Far too big a softy

What a fool. Felt too mean to ask Rosie's boys to leave last night, so offered to sleep upstairs and leave them to it. Thought I might kip in Billy's bed, but a low rumbly snore was already emanating from Eddie's end of the room, so I decamped to Lucy's empty one instead. Of course it's not the first time that I've had to play musical beds/lay my head on another's pillow, and it's not as if her bed isn't comfortable, but it always feels slightly odd sleeping in a cabin bed. Think it's the sense of confinement – the raised sides, and the ceiling, inches away from your face (the radiant light of glow-in-the-dark stars making it seem even closer).

So not only was I trying to adjust to a different sleeping environment, but the happy babble of earnest teens discussing religion, sex and politics, somehow seemed to be amplified in the girls room. Don't know if it was the effect of Lambrusco and red wine on their vocal chords or what, but their voices were booming. Travelling up from below, and into the plasterboard bedroom walls, the sound must have resonated at a certain optimal frequency, thus increasing the decibels to maximum levels. It was torture. I tried sticking fingers in my ears, stuffing the corners of the duvet cover in them, semi-suffocating myself with a limp pillow, wrapping my jumper round my head, attempting Zen meditational 'thought emptying', masturbating, but nothing – nothing could help block out the noise, and allow me to blissfully fall into a deep sleep.

Eventually, after an hour and a half of unwarranted suffering, I apologised to Rosie, politely asking her to ask her company to vacate the premises. It was gone 2.30am, and I needed some shut-eye. Thinking I'd soon be in the land of nod, imagine my dismay when the clattering sounds of dishes being banged about in a sink, began to filter up from the kitchen. Damn. I had suggested that Rosie do the washing-up as penance for having mates round so late, but hadn't meant that night. Tomorrow some time would've been fine! Feebly, I had to call down for her to give it a miss, but she was on one, and insisted she finish.

By the time she eventually came up to go to bed herself, it was way past 3am. Briefly considered transferring back downstairs and into my own bed, but remembered that Ed would be up at the crack of dawn to go daffy picking again. Damn again. So reluctantly stayed put, and did, eventually, get a few hours in. Was woken up by Eddie stupidly early anyway though, as he shouted up to me

'Mum, where's my black jumper from yesterday?'

'Hanging up in the kitchen – by the back door.' And later,

'Mum, where's the gaffer tape?'

'In the same place you saw me put it away again only yesterday. In the cupboard thingy,
you know, the one underneath where I keep my clothes.'

By the time my alarm went off at 7.30am I was knackered – ready to go back to sleep. Fat chance.

Tried to do some more research on my book idea at college, and tried to ring a few publishers, but didn't really get much joy. One answer machine, one 'please send us an email, and one ring back after four, so hardly encouraging. The features class was spent with us roaming the main street of Falmouth, looking for an interesting story. Not sure how, but I ended up inside the Falmouth branch of the Royal British Legion for over an hour, talking to the barman and a couple of punters, trying to find out more about the club and its membership. Pretty surreal, especially the garishly painted wooden parrot attached to the walls with an 'In memory of Fred Bennet' sign hanging from its perch. Apparently he'd been the cleaner there for absolutely donkeys, so when he died last year, they set up this commemorative statuette. Bizarre.

Had a quick look round in the Falmouth Bookseller's independent book shop. Loads of autobiographical stuff, but only the Stephanie Calman book out on the main stand in the motherhood category, so wasn't much help really. By this stage, getting progressively tireder and tireder anyway, so relieved that we didn't have to hang about in the meeting up place (The Quayside Inn) overly long. As it was, had only enough time to throw an awful stir fry together, before running down to the Arts Club.

Mad woman that I am, instead of taking a rare opportunity to chill out and do nothing this evening – read, or maybe even watch a film – I decided that the cooker needed a darn good clean. In fact, it was well overdue – baked on grease and grime a right pain to shift (even with the purpose-bought Brillo pads I'd got in, especially for the occasion. Wasted at least an hour, and once you start scrubbing one revolting area, a whole load more suddenly appear, and you feel as if you're living in filth. Thoughts straying to Graham – connected theme perhaps? But really must crawl into bed now. Early start again in the morning.