This morning I woke up with this verse in my head.

It's always creeped me out.

Last night upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away.

And then this man's flat-faced, non-featured grin shuddered through my half-asleep mind.

We've got local elections on Thursday and obviously there's no way in Hell, but I do like the way my subconscious just likes to keep me on the left road.

Ever have one of those evenings where you have the best of intentions but you just can't stay awake?

Maybe it was pasta for tea, but I crashed out for 40 minutes immediately after. I've just grabbed a brew, scoffed seven jaffa cakes and four shortbread fingers and I'm still semi-comatose.

Not that I am premenstrual or anything.

Maybe I should go to bed before I trip over the keyboard/fall over for no apparent reason/eat any more chocolate/cake/chocolate/cake/biscuits/chocolate/cake... mmmm... cake...

Oh but Man U are playing Barcelona on tele in a bit, but I have a headache and zzz...zzz...

Last night's meeting went very well.

Everyone showed up and we all want gates for our road entrance and we're going to get quotes for getting the road surfaced because we've loads of pot holes and our slabs are all knackered.

Apparently kids have been using the ginnel for all sorts and it's just providing easy access for opportunistic thieves and ne'er do wells.

Our nextdoor neighbour, Adele, is still seething about having her car broken into. She managed to run through every violent crime ever committed in the area in the hour we were there. Poor Laura, who has just moved in, looked most alarmed.

Adele's had a cctv camera fitted on her house now. It's already got security lights. It's like living next door to Colditz but I don't mind, saves us buying anything. It lights up like Blackpool everytime Henry the cat wanders home.

She was talking about building a watch tower at the bottom of the garden we can man with machine guns.

I think she's only joking.

Nasty, yukky, bleugh Monday.

It's gone all cold and wet and - pah.

I have meetings all morning. And I even have a meeting tonight!

Our row is trying to convince the council they want to give us a grant to replace the gates they took off us in the war to melt down for spitfires (or something like that). The gates would stop little scroats coming round the back of our row, down our private road, and breaking into people's cars. Or at least give them something to climb over first.

I expect this is not the attitude.

His Nibs is back from his weekend away.

While making his tea he's managed to break my martini glass.

It was in the kitchen waiting to be washed up.

It was a Christmas present from a friend about six years ago. Had gold leaves painted on it. We've fallen out now, but I've always been very fond of it and it reminded me of when we were great friends.

And besides, it held a walloping quantity of martini.

Never mind. It could have been worse.

It could have been full.

.... so the mouse will play.

And mostly I've been playing:

* eating thai green curry
* drinking a martini in the bath while
* contemplating life and
* listening to the great Julian Cope sing Beautiful Love

I'm going to have to watch this having fun thing... and I'm having my hair cut tomorrow - yay!!

We have our own language in our family.

Or I should say we appropriate words and weave them into the Morris-Wood parlance.

Maybe it's only me who has ever noticed because I am, without doubt, passionate about language. But more than language. Words. And everything you can conjure with them. Where they come from, the way you say them. The structure of them. Even the typographic artistry of men like Bodoni and Baskerville can set my heart racing as I recount tales of how they almost met and the wonderful Mrs Eaves and the swooping beauty of the typeface created in her honour. *The 'ws' are awesome, truly awesome*

But everyone in my family has little turns of phrase that make me smile - and maybe that's where my obsession roots.

Take my grampy. Gramps always said: 'Dean, are your lallies aching?' Now they generally were, thanks to the five-mile route marches around the ammo dump, blackberrying on fine Sunday afternoons in late summer from the age of seven. But "lallies"...?

Lallies means legs. It's polari. My gramps was a cooper and spent time down south in port towns making barrels for the Navy. I'm guessing that's where he picked that one up.

He also came back with tattoos. Blurry pictures, a two-mast ship and two hands held over a heart with a black bar.

