rewind yesterday

I think it might be best if I tell you about yesterday's events in reverse order. This is because an icky thing and an important thing happened yesterday and once I've mentioned the important thing, the icky thing kind of seems irrelevant. If it doesn't make sense, try reading them backwards. Well, not literally backwards... By the way, if you're squeamish, I apologise.

*****

I go to bed and have a dream in which Tim and I go up to London and swim in this big outdoor pool. A guy with a camera shows up and turns out to be the guy who killed Millie Dowler. He gets nuclear on our asses and we have to make a soggy run for it. The guy in the dream is the drunk bloke in the suit from the Fez Club, the camera is the one my brother bought on Sunday. I can't explain Tim or the swimming pool.

I get home and notice a snail crawling its way up the front door. I'm tempted to move it to safety because it's really clinging on for dear life, but I don't like to interfere and I'm scared if I touch it, it'll fall.

In the car on the way home, I'm in a shitty mood, slightly cold and wet and very annoyed. He beckons to me that I should hold his hand. I reach out but he closes his hand on mine too soon and too tight and crushes my fingers into my palm.

There's a nice sky.

In the carpark, I pull off my disgusting, wet t-shirt and throw it on the floor. I put on my sexy new pink cardigan and realise that 1) boleros are not meant to keep you warm and 2) diddy cardigan and jeans is a very good but very slutty look.

I find out that Chris is a quarter black. This explains why his ginger hair is afro-ed and why he's such a good dancer.

Liz and I storm out of the Fez and find Martin and Chris outside. I tell them what happened to my t-shirt and they laugh.

I push my way through the club, feeling sick, and walk into the guy whose dreads I was playing with earlier. He chuckles.

I struggle back into my t-shirt and try not to gag when the wet patch touches my face.

Me and the blonde girl debate whether going topless is a good idea. She says it's worth it for the attention but I think it's too cold. She tells me she likes my bra and we agree the lingerie from Marks is worth the extra money.

A blonde girl staggers out of a nearby cubicle and asks me why I've got my tits out. I tell her.

I pull my t-shirt off and throw it into the brass sink. I try not to look at the water rushing down the plughole.

Liz says: "Um, Fi, look at your t-shirt."

I run into the toilet and wash my arm and hand in the sink, trying not to gag.

I feel something warm dripping down my arm.

As we turn to leave the club, a girl pushes past me. I'm about to give her the finger when I realise that she's vomiting profusely.

A huge female bouncer drags him out by his shoulders. I wouldn't mess with her.

While we're dancing to Rage Against the Machine, this 40 year old man in a suit staggers over with a bottle of beer and starts throwing his weight around. Literally. He's about 5 seconds away from breaking the glass on someone's head.

A hot black guy walks past and I play with his dreads. He messes up my hair. Chris is hurt that his ginger afro is no longer the best hair in the room.

My arm starts itching from where I smuggled the chilli in my sleeve.

We drive to the Fez in Reading. Stupidly, I leave my cardigan in the car.

At Martin's house, before Liz picks us up, I steal a green chilli from his kitchen.

I tell Martin what happened in the morning and he cheers me up by helping me draw rude pictures in Microsoft Paint.

I spend about three hours packing in the living room. I watch Friends and get really emotional when I'm wrapping up my ornaments and candles. I try to decide which cuddly toys to take with me and cry when my mum keeps mentioning ones that I've forgotten to pack already.

I get home and eat a massive toasted sandwich with ham, chicken, cheese and salad. I eat three raw mushrooms.

I walk around Yateley for a while, and start to feel more positive. Fuck it, I think, I can get this sorted on my own. I decide to start thinking logically.

I stop by a bramble bush and pick the biggest, fattest blackberry. I eat it without washing it and feel really naughty. It tastes fantastic.

I switch on my CD player, breathe deeply, get up and walk.

People walk past and stare at me like I'm crazy. I don't even find it funny for once.

I run out of the doctor's surgery and straight past the church into the graveyard. I go to the memorial bench for Beattie Divall and sit down. I cry, loudly and messily, for about ten minutes.

The doctor says goodbye and I fumble with my bag. It seems to take forever for the door to close and I feel like he's watching me. He's not, of course.

He tells me I need to get out more.

He tells me that adolescence is a very difficult time.

I think of my blog and my diaries and chuckle.

He tells me I'm too self-analytical.

I say yes.

He asks if I've ever felt suicidal.

I tell him sometimes it feels like I'm on the outside of my self, watching me live my life and mess it al up.

I tell him I wasn't exactly great the year before that either.

I tell him I've been unhappy for over a year. Like, really unhappy.

He tells me I'm fully immunised and vaccinated and, is that all?

The doctor calls me in and checks my medical records.

I leave home ten minutes late and listen to Counting Crows on the way.

I wake up feeling shite. It bodes well.