if you buggers are all moving house then so am I. First viewing tonight, at 7.15. Coo-el. And my first interview was this afternoon, but it was just a test interview and not for a job I really wanted (hint: it was for an estate agents. So.) Even then, it went swimmingly.

I'll be fully moved by my birthday, you just mark my words.

mark. my. words. 

...turns out it's at 4.40. Oops. But there was no point trekking back to work, so I just did some new job related emailing and looking about.

I'm tired.

I need it to be July and everything sorted already!

The dentist was... odd.

(Yes, I shouldn't be blogging, but a) it's Friday and b) I hurt and c) I'm not sure they can tell)

I was having a filling redone, on my very back molar. I think I have possibly been attending a backward dentist back Oop North because (pain fans, take note) I have never, ever been anaesthetised for a filling before. Not even for the one she was replacing. The only time (at the dentist) I'd had a local was when I needed some stubborn baby teeth removing to let the grown up ones in. So when she got the needle out I was a little confused. Anyway, I was numbed (is it wrong I really like that feeling? When the professionals are rooting around within?) and the actual filling hurt not one bit.

However.

The frickin weird metal vice she lodged in my mouth cut into my (not at all numb) lip and the way she pulled my head about (using my front teeth for leverage) has left me with a niggling neck pain. Factor in having to keep my mouth open for 46 minutes (I checked) and eventually being given a bizzare rubber thing to bite down in an attempt to keep my flagging jaw open and I also have terrible, terrible jaw ache. My toothie-pegs hurt not one bit, but my skull feels as though it's been shattered and put back together in the dark.

My Oop North dentist never anaesthetised me, but she also never took more than 20 minutes, and never charged me a hundred bloody quid. She also, as far as I recall, never lodged her left tit in my eyeball when she was trying to get to the back of my gob.

I ought to change dentist. I don't care if they're NHS.

Owie.

Here's a picture of my boyfriend. He's pretty sexy, right? Look at his cheeky smile. Look at his beautiful eyes and lovely mussy dark hair. You could just eat him, couldn't you? He. Is. Gorgeous. But, would you really - I mean really - be okay to go to the supermarket with him dressed like this?

No. You don't understand.

I love his t-shirt (yes folks, he made it himself...)

What I mean is -

like this:

Well?

Would you?

No.

Me neither.

It is exactly ONE MONTH until my 24th birthday. I plan to go to CLAPHAM COMMON on the afternoon of SATURDAY JULY TENTH and sun myself with beer, bbq and buddies. Anyone who wants to swing along, feel free to email me and I will email you the details. Also, that way, if there'll only be six or so of us, we can just go the pub. Innit. The Baboon will also be in attendance.

Hopefully, my birthday this year will be significantly better than last year, when my sister came all the way down from Yorkshire with a vodka jelly no-one would eat; my boyfriend was in the Czech Republic; the guy I fancied completely ignored me; T(e)BS went home with her husband; my sister got off with a guy playing a hyena in The Lion King and went home with him; I danced with an Albanian; and Denise punched a squaddie. You could have read all about it en blog, but it was deleted during the great October purge.

Let me know if you fancy it.

The lazing in the sun bit, not the squaddie-punching.

Oooooof.

Nothing quite like being reminded you're a total fucking bitch, is there?

Excuse me, I have to lock myself in the ladies and curl up into a ball and cry for the remainder of the afternoon.