"Why's there a black bar, Grampy?" I asked him once, pulling at it with my thumb to see if I could blur it any more. "Because it had a lady's name there," said the great Jack Wood. I must have stared at him questioningly for long enough because he added, eventually. "..And it wasn't your Nana's name."

Way to go, Grampy!!

Maybe it's a girl thing.

You're gazing into space, you're reading you're book, you're mentally dancing your backside off to the best tune your ipod has just plucked out for you. But still he grabs your attention.

The ferret man.

And the reason he grabs your attention? He's just rubber-necked the two pram-faces shoving buggies through Rusholme's teatime traffic to the extent you're wondering whether his head can actually swivel 360 degrees.

Presumably he's not actually the anti-christ, but now you can see he's chewing gum like a speed fiend and - yes, he's actually checking out the backsides of every woman the bus passes.

You don't see Ferret Men often but someone needs to have a word with them, or smack them on the nose with a rolled up newspaper or something *it's how the vet advised us to cure my friend's poodle of his curtain lust*.

I'm guessing 95% of the Manchester female population are safe because he did look like he'd escaped from Deliverance/Strangeways/every woman's worst nightmares. But just incase - he had a cap on with GF embroidered on the back, a camouflage army jacket (essential in all urban areas I find!) and he was on a 43 bus and got off one stop after Withington.

Run for the hills ladies - if that doesn't put you off, when he got off the strange aroma of 'bottom of biscuit barrel' strangely disappeared.

Aside from being what is less than lovingly referred to as Red Shite, there was a lot to recommend Mr Scully

But then Mr Bleasdale knew how to write.

Something of this standard please.

Tele people.

If you're listening...

Ok, what do you people do in the evening?

Post dissertation/MA life is weird.

So far I have:
* been up the garden for the first time in three months and assessed weeding/pruning needs
* eaten yummy tea of oatcakes, smoked salmon and creme fraiche
* drunk two equally yummy g&ts
* tidied my study of 15 text books, 52 completed surveys and a small tidal wave of papers and journals, notes and bits of paper with strange flow diagrams on them
* put away clean washing
* danced about a bit to Lee 'Scratch' Perry
* written emails

It's only 7.30pm... more gin, vicar?

Due to near hysteria-pitch joy at having couriered off the dissertation - together with complete exhaustion - I folded at the crease at 4pm today and retired for tea.

I like to think I batted the odd six over my innings but I'll stop with the cricket references right now as I'll be stumped soon *shut up, that was funny*.

Having made Oxford Road for 5pm I got to see the Palace Hotel smoking refugees milling about by the bus stop - and they were legion today.

It was clearly some St George's Day fest was running for a horde of suited and booted middle-aged blokes, all sporting red rose button holes, all smoking like cooling towers and all looking like someone had blasted their faces with sand for a thousand years and made them fret about it - a lot.

Man, smoking really messes up your face.

God knows who these guys were: a convention of B&H reps? Tobacco is Good For You lobbists? I don't know but if there was one thing those spluttering gents weren't, it's fresh faced. I could hear wheezing, I swear!

... with a tv character you used to think was just the greatest?

I used to love Scrubs. Thought JD was just the nicest little neurotic. Newbie. Funny.

And then - just like that. Hate him.

Well not quite just like that. He said something and I thought about it and I just thought less of him.

And then, before I knew it, all those little things were irking me. And then annoying me. And then making me get up and walk away from the television.

What did he do? It's the episode where the social worker is in the MRI machine and he wants to ask her out, and she sounds great, but he doesn't know what she looks like and he says, words to the effect:

"God, but what if she's an uggo. I can't go out with an uggo."

And that was it. The sliver of ice in my heart that grew and grew till it froze him out. Now I can't look at him without thinking "you sad, vain idiot".

Thank god for Dr Cox.

While I've been away from work the computer fairy has been.

She's bought me a new black computer and a big screen. And I mean A BIG SCREEN.

It's massive. I feel like I should be checking data entry for Jean Luc Picard somewhere off the third quadrant.

