton. And it turned out that he was a PE teacher, which accounted for the extra supple hamstrings and the peachy buttocks.

He even managed to get away with playing Lara's Theme from Dr Zhivago without my causing a fuss. And given my long-standing hatred of this number in public places, this was an amazing feat. We sang along to many of his offerings with bibulous gusto. Phil kept shouting "I should be so lucky". We assumed that this was a request for a song. *Smiles*

Back at the College where we were staying, the Open University Geology Disco was in full flood. It sounded like the sack of Rome with a cheesy 70s soundtrack. Since the participants wore check shirts and beards with no sense of irony (women included), even we party animals decided to give this a miss. The hangovers were ferocious the following day. At least two of the women on the course were dykes. One, Karen, cropped up during my most recent healing session. I think I have to get in touch with her.

Last Monday night, I woke at 2am in a state of anger with work. I was awake for an hour. Things are not going well at present. I'm beginning to get the feeling that it is time to move on. I don't know if this links in with my feelings through healing about the next six months being a time of change. Maybe. Maybe not.

You'll be pleased to know that my verrucae and other foot problems have all cleared up for the present.

I seem to have been touched some rich aspect of monetary fortune. The electric company are re-funding £50 because my direct debits have accrued such a large surplus.

David's solicitors have been in touch to say that the final hurdle in resolving his will has been vaulted - it has only taken four and a bit years. I hold out little hope here. A year ago, there was some £2,700 to be divided between David's sister, Michelle, and myself. However, after four years and the sorting out of some strange business with a trust fund which David co-administered, I imagine that the fees for the solicitors alone will place Michelle and I in a position not dissimilar to that of Jarndyce and Jarndyce in Dicken's Bleak House.

Finally, in the money stakes, my life assurance company, which whom I insured myself when I took out the mortgage for my house in Burnley, have contacted me to say that their parent company in Australia has been floated on the stock exchange and that I am therefore eligible for stocks and dividends. Well, we'll see where that leads.

The man who came to fix my washing machine took out my eco ball. Apparently, this was a marketing venture at the height of green awareness that was sold as a means of reducing water consumption but which caused all sorts of problems in hard water areas. Hey ho. *Raspberry* Anyhow I now have clean clothes again.

Chester figured a lot in my time with Margaret. It feels at the moment that I have a very clear spine and can make extraordinarily clear connections with the past. This journal entry is full of links.

Which brings us up to date. I'll skip yet another detailed description of the sort of fabulous sex that Ross and I have because I'm aware that most of you operate on a need to know basis. Suffice it to say that between 9pm and 11pm on Friday night the bed, if not the earth, moved.

*Westlife* By Saturday morning, we were easing our way slowly into the day. I had a cup of tea at 6am but apart from that I slept through till nearly 9am. We seemed to end up watching ITV's pop programme UK:CD. This was co-hosted by Westlife, an Irish boyband.

They are co-managed by Ronan Keating of Boyzone and are very pretty. Now, given the previous and unsubstantiated revelations that this Journal has reported concerning Mr Keating, it makes you wonder how much of an interest he took in bringing them on.

*Westlife* Well on this programme, the boyband members seemed to be all too willing to mention Ronan's name at every juncture. And when one of them was given the trophy for being No 1 on behalf of their co-manager, he said direct to camera "Don't worry, I'll give it to Ronan later on". *Blush*

And then, when their new single If I Let You Go was trailed and announced as being released in a short while, they were all too quick to proclaim "Watch out, Ronan, we're going to knock you off". *Blush*

I think we should be told. But, in the meantime, my money is on the fact that Ronan has had a hand in their development and has been behind them all the way.

On a more innocent note, Ross and I had a good cup of healing chamomile tea freshly picked from the garden. Everything is looking refreshed out there after overnight rain. More is forecast so I've left my houseplants out there for a good outdoor soaking. The house seems very bare without them.

I like the way Nature softens human straight lines with bends and curves. I remember the way that Alan and Jeremy's house, Woodlea was beautiful in many respects but had never been disturbed by indoor plants, animals or children so that, although it was a tranquil haven, it felt ultimately sterile.

Meanwhile it was incredibly muggy. Schlepping round the shops was torpid. Even the visit to the nice Health Food shop, with its nice organic produce, fresh herbs and range of complementary health products. They still don't have the feverfew for Ross's pain but they're going to give me a ring about that. Saturday afternoon, meantime, was Zizz time.

*The Mummy* Saturday evening took us off to see The Mummy. Fab. I love a film where I jump out of my seat and squirm about trying to escape. It used all the old tricks of making things appear unexpectedly in the frame to surprise you. And, like Spielberg in the Indiana Jones films, all the real nasty stuff was off screen and implied.

My favourite lines in the film were between Egyptologist Evelyn Carnarvon (Rachel Weisz) and the hero Rick O'Connell (Brendan Fraser).

Well, I laughed. *Smiles* And Brendan Fraser has a really lovely smile.

*Brendan Fraser*

We got home to nothing on television so we had to go to bed early. The dreariness of being in bed at 9:30pm on a Saturday night whilst the rest of the world is partying was relieved by the intimate party that my Rossi and I conducted. *Smiles* Once more, for the nervous amongst you, this incident will go undescribed. However, my Rossi does make me feel 21 again. *Blush* Not like I was in my early 40s and thinking I was 21. More like I'm 45 and it's quite nice to experience some of the rush of a 21 year old once in a while.

Sunday morning it was raining again to the relief of my house plants and the garden. I had a pot of coffee and some bagels, did some journalising, prepared the Sunday lunch which included baby, organic potatoes, green salad and poussin, had a bath and made it to Quaker meeting.

I spent quite a bit of time with Robert's wolf and my giraffe - both of whom needed to make themselves vulnerable to each other before they could run and play together. I also thought a lot on how I hate it when people change things or move things and it's because I can't get back inside the ideas and the situations again once someone else has tampered with them. It's the same with my ideas and thoughts and it's why I mostly want to keep them private.

It's also why I was so angry with the move from Wensley Road to Ladysmith Road when I was three. My world had been completely changed and not for the better. I hated the straightjacket of living in my nana's house when my granddad was ill and I couldn't have fun.

Lunch was fine. Afternoon brightened up. Spent some time making lavender oil grinding the dried flowers with Ross's mortar and pestle. Spent some time zizzing with my Rossi. Spent some time making the beast with two backs, two waving legs and a very wobbly middle. Then Ross was home and I spent some time communicating with various people before bed.

The summer's seen lots of books come and go. I've read the latest Scarpetta mystery, the latest Aurelio Zen mystery, the latest Falco mystery set in ancient Rome, a couple of trash novels and a good one by Beryl Bainbridge about the Crimean War called Mister Georgie. None have really gripped me, however. So, I've started re-reading The Man Who Fell In Love with the Moon which Fred introduced me to three years ago. And it's a wonderful, wonderful book full of powerful insights and humanity. And I'm so glad I decided to return to it.

Done. One of the longest Journal entries ever. In fact, as things stand at present, only the story of Rossi's and my first meeting is a longer text. So, if you felt the lack of any detailed sex descriptions in this Journal entry, that particular one should keep you happy for a while.