Another spectactularly fun day in the Glen of the Rabbits, in the Town of the Small Potato, aka Fun City Arizona. I washed my hair, which was a massive achievement, obviously, and even straightened it, although no one'll see it save my family (all mad as coots on speed) and the cows in the next field.

Wait. No cows.

Hey, where'd they go? Honestly, this place...turn your back for six months and poof! They change fields on you. Disgraceful.

Today, I wish I was in ...

London. I've only been there once but it's mad. I am in love with the red buses. There are probably more red buses in Bond Street than there are grubby driven-through-a-mud-flat white ones on the whole island of Ireland. I saw a guard there and he could never, ever move, even if you poked him (which I think was in fact illegal, understandably) or jumped up and down in front of him like a loon on day release. Not to mention the huge-ass river. I didn't even see any shopping trolleys in it (although there probably were a couple in there somewhere).

Let us not forget the highly amusing English accents. Like the ones that pronounce 'room' as 'rum'. As opposed to here, where it's 'roo-um'. (Never say two syallables when you could get three or more, that's the Irish motto). And England has loads of desperately exciting things in, like postcodes. And - you never know your luck - even proper mad eccentric people who don't just drive really, really slowly down the motorway in tractors.

*returns to staring at field. really killing for some bovine action at this point*

Thank gods! My mother went grocery shopping. Happy days, as I have been subsisting on Roses and orange juice for at least three centuries. My father is downstairs watching a film on the life of Anais Nin.

I love the way they expect me to be normal.

I want to marry Mr Bennet.