I think I might still be in shock. It's around 18 hours since I returned from my Ikeathon and I remain a shadow of my former self. Worryingly, not even copious quantities of chocolate seem to be able to lift my mood. I will have to persevere with that one - where the Cadbury's Caramel and Penguin failed, perhaps a bag of peanut M&Ms will succeed...
Something fun did happen on the building front today - I wanted a dimmer switch put in my sitting room and bedroom and, naive first-timer that I am, had no idea whether I'd be able to afford this extravagance, but Lovely Dan said they would cost me about £6 per room, including parts and labour. See, if you don't ask, you don't get. Everything else is costing me a fortune though, and the people who buy the place simply aren't going to appreciate that I had to spend £400 having the kitchen electrics rewired, spend two weekends stripping manky wallpaper off my bedroom walls because the old owner didn't have a big enough radiator installed, or put an extractor fan into the bathroom. But then, I'm not doing this for the potential buyer. I'm doing it for me. Hard to believe that this is for me at the moment, when all it's doing is causing me stress and driving me into debt. Bring on the rewards, I say.
What else can I talk about, other than flats and sickening Mr L'Atelier-related schmaltz? [Long pause] Hmmm. Remove those topics from my mind and I'm afraid the tumbleweeds start rolling by, the wind whistles through the empty channels and somewhere in the distance an old door creaks on its hinges. Fidel's resigned, the government's screwed up on computer data again, Hillary's on her way out, there's been a seventeenth teen suicide in the tiny Welsh town of Bridgend, league tables are unreliable, the Brit Awards are tonight, Pakistan and Kenya are still messy and the UK's immigration laws are set to be dramatically altered but all I can think about is bathroom paint and how many hours there are until Tuesday 4 March. Tragic.
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