It's bigger than my tele!

Keyboard is useless. Light reflects off shiny black keys giving effect of blinding desert sun. Can I pull off sunglasses in the office?

No matter i've just dragged out the old one with half the letters worn off, at least it doesn't make me all squinty.

Right - onwards, into battle. let's see what's been happening on board while I've been on shore-leave. Someone pass me my phaser, I'm bound to need it, I've a planning meeting this morning.

Right; final update on Simon the Gasman.

He came - right day, on time - he operated on the combi for the fourth time, he left. And, touch wood, I won't be seeing him for a while.

My combi now has some kind of iron lung thing strapped to the wall which does the same job as the thing at the back he couldn't reach and has now bypassed. But it's all contained in a box so it looks neat enough.

There was a very amusing moment when he came back from soldering some copper pipe in his van and announced "I've sussed it" before pausing. I considered clapping but managed an "oh well done" which seemed to do the job as he then toddled into the bathroom, emerging 45 minutes later to confirm everything was aok.

This is what I learned from my little chats with my 26-year-old gasman:
* he used to be a technician in an arcade
* if you throw a bowling ball hard at the ground it will bounce - quite high
* the gas industry isn't what it was but it's still a pretty good place to work
* he takes one sugar in his tea.

There was other stuff but that was as exciting as it got - sorry Austin-Lance and Blayka...

... I'm finished, I'm finished, I'm finished, I'm finished.

It's done. It's done. It's done. it's done.

*Yes, I do have to say everything four times*

Fourteen thousands words. It's got an introduction, three chapters and a conclusion. An appendix and almost a complete set of references.

Goodbye dissertation, goodbye MA in Mass Communications, goodbye hours of study every week, bags of textbooks, agonising over essays.

And so far in my first two hours of freedom I have:
1. Ironed my shirts which have lain in a pile in my room for three weeks and my best cotton jarmies and a set of bed linen
2. Wiggled my hips to some fabulous, fabulous dub while doing so and
3. Changed the bed linen so I will sleep tonight somewhere crisp and nice-smelling.

And do you know what I'm doing next? Putting some new tunes on the ipod and going for a run. Because I've been strapped to the computer since 7.30am this morning and I know there's a world out there - I remember...

I know, it's all a bit dull. Where is the cliquot? Where are the milling wellwishers, waving bunting and presenting me with congratulatory vivienne westwood frocks? Where is the gin?

Still, got to get the bugger bound and in the post yet. Soberly does it... though a little online window shopping may not hurt!

Wonder what it's like? having a life...

I know!!

Yes, Simon *yes, we're on first name terms now* has been, fitted one part and now realises I need another one.

We're going to attempt some kind of heart bypass surgery after 12noon tomorrow where this gas boiler pacemaker 'thing' is fitted on the side, strapped to the wall inside the cupboard.

This is why my pressure keeps dropping *as opposed to my blood pressure*.

It's the bypass or take the whole boiler off the wall and that's going to be a complete 'mare and frankly I'm worried the whole thing will collapse and I'll end up shelling out for another combi. *or explaining to the police why there is a gasman lying on my bathroom floor under a combi boiler, wicked witch of the east stylie*

Anyway, for British Gas watchers, this will be his fourth visit.

When I worked at BG we had all these key messages staff were drilled with all the time. The one I still remember: 'Get it right first time'.

Ho hum...

The Rules -
1. Link to the person's blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself
4. Tag seven random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

I was tagged by NotBob and RubyChoo

My seven random/strange-but-true facts about me.

1. I once nearly ran over Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins who stumbled drunkenly into the path of my mini metro outside the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester in 1989. No, I wasn't going fast enough.
2. I've run a 10k in Slovenia with Blayka.
3. I loathe custard tarts with an intensity I usually reserve for things like racism and Margaret Thatcher.
4. My ipod never ceases to entertain me.
5. Blogging was a curiosity for me six months ago, now I see it as a social world where people are curiously kinder, on the whole, than "out there".
6. I'm left-handed.
7. Ipods and Blogging aside, modern life is rubbish and that's official.

