So I was placing my bets as to how long it would be before I got woken up with such an argument. My bets were, as soon as they walked up the stairs to dump their suitcases. The subject matter would be the fact that my parents were putting them in their room rather than the box room. And the outcome? 9am, I hear high pitched squeals. 'We can't sleep in your room', 'Of course you can, it's easier all round', 'Don't be silly, we'll sleep in the other room', 'But it's better that you are there, you have room to put all your cases'. This was my alarm call for now there would be no chance of getting back to sleep.

I'm only worried that if this disorder affects my gran, my aunt and mum, is their any hope for me?

This morning I looked at Anne's Letters to Rob. This is a blog of letters to her cousin who took his own life a year ago. I have been meaning to have a look for ages but couldn't bring myself to click on the link on her page. I am a bit sensitive on the subject of suicide and a simple click of the mouse would force me to think. To think about Sam. To think about myself.

Camden is a strange place, full of people from all walks of life, all the time. It's always busy, busy, busy, punks, goths, rockers, indie kids, rastas, townies, tourists with eyes glued to their maps trying to find their way through the busy market, trying not to stare too much at the big mohicans and all those piercings. But amongst all these crowds of people, you will notice a select few who are weaving in and out of everyone with a sense of purpose. They are not looking around at everything and everyone. They are not getting lost. They are not suddenly stopping in the middle of the pavement to pop into a shop. They are trying to get somewhere particular. These people are the regulars of Camden.

Sam was one of these regulars, just as I am. I was not good friends with him but he was a friend, one of the familiar faces amongst the crowd of tourists getting in our way. He was loud and funny and enthusiastic about everything, flyering outside Camden tube, drinking in the Dublin Castle, passing out on someone's floor. But his big passion was music and with his bass guitar and singing voice, he seemed to be fulfilling his potential. His band were doing increasingly well especially with the Camden crowd. Their audiences were growing, gigs were good and word was getting around.

3rd February 2001 - I had been at work, my Saturday job, at the sports centre. At the end of the day, I always had a shower at work, got changed and went straight out. Katie's dad would sometimes pick me up on the way to dropping her off at the station, as he did on this day. I got into the car, said 'hello' to her and her dad, and he drove off. Katie is a loud, bubbly person and yet today, she was silent. I waited until we got to Edgware tube before I asked her what was wrong. Yesterday, Sam hung himself.

When I heard her words, the first thing I could think about was to comfort Katie. Understandably so for she knew Sam far better than me. We got the tube into camden and went to the Mixer. The Mixer has an atmosphere about it, one of the few regulars pubs in London. On this day, we walked in and the atmosphere was very different. It was not bustly and cheerful with drinks going full flow with private jokes and dirty jokes and laughter and mingling. It was very strange. Huge pregnant pauses producing a vacuum, so that no one could breathe until someone said something, thus piercing the bubble and providing some relief. Everyone's faces a flat, monotonous landscape of flesh, giving nothing away until they look away and an expression of fighting back tears could be seen. And sometimes, someone would come into the pub who had not heard the news and so they had to be told.

When someone takes their own life, the first thought to cross the mind is Why? Not necessarily, why would anyone take their life. But why did they? Talented, loved by so many people, could I have helped, why didn't I know. But I know why. For years I wanted to die. I knew that my family loved me, it wasn't that. I hated the fact of my very existence and wanted it to end, my body cremated and nothing left but dust to show for me. I took an overdose of various pills and potions that were in our medicine cabinet. I spent the night vomiting violently. A few days of feeling weak and then I was fine and well and very much still existing and this angered me. A couple of years later and I realized that I could not end my life because it would hurt my family too much. I wasn't happy about this but became resigned to it. And, although I was very happy in myself by the time that Sam died, this was a confirming moment for me.

The funeral was on the 13th February. I turned up to school in the morning as did the other four who were going to the funeral. Someone in my politics class asked 'Why are you dressed so smart?' I'm going to a funeral. Embarassment followed and a little bit of feeling uncomfortable on her part. 'Why is Katie so smart?' She's going to the funeral too. Bewilderment follows as she realizes that I was not going to a funeral of a grandparent or great aunt as first thought, but five of us must be going to the funeral of a friend. An 18 year old friend.

