I dunno, you think you have a grasp on what it is to be yourself and then there you are, smoking a cheeky fag in the fog of a London morning while waiting for your lift to work (car-pooling Mr Gore, Brownie points please) and suddenly...

Well suddenly your brain fires or misfires perhaps and you are not yourself but someone looking at you and your life and the brevity of it from the outside and finding it so horribly confusing that you almost forget how to breathe.  The strangest thing.  That thin veneer between being what my society would term sane and what that same community would describe as not quite right in the noggin.  Christ.  It was liking dragging myself from the edge of a cliff for a second, if not longer.  Could be I've found my Sammy-stylee speshul power, but can't see quite how its going to save us all from the Demon Army really.  The power to bore people to death.  I know of folks who have that in spades if not shovels.

So, reset, reset and work was work although we did have an entertaining five minutes dicussing frog semen like you do and looking at my friend's photos from her trip to India. The squirrels in Dehli look like chipmunks. And the poor look like the poor anywhere really but speak better English. And one temple does look very much like another and the Taj Mahal reminded me of Brighton Pavilion but then I am rather common.

Gooners v Meeelan on my telly box now.  One of my beloved Flamini's many nicknames is Gattuso. And there he is with the real Gattuso. Hee.   I do love Matty.  I do love how much in love with Cesc he is.  Cesc's hair is so full of product you could land a Chinook on it and flatten nary a spike.  Do come on boys.  Saturday's match gave me hives.

...for this shiny new notebook had big friendly keys and what the hell my darlings let's get back on the effing bike and have another go at this life of keystrokes shall we?

Abbi dearest?  You out there?