I've had a reasonable day on the computer, pounding away on Chapter One *yes, I'm still on Chapter One. Enough: I know!*. My treat of the day - one hot bath, one mug of tea, one Observer Woman magazine.

'Oooh, Julie Birchill on Madonna at 50, that'll be interesting,' I thought. Sadly, it wasn't; it was just, mostly, a bit sad.

Though I did nearly lose a mouthful of tea when Birchill informed us if she worked out for four hours a day she would look better than Madonna. *And I'm still smirking at that one*. But on the whole it largely read like a bitchfest with no substance beyond the author's mild irritation that as Madonna didn't read magazines and therefore wouldn't get to see how great a job Birchill clearly thought she'd made of reducing her to a scratching post.

There has been a long queue of women writers shouting for Madonna to hang up her leotards this week. As if turning 50 means every sexual bone should fall from her body *presumably to make way for osteoporosis*. Much finger-wagging and insinuations that she should swap it for an apron and retire gracelessly to Madge mansions.

If Madonna wants to work out till she's blue in the face, let her. If she wants to paint herself pink and parade naked across the stage at Wembley, does it matter? No one goes around poking the finger at Iggy Pop and asking him when he's going to put his shirt on, do they?

Maybe it isn't the women writers we should be chastising, I mean poor-show that it might be to kick your sisters in the teeth, let's remember who owns those newspapers and magazines. Who is paying the wages? Who is shaping the news/soft news agendas? Big clue... it isn't the ladies.

Maybe the best retaliation is to vote with my purse, take a leaf out of Madonna's book and not buy into the nonsense. New bath-time reading matter for me, I think. Who would of thought the Observer would wind up in the sin-bin? Dearie me, the times we live in.

As I bowl into Harvey Nicks I am always very careful to switch on the blinkers - to my left is a spectacular display of handbags, which begin with Burberry's and they have some magnificent patent creations in at the moment that cost more than a secondhand Fiesta. I'm never going to buy one, I know it's consumer soceity madness wrapped up in jewel-coloured shiny leather, but who likes to have unattainable beauty waved in their face all the time?

I immediately spot SJ, my friend, having lipstick slapped on her at the Chanel counter. Turns out they've been busy with the blusher too.

'Do you think it's too much?' asks SJ, who may have a point, but as they've transformed her into a sunkissed bucolic wench with the most fantastic pout, I'd say 'a definite no'. 'Very Moll Flanders, definitely suits you,' I say and so she immediately picks out a second lipstick and after a bit of a chat with the Chanel girls we're off for cocktails. Should SJ's partner be reading this, 'John: the lipsticks were both in a sale and cost £5 each.'

Harvey Nick's cocktail bar is a strange little world of poor but affected lighting that occasionally shifts about, just to further disorientate you. Whatever it achieves in making you feel drunk before a drop of alcohol crosses your lips, it does fail in its role as lighting. And it maybe that my myopic state doesn't help, but light black text on a fushia pink cocktail menu doesn't make for easy reading either. Maybe that's the point. Maybe I should bring a torch next time.

We park ourselves downstream of some of the most buffed, prestine young men I've seen in a long time, all of whom clearly know the all male, equally buffed bar staff very well.

Having confirmed my suspicions that a Majito is a flashy cuba libre, which I completely ODed on when travelling, I settle on my great favourite, a very, very dry gin martini, with plymouth gin. It's perfectly drinkable, if not outstanding, and it comes with four olives - so almost a starter. By the time we've polished off two I'm cheerily giddy.

We have food at a new tapas restaurant up by Piccadilly which I think is called Guado. It's got live music, it's very formica-chic with wee booths and the tapas is a bit too spartan in its food presentation for my taste, but I'd take my mother there. There's also one too many head waiters or whoever they are bobbing up for a chat, but then I want to listen to SJ's tales of her delightfully wicked PR chum, not have some bloke in a shiny suit point out a table of journalists to me.

