I don't normally beg for assistance, I rely on my own eyes to see, but right now they make no sense to me...

I am in a state of confusion. A strange feeling of helplessness has descended, leaving me flailing and flapping around, a bit like a tortoise who has foolishly rolled onto its back. Shit analogies aside, I really feel at a loose end at the moment. I think money is a factor. The fact that I don't have any is hardly a revelation, but it is still a shit feeling. I think I mentioned yesterday that whilst I was extracting a splinter from Rick's foot I daydreamed about a possible change in career? Last night as I was back at the helm of the foot, digging around with some blunt tweezers and a sterilised needle I though perhaps I could have been a surgeon, had I just tried a bit harder. I have a firm hand and a good eye for detail. Or maybe a professional splinter remover? I'm sure there is such a thing, or if not, I could be a pioneer. Maybe I'll get awards.

I also rather wish I'd trained as a hairdresser. The fact that I cut my own birds nest of hair is really all the training I have had, and so far my technique consists of me squinting into a mirror with the kitchen scissors and cutting into the great bush of tangles that I have somehow ended up with on my head. Qualification enough I think you'll agree! I am also good a bowl-cut fringes, and I have been know to add subtle layers to Ricks hair when I cut it, though I don't tell him that. Of all the jobs I could be doing, I am not sure how it ended up here. I think its because I can am paid to do something I care little about, that an untrained monkey could also do if offered some sort of delicious banana incentive. And it gives me the means to write all of the things I wish I could get paid for, but ultimately no one reads.

What an up-beat thought for the day! In other news, I have been trying to lure P+T to the neighbourhood. I have lined up two places for them to look at...I am excited. I have also written to both Clair and Chas, who are both off half-way around the world next week for a few months. I will miss them keenly.

Tomorrow is the day I go to Madrid... I am scared. I don't like flying, and I have a terrible fear that I won't fit into the aeroplane seats. This has not happened before, thank god, but I still entertain the possibility. I also fear that one of the stewards will offer me some sort of extender belt (not needed just yet) like they do for the obese on American airlines. I am now not sure if my dislike for air travel is to do with being in the air or my fat arse. A combination of both maybe? Either way, I hate to fly, I hate airports and I'm a miserable, worrying bastard.

We are only allowed hand luggage and I have observed the rules on what to bring religiously. I have collected tiny 50ml bottles for my toiletries and have put everything into clear plastic bags. This includes my socks, pants, tees and dresses. Obviously you don't have to do that, but I like to. More to do with the my obsessive compulsive disorder than anything else, but I like to think that the airport security staff are quietly impressed.

Apart from folding and bagging my possessions, I still need to give myself the regulation haircut that will make me look either more mental or less mental (it's a gamble) and check-in online. This will be hilarious, as because of the OCD, I need to check each detail, in turn, something like 600 times. Rather time consuming, and actually makes me feel less reassured than I was, but if I don't do it it will be my fault if the plane drops from the sky. Nice.

I guess writing the blog will be difficult in Spain, but I will try. Now off to eat more arctic roll, attack the birds nest and plunge the clogged up sink.

I will just leave you with one thought; if you could do any profession, what would it be?

So long my doves, my dears,

C x