It would come as no surprise that I've decided to postpone my Masters in Forensics until entry September 2009. Not because of mini-hd, but more due to the sheer fear of the world economy.

It's all doom and gloom on the news at the moment. There doesn't seem to be much joy in the world, as mortgages and homes are under threat, banks are folding and the gamblers that work in the City and Stock Exchange, despite their big payouts each year are now scrabbling to save whats left of their jobs and finances. And it's not just on the news any more - the pinch is being felt at home as well.

A year ago, I could shop for the household very well on less than £50 a week. That was a deluxe budget and we did very well out of it, with oodles of wine, gin and copious amounts of meat. This week, despite the vouchers for discounted nappies and without the luxuries above, it sky rocketed over £75.

What with banks failing, Governments propping institutions up, the University having it's own cull from the ranks and file, paranoid andriod has kicked in - after all, why spend the money you've saved on your education which you can postpone for a year to allow for a provisional nestegg just in case of that rainy day. Plus that way, I can concentrate on mini-hd and know that I'm giving her my full attention as opposed to having my mind elsewhere. And vice-versa on the masters.

I'll just have to keep up my research by yelling out mistakes on the new episodes of CSI...

This last week has been somewhat disjointed, and I don't really know how to approach it really. First, there was the tiring weekend - bathrooming, cooking and then cleaning the H-D mansion. Then what do you know but bollocks! it's Monday again and it feels like we've achieved nothing for yet another weekend! An amazingly good start to the week at work, which was suddenly tripped up by yet another mutated version of a cold (of course!) that left noses dribbling, beating headaches and dizziness. Cue drugs and disgustingly tasting remedies that knock you for six and which Granny would have been proud of. Let's face it - anything that tastes that bad probably has the ground up reminants of stouts and weasels bits mixed in a dash of drugs and a slice of lemon on taste decoy patrol.

However, the major part of this week has been The Aussie. My cuz received bad news from home on Monday night which, in fairness he was dealing with for the most part. Worried but dealing with. But then late on Wednesday night, more news came back which has basically floored and devastated him. I won't talk about it here - I had never met the person involved but all I can say is that they must have been one hell of an individual to have made such a deep affect on cuz.

Because of events, Talkative Sis has gone for the mothering measure - clucking after him, taking him around with her avec les rugrats to keep him buzy. Which does admittedly take his minds off things, but this tactic's also infected him with the aforementioned mutant cold, which on high emotions, hockey games and lack of sleep has not gone down too well. Cue Sim with hot doped lemon toddies which taste far far superior to those other granny remendies and can use up all those disgusting alcohols that you've been meaning to drain into the next party punch. As you can see, I've adopted the slightly offset you know I'm here if you want to talk kinda thing but in the meanwhile, let's watch funnies like A Bears Tail or even Team America with it's ridiculous but rather hilarious puppet sex which is bound to have you slightly wetting your pants or covering your eyes approach. And while he may not laugh as deep or heartily as usual, the fact that he does occassionally laugh a little gives an inkling of bit of slow healing hope. And hopefully, he knows that I'm here if he needs me.

There's a couple of furores in the homeland today. Charlie is worried that more of his itimate calls to Cammy, although I think the world has had enough of those conversations. Meanwhile, the local Tory party, indeed, all, of the Tory Party is up in arms about Tony's Labour veto on Lady Maggies planned state funeral.

Can you imagine being Lady Maggie whilst this argument silts around your ankles? You're not dead yet, but they're planning. Scheming from their corners, whilst ignoring all or any of your personal wishes. I suppose it comes with the position of power that she held, but still, it's a bit like the offspring arguing who gets the best china, ignoring you whilst you shakily hold up your empty glass for another drink. I really do feel sorry for the old girl, as each party tries to win points from her future demise.

This wouldn't have affected me so much if it hadn't been for father of mine dearest. He's embarking on renovating the bathroom, adamently refusing to admit that now he's a little older, a great deal greyer and not as agile as he used to be from his army days, that it might be tad too big a job for him. You would think the beer belly would give it away.

The trouble is my father has his own ideas about how to do things. Especially DIY. In 1978, he started to build mother a brand new kitchen, which was still half finished in 2002 when it got bulldosed for brand new, completed and modern one. The former garage, which housed his car 15 years after it had last been driven was eventually turned into a "workshop", meaning it was stuffed filled with tatt that the parents could not bear to part with. And now, it's the turn of the bathroom - a total revamp and the removal of the bath that I used to share with my siblings as a child. And despite the modernisation, there are aspects he still wants to keep. Including the polystyrene tiles that he's been hoarding since 1978 that are no longer up to code. If he uses them, not only will they look vile, be a fire hazard and grow mouldy in a matter of months, they will also bring the house price down which will then fall to my mother. However, he's insisting on his personal tile choice as:

Dad - All of that won't affect me as it will be your problem when I'm dead

Maybe death is something you come to accept with age and my fathers mad method of dealing with it is to treat it with derision. But it's bloody hard to hear your father look towards his death as a minor problem and inconvenience, dismissing the act and it's effects. I don't think he actually considers how these words now will affect those who will probably be left behind. The, my father is so stubborn that I expect him to outlive all of us, whilst sitting in his armchair and deriding the modern world. But if he should leave us behind, I don't think that the main thing on my mind will be that of the bathroom ceiling tiles and if they were up to code. I think the prevalent thing would be that I would want my father back, no matter what the cost and despite the fact that sometimes most of the time, he irritates me

He may make my teeth grind and he may have bad taste, but he is my father and I do love him.

