Scone Daddy Scone

Actually, it worked out that my Valentine’s Day wasn’t all that horrific as usual. In fact, it was one of the high notes in a rather bipolar week. I was quite ill, and had spent much of the previous evening in tears (some people really upset me – thoughtless behaviour rather than intended malice, but hitting a raw nerve nonetheless) so had extra-puffy eyes. However, I picked myself up, dressed myself up, and headed down The Ritz for afternoon tea. Here’s my Valentine scone:

Lovingly sculpted by myself, for myself. Had a fabulous tea, then cocktails and fun (despite the Mighty Whites losing) and I went home very buoyed up, with little to no need for Morrissey et al and went to sleep after receiving a last minute Valentine text from a nice man.

Thursday came down like a rain of monkey wrenches. My temperature got so high that I half-hallucinated-half-dreamt a cross between Life on Mars and the British Quiz Championships (taking place in my building’s courtyard) complete with consistent fashion and haircuts, which I couldn’t take part in as I had been entrusted with 9 tabs of ecstasy which I kept dropping so would have to scrabble around on the floor of my room (which repeatedly mutated into an Edinburgh pub) to locate them – it not helping that they kept shrinking and growing like something from Alice in Wonderland. Still, managed to watch all of Firefly. I think.

Friday I threw caution to the wind and went to Belgium. Here is some Belgian quiz carnage action:Now I still feel like crap but at least I have a hillock of Godiva chocolates at home to see me through.

Pandora wants me dead

Lovely of Pandora.com to build me up to one of my annual low-points by playing broken hearted music. The Smiths just played, “Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me”, and it momentarily made me so sad I couldn’t bear it. Sad, not just cos it’s a sad song or it chimed with me, but because it’s been a long time since I had one of those dreams. You know the one, where they really do love you, and you almost feel them touch you, and when you wake up you suddenly feel cold as if those arms wrapped around you had quickly been withdrawn. But they’re not there (whoever ‘they’ are). I haven’t had one of those dreams in a long time (more Smiths reference, gah). I need one. Cause, as you probably know, I fucking detest stupid fucking Valentines.

Now Pandora plays With Or Without You. The website definitely wants me to cry myself to sleep this Wednesday. Valentines? Couples wandering around holding hands, one clutching a single rose wrapped in plastic as they leave a cheap-to-medium priced chain restaurant? Give me strength. I shall be staying in with The Smiths and possibly Nico and indulging in some self harm. Not with anything sharp, I’m far too wimpy. My weapons of choice look to be three bags of Starmix and a large bar of Turkish Delight.

Check out the girl least likely to….