Pregnancy test: £7.99
Post-result cake: £1.99
Look on my boyfriend's face when I forgot the word 'negative' - and so just paused for a long while, looking confused - when telling him the (negative) result: Priceless

BBC - Pearl Jam Bush stunt angers fans - Dozens of fans walked out of a Pearl Jam concert in the US after singer Eddie Vedder impaled a mask of President Bush on a microphone stand.

The other 19,964 fans walked out of the "Pepsi Center", Denver, shortly afterwards, when they miraculously developed good taste in music for the first time in their sad, sorry lives.

Hurrah! The glorious regime change that we, and by that I mean 'I', have craved for so long is now beginning! 'Nikita's' has a new name and sign - this time black-on-white, in a more modernistical font. It appears to be focusing its energies on fish'n'chips (delivery status, unknown) but the quality level of its products has yet to be verified, basically because it hasn't opened yet. This 'still closed' state rather vexes me though: what if the name change is just a ploy to distract from its true purpose? My close observation of these premises shall continue just in case. I shall maybe request UN assistance in this role, since they have been alleviated of other roles recently. I'm sure the good Dr Blix will join me in a chip barmcake in order to check the quality of the said fried-potato-and-bread combo and to ensure that the salt is not just anthrax in disguise.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the take-away establishment near me is really a money laundering operation for some underground Russian organisation. These communistics are then using this money to subsidise the sale of arms to those dastardly Iraqis, who in turn are using them to kill "our brave boys" (tm) in that evil pagan desert area that lords itself up as a country.

My evidence:

1. It is called "Nikita's" despite not offering any Russian cuisine.
2. The name sign is written in a paintbrush-effect font - no self-respecting western capitalist, with all the fonts that Microsoft provides for our daily use, would have a sign in such a dated font. Further more, the lettering is in red! Red! The colour of communistics! And the colour of the innocent blood following from "our brave boys" (tm) who are flying in the face of similarly red (socialistic) French and dying for honour, freedom and the New American Century. They're obviously trying to subconsciously make everyone think of leftism and murder!
3. It has rather sporadic opening arrangements that would not be in keeping with any sensible business plan. It was open for a couple of weeks, then closed for a couple of months, then its staff were seen to be putting in a lot of work into it (cleaning and refitting etc) but it has yet to reopen. I suspect its owners wish to keep it in a permanent state of readiness in case the authorities begin sniffing around. When this happens, it can immediately be opened and operated as a perfect cover for their diabolical schemes. (In this respect, I can only conclude that this eatery is in cahoots with a nearby newsagents, the opening hours of which seem to be governed by a combination of lunar cycles, coin flipping and the colour of shirt Richard Whitely wears on Countdown each evening)
4. When they are open, there seems to be a deliberate plan to corrupt the youth of the area. After eating the (what I suspect to be spiked) food, the usually alert and active juvenescence become sullen and disaffected. This is obviously a strategy to undermine the great British system from within! Our future is being destroyed as these flipperty-gibbets waste their lives away on the garden walls! It's a travesty!
5. They have recently installed a new ventilation pipe on the side of the building. While it is in its guise as a deep fried food emporium, the ventilation could be justified as 'necessary' as a cooking oil fume chimney but when you know what I know, you have no choice other than to conclude that it is really a missile silo. Obviously they need some kind of defence for when us clever true believers figure out what is going on.

I am going to write to Messieurs Bush and Blair about this nefariousy. I demand they throw all their resources at invoking a regime change, preferably to a decent curry shop (with delivery) or quality fish 'n' chip enterprise (delivery optional).

My attitude to city centre Christian crazies shrieking about salvation and conversion
= Blair's attitude to his cabinet, his party and his nation
= Keep your head down, walk fast and stick your hands over your ears shouting "blah, blah, blah, not listening, not listening and you can't make me *blows raspberry*".

'Subway' is recruiting "sandwich artists" at one of their "restaurants" in Leeds. I would apply but I'm only a smorgasbord sculptician. Dang.

I had a dream last night.

