Fortuna

Where to start? Forgive my infrequent posts. My beloved Mac, Audrey, is in Mac hospital, leaving bereaved iPod Marvin and me with only an archaic pen to blog with. But that is the least of my woes, I'm afraid I'm going to have to be honest and say my entire life seems to have taken a sharp turn for the worse.

I have been forced to return to what I eupemistically (and that's scary enough in itself) term the Youth Hostel, my six (or sometimes seven) person household, to my tiny barely-furnished room. Upon arrival yesterday, I was greeted by a seemingly mute goth guy forlornly eating pizza in the kitchen. I don't know who he is, no-one has bothered to explain, but his long black hair is all over my bathroom sink, his collection of Metallica shirts hanging in the kitchen, and he is sleeping in the living room. I have a terrible suspicion he was previously sleeping in my bed before I got back.

The lamp in my room has mysteriously disappeared, so although I planned to waste away the next miserable four weeks reading, it will be in the prison-cell-like glare of my ceiling bulb. My room is so small that my bed turns it, appropriately, into a kind of padded cell, which combined with the harsh light is definintely an interior-decorating tip to avoid like the plague.

My clothes (the ones that aren't in Ben and Erin's house, Stockholm, Brisbane or Sydney) are in an impenetrable pile and I have to lean against the cupboard and duck down to see the mirror while I use my bed as a makeup table. I won't use the dimly-lit bathroom to apply makeup since it apparently hasn't been cleaned since I left as I discovered to considerable horror last night, and someone has broken the shower head (I don't even want to think about how...but then again, it could have been the dodgy Polish builders who would turn up without notice and inform us belatedly that the bath was about to go through the floor - an undignified death I guess I should be grateful to have avoided so far) so I have to lean into the slimy shower curtain. I hate my job, but I go there early to escape the house, where I can't even watch tv since there will be random people in the living room or French flatmates who sleep all day complaining about the sound through the paper-thin walls.

The constant moving (countries and houses), desperate attempts to avoid being at home, and lack of routine has depleted my finances. Considering that, combined with the odd combinations of clothing that I am no doubt leaving the house in, it's not really surprising that I'm still hopelessly single (despite rumours of my ongoing secret affair with a certain BBC actor, which will only actually happen if Queens Park vegetable market comes up trumps - not entirely out of the realms of possibility and certainly more likely than someone other than me cleaning the bath tub any time soon). Although the vege market has been a bit deprived of celebrities lately, even Alex Lloyd hasn't turned up. Had champagne with Terry Wogan the other night (no really I did, my life is weird), even that couldn't lift my spirits. And without my Mac even Jake Gyllenhaal can't comfort me.

So...I nervously await the results of last week's job interview and hope that one more country, house and job might bring me some kind of happiness. As my dubious hero Ignatius J. Reilly would advise, I patiently wait for Fortuna to spin her wheel. Midnight is where the day begins and all that. Strangely, I'm not actually that depressed, I'm clinging to the feeling that this is all very temporary and some crazy miracle is about to change everything.

I think I should go back to my padded cell.

End of miserable rant.

p.s. just found out I didn't get the job either. i have no idea what to do next. now i'm depressed.