Catching the plane briefly - Miss C is just out getting my last couple of croissants for this go 'round, after taking me out for my last bloody steak of this go 'round last night. I know, I know, I'm sick . . . I'll mend my wicked ways in Canada where the produce is too half-rate to tempt me off the straight and narrow, thank you.

I miss you at home - it'll be so great to see you again - I'm going to enjoy the BEJEEBUS out of you for the next year because I reckon I'll move back after that. You will not know what the BEJEEBUS hit you, but you'll want a cigarette and some fresh seafood afterwards, I promise you that.

The sun finally came out today. Paris is pretty under the sun. Remind me to tell you the latest retarded thing French people are doing when I'm back at work and actually giving a fuck about current events. You know the last time I read a newspaper? My last day at work . . . ho hum . . . the world seems so much less naughty when I'm on vacation.

Lady, you around tonight? Why don't you scrape together J*Fish and we can refrain from eating naughty things and then smoke some reefer?

Ahhhh. I had a relapse. Or something. But the NHS seems to have sorted me out nicely for the moment. You know, the Canadian health care system sucks. I've known this for awhile, but now I KNOW it. I mean, I KNOOOOOOOOOOW it. So I'm still in Oxford, which is nice, as it's giving me a chance to catch up propers with Miss C and I get to meet her James Herriot tonight, but sorry wrenches have been thrown into my Paris plans. Still. There's plenty of time for Paris in the future, I think.

Eating the most delicious food; crayfish sandwiches, yummy lamb tikka dishes, chocolate covered ginger stem, Parma ham omelettes; Miss C and I have the same passion for eating. Her cute little Australian roommate is absolutely smat with the Pocket Coffees I brought. Miss C just did a run-through of a history of medicine lecture she's giving about the history of anatomical thought pertaining to ladies, and then lent me North and South to read while she talks to her co-lecturers. Miss C is amazing. If I had to be an animal, I'd be her house-cat. She's also good at laughing at me when I go all gooey over the events of the past week.

Gooey.

I remember telling my analyst I'd be a new woman after this trip.

Yeah.

Hello my dears, my darlings, my sweet pulchritudinous flowers of youth and beauty,

Yorkshire is depressing in some senses. When I arrived here Monday the trip from Liverpool aeroport to Lime Street was soundtracked by a gang of ugly 14 year old toffs describing the fit and not so fit birds they had or hadn't been shagging. 'Fit', I ask you. The requirements for a sexual partner here have lowered to mere physical competence, and even that seemed to be optional for these young men. Also the weather is exceptionally shitty.

Yorkshire is the opposite of depressing in other senses. For example, it's fucking beautiful and for once in their lives my poor grandparents actually seem pleased to see me. I fucking hate winter, but I reckon in your nineties one really, really fucking odiates winter like it's got no clothes on and it's ugly and I think I've been managing to remind them spring is coming.

I miss you at home. I don't want to go home. I'm getting used to the idea that one way or another my brain is always going to be a little bit like Faye Dunaway at the end of Chinatown, screaming about her sister and her daughter. I guess at a certain point I'll just have to choose which way the tear runs, because I understand now I'm going to be torn.

Have you ever been in one of those moods wherein every verb you use seems to be sexually suggestive? Geeeeeeez . . .

1. Thanks to y'all who kept coming back as I kept quiet. Things have been fucked up trees in ways I never would have suspected.
2. In Calabria, I had a nervous collapse; my liver inflamed, I turned yellow, and slept for three days. My family treated me like a fainty princess and I felt better. I experienced my first earthquake and got injected with antibiotics and painkillers IN THE ASS. IN THE ASS. THE NEEDLE WAS HUUUUUUUUUGE.
3. I went to Padova to see FEB. Here's all you need to know: when I got to Scarborough last night, I consoled myself for not being there anymore by binging on Indian food. Halfway through a standard sort of chicken tikka in a spicy tomato sauce, I realized the use of coriander was subtle and amazing, and it made me feel even more inconsolable.
4. I don't know why my paragraphs are coming out numbered.
5. I haven't been taking photos. Sorry. I think I've taken three so far, all for their comic value.
6. I miss you all. Miss you miss you miss you. But we'll have to get used to it. The feeling I got in Paris, that I might have to move back, has only been getting stronger. Save those air miles, bitches.
7. Kisses,
8. Mistress LaSpliffe