There's something very wrong about driving off from school, to a funeral. So many rites of passage to experience before death. The chapel was packed, far too many people squashed up per pew, people sitting on the floor, standing at the front. All people who loved this boy and his boundless enthusiasm for life, who killed himself because he could not go on any longer and could see no hope. It was an unconventional funeral for an unconventional person. Mostly consisting of music, nothing more suitable really, the last piece - All Apologies by Nirvana, chosen by Sam. But the most moving, tear jerking time was when his parents spoke. His mother said that Sam had made many decisions that she hadn't agreed with at first but had come to realize that he was right. Maybe one day she will realize this about his decision to end his life.

Good Friday 2002 - I was in Sydney. It was my last weekend there before I went off travelling up the east coast of Australia and I couldn't wait to leave. Not because I didn't like Sydney - I love the city and I had a fantastic time. It seems to encapsulate all the finer points of European cities, all brought together into one. So many nice places to amble, Circular Quay, Darling Harbour, the Botanical Gardens, the many beaches. And that's what you do there, amble. There's no rushing about, no missions to get from A to B in the shortest time possible, even rush hour on the Metro is easily bearable. And, although it does get cold in the winter, for the most part, the weather is great. Not stifling hot and humid like in Queensland but sunny and bright and bouncy. Everything and everyone looks fresh in that light and it lightens and relaxes everyone's moods, so much more easy going, happy go lucky. And it's clean, everywhere so clean and fresh and new. It's a pleasure to be there and pleasure to maintain the cleanliness of the place.

All the homelessness, all the crime, all the scumminess, all the sleaziness, all the drug pushers, all the heroin addicts, all the prostitution that you would expect to find in a city are compacted into one small area of the city, Kings cross. My home for three months. Indeed, ask any backpacker where they stayed in Sydney and their's will probably be the same answer. This is where all the budget hostels are, the cheapest of the cheap. But my home was not a hostel, it was an apartment on Victoria Road. And the apartment was lovely. Two bedrooms, fully furnished, all mod cons etc etc. But the real selling point - the view from the balcony. It was spectacular, of the city skyline, all the skyrise buildings, centrepoint, Wooloomooloo below and beyond, the opera house and the harbour bridge.

I mentioned that it was a two bedroom apartment. Now this was the only drawback for there were never fewer than five of us living there and for much of the time, there was nine of us, with four extra bodies spending their days there. Nine of us were friends from back home, all living together on the other side of the world. It was three months of craziness and it was a lot of fun with no clutches on reality whatsoever. Our days, spent sleeping, smoking cheap Aussie cigarettes that come in packs of 40 (Longbeach) and lots of weed bought from either one of three cafes in Kings Cross, drinking, swimming in the pool and sweating in the sauna. It was a world with no resemblance to normality. We woke when other people were coming home from school or work. Frequently I'd walk down to the local greasy spoon, Krave, in my pyjamas and eat. Or go to the shop across the road to buy ice cream and other supplies. And our nights spent watching movie after movie after movie and drinking in the Buddha Bar, the 24hr bar at the end of our road.

We seemed to live our lives in the flat, never leaving. But we did leave and see some of Sydney's finer parts. Big flat expeditions to the aquarium, Taronga Zoo, to the top of Centrepoint, to the many beaches. We never made it to Manly beach though. We never woke up early enough to make it worth the ferry crossing journey.

It wasn't all pure laziness. We did work. Well, when I was there, just two of us worked. Louise became her job and consequently we never saw her, working by day, drinking with work people come evening and sleeping at night. I did not want a job that would weigh so heavily on my mind. I just needed some money but wanted to have a laugh doing it. I started working at the Bourbon and Beefsteak in Kings cross, waitressing. I hated it, the waitress who was training me was a patronising bitch and after four shifts of blister producing work, I quit. But I had no money and every backpacker in Australia seemed also to be in Sydney looking for jobs and it was not looking good.

