October 6th, 2003



Denis Quilley died. I always fancied him: excellent 'ook nose. Damn! He wasn't that old. It's just wrong...
The dentist wouldn't see me. The wee girl I used to go to has left, and they're short staffed. They told me to go to feckin' Guy's at Tower Bridge, or some other place on Denmark Hill somewhere, or come back tomorrow at 10 and wait a long time. I opted for tomorrow, as I just couldn't face schlepping all over the place, and probably being fobbed off again, once I got there.
I've nearly got all my stuff together now for Serbia, anyway.
If David Blaine is actually not eating, he must have lost a couple of stones by now, but he doesn't look any different. Boy, is that depressing!
Today's strangest spam: 'Walk by them. They smel you and want to bang you 9.' (sic)
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