I can’t sleep. The rain is hammering down on the skylight, so I’m at my desk, writing (this).

I’m also solving Sudoku puzzles, solving and compiling crosswords (I do that too: I like to keep an active brain). And playing word games:

It occurred to me ages ago that there are quite a few three-letter words which anagramise three ways. Three letters; three words; 3×3 words I call them:

  • Ate, eat, tea
  • Tan, ant, nat
  • Rat, tar, art
  • Cat, tac, act
  • Won, own, now
  • One, noe, eon

(A six-word story using just 3×3 words: Cat ate rat. One won tea).

I can only think of one 4×4 word:

Evil (and live, veil and vile).

Anyone, anyone?

I spoke to Dan again earlier, at length. We reminisced; we laughed; I cried. I’m glad we spoke though and I hope we will again soon. I still maintain a glimmer of hope in the candle which still burns. I’m confused but glad that we’re back in irregular contact.

Dan says that Thursday is going to be difficult for her too (our anniversary) and I’ve made her a promise: to not drink that night. I asked her to do me a favour too: to fall asleep while hugging my pillows and remember her friend. She said she often does.

I couldn’t get into The Line of Beauty in the end (not a euphemism: the book), so I’ve returned it. I’ve borrowed two more books: Travels in the Scriptorum, by Paul Auster (my favourite author, so no problem getting into that one) and Adam Robots, by Adam Roberts. Sci-fi is a genre I’ve neglected and this is a collection of 24 short stories, so it’ll be a good foot in.

I like to explore; I like words.

Especially words like these: 

“Just a Small Town Girl – you’ll be ok.
You’re alright.”




I’m at the railway station, having spent the last four hours in police custody. I managed to get arrested. When I say “managed”, it’s because it involved a lot of effort and bad luck. Here’s the story:

Last night I was tidying up and sorting out Gilbert Arse. This included cleaning my desk, setting up my cooking area, sweeping the floors and generally tidying. You can’t polish a turd but the turd now looks a little better.

My absent housemate’s belongings were strewn about the floor, so I decided to put them all together in one place: the corner where he sleeps. In one of his bags I happened upon a knife: a lock blade in fact. Given that my housemate is sometimes unpredictable (and that’s being charitable), I thought I’d rather the knife not be on the premises. So I took it and wondered what to do with it.

Today, I was in the library and I popped out for a cigarette. I found a bike lock, on the pavement, not attached to anything and with no bike on the end of it.Thinking this odd, I thought I’d hand the lock in, the nearest place being the library. I needed the loo, so I went (in the library loo). Upon exiting, I was greeted by the police:

“Do you own a bicycle?”

“No. I assume then that this is about this?” I produced the lock. “I’m about to hand it in.”

“As you’re in possession of something which doesn’t belong to you, you are under suspicion of theft and must submit to a Section One search.” (That’s the one where they don’t probe your arse.)

I remembered that I had the knife and figured this might be a good opportunity to hand it in; to be rid of it. So I declared it and surrendered it without prompting.

The policeman: “This is a lock blade: an illegal weapon. I am arresting you under section…You are not obliged to say anything…”

(For fuck sake).

So I’m under arrest and taken in.

During interview, I explained in great detail how I’d come to be in possession of the knife. I even had witnesses and an alibi. I explained that I’d not really known what to do with the thing: hand it in to the police and get arrested for possession? They suggested I should have merely thrown it in a bin. For someone else to find? If I’d taken great care in covering the knife with rubbish, I may have been spotted acting suspiciously and got nicked.

And nicked I was anyway. And charged, because possession of an offensive weapon is a serious crime: fair enough, in principle. It’s clear that the saying is true: possession is nine tenths of the law.

So I’m bailed to appear in court next month and possibly facing a custodial sentence. That’s the last time I try to be a good samaritan or to protect myself.

Bail is unconditional as I have no form, so I came to the station (the railway one) and met a few mates: they’ve collectively opined that as it was a first offence, I may not get sent down. Good, because I didn’t fucking do anything! But it’s a long wait: five weeks before I learn my fate.

And in relating the story to all assembled, Victor Frank gained sympathy. And a can of beer, some spicy chicken wings, 20g of tobacco and a fiver. Mr Frank was Victor.

So free now and project kitchen continues tomorrow. I was due to complete it today but the filth put paid to that; and my time in the library; and McDonald’s, where I was due to meet friends and get my free coffee.

What’s currently a work in progress (the kitchen) will eventually have at least two “hobs”: in reality, two mini braziers and two metal dishes; one containing water for boiling and the other lard for frying. We shall eat well and I have many recipes, including one for disaster, given the danger of boiling lard over a naked unadjustable flame. Assuming we survive, my frugality and culinary skills will dictate that we’re okay for food.

We were a bit short on food today and money was tight, so lunch was a challenge. We had left-over pizza (a few days old but Gilbert Arse is a fridge, so it was fine), tomatoes, grapes, salad cream and bread. So sandwiches seemed logical.

Using the pizza topping, I made cheese, ham, sausage, pepperoni, spicy beef and salad cream sandwiches: toasted over the brazier. For dessert it was grape and salad cream sandwiches (it works, really). All well-seasoned and absolutely delicious.

Make the most of it before prison food becomes the staple.