So, I took advantage of the area I was living in and got a waitressing job in one of the many strip clubs that line Darlinghurst Road, Playbirds International. I later moved to The World Famous Love Machine. It was an easy job, trying to sell as many drinks as possible. I got paid according to the number of drinks I sold, no standard wage, and I got tips. And the strip club will only keep you on if you sell loads of drinks because all they want is money, money, money. But the drinks are all non-alcoholic, non-alcoholic beer, non-alcoholic wine but did we tell people this? I don't think so. It is illegal to sell alcohol if the establishment is linked to a brothel. But the drinks taste disgusting so it is a real mission to sell lots and I had to get them to buy me drinks and give me tips. It doesn't take long to pick up the tricks of the trade. I had 'strip club mode', the way I behaved as soon as I walked through that neon lit doorway. Flirtatious, world owning, pushy behaviour, not like me at all. And soon they are buying me the most expensive drinks, giving me their cigarettes, handing over a big tip and I'm getting them a prostitute to go upstairs with.

The people who went to these clubs were varied. From the young group of backpackers, to the married couple wanting to spice up their sex life, to the old sleazy man. We had them all. One man came in every day without fail. He would come in at nine when the shows start, sit at the back, gradually move his way to the front and then go to McDonalds for half hour to get a coffee. Then he would return and do it all again. He never bought a drink, he never had a prostitute. Some of them were nice, some not so nice, many wandering hands, mostly harmless. People would think I was a prostitute even though I looked and dressed very different from the girls. They would ask me how much and sometimes push me against the wall and try to touch me. I never felt threatenned though, there were too many people who worked there who were around me, to let anything happen. The one time I felt the situation was getting out of hand I punched the owner of the wandering hands. After stumbling back several feet, he left, somewhat bemused.

The girls who worked there were mostly lovely. There were two prostitutes who I did not like. My presence seemed to threaten them, as if I was going to take some business away from them. No chance of that. But the rest were so nice. I didn't speak to the strippers much, simply because after their set, they'd move straight on to the next club. But the prostitutes were always around so I chatted to them quite a bit. But the longer I worked there, the more I discovered of their stories, why they were there and what went on in the clubs. One girl was kicked out of her home when she was thirteen. Some people looked after her and got her onto smack. When she was addicted, they took her to the club to work. She was now eighteen and had been a prostitute for five years. She desperately wanted to do something else. But there was nowhere else that she could work. For any job, even the most simple, there would always be someone who had more education than her or more job experience. You may be against prostitution and think what these girls are doing is terrible. And you'd be right. But these girls were stuck, for whatever reason, maybe because of one bad decision, made very young. Yes, many of them were there to support some form of addiction. I had to look after a girl who had overdosed on smack and collapsed as I was serving a drink. But they are still people and deserve respect. And so few people would give them that basic human respect. The men who worked at the club, the barman, the managers, the bouncers wouldn't and I walked in on countless arguments between staff. And the average person walking down the street very rarely would.

And this is what I was doing on Good Friday last year. Working. On one of the holiest days of the christian calender, the good vicar's daughter that I am, was working in one of the sleaziest strip clubs in the whole of Australia.

Work was good for a while. I'd go in, take a little bottle of vodka and get pissed as I served drinks and have a laugh. When I wasn't working, I'd walk down Darlinghurst Road with my friends, and I knew everyone. All the strippers, the bouncers, the prostitutes, the regulars, the family of the owners. Everyone. But soon it became a headfuck and there came a point where I just couldn't go in anymore so I quit. The flat, though a lot of fun, was also stressful at times. It was always filthy and there was never time for alone time. I need time for private thought and reflection and I was deprived this. And I had itchy feet. I wanted to be travelling, it was time. So, I booked a bus ticket and soon i was travelling the east coast, after three months of laughs and new experiences in Sydney.

