Science and not much progress

Last night I met up with Laura after work (not the Laura I work with but another one) and we went to Science Museum Lates at the, er, Science Museum - they stay open late one night a month, and no kids are allowed in. It was brilliant. We made origami and played on the machines and watched a talk about rockets, both volunteered to be assistants, got free drinks as a result, and accosted one of the incredibly knowledgeable curators who had tattoos up one arm to find out where the Apollo 10 capsule was hiding. He showed us - but not before he'd boasted about the satellite display he'd put together, showing the location of the approx. 11 thousand satellites there are currently whirring around our planet. Some of them are really far away - they're the ones that are static, like the ones for our Sky TV. It was fascinating.

After we'd tired of the exhibition (and personally, it was the site of all the sickeningly happy couples drooling on each other next to the party games), we went for some food and Laura's friend joined us, who was really nice and she works for a London website and wanted to hear about the Late night so she could write it up, and I offered to do it, and I wrote the review this morning and now it's on the internet. Clever me.

Writing's a funny one. I still stand by my assertion that, unlike every other human on earth, I don't have a novel inside me, but I do love the process of rambling on through the medium of typing. There are plans afoot. That said, I think there are a lot of people out there who are a lot better than I am. But with that attitude, no one would ever do anything. I've never been good at being medium at something, though. I'm either pretty good, or I don't do it at all. The prospect of just being an OK writer makes me feel a bit queasy. I'd rather not try. Blogging doesn't count as I can write exactly what I like. No one is paying me to do it, and you are not paying to read it. I owe you nothing, rooooer, nothin' at aaaalllllllll. Hmmm. Once you start writing for money, everything changes. Even you. We're a thousand miles apart but I still love you. Anyway. I have decided that Sundays in 2010 are Writing Days and I'm going to Do Something Constructive if it kills me.

Goodness what a lot of self-absorbed blathering. I have nothing else to report - all I can think about is myself, and when I briefly take time off from doing that, I am unable to cope with the panic I feel following the discovery that my lovely Hungarian hairdresser has left the salon and the unreasonable bitch at reception wouldn't give me his mobile number so now I can't stalk him and track him down in the street when he's out with his wife and demand that he trims my split ends immediately. That is all.