I think I will name my next song "Oh, It Is Thursday And It Is Sleeting In My Heart"

I'm not sure what my views are on the Thursday as a day of the week. Granted it has none of the oh-God-only-halfway-bloody-through-ness of a Wednesday, but then one can't quite imbue it with the hurray-let's-all-eat-Crunchies-and-what-was-that?-Beer-for-lunch-you-say? elation of a Friday, either.

I don't mind Thursdays. In fact, I don't think I have a least favourite day of the week.

This Thursday, though? I don't know about this Thursday. It seems somehow shaky on its feet and I'm not sure I quite trust it yet.

I'm not sure it could quite be classified as a Bad Day in the typical sense. I haven't fallen head first down a mine shaft yet. Nor have I caught my boyfriend in a tryst with his secretary, his neighbour and the entire cast of Cats (original London recording).

There have been a couple of things that have slightly thrown me, though.

The first thing I did this morning after getting out of bed was stub my toe. It was on a shoe. The reason I stubbed my toe on a shoe was because I slightly lost my balance and staggered a bit. The reason I slightly lost my balance and staggered a bit was that the insides of my whole head had been replaced with snot.

I swore for a bit. In case you were wondering, it went a bit like this:

"Fucking fuck. Shit shitting bollocks motherfucking shitknobs."

Except with a blocked up nose.

It was after I had showered and was drying my hair that I noticed something winking back at me from the mirror. A spot. On my FACE!

I'm not going to be overdramatic about this, it's tiny. But it's on my head and therefore visible. It's my fault, as well, because I was idly scratching my head IN THAT VERY PLACE last night.

People are starving in the world. Horrible things happen to people all over this planet, and they stoically get on with their lives, braving it through the trials and the tribulations that they accept as par for the course in their arduous, everyday lives.

I must confess, however, that at that point I seriously considered jacking in Thursday all together and getting back into bed.

However, taking inspiration from those whose lives are riddled with toe-stubbing and avoidable-facial-blemishes on a day-to-day basis, I did not. No, I bravely got dressed, put my coat and scarf and gloves on and courageously let myself out of the flat.

One of the things I don't get (and there are about five or six things, including how to ping a rubber band at someone, long division and why anyone ever wears those horrible peaked woollen cap things) is why sleet is called sleet. As a mixture of snow and rain it really, if we're being linguistically pedantic, should be called 'snain'. Or perhaps 'rnow'. Snrainow.

Sleet is, I suppose, an appropriately depressing name for such a boringly dreary form of precipitation. I bet that, at the precipitation parties they have up there in the skies, Sleet is the one you'd do ANYTHING not to get into a conversation with, because all he'd do is whinge ON AND ON at you about how SHIT his life is and how he feels like he has no direction and is always left out because Snow doesn't want him and Rain won't talk to him and OH MY GOD I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS.

Sleet is shit, though.

Then the tube was packed. It's always packed but this morning the Northern Line was hell. Actual hell. I seriously considered staging an elaborate faint so that people would move slightly away from me, and perhaps stop pressing their armpits into my face. I am not even joking when I say I considered doing that. However, I also once very seriously considered entering myself to be a contestant on 'Catchphrase', so my judgement is not, perhaps, always to be trusted.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of commuting to work on the tube in the morning. It is a place of supression. Supressed rage, supressed sneezes, supressed (sometimes) attractions. If someone is talking loudly on the tube in the morning people glance up at them, shocked. Other people who DO NOT UNDERSTAND (often Australians) always complain about 'tube faces': the sullen refusal to make eye contact or forge any interaction with strangers. Well, that is just how it works. It is a tried and tested formula. I would be immensely disconcerted if someone tried to strike up a conversation with me on the tube. I wouldn't trust them at all. I would whip my head round, searching for the scallywag stealing my purse, phone or kidneys while I am engaging in polite conversation with this seemingly friendly stranger.

Um, anyway. I digress.

My tube journey was a bit shit, to sum up. Nothing happened to make it so, but I just disliked it more than usual.

On the up side, however, I am feeling slightly better today, cold-wise. Stomach-wise, I am beginning to think that I had a little small bit of food poisoning, because I felt ill and nauseous for a couple of days, and teamed with the pain? I think it was that. I didn't experience any of the other things one generally experiences with food poisoning, if you know what I mean, though. This is something for which I am very grateful as those things are not good things, oh no they are not.

Also, I have fun plans for the next few days. Out and about, doing this and that, seeing various people, drinking various people's bodyweights in wine.

I am particularly looking forward to Sunday, when I am spending the day with my boyfriend-who-has-not-yet-cheated-on-me-with-the-original-London-cast-of-Cats, and we are going somewhere fun. Apparently it's my decision, which is ridiculous because I have no powers of decision making apart from to diagnose myself with food poisoning when I have no evidence to base that on whatsoever, and also to know that starring on Catchphrase would do little to improve my street cred.

ALSO: I am going back up to Warwick University Of Fun (I perhaps added the Of and the Fun) to be in a production of the Vagina Monolgues in a couple of weeks.

ALSO: I have nearly finished another song.

ALSO: I bought myself yet another spangly faux-diamond ring yesterday, which makes three big huge sparkly ones and one plain silver. My hands are heavy but pretty. It distracts people from the STUPID spot on my head which I hate but which nevertheless lives on.

ALSO: I know I started out with a path for this post. A 'point', if you will. However it has descended into a meandering jumble of nonsense, only redeemed by the fact that as I type this I am completely naked.

Well, my arms are.

ALSO: I have nothing else to say. Whilst, admittedly, this has never stopped me before, it will now.

Have a pretty, faux-diamond riddled Thursday.

P.S If you are having a bit of a shit day, I whole-heartedly recommend that you go and click on the Miss Doxie link.