Oh, and a note of warning: when you walk into the ladies - girls, bear in mind it's not one great, cavernous space. Don't turn to your left, because that's not open space - that's a mirrored wall. As I discovered when I walked smack into it. Thank god two gin martinis will leave you comfortably numb.

... and returneth - yet again - on Monday morning.

Seems I need a 'part'. He did, very patiently, explain it to me and I did, very patiently, make 'mmm... I see' noises. Which I kind of did, there's a valve thing not working properly somewhere so... oh I don't know. I found myself slipping into that expression where my face says 'Really? Fascinating?' while my mind ponders what I can eat next. I use it a lot in long meetings and whenever my mother's been on the phone for more than 20 minutes.

Anyway I am no longer freezing - heating is on. So I am no longer typing in the back room wrapped up like Nooka Nog on a day out in the Northlands.

And I have had a hot bath and washed hair for my big treat out tonight - Majitos at Harvey Nicols *ooh, I know, get me Queen of Sheba, if not Eskimo Princess*. I had to look them up - I'm a one cocktail woman by tradition and it's a gin martini - and SJ worried me when she said they counted as a one-of-five-a-day fruit portion. It's ok, no yukky orange juice, just a dash of lime. Sounds suspiciously like a cuba libre which was my south america drink of choice when not knocking back coconut rum in Cahutia, caribbean paradise of Costa Rica... sigh...

Right, less day dreaming, more socio-economic groupings theory - onwards!!

Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit!

Combi boiler done exactly the same thing again this morning as it did yesterday. I tentatively turn pressure knob. A smidge. Just a smidge. Pressure climbs past 0.5bar (too low for it to work) up to 1.9bar (way to high). Then water pours out the bottom of it!

Disaster!

I turn water off at stopcock thingy. Mop up water. Shove bucket under boiler.

Ring gas men. Can't come till tomorrow. I can't do tomorrow, Tomorrow is my focus group for my dissertation. Can't change it. Reorganising six people, plus room, plus recording equipment. Can't be done. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

British Gas man cometh (again) Thursday morning.

So hear I am - in the back bedroom with baby fan heater making more noise than a jumbo jet taking off from Heathrow - attempting to crack on. I've no central heating. No hot water. No running water. Is worse than being a bloody student the first time round.

Oh, and no more coffee for me either!!

So I'm home alone daytime - off work and dissertationing it till the 21st now - and I've scoffed my porridge and I've watched Will and Grace *needs must... it's Will and Grace, people*. It's 9.30 - time to buckle down. But it's a wee bit nippy so I go to turn on the old combi and... nada.

I try three times to fire her up but no - she aint having it. So I ring British Gas and the lady says they'll be round between 12noon and 6pm.

The long and the short of it is the bloke turned up at 4pm, he turned some knob underneath it, the boiler promptly drenched his shirt. I leapt to the mains water stopcock thing, threw him a towel *no, this does not go all porn filmy at this moment - stop that!*. He got on with the job of fixing the boiler. And then he serviced it *stop that sniggering at the back, now!* and then checked the radiators, filled in some paperwork, and then left.

I know British Gas end up on Watchdog and people slag them off all the time but let's get some perspective. *Yeah ok, so we had a chat while he's filling out the paper work but just a chat, ok?!* There are about 6,000 British Gas engineers across Britain. They do eight - 15 jobs each every day. That's, what, 90,000-ish jobs every day. Stuff goes wrong.

So I thought I'd leave my 'why oh why oh why' hat in the wardrobe today and say "thank you" because my house is all nice and warm, I do not have to sit under a duvet on the sofa now to read about feminist theory in a postmodern culture *surprisingly interesting* and I can actually type up here in the back bedroom without losing tips of my fingers to frostbite.

