And so actually having a job, or a reason to get up in the morning, other than housework, is actually pretty shit. This week I have started work in an operating theatre, and long story short, it's not half as exciting as it sounds.

My new daily routine is something like this:

0525 am : Wake up
0527 am : After a two minute lay in, walk to the kitchen
0527 - 0532 am : Eat breakfast - Usually carb orientated to ensure that I do not die at the wheel of my car, although this is probably better than actually pretending that you have to work for a living.
0532 - 0541 am : Shower, wash, brush teeth.

Somewhere between 0541 and 0601 am I manage to loose twenty minutes doing mindless things, occasionally exciting myself by doing a few chores. Such as emptying the dishwasher, cleaning the soap dish. Whatever.

Then I drive for an hour to the private hospital, in which I work. Where, signing in at exactly 0700 am, in the little red book, every morning. And changing into scrubs. I then sit down for the best part of two hours. (You'd think being paid to sit down was an all right way to make money. Well it isn't. I'd rather not make any at all, and lets face it, I don't need it.)

From 0900 am and for the rest of the day I usually entertain myself with the small talk of the various nurses, anesthetists and surgeons I work with. Typical questions asked include 'What do you do in the real world?' (you mean to say this isn't a real job?) and 'Are you working full time?'. To which usual the reply is Nothing of interest/Stay at home dad/International sock model/something vaguely entertaining and borderline true and 'No'. Which usually kills conversation, until around 1832 pm when I sign out, and skip off home.

I'm sitting in the sun, wearing Christian Dior sunglasses and working on my non-existent Caucasian tan. Reading, thinking of a story I can conjure for you people; my four followers. When an apple falls from the tree. And three wasps angrily disperse from the windfall. Two stopping to engage in some kind of mating ritual, or wage war with one another. I can' tell. I watch for a moment, as they break, and then refocus my concentration. Causing a smile, to the simple pleasures in life, to leak from my lips. Then I bring a tan leather moccasin down on top of them. Silencing the commotion.

The story I think of, I don't really like to tell. Although I often amuse myself by telling twisted variations of it to strangers. It is from a time way before any inclination to live in Bristol ever existed, and way before I understood true happiness. It's a story that, I shall tell in due course.

I am interrupted from my book.Thoughts. Again. By my mother. Who offers a tumbler, and a bottle of Perrier, on ice, along with freshly baked pastries, and red summer berries. And I continue to read into chapter twenty seven, whilst life continues around me.

On Friday, I wake up about quarter to ten. Have breakfast, a couple of pieces of toast, have a cup of Miles blend tea, and open the post. I send three letters, and return four request forms. I use my typewriter to reply, and hope that the person opening the letters gets as excited as I, when I see that English typewriter font.

I clean the house, well the kitchen at least, and by clean I mean, wipe a few things with a cloth. I load the dishwasher. Take a drive to the store, and hand deliver a letter.

On Saturday I crash my car. Or rather someone crashes into me.

Naturally I seek the best medical advise and after being given the all clear, drown my sorrows with a bottle of Absolute. Which I find stops my lower jaw, and chin area, spasming almost completely.

I spend the best part of Sunday being sick (Which I've heard is great for the abs). I don't go to the gym, and I don't get out of bed. At three fifty one pm, once I am convinced that I am able to hold down food stuffs. And my lips have stopped burning, and the feeling has come back, and my face has stopped spasming and my neck feels...ok. I consume : Two packets of crisps, two bottles of Coke, Two tubes of gelatin sweets and a Marz Bar.

Then I go back to bed.

Sick count 7.5 (the last retch was half hearted).

And it's probably only fair I tell you this, and it is probably quite a difficult thing to hear. But I have surrendered life as we know it, to concentrate on my housewifery skills.

On Wednesday I visit my new apartment. I drink Earl Grey and lavish Gin cocktails. I consume two lunches with two different people. I wear a hat. I drink mediocre coffees, at three different establishments. I urinate in a shop doorway. I use contacts to gain VIP. I dine with an old friend. Sell my Apple Macintosh. I re-arrange furniture. I drive 87.2 miles.

On Thursday I lunch with a friend. I drink more coffee. I compose some designs. I say the words 'Looking millionaire'. I enjoy the English summer rain. I wear orange underwear. I eat multipule cream teas. I get caught speeding. I buy a sandwich for £4.56. I sleep in silk sheets. Stop mid-sentence. I drive 80.5 miles.

I intend to return to Bristol, to live the life of a graduate of Finishing school. And I intend to do this well.

On Sunday morning. Late afternoon. I notice a small bruise and several scratch marks under my left pectoral. And inside my head thousands of tiny people are poking pointy sticky into my brain, and it seriously fucking hurts. After several hours of internet, three Spainsh pain killers and four bottles of Perrier, I am able to establish a few events from the previous night.

Apparently, we've been to a local night club. Situated in the midst of a wide network of fishing villages, and so naturally is themed as a pirate ship.

At about half one, whilst supporting myself against the tongue and grove paneled walls of the cramped bathroom, my head clears for a few seconds and I have a sudden realisation of just where I am.

Nothing particularly happens during the night. Although I am told by a over excitable bouncer to "Die outside" whilst sitting at a table. To which I reply, as I recall, "I'm not dying, well maybe perhaps inside".

Under a tiller I have a passing conversation with someone,which is initiated as they exclaim that wearing ___________ is a crime. To which I agree. Defending my choice, by detailing that the shirt is in fact vintage, that this is a small fishing village and I don't own a fishing vessel, and not wanting to stand out opted for, what the locals consider couture.

I leave, perhaps about two thirty, walking the road, which I earlier drove, home.

Sick count: 0 (Although wish it were around 4)