Right. Well, first of all I am suffering from PMT. Thus, all men (so decide for yourself if that includes Ollie or not) are pigs. They could be wonderful, but today it is best I am left to my own devices. Other things are also contributing to my bad day:

I need to do some serious study. Today.

I got to bed around midnight last night and had to be up at 7.10 and out of the house by 7.20 to take receipt of fridge for Grandfather.

Grandfather moving South tomorrow. New beginnings and all. Thank goodness
I am moving away. If the North wind is blowing, that is why (I always run with the north wind - it's a throwback from watching "Chocolat" and other more complicated things)

My Mum saw lots of magpies this morning. Is that a bad sign?

I waited 3 hours for this fridge and washing machine. When we spoke to the delivery control people we asked whether the delivery men could just phone us when they were in the village and then someone would let them in ie. I stay at home (a minute walk from my G-father's new place) and then do directions etc and meet them there. They said oh no no no no no (aka the Vicar of Dibley) and therefore I waited in the cold flat (not at home).
Incidently, I did get the electric heater working this time (I noticed that a plug was needed, plugged it in to the wall and miraculously. voila) so I didn't die of pneumonia waiting for a fridge. That would be ironic. The thing was, the delivery men called me to ask for directions. sitting on the road outside my house. They actually said "we're outside some posh looking old building with a long driveway and opposite a road called 'Grovelands'".
That posh looking old building be where I live. Grr. The delivery man then proceeded to tell me that he had been burgled the night before and all ethnics should be sent back to where they came from. Good good. He also said that ebay was fraudulent - something about a 2p piece being sold in America for £15.

I had an argument with my Father this morning which I really wished I hadn'
t, just because I was tired and stroppy. It wasn't an argument, more I shouted when I didn't need to. And then sent him a too-cute text. Thing is. I worry about him. I don't like to admit it but he's driving up to Lancashire today in some hired van and he'll flap, be worried about things, won't hear people properly in service stations when they tell him how much his coffee costs, will get confused about where my Grandfather lives (amazing after 35yrs of marriage to my Mum) and I just wish I could be there in the van with him and just being protective for once. Well, despite my disrespect for him, I can be surprisingly protective. And instead, I need to be here to study etc and my Dad and I would argue anyway (ironic again) plus my Mum needs looking after here.

I didn't have breakfast and therefore my 10.30 had excruciating pains in my stomach. We have no food in the house so breakfast has turned into a yoghurt (2 days out of date) and a Sainsbury choc-ice. It was either that or gluten/wheat/everything-free muesli or nimble. Oh, and there's an old jar of capers at the back of the fridge. Mix that with tomato ketchup.
Mmm. Appetising.

Muesli is a stupidly-spelt word.

I have finished reading my second novel by Alan Titchmarsh. For this I am distressed. I really enjoyed it. This summer I have amused myself by reading trashy novels, usually written by middle-aged females. There are typically three friends, one of whom is gay, who seek love. Inevitably some things go right, some wrong and the stories usually involve sex, strippers and bad dates. Fun stuff. Titchmarsh's novels are light-hearted, have raunchy country sex scenes (I feel I should listen to John Denver or R2 whilst reading them - the country bit, not the sex), the plots are believable, characters well-formed and they're an easy and chuckling read.
It is weird though because after sitting through Gardner's World, knowing who this guy is, it is strange reading his books and knowing he sat in a shed somewhere, overlooking a border of petunias and wrote about Arabella losing her virginity to Greg, the stable hand, in front of a roaring fire in her parents' country retreat after consuming her father's best scotch. You get the picture. I must be British after all (the prudish bit).

I am going to buy that album of Ollie's because I a) think the lyrics are amusing and b) expect OJ will hate it.

Things are confusing me at the moment. Like Dayorama. Like lunch yesterday. I still don't get 'Andover's or the link between libraries and gates. Also, does the grammar of Ollie's last post indicate that if you listen to BBC Radio 6 or whatever it is, then you are boring? I doubt it does, because I never points score on Ollie, but I would smile if it did.
My brain is just a big confuzzled fuzz.

I am going to accept my training contract offer today. I'm quite scared
actually. S**t - adulthood beckons. The temptation to become a
long-distance lorry driver is still there.

I only have one session left with the psychologist. Yes, I am ready for them to end. But, it doesn't stop it being scary. And I know that transition into therapy-free weeks won't be easy, but I haven't cried for over 3 weeks now. That's a good thing. I have also learnt that if you apply mascara in the morning, and don't cry, then it stays there until you wash it off in the evening. Absolute miracle. I'm using less mascara!
But, it doesn't stop it being scary. OJ says I can't worry about things I can't change. Well, maybe not. But I can go some way to making sure I change these things for the better and I may not be able to worry, but it doesn't stop me being scared.

Right. That's me. I am off for a shower and feel much better for the rant.
The reason for the title "Only Dad" is it is the title of the Titchmarsh book I have just read and I feel guilty for stropping at my Dad. Also, my internet is being wank so I can't find a suitable lyric.

"Lord, give me the serenity to accept those things I can not change, the courage to change those things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference"