Alone Some

I am all alone with my Day-Glo skin and really not loving it. I don't like to be on my own - I'm not one of those people who likes an awful lot of time to themself. I like to be quiet sometimes and not be bothered but I like to do it with someone else in the house so that I can go and see them if I need to. If I were a dog I'd be the sort that chewed your shoes when you were out but only did it because I love you so much. What an appealing reason to neither get a dog nor form a strong attachment to me.

This afternoon I leave the Shire to go back to London and I'm a little bit dreading it. I have no job this week which means a whole tonne of days to have to entertain myself while everyone else in the known universe is at work. On Thursday I can obviously round up all the local teachers to go on some sort of outing, or maybe I could get a day's temp work as a teacher to plug the gaps but I think that's unlikely to be approved at a senior level. "Why is that blood orange teaching Year 3?"

My Day-Glo skin has also ceased to be amusing to anyone except my blonde sister (who has now scarpered to Newquay). She was incredibly unamused last night when I insisted on sleeping in her bed and then used her arms as ice packs to take some of the power out of my own ambient cheeks. Face cheeks. Please. I'm wearing a selection of moisturisers today - I smell like Boots and I'm slightly clammy to the touch. I really hope London will be a more understanding collective than the people of my house have been so far.

Perhaps it's a good thing then, that I have the house to myself, logically speaking my skin tone will be marginally less flamboyant by the time I see another human being? Robins might not try to mate with me when I step out of the front door. But for the time being I don't really know what to do with myself. I watched a very terrible film about Brides earlier (never marry Kate Hudson or Anne Hathaway) and then when I switched that off the History Channel was showing a programme about what would happen if humans died out and the dogs from the Marine Corps took over the world. What? Is there so little to talk about on a Monday morning that we've really descended to that level of hypothesising?

I suppose, for research purposes, I should have stayed on and watched the show as there's bound to be some good footage of dogs talking or climbing walls, but I just couldn't face it. When I'm by myself it's like I revert to the mental age of about 18 months and I don't have the ability to conceive of things I can't see. If there are no people around, I struggle to imagine there are people anywhere. I am in a mini West Country apocalypse. I'm just going to have to pray that Mel Gibson doesn't turn up to try and direct me. If he does come, I will have to put him off with the power of the imminent all over body peel that I'm fairly certain can only be days away. I think the trick is to just moisturise enough that the gloop holds the peeled skin off. A bit like papier mache but with skin. If you do try that you have to try not to brush up against people or you'll leave a pink tinged gluey skin paste on the sleeve of those around you and they will not like you any more. Another good reason to be alone in the house.

Ho hum. This blog is now much longer than it really needs to be. I must stop talking/typing to you/myself and go and try and be an adult/loner. I think I will begin by doing activities where one is always alone so that I don't freak out and start phoning people before crisis mode really kicks in. Perhaps a, very careful, shower? If I'm going to be the colour of Cyril Sneer for the rest of the week I may as well have pretty hair while I do it.