2003-05-27 at 10:51 p.m.

Perhaps you remember my haunted washing machine?

Well, that damn�d machine has finally been exorcised! (I think it was the multiple sacrifices of kittens that finally did the trick). In its place is a shiny new (well, not new. Second hand, but a good deal younger than the old machine, but then again, Goldie Hawn is a good deal younger than the old machine, and that's saying something. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, yes) washing machine that actually washes things without deafening the neighbours and opening interdimensional portals to hell. (I guess the old machine didn't open any portals either, but it did manage to bore a rather large hole in the linoleum, so we can see that the intention was there. Given another few years, who knows what foul demons from the seventh circle would have come bursting into the laundry? Judas Iscariot, perhaps. Or Hitler. Or Eva Narcissus Boyd, the original singer of 'Locomotion').

(Urgh. 'Locomotion').

It's always the way. I go away for the weekend, and come back to find my two flatmates are locked in a heated battle royale from which only one will emerge alive.

Apparently, words have been said about who pulls their weight in the house. When they actually figure out that the person who pulls the least weight is me, then there'll be the usual rigmarole with the flaming torches and the pitchforks and the screaming mob and the hillbilly chase music. I am really starting to get sick of puncture wounds to the buttocks, singed hair, and 'duelling banjos'.

In the meantime, they're both trying to outdo each other by vaccuming, cleaning the bathroom, throwing out old newspapers and catalogues, and purchasing rather unneccessary amounts of toilet paper.

And if this is what they choose to do with their days, who am I to interfere?

Ah. Life is sweet.