Have gifted myself some lovely, fluffy socks from Gap. One of the things in which one can find true joy is a pair of comfy socks. Or three, in various colours of stripe. I have a theory about feet and hands: if you keep them the right temperature, everything else will follow. It takes longest to get blood to them, so, theoretically, if they're right, everything before them has to have been right. A slightly tautological argument, but thus it stands. Hence, if you're too hot in bed and you stick your feet out, it solves the problem. I have terrible trouble with sleeping bags: I can't roll the bottom up under my feet, so they get cold and I can't sleep properly.

Fled from flat to shop with H and discuss Desdemona's terrifying dress sense (tee hee). Since S is still under house arrest, Des, it's going to have to be you who gets married next. We've got it all planned out - that and H's dream house complete with stripper barracks and boudoir (which she pronounces quite strangely).

Everyone is going out with Dutchmen. R (can't remember whether I've mentioned her. Trainee Accountant) shagged one last the night before last (6'4") and Jamie announced that one of our mutual friends was out on a date with another one last night (height as yet unrevealed). Bah. I want one. Failing that, a Roboraptor.

Hmm. Listening to the Goblet of Fire soundtrack. Jarvis Cocker seems to have rhymed "spectre" with "out to getcha". That's been a hum of mine since I was 8. I've always thought it was crap, but never been able to eradicate it from my memory. Apparently I'm a songwriting genius after all.