To ensure a quick and full recovery:

1. Eat crunchy foods such as toast, cereals, crisps, fruit and vegetables in order to keep the area clean.


2. Stay indoors for 3-5 days, then gradually return to your normal activities.


3. Do not eat ice cream, sweets, fizzy drinks.


4. Do not drink alcohol.


5. Do not smoke, and avoid smokey atmospheres (smoking will make your throat sore, cause infections and may make your throat bleed).

I got my tongue pierced one year and three weeks ago. I was walking down the road at Bondi Junction, in Sydney, with Katie. We had been having a pampering, haircut, tan, eyebrows waxed, nice lunch sort of day in order to escape from our mental flat full of people. For some random and unknown reason, I turned around to Katie and said, 'I could get my tongue pierced now if I wanted'. Why I said this I do not know. The fact was I could get it done if I wanted. The real question was, did I want to. Her response was,'That's a good idea, I'll get mine done too'.

Five minutes later, we were in a salon with anaesthetic cream on our tongues. The cream tasted horrible. I know this because I ate most of it and, as a result, my tongue was far from numb. The tip of my tongue, numb as you like. The bit that was pierced, could feel it perfectly. I had to lie on a couch whilst a woman with no piercings (always slightly worrying) but a Doctor (that's reassuring) brandished a needle. My mouth was kept open with a big plastic thing, not dissimilar from a Hannibul Lector mask but with the reverse effect of holding my mouth open rather than closed. Plastic tweezer type things held onto my tongue as the woman spent about five minutes grappling around. It was not easy and it hurt like hell. When she managed to place the piercing in my tongue, she dropped the ball down my throat. I had to sit up and cough it up. Blood was splattering into my hand. if you have been drinking in the last 24 hours, your blood is thinner. I had a lot of blood. This was not a pleasant experience.

It was nice (and amusing) to see that side of some of my friends. One of which is the crudest person I have ever met, another is renowned for his rage, another is barred from the pub after he threw glasses at one of the barmen, all do copious amounts of Charlie. And all were transformed into little bundles of joy, idiots trying to make the baby smile whilst Molly lay oblivious to their intent. I strongly believe that a baby can cure the foulest of moods. Well, a baby that you can hand back when it starts to cry, needs nappy changing....

Today, at work, I watched as a man overtook another in the fast lane of the swimming pool. In doing so, he slightly clipped him going past. This is a normal event. However, the slower man was not happy and squared up to the bloke and began to lay in to him. It seems that nowadays there is lane ettiquette rage.

It seems strange that in a country where everyone is so stereotypically repressed that England is also famous for its hooliganism and pub brawls. On Wednesday, Louise rang Mark when we were in the pub saying how she had been watching the football in the pub where there was one Turkish bloke. Her and her friends had to pretty much surround him in order to protect him from getting hit. When he left the pub, he was beaten up. It seems so pointless to do so. Obviously football raises high tensions. I get upset when England or Arsenal lose but in this case we had won.

It seems crazy that people can't express some more of that British self-control - even in the swimming pool.

After I finished work at 3pm yesterday, I went into Camden to meet up with Beth and Amy. We had a few drinks in the Tup and caught up on news while I kept an eye on the football at all times. After the match, I popped into the Mixer for a couple of drinks to share my joy of our mighty victory with Mike and Mark, who I knew would be in there. I got the last tube back to Amersham and, for the first time ever, was actually pleased that the Met line is so shit and bumpy because it meant that I managed to stay awake for the entire journey, only almost falling off my seat on occasions.

When I walked back home from the station, something struck me that strikes everytime I walk around Amersham after around 10pm - it is so dead. I walked along the road and there was nothing, no one else there, no noise, nothing. I guess this is normal for a lot of places but I am so used to Camden and Leeds. Leeds is just studentville so nighttime is the the peak time for goings-on. And in Camden there are always people coming and going, selling 'hash weed, hash weed' or offering 'minicab, minicab' (no, I don't want a minicab, do you really still need to ask?). But last night I felt as though I was the last person left walking through deserted streets of abandonned cars and closed up houses. Each step was so loud that it seemed to echo around the globe. It is very surreal, almost Truman Show-esque, feeling so seperate from everyone else. It felt as though I was on a stage with no one else and the whole thing was just a soliloquy. I was out there whilst everyone else was tucked up and hidden. Every now and then, a purr of a car in the distance or a scurry of a cat would bring me back to reality.

But then, I guess Amersham is just full of old people - I could hardly expect anything else at that time of night.

Back home for the holidays means back to doing some paid work to help wipe out some of that student debt I have accumulated. And work for me means lifeguarding. This is an easy job that is reasonably paid (for crappy holiday job), fairly flexible, and, as long as I have my NPLQ up to date, a job that I can come back to each holiday.

But, it is the most boring job ever. No, it really really is. It is a mind-numbing, longing for next fag break, clock-watching affair. The main drift of the job is standing on poolside watching people swimming. Not exactly exciting. There are only a few ways to keep yourself amused:

1. See how many different languages you are able to count in when counting the number of bathers in the pool. I can do four - French, Latin, Chinese and Fijian. Doing this as loudly as possible scares small children, making it more entertaining.


2. Swing your whistle around as fast as possible. If you swing it over enthusiastically and it falls in the pool (as it did today), this provides ten more minutes of amusment as you try and fish it out with the net.


3. Pretend the reaching poles are rifles and try to shoot the other lifeguards. Sound effects are welcomed.

Oh, it's all so much fun. But just because it's boring doesn't mean you can let your mind wander. This is the main problem. It is just so boring and yet you have to stay alert at all times. A negligent lifeguard can not only be fired but also be sued vast quantities of money - no thank you.

So what elso do we have to do? Prevent accidents from occuring in the first place. This is where your whistle comes in. 'No diving', 'No bombing', 'Don't climb on that wall', 'No running', 'No pushing', etc etc kind of gets dull too when you are shouting it over and over again. Boredom can lead to two possibilities here: becoming complacent and thinking that they can dive into the shallow end if they lack that much common sense and if they hurt themselves, they bloody well deserve it. Or, shouting at everyone for every tiny thing they do wrong just because I have nothing better to do. If someone pisses me off for whatever reason - for being mouthy, for having a stupid haircut...I have no qualms in shouting at them repeatedly. I will shout at couples for 'heavy petting' and that generally embarasses them. It keeps me amused. Sometimes we wish for someone to drown just for want of something to do. Although, after my last rescue (my second ever) of a man having an epileptic fit, I think I'm happier without casualties.

Lifeguarding is the worst job when nursing a hangover. Strictly speaking, a lifeguard should not be hungover when on duty but that doesn't work. The humidity combined with screaming girls and abusive pre-pubescant boys is not a whole lot of fun.

Then there is the cleaning which is just minging. The changing rooms become filthy very quickly, especially the ladies due to all the hair. I have also discovered that people are disgusting and seem quite happy to leave used sanitary towels or tampons on the floor for us to pick up. Vile. I try and hide in the enclosed area outside, smoking (despite the warning of hydrochloric acid and the 'no naked flames' signs) and see how much cleaning I can avoid.

Working times are all a bit crazy too. If you do an early, you start at 5.45am and lates are until around 11pm. Why do people voluntarily go swimming at such a stupid time in the morning. Daytime shifts are not too bad apart from catching alll the rush times. And evenings involve cleaning everything when people really should be in the pub rather than having an energetic swim.

But I love it really. Oh, it's not so bad. But the next time you are at a swimming pool and watch the lifeguard swinging their whistle around whilst counting loudly in foreign languages, spare them a thought. Because they are bloody bored and actually had to learn about vice grips, support tows and spinal lift-outs for the privilege.

By Friday morning I had my room all packed up and ready to go. Stereo, printer, bedspread etc etc were jammed into my wardrobe, padlocked tight. Openning the door of the wardrobe is at risk of one's own life as the entire contents is bound to fall out. Everything else was in my suitcase and my bag. Now my suitcase would have been of a reasonable weight had it not had twelve big, chunky books and two files in it. This made it the heaviest suitcase in the world. My bag contained my laptop and all my CDs making it also a little on the heavy side.

