Summer of 2010 - it was nice while it lasted.

A few days ago the UK had this blast of Omigod-so-hot that meant that the entire nation descended upon the store I work in to by barbeques and paddling pools TO THE MAX. It was ridiculous. It was hot for three days and I was at work for all of those days (basking in the glory of epic air conditioning - booyah).

By the end of the first day we had a strategem where two of us would hide from the customers and eat ice cream, and then swap. It was delicious.

That's... pretty much all that's happened.

I got a new mouse for my computer and I've been Simming it up pretty much around the clock.

My life is thrilling, I know.

Trubble in ma hood.

I think I've mentioned my elderly insane neighbours.

My newest neighbours keep fort with a rottweiler, four budgies and two horny lizards.

One is using a raving, rent-dodging, fake-ID toting 70-odd bingo fanatic's old house as a drug den.

Two own a burger van on the A19.

One puts bricks in her plant-pots to 'hold the trees in'.

One is on the run from the feds.

And the final one is a bearded lady. I shit you not, she's all bristly.

The bearded lady has always labelled me, Cleo and Golden Balls (my bro) as trouble. She's never had a reason to, really. I suppose me leaving  (very very very) faint marks on her stretch of the balcony whilst rollerblading would've been kind annoying seeing as she likes everything to be squeaky clean, (but it was the guy at the end of the balcony whose wall I'd usually crash into that suffered most - knocked all the stuff off his bathroom shelf a million times over) but she has never had any solid reason to hate us.

If there's trouble, it's one of us. If the bin's overflowing, it's us, not the twenty three other families we share it with. The one time that Cleo scratched her name into the bricks on the stairwell, she came knocking. If she sees me going past her house (which I have to, unless I wanted to take an 18-ft dive off the balcony) she always tells me to move on, even though out of pure dislike for the woman I was practically running anyway.

Anyway.

The bearded lady has taken it too far ladies and gents.

She has now installed one of those little buzzer things that make a horrible whining sound that only dogs, children and teenagers can hear.

It's not like I can avoid the damn thing, I have to go to work, go shopping, meet people etc. and everytime I leave the house all I can hear is painfully high-pitched Oh-My-God-It's-Eating-My-Brain shrieking that makes my ears throb.

Stupid woman.

It was much easier when I was three and the neighbour categories fell as: Paedophile, Man Who Works In A Chocolate Factory, Nice Woman Who Nearly Killed Me With Peanuts, and Religious Nuts.

The Religious Nuts are still here as The Brick People (also known as the 'Jesus Rocks! Quarter'). They wrote me off for an atheist at the tender age of four when I saw Jesus on a cross in their house and said 'Jesus has got boobies, look!

Shattered.

As the sky is clearing
You clear your mind
Hide all mirrors not to see
What the morphine couldn't hide

I don't feel much like myself right now. My meds aren't working, the trips to the psychologist are driving me mad and I slept until 7pm today just to avoid the day. I can't stand myself.

There's not much to write about, days are filled with nothing and I'm even bored.

I am a learner, learning. And other stuff.

8 days later and uhh... nothing more interesting than my underwear has happened.

Except that my driving licence arrived, I nearly ran over a lawn mower because my dad left my car in gear (even I know not to do that = years of complaints from my mum), I have an effing CAR, I've been on a fitness bender and am finally seeing some awesome results and I'm trying to give up coke by watching my sister drink it and have toothache. Win.

I spent today on my current best friend (TWSS), the Wii. I love Wii Fit Plus, I even though it costs a bomb in batteries. I had a moment of weakness at work and ended up buying tons of stuff like yoga mats and pedometers and stuff but I'm fairly sure it was worth it.

I went to see a psychologist where we talked about loads of rather dull stuff mostly involving me and my feelings and how do you feel about that and by the end of it I was in such a state of 'meh' that me and my mum went to the pub and took up Tuesday afternoon drinking. True story.

So that's all that I've got, except that the True Blood season finale aired here yesterday. That was more or less the highlight of my entire life.

Undercrackers.

I draw power from my underwear.

No, sit down, listen.

Basically I appear to be one of those people who will sit back and watch as someone cuts in front of me in a shop, or will sit and allow herself to be yelled at by a grouchy customer who refuses to acknowledge that I work for a store that sells electronics, not Sony itself. Someone might smirk at me because I'm kinda-sorta fat (plump is more accurate) and absolutely LOVE running*, exercise and shit.

I also have a penchant for underwear. I lovelovelove buying bras and pants (pants = panties in this here part of the world) and socks and tights in wild colours and awesome patterns. Like at school when I had to wear solid black for my uniform, I'd wear neon yellow leg warmers and bright green and red socks.

At work I take a lot of crap. My badge should say 'Nicole - taker of shit' because that's all I seem to get. Yes, I'm sorry your car got broken into, sure I'll replace the car seat for you but FOR SHIT'S SAKE! IT'S NOT MY FAULT THE POLICE ARE TAKING SO LONG TO BLOODY RECOVER IT. And SCREW YOU! I'M WEARING A BRIGHT YELLOW BRA.

If my mum starts arguing about.. oh.. anything.. I zone out and focus on the niiiice silk pants. Looooovely silk pants. These socks are full of holes but the pants are niiiiiice... Sorry, what?

If someone (heaven forbid) calls me boring I have no problem telling them that 'Actually, you should see the underwear I'm packing right now, buddy.'

My friend Mo-Balls used to have an awesome pair of boxers with like.. superheroes on them with BAM and POW and stuff on them which she called her 'Power Pants'. I totally get that.

*Though I've had to kinda quit the running for a little while, I've strained all the tendons in my foot. Joy.

Frick.

Alors, Rach has been and gone (awesomeness all weekend long - probably more on this later).

My birthday was good. I tried to get the lovely Anner drunk and only succeeded in getting wasted myself.

Went climbing around some waterfalls and did so without getting even a tiny bit wet. That takes skill, yo.

Today I dropped Rach off at the station and went bra shopping, which in itself is a mammoth task. I don't like shopping outside of Asda (UK equivalent of WalMart) or Sainsbury's because seeing clothes that I'd have to work for two days straight to afford just pisses me the fuck off. See? Like that.

Anyhoodle it was waaaaaarm today so I was wearing only the bare essentials, and after about two hours in town I looked in a window - Note: not the clearest reflection either and I still saw it - to see that, Oh, Fabulous, my top was see-through, like, all the way through.

And I had to get home. Through town. With lots of people. Some of which probably knew me.

Cue loud internal FRICK followed by frantic tweeting:

And God knows, I tried to text my insignificant other to see if he thought the situation was too dire for me to carry on living, but my phone and his phone hate each other so the picture got lost somewhere in the cosmos, so now there's a picture of me wearing a see-through top floating around in infinity waiting for someone to find it and take it home.

You have to understand, to a freshly-turned seventeen year old, this shit is the height of mortal embarrassment.

I did get 30 cans of coke for £5.70 though. To a freshly-turned seventeen year old, that's the redeeming factor.