What is wrong with me? My fingertips freeze, but my face boils. I have hummingbirds in my stomach, and I smile too much. Kiwi, you silly girl, you. I trip over my own foot, and hope I will wake up calm and rational and not muttering about coffee mugs and the Conveyor Belt of Death, and cookie-sushie. Let's hope my over-active imagination stops imagining.

Something is very wrong with me, something which inspires me to ferret around on my knees, picking up scratched CDs and twenty pence pieces and endless balls of screwed-up paper. Something which makes me pick through my mountain of clothes by the door, makes me fold material into meticulous segments. Something is very wrong - I sit cross-legged on my carpet, counting out my money.

Possibly I drank too much coffee, but as Joe says Elisabeth says, there is no such thing as too much coffee.

Tomorrow I am going to see Benjamin Zephaniah at Keele University. It might end up being very boring, but I have always wanted to meet the person who turned down an OBE. I will let you know.

I am taking my smiley self off to bed now. I half hope I wake up the normal, cynical me.




(Elisabeth and Sello, I cross my fingers for you both. Toes also.)