How beautiful was it this morning?

In spite of a mild hangover, collected having some fun *yay!* yesterday afternoon and evening, I just knew I had to have my run this morning.

*pub, grand national, nice tea in town, pub - lots and lots of laughing and happiness - just brilliant*

You just have to run when you wake up to snow and sunshine *Yes you do!*. It's just the most incredible backdrop for running through fields. You can't beat it. I nearly caved and went back to the running leggings but I stuck with the shorts - and so glad I did, bit chilly but sun and air on your skin has to be grasped at every opportunity.

The snow was already melting as I plodded down the river, but blowing off trees in flakes it was like snow falling in the brightest blue sky and the river swirled and shimmied like she was just as happy. Not rushing. Not plunging, swollen with the relentless Manchester rain, but dancing along.

And as I bounced up the hill and round the back of it I saw them: the snow bunnies. Three of them. Little rabbits nibbling blades of grass against a backdrop of brilliant, twinkling white. I stopped and watched them for a while as this is Sunday run and about fun, not trying to be a better runner, and of course they saw me and lolloped off into the brambles.

They just looked like the dearest, cutest thing you ever saw. All right, I was probably completely off my head on endorphins by this point but why would I run if it were not to breathe and feel fresh air, see the seasons, feel fantastic.

Yay, happy, happy, happy!

I've been looking for ages... well, oh... 30 minutes... Not exactly Holy Grail-type epic journey, but I think I've found it.

The theme tune for us, Insomniacs Everywhere.

Eels: I Need Some Sleep

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mmDAllwn6E&feature=related

Fair comment I think.

Anyone want to raise me, you're welcome.

Have woken up bright as a button at 1am.

Spent a good 10 minutes pondering bout whether to lie there and attempt sleep re-entry when realised I was in filthy mood *oh yes - knackered and all PAH!*.

Better to get up and read and watch rubbish tele rather than endure what one of my fellow semi-somnambulists refers to as a Scott Fitzgerald episode.

"In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day...."

Damn You, Insomnia! *shakes fist in genral direction of where Insomnia, might be lurking*

Brewing up time, methinks.

So I'm on the top deck of the 43, listening to Led Zep on my ipod, whacked up to drown out lads on the back seats behind me, texting my mate. It's 6.30pm. I started work at 8am this morning. Apart from a wee bit of blogging over lunch when the email system went down I'd been hammering away at that desk all day. Left sometime after 5pm.

"God I'm sleepy," I text.
"You work too hard," he says.

He's right. I know he's right. I will work and work and work like trojan and then, when I've had something to eat... I'll work some more. What is wrong with me? If someone doesn't kill off my work ethic soon, or i get it removed or something, I am going the way of Ginger in Black Beauty, I just know it. *"Neigh lass", cried the chorus.*

Not like my colleague Bill *not that he's actually called Bill and God knows he's too laid back to care what I say about him, but I do feel some moral responsibility towards victims of my derision*.

Another colleague phoned me today to say 'Would you believe Bill was 61? He is he showed me his bus pass today.'
Deana: I would believe you if you said he was 70. That man has done jack s**t for the past 25 years, why would he look any older?'

Of course while I am paralytic with jealousy Bill is usually to be found in the pub. I called him once on his mobile about a work thing. It was 3.30pm. Two minutes into the conversation I recognise the background noise.
Deana: 'You're in the pub, aren't you?'
Bill: 'Err... yes I am, are you here too?'
Deana: 'No I'm not Bill, but I used to work in one - I recognise the background noise.'

I was on the train with another colleague, Andy, the other week, discussing illnesses.
Andy: 'Oh yes and Bill's had tennis elbow.'
Deana: 'Tennis elbow. Like from playing tennis?'
Andy: 'Oh he doesn't play tennis.'
Deana: 'From lifting a pint pot you mean?'
Andy: 'I dunno... Probably.'
Deana: 'Ah, Te