Carrying these from my building to the bus stop was hard enough even though I did have help. Despite the case being on wheels, I was unable to drag it more than 5 metres at a time before dropping it. Once I managed to get to Kings Cross, I then had to manouvre it around the tube station and then change at Baker Street before I was able to get home. Throughout the trip I was laughing hysterically to myself. If I didn't laugh I would have probably cried. But I have decided that London people are not as self-interested as is often portrayed. Each time I got to a set of stairs, it did not take a long time of me struggling and looking extremely pathetic before someone came to the rescue. And finally I managed to get home. Now, my shoulders and arms are feeling the consequences.

If you watched this programme, ignore this as, I'm quite sure you won't want to think about it again. Having watching this, I felt sick. This programme, on Thursday evening, was all about Fat Admirers, ie men who like their women large. This in itself is fine. In fact, being a little on the chunky side, I find this reassuring - there's hope for me yet. But this just took it too far. Apparently there is a culture building up of people known as feeders. These people want to make their women as large as possible in the quickest time possible. This is to fulfil their fantasies. When the wife of one man lost 125Ib, he was forced to divorce her (obviously, duh). He married another woman who he encouraged to put on weight. The woman had quite clearly grown up with low self esteem and so was particulaly vulnerable. She had grown to weigh 59 stone. She was so large, she could not walk. She could barely get out of bed. The husband had to look after her (or not as it seems to be) by giving her bed baths and such like. She had skin which was over an inch thick and not dissimilar from the skin of an elephant. It was hideous and, more to the point, extremely unhealthy. These women are not going to live long. And yet their husbands continue to do it to them. And once bed bound, there is very little choice in the matter. Some men pump liquid fat into them and put bulking up powders into their food. What sort of life is this, just to keep the perverted fantasy alive.

The other day I experienced my second Bodington Hall power cut, and the third one of 2003, having not had one for years. During the Christmas holidays, there was one in Camden. I went out for breakfast (best breakkie in town) at Solos and was introduced to the idea of candlelit breakfasts. Don't think this idea will catch on but would help to make the chat up line, 'I want to take you out for breakfast', slightly less sleazy (only slightly less). This powercut was one that was so typically Camden-like, in that it didn't effect everything or everywhere - a completely half arsed attempt. In Solos, you could eat eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast but could not eat sausages, hash browns, chips. Why did some things work and not others? And also, how come they were able to cook bacon but not sausages? Are there special ways of cooking sausages? I just don't know. Also, the club downstairs had all electricity working fine. The Mixer, next door was funtioning almost as normal (as normal as the Mixer gets) and was doing so until much later in the evening when it was complete blackout time.

The powercut at Bod followed a sunny day. Sunshine followed by light deprivation seems to induce a slight insanity. 1200 students were running around the vacinity, causing mayhem. Some in shopping trolleys brandishing light sabres, some dancing around outside to 'banging music', some setting alight to stuff and creating mini (or not so mini) fires next to buildings, and some thoughtfully throwing firecrackers at unsuspecting passers-by.

I am currently trying to clear my room up in order to go home for Easter. There are a few problems involved. I have to go home on the train. This in itself is fine. However, I have to clear my room out completely. Oh dear. I am now trying to fit everything into the lockable section of my wardrobe with limted success. My room now looks as though a bomb has hit it - no really it does. And I am still wondering quite how I am going to carry everything I need at home on the train to Kings Cross and then on the good old Met line. I am taking clothes, laptop (not new, ultra-light funky type but 4 year old heavy, chunky type), CDs and books. I think this all. However one has to consider the volume of CDs and books. I am going home with many good intentions (as always) of actually doing some work over Easter. This involves doing one essay on population growth and development (5 big, big books needed plus 3 files) and learning the whole of my Chinese course thus far (3 books, 1 file). Well, I'm sure I'll get there eventually.