Its easter sunday, and there are things i could do, like have my hair cut, or come into school to pick up my copy of Planta Medica which has my paper published in it (yay!), but I don't. why? I suppose I want to savour some stress free hours in my parent's back garden even though the weather is not as good as it was on wednesday and thursday, away from the cruel world. unfortunately as I have to drive to Great Yarmouth tomorrow, I have to come into school today, and I venture out of the house in the evening. And sure enough, stress, stress, stress. First, my car starts whining in a worrying way. I don't know what it is, but it started yesterday, when I accidentally drove on the motorway for something like 15 or more minutes in fourth gear. and that upset me some what, i was hoping that the noise would go away by itself, but it would seem that it hasn't, and probably won't. It seems like a problem that can only get worse and worse, as i embark on a 2 + hour on the motorway tomorrow.
And then when I get to school, to my horror, I see Gus' car parked outside. Gus is a technician who's worked at the school for years now, who about a year ago professed undying adoration for me and tricked me into taking a laptop off of him, ever since which i have gone out of my way to avoid being alone with him again, which was slightly tricky at times as we work in the same department. With my heart pounding and cold sweat breaking out on to my shaky hands I creep into the building. I make my way cautiously to the reception to check out the book where people coming into the building have to sign in, to make sure it is his car outside. To my horror again I heard his voice, he was saying hello to someone at reception, but fortunately I am around the corner and out of sight. I literally scarper down the hall, terrified that he would some how end up coming down my way on some errand or other, and not knowing where else to go I run to hide in the toilets. I cowered in there for i think something like 5 minutes before creeping out into the hall again, checking both ways first to see if the coast was clear. then I get into the lifts and get off two floors above mine. Finally when I got out I went over to the window to check if his car was still there and to my unutterable relief, it was gone. And now i have to phone up someone to tell them about it, i can hardly believe it happened myself.

I watched 'The Life of David Gale' yesterday, with a mature friend of mine who also likes Kevin Spacey. It's actually kind of scarey how similar we are... we're both cancerians as well. But I don't know a single other person who would have been happy to spend good money just to ogle at Kevin. The film itself was actually quite decent. It got some harsh reviews though, really harsh, and we were both surprised after we watched it, having expected much worse. I'd seen far worse movies with far more ludicrous premises than this one, admittedly it didn't particularly move me towards the movement to abolish the death penalty, but that may not have necessarily been the point of the movie anyway. I'm just saying, after struggling for over two decades for a story, any story, I would have been pretty ok with myself if I'd managed to come up with that one. As for my story... well, it's still in progress, currently page 6!

When I look at myself in the mirror, I see a tired looking almost mumsy type woman. I feel as though I’m tired from trying to fight off looking old.
I still want to look hip and trendy, although I never really was, never really have been. It doesn’t help that my hair needs a wash, my roots are greasy, and my scalp feels itchy. The ends of my hair are dry, there is still a hint of colour on them, from the dye job I had almost two years ago. I saw one white hair, short, stubby, near my temple. I struggled to get hold of it by itself, I didn’t want to pull out any non-white hairs, and when I finally did, I laid it out on the dark surface of the table top. I do this from time to time, I think the first time I plucked a white air from my head was when I was about 16, during my GSCE exams. Now, over 10 years on, they have taken on a much greater significance, indicators of my maturity, reminders of my aging. The thought that one day, I will have enough of these that I could use those non-bleach semi-permanent dyes and change my hair colour without the commitment the way I have always longed to, cheers me up slightly. Being able to look at the hair, examine it closely is strangely therapeutic. In suppose its removal from my head gives the illusion of youthfulness which I can extend for a few years more. I knew a girl of my age, even a slightly younger, whose hair is almost solidly grey. She dyes it all the time, but sometimes she lets her roots show, a couple of times in the two years I’ve known her, she’s let her roots show almost an inch of growth, and the greyness of her hair is actually enhanced by the darkness of the hair colour she has chosen. More recently she chose to dye her hair black, so that when her hair grew, she looked increasingly more and more like the mother from the Adams family.

I am in Plymouth, on the south coast of England, working for a few days, and today is my day off. The weather has decided to take a tempestuous turn for the worse, the sky is overcast, and it is decided un-warm outside. I am not encouraged to go out at all, having no car, and no bicycle, but will, nevertheless. But I am disappointed, as I had been looking forward to sitting by the water’s edge, which will probably be uncomfortably windy and cold today.

My hands are cold even now, in my hotel room, as I type away. I feel tired still, I did not sleep as thoroughly as I would have liked last night, and am slightly tempted to stay in my room to watch bad tv, although I won’t. I have started to read novels again, after having forsaken them for a good few months, during the writing of my thesis. I’m looking for tips and inspiration. My own story does not flow easily. Sometimes I have to sit down and force myself to write a few lines, its like wading through water, or something of a more solid consistency. When I say that, it does not sound good, doesn’t bode well for any hope of producing a masterful story. But it has been like this for as long as I can remember, and I still want to write.