Nothing happened. Well, that's not strictly true. Crazy Amy, who deals with my ever changing hair decided she can't stand the winter anymore and has resigned from the salon. She is off to Thailand, bitch. This is not good because she is the only person (No Graeme you were OK, but she is better)who I could talk to. I spent hours waiting for colours and cuts to be finished reading my book before I met Amy, wishing it was all over. All over. Not just the hair. But Amy and I had fun. We compared verbal notes on love, madness, fatness,music, Facebook, sex and her house rabbit and it was fun. (The sex/house rabbit thing were not connected, she has a pet rabbit called Charlie). Fortunately my guilt trip thing worked and we are having a last session together on Sunday. It's goodbye Camilla Parker-Bowles and back to Billy Idol time. The final Rebel Yell. Lets hope the dead man's head in the hole in the side of the sunken boat doesn't appear when I look in the mirror.
And then my internet connection died when I had four hours to wait for Girl 13 to get back from a party. And I don't watch telly (baby's dummy, suck on it as much as you like, you aren't going to get anything). I was impotent with rage and injustice and found myself scooping teaspoons of dijon mustard into my mouth and swearing like my Irish friend Grania, spitting mustard grains all over the screen. I developed a blister on my finger from diagnosing the connection problem and chipped three nails stabbing at the keyboard. I even texted Louis in South Portugal as he is my best ever nerd - but as he claims that trying to help me sort out my computer problems is like 'herding cats', it came as no surprise when he didn't ring.
So the perfect storm, in the great scheme of things, never really materialised. It just felt like it at the time.