The one where I probably end up homeless.

Dear York City Council,

Hey guys... It's been a while, huh?

As in, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I live in a council house so I'm kinda living in your house and therefore you should probably come round tout de suite and warm my feet up, because they're kinda in tootsie heaven right now.

I've got to go to work in seven hours, darlings, and that's to pay your rent, and I can't sleep because my feet have, for all points and purposes, died in the last two hours or so.

My legs keep spasming, probably because my veins have just been converted into ice luges.

It hurts to type because my fingers are so cold.

Yes, the windows are closed. Yes, I have put on socks. Yes, the heating is on.

Wait. Is it?

Okay, it is now.

What? Stop looking at me like that! It's cold okay. There are like, ice cubes in my head or something.

I still blame you entirely, York City Council.

Lots of love, ish.

Nicole "Blue Butt" Smith.

Update: Trust no one because they don't trust you.

There's been a development in relation to yesterday's incident and I feel I have to share it, because that's what I do.

In the last thirty hours or so I have become paranoid. My sister has hidden my passport so I don't become one of those people who takes their passport with them everywhere in case (just on the off-chance) some guy asks for I.D. when you are clearly not fourteen.

So today I went to the shop to buy some bread, and there was a new sign next to the counter saying '1. THINK, DO THEY LOOK 18? 2. ASK THEIR AGE. 3. ASK FOR I.D.'

I handed over the loaf of bread with trembling hands.

"Uhh... Am I old enough to by bread?" *Meaningful nod at the sign* "Because I know where my passport is now, my mum hid it under the printer. It's not alcoholic yet, it only does that when the yeast ferments and releases-"

The cashier is looking at me, the line of people behind me is looking at me. I'm sure even the bread is looking at me.

"Umm..." *nervous giggle* "I'll just take the bread."

Next time I go there I think I'll plead insanity.

In conclusion, the blood game was better.

Yesterday I had the honour of attending a public carnival.



Where is the honour in that, you say?

It was so badly advertised that I was one of ten people not actively participating in the event that got to see it.

You see, York Council gets so much money from tourism that they can decide at any given point to throw a celebration in honour of the residents, but by this point we are bored and disinterested so it's always a blow.

My sister had been invited (as part of the local youth club where they tame the thugs of tomorrow) to join the carnival so my mum and I got some peace whilst contemplating what the hell had happened on the street the night before. It became a game, follow the trail of blood, five points for every ten metres you follow and fifty for any bodies. Sadly, I never found one. That would have been the icing on the cake.

When the carnival started it was a bust of four-year-olds screaming and banging drums. The 'carnival' started to stream past The York Minster but then... Nothing. It stopped. The whole procession was all of ten metres long.

We still followed it. We followed it all the way around as it got stuck in traffic and shouted at for making too much noise on a Sunday morning. After almost an hour of hearing the same repetitive BOOM BOOM WOOT WOOT, we wound up in the city centre, at which point I sank to my knees and yelled THANK YOU SUPERMAN.



It really was terrible. I cannot even begin to describe how bad it was, so instead I'll leave you with a pictorial demonstration.



I later heard that they gave pole dancing lessons on stage in the city centre.

The little quirks really make up this city.