All roads lead to Scotch Corner

London. Less fake, more chav.

Oh I'm sorry. It's just that I am no longer afraid of the anger. I watched Friends with Money on the plane over here and for once didn't cry because I felt like Jane. Maybe I am Jane, only I don't drive and happen to be persecuted in real time by smelly fuckers with trucks.

I am currently dreaming of not washing my hair (assuming this also means I don't have to shave). I am also dreaming of a gay husband. Gay boyfriends, whatever. I just one who will commit (and kiss my friends when they cry and run their own businesses. And. And. And......)

I did cry at Failure to Launch though. What this says about me I don't ever need to know.


I am still angry and I don't even live here. I am tired of it though. Y'all can send me home now. I want to rescue my herbs. I think they all must be dead by now. This is not my beautiful home. I don't understand the machines with the buttons that I need to press and slots into which must be fed approximately $378 at the current exchange rate to purchase a piece of paper which will take you backwards and forwards between Green Park and Piccadilly twice (but no further!).

I tried to explain this to a crumpled suit behind me this morning. He sighed and stared at his watch. He humpfed. [He humpfed! What the fuck is up with these people and their passive aggressive YELLING!]

"Oh I am sorry. I don't understand this machine any more. There is all this oyster stuff which is confusing me. And the request for six pounds and fifty pence which in any case must be wrong. I need to go to Green Park, not Cockfosters."

Crumpled suit does not take the apology. He looks at watch. He looks at me. His eyes narrow. He humpfs. He looks at watch.

I miss my contractor. I wanna go home.