...way out on the corner of fucked up and evil...

Well, we didn't have to go to the Pig Show thing, thank God. I only like pigs if they are used to eat up human remains, and then only if they are in the care of a Chinese dude whose knowledge of the English language consists solely of the word "cocksucker".

So we went to York instead and walked around the National Railway Museum for about a hundred and forty years (I am totally not kidding, I'm pretty sure I died of old age twice while I was in there) and then we went "shopping," which pretty much means Mama Froodle dragged me around these ludicrously expensive and for the most part entirely ugly clothing stores and wittered at me about getting "a nice pair of flatties" and "some glamorous tops" - I should note at this point that to my mother, glamour equates to shoulder pads and sequins - and Papa Froodle jibbed on about getting me a digital camera, while I tried in vain to point out that books and DVDs and nice things from Lush, or, if we're talking big-ticket items, a sofa that is not held together with scotch tape and the Will of God, would be much more welcome.

Dudes, do anyone elses parents do that? Like, totally ignore what you actually want and what would actually be useful to you, and buy you random shit because they think you should want it, even after you've explained that you don't and in fact, have no use for it? Is this a normal parental thing or are my folks total freaks?

Anyway, we went to ASK for lunch, which was nice, although they felt compelled to lecture the waiter about how much better the Isle of Man is than England (LIE!) and then to Betty's for tea, and I got some China Rose Petal tea in a tin which was awesome, and then we came home.

In a little bit I might go and wash my face and then see if I feel like going to see the new Harry Potter movie - I kind of actually don't care at all about Harry Potter now, but the Froodle Brothers have abandoned me to go sky-diving and I fear the alternative is an evening with the parental units trying to explain that no, "I would like to watch Battlestar Galactica in peace" is not code for "Feel free to change the channel to that stupid cycling thing," failing, and then shoving them off the balcony in a fit of temper.

I swear to God, Dirk Benedict is the world's bounciest human being. It's like his feet are made from tiny trampolines. I still don't think he could take Katee Sackhoff in a fight, though.

My feet, however, are not made from tiny trampolines and are very sore from hauling massive bags filled with Lush joy back from the train station after going to the party in York. And now I have exactly zero monies, and fail at life. On the other hand, I did meet some shiny cool people and also, did I mention I possess bags of pure joy? And the second season of the A Team (which certain filthy Southerners who shall remain Snithy will not be getting to watch on account of them being dirty, dirty whores) and hot chocolate in Darth Vader's head.

So in fact, I win at life, and I'm going to have a bath and then watch Dirk Benedict being bouncey, and wonder who would win if he and John Connolly got into a fight for my hand in marriage.

Am sitting here with Leonard Cohen on the stereo, sipping from a Darth Vader head filled with hot chocolate, Baileys and whipped cream, stomach filled with a delicious meal of sausage and mash and fresh from a relaxing bath with scenty-good Lush products. Combined with the fact that I spent all day watching the second season of SG1 and making fun of Daniel's hair, Gay Archeologist Hat and general unbelievable rubbishness, (seriously, is there any situation he can't make worse? Jeez, I thought he was a dork in the later seasons, but clearly the Daniel I knew was merely a pale reflection of the vision of True Dorkiness and Bad Hair that is Early!Daniel) am in a rather good mood. Long may it continue!

And in the "Further proof that you barely have to leave the house to have it brought home to you that people are scum" catagory, we have today's joyous experiance.

I'm a person of few needs. Comfy bed, big TV, lots of chocolate, large stack of DVDs, and I'm fairly content. However, I do have one or two minor addictions (slash is a major addiction, and one I have no intention of changing), one of which is a fixation on Lush's "Honey I Washed The Kids" soap, which is as close to being hobbit-scented as anything can be without actually kidnapping Dominic Monoghan and harvesting his bodily fluids. Which I have thought about doing, but decided it was too much effort.

The Lush shop in Leeds is about twenty minutes walk from where I live, and since I needed to tell my bank that I'd moved anyway, I decided this afternoon would be a good time to leave the sanctity of my (oh so cool) new apartment and buy myself a slice of creamy hobbit goodness.

After all, what could possibly happen in a short hour-long trip into town?

Oh, foolish, foolish Froodle. Will you never learn?

I've gotten about two hundred yards from my front door, and am waiting at the traffic lights to cross the road, when some asshole walks up behind me, puts his hand on my ass and whispers, in what I can only assume that his mother told him - during intercourse involving them and the family dog - was a sexy, lascivious whisper, rather than the out-of-breath slobbering of an inbred fuckwit: "Nice, nice. Hello Sexy."

Excuse me? What possible response could these mouth-breathers be expecting other than "Here is my knee, excuse me while I aquaint it with your crotch"?!

Fucking hell, I hate people.