(diaryland) June 23, 2004 - 5:14 p.m.

Our charming housemate Diane is about to come home from her two-and-a-half-month British jaunt.

This sux.

The house is actually clean, I can sort of almost practice piano any time I want, and I don't have to continually watch television shows like M*A*S*H or those dreaded penguin documentaries with a small lady shouting inane things over the top. There are even little pink flowers on the dining table, Diane's former dumping ground. There is no small lady running up and down the hall at 6:00AM, complaining about stuff she didn't realise she did herself. There is no small lady shedding hairs all over the bathroom. There have been no outrageous dinners containing less than one percent organic matter in recent memory. I can just get home and lie down on the couch and not say a word for an entire evening.

Next Wednesday my fun times will stop again.

My mother said that people are always more messy when they get back from their holiday. This worries me, as Diane is messier than me at the best of times already.

Diane keeps sending packages to herself which we have to put into a little pile. I believe that these packages contain random bits of British rubbish which will eventually make its way onto our living room floor.

Yay.