Rachel's going to Brownie camp this weekend. She's trying to persuade me to let her take a very large and very dirty white (well, grey and gritty) stuffed rabbit as her pillow. I'm holding out. I notice, however, that she's tried to stuff Bunny into her luggage...

I HATE my job. I spend a fair bit of time at work fantasizing my resignation letter. I also find myself looking in the obituaries for my most dreaded customers' names to see if they've died of apoplexy brought on by terminal stupidity. The lottery is making me despise humankind. I want to be a hermit.

I'm fighting a delusion, at the moment. I keep having these moments where I'm suddenly convinced that I'm actually dead, and that that explains a lot of things. Probably just stress. Or, maybe I am dead. That would explain the lottery : I'm in hell.