Telle mere telle fille

Housemate's Angel of Death mother has now been replaced by her equally neurotic sister. This woman makes Howard Hughes look like a slob. The other day I put a new bag in the bin and The Sister actually sneaked back into the kitchen when she thought I wasn't looking so that she could rearrange it. This isn't normal behaviour.

Advice please. How does one dispose of unwanted house guests? Not in a Shallow Grave sort of way, you understand, things have not become that unbearable yet. It happened several weeks ago when my housemate went on holiday for three weeks. She told her parents that they were welcome to use her room in the flat. Unfortunately she did not tell me (or indeed ask if I would mind, which would have been a better courtesy). So for three weeks they popped into the flat unannounced, held dinner parties, left low-brow newspapers around the flat, that sort of thing.

Now aforementioned flatmate's mother has popped back up to London for some unfathomable reason and as I write she is sitting on our sofa eating bran flakes. The flat is tiny, as is my patience. What shall I do?!

For someone who shies away from minimalism like Dr. Atkins from a potato I find myself disconcertingly preoccupied with de-cluttering. Perhaps I have SAD, now that August has officially declared itself the new winter. With all this bleak weather keeping us indoors there are only so many matinee films you can watch and bubblegum books you can read.

De-cluttering does have its merits though, making you feel righteous and ready for a new start. Old books, old shoes, old Pet Shop Boys tapes are passed on to someone new by way of Oxfam. Where you will inevitably pick up twice us much stuff as you came with. It is like a redistribution of junk and bric-a-brac, constantly in circulation.

I always imagined that I would enjoy living in some higgedly-piggeldy bohemian cottage but the horrific truth is I like clean surfaces and the knowledge that I have nothing of any value. Or, indeed, nothing at all. All my life I have sneered at these French (they were always French in my life) families who lived in white boxes with lots of glass and more white furniture but now I see that I was secretly one of them all along. I went to a wedding once where the couple had asked for a ludicrously expensive cigar ashtray. And neither one smoked. I am happy in the knowledge that if my flat was to burn down I would be the only thing that I would want to save.

Something strange is happening. In the last 3 months I have bumped into:

an ex-boyfriend
an ex-fling (TWICE in two weeks)
the best friend of aforementioned ex-boyfriend

Either London is getting too small or I have had too many exes...

So, the trip to Hamleys did not put me off children. It did, however, put me off ever going to a toy shop on Regent Street on the hottest day of August ever again. There are seven circles of hell in there not to mention all the sodding meccano.

Thought of the day 1 - Sunday mornings are when I really miss having a boyfriend. If only to go and get me the Sunday Times so that I can stay in bed.

Thought of the day 2 - Is it bad to spend all day in bed and not go out at all, not even to get the newspaper (this is when the aforementioned boyfriend would really come into his own)?

For someone who wants to write for a living I find myself being incredibly coquettish and avoiding the task at all costs. Ironing has never been so appealing. Hence the blog; hopefully it will force me in to some form of discipline and it doesn't even matter if no one reads it (which bodes well).
This time I plan to remember the password and username, as well as the actual blog name. Somewhere out there in cyberspace is a half-started blog , destined to forever roam the world devoid of purpose.

There isn't much you need to know about me apart from the following - I'm 28, I'm single and I live in London. I like to use parentheses alot. That's your lot for now.

Thought of the day (you might get a lot of these) - everyone around me is getting married and having babies. I am inevitably feeling broody and spinsterish. Thankfully a day in Hamley's tomorrow with four neices and nephews will put paid to that.