Eleven o'clock last night, Girlpants and I decided to take a walk around the city. The architecture is beautiful here, people were still around in abundance, laughing in groups whilst sipping their cold cold beers, whilst students cycled past. After walking for around an hour, we settled down for a cold one ourselves, with Girlpants ordering in French whilst overlooking St Pieter's Church. Only to be served by a waiter, who spat out as he left

"Les rosbifs! Connard!"

It doesn't take much to lose the moment.

Am drunk. I was fine until I came home, then I knelt over whilst cooking and smashed a glass. And he warned me! (and then cleaned up around me).

Girlpants is not impressed. And it's his conference...

I think I may have lost Girlpants respect for a while, within this evening timescale. Am not impressed with myself at all - I can only think that one redeeming point is that I have at least moved on behaving for myself bar knocking my knee... And it hurts. My own fault because I was a good girl before this. Or at least, that's what I promised myself. I didn't even insult the Lord Mayor once. I even scrubbed up. I wore heels and apparently looked different - half the size I used to be according to one peep, which I wasn't too sure to take as a compliment or insult as either 2 years ago, I was huge or now, my heels balance out my arse. I wasn't going to argue there, but laughed off whilst suddenly realising how much my toes hurt.

But I knew it would take less than 30 mins to cock up. And once, in the sanctuary of home, I did.

Ouch.... (My knee hurts!)

Urrrgh - why why why do I do this? Am such a muppet.

Mister Girlpants is tired. As tired as a hard working man can be. Not only has the academic year just finished with all the meetings, training and exam boards, but there's a conference in less than a weeks time and a whole load of programming to do for outside projects.... We were working on a friends kiddy flat pack furniture which meant that the bottle of white and strawberries I had planned were left in the fridge as we were both too tired to do anything but sleep - not even make a cup of tea! Then this morning, he refused to leave the bed until midday today. Sleepy boy = grumpy Girlpants.

Especially in this heat!

So when he saw the news tonight, he turned to me and said lovingly...

"Ere! Maid! 'dere be no flags on cars in Plymouth tonight..."

Droll Devonshire boy.

Not even funny!

Once upon a time last year, Girlpants and I went to Emperor Tropicals to look around. The store was hot, cramped and pokey, but they had many many fish to look at. Girlpants asked me which fishies I wanted and within an hour, we left, happily with two silver sharks, several blue neons, a bullied angel fish in need of TLC and four tiny baby clown loaches.

Within a week however, the neons had been murdered by the top floating catfish and the baby loaches had died of fright. Except one. Three weeks later, we noticed one survived. And we called him Larry.

Larry was a survivor - he had tank smarts that helped him to hide with the bigger clown loaches within the wood and the plants, far far away from the bigger fish. And he slowly grew in size and confidence, happily playing with the bigger clowns around the tank in a game of chase early in the mornings. And we always kept and eye out for him, taking extra care to make sure some choice flakes of food made it close to his hiding place.

But now I'm sad - my little Larry left us tonight to the bigger fishtank in the sky. BUt what a better and bigger fishtank it will be...

Night night Larry. Every time I look at the orchid I buried you under, I'll think of you.

I've been given a research project to do, investigating peoples stereotyping of prisioners, and need as many responses to for the project. If you have a moment, please answer each picture as either being "innocent" or guilty".

So I've been thinking lately about what if's...

• What if I hadn't taken Phil & Theo as a degree?
• What if I stayed in Japan?
• What if I had stayed in IT?
• What if I hadn't met Paul?

That last one has got me thinking. What if I hadn't met Paul? I know that I took the mick out of Stu at first when he introduced. I even called him Pimp Stu in homage to Disco Stu, but I have to admit that I don;t know what would have happened to me if I hadn't met Girlpants.

He refers to me as his Little Numbnut, and in a way, I am. I was talking to Jayne about it today and I think that if I hadn't had him to steady me, then I would still be in the mess and bigger that I was when I met him.

When I met Girlpants, one of my friends claimed that he was too quiet and in all probably, Mister Dullard was an axe murderer. Despite the criticism and his Noel House Party jumpers, we hit it off, unable to pass an evening without at least talking or msg. Sad but true. And despite my debts, bad habits and withdrawal from smoking (which regrettably was not hard), he chose me.

So what I'm trying to say is that I love you Smeg Head.

I don't deserve you.

X X X X X X X X X X X

When we got our connection at Houston, I saw CNN with the headline that the Pope was close to death - something that apparently was reported as fact in the papers on Saturday! He passed away 2137 GMT on Easter Saturday...

I’ve felt this quite badly - yes he was an arch conservative who disapproved of contraception, women priests, downtrod liberation theology and abortion but he was a good man who did a great deal for the Church and international relations, who brought the faith and goodwill to millions, including the man who shot him.

Shame the next head of the Church of England is not as diplomatic - the wedding is going ahead on Friday, even if it’s the same day as the funeral...

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Update - Apparently Big Ears has been browbeaten to changing the date of his wedding... It’s the same day as the Grand National (whoo on the horse jokes!) and has put Corrie into disarray with their planned wedding feature.