I said I should tell you what happened.

I should. Those of you who are sick of anything to do with *that-subject-with-which-I-am-scarily-obsessed* should leave now. Go, now. Go on. Sod off.

There, from now on I promise that I will try and tell everything as eloquently and faithfully as I can. Which, given my previous record with regards to writing, if it succeeds, will be quite an achievement.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, a deluded little girl sat at her computer at a 1'o'clock in the morning, with her best friend sat behind her, at the piano. I call her a deluded little girl, which, apart from generally being what she was, is also an apt description at this time because she believed herself able to make a website. Now, this little girl was particularly inept when it came to computers, and even more so when it came to the internet. When she had set herself such a task, it was usually agreeable to her to find something to be distracted by. Anything could be useful in this element. At the moment it was a poetry book. One of those lovely, old, falling-apart books that she so admired. It had belonged to her grandfather, and was full of poems she had never heard of, only a few that she had. It was from one of these that she was looking to choose her screen name.

Choosing one's screen name was a constant source of entertainment. At the moment it was 'Comptine D'un Autre Ete : L'Apres Midi' , this time taken from the album Am�lie, which she was reliably told translated to 'Another Nursery Rhyme : In the Afternoon'. She was sitting in the mint-upholstered chair, listening to the tinklings of her friend on the piano, idly leafing through the pages of the book.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: