So

I didn't see The American on Bank Holiday Monday. I made an excuse.

I decided to force myself to have fun. I walked along the river from Tower Bridge to Waterloo. I climbed up on a ledge, sat cross legged and waved at people on boats. I licked a Mr Wippy ice cream with a flake and rasberry sauce. I watched a london choir from that choir talent show on BBC1 sing outside the National Theatre and hid my face from the TV cameras, particularly when my eyes started to fill at their soulful rendition of a heartbreak ballad or two. I crossed a bridge and walked to Leicester Square to try and find a showing of Batman. I ate too much.

The American suggested we meet up again Friday. I said I already had plans (I don't). He then suggested Sunday (I've politely put him off for the forseeable future).

In other news, I feel fat and frumpy again, so I forced my wide ass back to the gym. Which is all very weird cos at the weekend I discovered I was the lightest I've been in ages, only 14 pounds heavier than I should be and my skinny trousers fit again. But when you're not in the mood, you're not in the mood.

During a stupid and rather optimistic moment, I joined the online personals of one of the more high brow national papers, two weeks ago. Complete disaster. After sparky conversations with three separate fellas, and then me reluctantly agreeing to produce a photo, behold the disappearing act! Ouch. It didn't bother me the first time. The second time, I was still quite cool. But third time? Come on man- have a heart!

Talked to Dad and Sister on phone last night. "you okay? you don't sound right". Yeah that would be cos I'm feeling pretty shitty actually and for once I'm not masking it, and no I can't handle any of your worries. I love you, now leave me alone in my misery. "Nah, just sleepy, hope you're ok. Night".

Oh and yeah, not a peep from him at all. What an utter tosser, he can fuck right off now.