Deflowered and broken in
07.07.06, 10:32 pm

It definitely felt a little weird when me and my dad were sat watching Eastenders last night, and as Stacey came on the screen he turned to me and asked, �Has she finally been deflowered yet?� I don�t think I want to hear my dad say the word �deflowered� ever again. For some reason it reminded me of sitting in my Year 11 Electronics lesson with my bad rebel friend Jodie, the only other girl in the entire class, and listening to a load of hormonally challenged 16-year old lads boast about all the girls that they�d �broken in�. Oh God, pick me next! Because I would just love to feel like a horse. I was so happy when my chance to be broken in finally came around, I can tell you. But not by any of them, I hasten to add.

My dad also attempted to watch Sugar Rush (it�s a gay drama series for people not in the UK) with me last night, which I wasn�t best pleased about, after firstly �casually� asking me if it was any good when a trailer came on. My enthusiastic, �It�s fantastic, I LOVE Sugar Rush� reply probably didn�t help. He managed about 4 minutes before getting up to make a cup of tea and never returning. Blatantly still thinks that I�m gay. I watched it with Ciaran instead; at least he didn�t give off horrifically awkward vibes.

The fat black cat�s completely grumpy at the moment and also off his food, and so I�m currently a little worried for his health. I�ve also got no idea who our vet is or where the surgery is. He�d better not be sickening for anything, especially as Ciaran�s really allergic to cats and would therefore be zero use in a crisis. Hopefully he�s just got cat sunstroke or something, if such a thing even exists.

Yesterday I went down to Sheffield to sign the contract for the flat. It was initially going to be an easygoing affair, with Ciaran giving me a lift to the station and me arriving in Sheffield a good hour before the appointment with the estate agents. However, because I�d decided to absently leave my purse in my dad�s car the night before, it turned into a full blown stress when I was getting ready to leave and realised that my dad had driven off to work with it. Cue me and Ciaran racing off to Stockport with Ciaran�s phone continually jammed against my ear trying to get in contact with my dad. That�ll have helped the potential brain tumour along a bit. Neither of us had any idea how to get to Stockport and had to rely on signposts and optimistic guessing. Ciaran�s car is the rubbishest car in existence, seeing as the driver�s door doesn�t open, the driver�s window is missing and there�s only one wing mirror. He�s continually parking it miles down the street in the hope that someone will nick it, but it appears that even joyriders have some standards. We nearly ploughed into a car at a junction and died, but eventually made it to Stockport and got my purse, before powering it back to Piccadilly station. I managed to catch my train with a minute to spare, and the contract signing went without a hitch.

After the signing I went to the Union for a bit to fill out an application form for a job (closing date�s today� I have no idea why I always leave things till the last minute but it�s bloody irritating) and then got on a train home to Manchester, before getting the horrible horrible bus back home again. But yes, the flat is officially ours, or at least it will be once Lisa picks up the keys this afternoon. Bit tired today after all the fun yesterday though, so have spent the day doing some washing and general cleaning. And drinking lots of tea. Em�s having a party tomorrow night down in Sheffield for her birthday but I�m still not sure of whether to go or not. I clearly need to get in touch with my party spirit.

I watched Big Brother last night and oh my God. Someone should�ve done us all a favour and given that girl a good slap. There is just no need to cry that much for that long; didn�t she get bored after a while?

My dad left for Amsterdam this morning, and isn�t back until Monday night. He spoke to my sister on the phone the other night, after she�d spent half an hour telling me that all the French were out on the streets celebrating the football result and moaning about the amount of daddy-long-legs in her room. Which I completely understand � last night me and Ciaran both stood guard under the light shade in the living room with rolled up magazines waiting for one to emerge and dive-bomb us so that we could mash it. Daddy-long-legs serve no purpose whatsoever and I wish they�d all just crawl back under their communal rock in the garden of hell and DIE.

My dad (phone): I�m going with a few people from work.
My sister (phone): Do they all do the weed thing?
My dad (phone): They all smoke a bit and they all drink a bit. Some of them�ll probably go off drinking but I am not getting lathered, there�s no way.
Me: Dad�s gonna hit the red light district instead.
My dad (phone): Dad�s not gonna hit the red light district.
Me: Yeah sure.

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