August 5 (Thursday): Nightcrawlers. I wake up shattered. I am late to touch my computer, partly to avoid to Sara on MSN, there is method in my madness. Basically I avoid her because all I seem to do these days is argue with her. And today it spills out into a text message argument regarding Phoebe of all things. And its costly too, each text message I send to her, her in Dubai, costs me 25p.

Today, during the daytime, Dad comes around my flat to repair my toilet. I live in dread at the prospect of my parents (either one) running around my flat unsupervised. Why? Many reasons but basically they already seem to think I am weird enough and that is without discovering the porn and other personal items highlighting my stunted growth and arrested development. When I get in from work I am safe, I have not be investigated by the International Adult Conspiracy but I do still however have a toilet leaking all over my bathroom floor. I panic again.

Unfortunately I have to quickly get a move on for my session this week with the good doctor. This week’s session sees a welcomed trip back in time when it once more gets suggested that I am not really putting into our sessions what I should be. We discuss my suggestion last week at doing an English course and the problem I now have is that the course is being held in a building that I have some history with, the Wilson Marriage Centre. When I left school I had this little period that I had post-school and it gets raised this evening and I/we discuss the YT college I found myself at in September 1993 called SEAX Training. During the period I was coming out of my agoraphobic stage and I was subjected to some of the most terrifying and intimidating company of my life. It turns out the good doctor had some experience of this particular organisation also, not surprising as some of the thugs who used to go there with me really seemed to require some counselling/help. She points out that some of the people attending this college were real bottom of the barrel drop outs, people who could barely read, let alone thrive in the work place. Ultimately this gives birth to the question “what the fuck was I doing being there?� This weeks session ends I feel better for my acknowledgement that I was better than that. and I felt out of place there for good reason.

When I get home, via a visit to Asda, on the Channel Four is Celebrity Place In The Sun and it is featuring Anthea Turner in Dubai looking for a holiday crib (it’s all right for some). It is great so see Dubai on TV though, the entirety of my thought pattern through the show being “oh, so this is where Sara lives�. It is the first time I have seen Dubai on TV and it looks pretty nice whilst also looking like Tenerife or somewhere. This is the real deal on the country and it is frightening to see just how much development is going on over, tonnes of horrible new modern white housing just like those tourist dives in the Canary Islands. As Sara is regularly asking me to go and visit her out there, this is food for thought. The place looks (and is) incredibly pricy, all the celebrities are purchasing places there. The main eye catcher is a resort/created community called Palm Island which is a set of homes placed on a man made bedding shaped like a palm tree. Nice.

The remainder of the evening is a zero; I watch Little Britain and play where is my mind?

np: Tortoise – Swung From The Gutters