It was a beautiful sunny day. I was outside in the park beside my house, looking out over the valley, at the sprawling urban delight of the city that I call home. Someone behind me was flying a kite and the colourful stripes, with its cheerful tail, flashed above me as the wind caught it, pulling it forwards. A childhood friend, Katie, who I've not seen in years (and that was miles and miles away) was there too. She was walking a dog. I watched the dog running about, tail wagging, mimicking the kite's in the sky above it. Katie threw a ball and the dog chased after it in joyful abandon. Then, suddenly, the little pooch had turned into a cerberus with distemper. He was running, bounding through the park, like he was running from the hounds of hell (or he was a hound from hell. Yes, that would be a better simile). Anyway, he was running so fast and so far that Katie and I struggled to keep up. “Mister FluffyWuffyKins!” she called but Mister FluffyWuffyKins, rabid with anger, his teeth gnashing and his eyes bulging, wasn’t coming back. Suddenly (suddenly again, why do things always happen so suddenly in dreams? Why can’t things just morph slowly?) Mister FluffyWuffyKins pounced! (Do dogs even pounce? You've spent too much time around cats, you self-editing freak) Katie and I strained our eyes to see his prey. We walked closer, watching the writhing, screaming mess at his feet. Suddenly (oh, please, pick another word, you have a thesaurus you know, just there, on the shelf behind you), I recognised the victim – it was the little scally that stole my handbag and purse the other day. Fucking bastard, I thought (which was, coincidentally, what I was shouting while I was chasing him down the street on Tuesday night). Suddenly (oh, you are really taking the piss now), I was Mister FluffyWuffyKins! I was stood on the little shit's chest, pummelling the living daylights out of him. I felt like I had a licence to kill (what? You’re kidding me. You're starting with Bond film titles now. Jeez.) and that little fucker was going down. In reality, I've never thrown a punch in my life but for my subconscious only (what? Is that supposed to be some kind of pun? Loser.), I was Muhammad Ali without the shaking, Mike fucking Tyson without the need to rape, I was (Oh, you've run out of boxers that you've heard of now, haven't you? Go on, the only other one you know is Barry McGuigan) the (wo)man with the golden fists. That fucker was going down, I had a view to a kill (stop it. Really. Stop it.). Amidst my pounding, I remember that Susan had given me a gift recently: the ability to think, and therefore dream, really violent thoughts. Suddenly (if you keep this up, I'm going to get really violent towards *you*), I had a ragged piece of glass in my hand and I was driving it into his squealing weasel-y face. Twice! Three times! Four! It went on. The blood squirted out like an incredibly visceral thing being stabbed viscerally (lame, so lame. Do you even know what visceral means? To do with the viscera "the soft internal organs of the body, especially those contained within the abdominal and thoracic cavities" so not the head or face. Idiot). The deep plunges of glass into skin, cartilage and bone wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I reached for the handy conical flask of hydrochloric acid (geek) and poured it into his wounds. His screaming cut deeper than any wound I had inflicted, (cliché) especially because it ripped open what remained of his cheek muscle. I just laughed at him, "you won't sneak in to anyone's else's houses now, will you, you little fuck? You know what they to thieves in civilised countries? They give them a quick slap on the wrist and maybe give them a couple of months' suspended sentence. Well, fuck civilisation, this is Yorkshire." (does your subconscious also write scripts for Steven Seagal films?) The sound of me starting the recently appeared chainsaw shattered the air. It buzzed away, muffling out even the screams of my little thrashing, bleeding friend. I laughed a slow, calculated laugh (a calculated laugh? I want to weep.) as I raised the machinery into the air. In one swift movement I brought the blade down on his shoulder and sliced his arm clean off. He reached for the gaping wound with his remaining hand but before it reached it's goal, its parent rotating joint has met with Spork's Chainsaw O'Justice (you were doing alright there but, no, you have to ruin it all again). I threw the saw aside and drove a metal spike through his intestines into the ground. This boy wasn't going anywhere. I bade the horses to run in opposite directions. The horses had chains attached to their harnesses and attached to the chains, through the scrawny shit's calf muscles, were two metal bars. I say through his calf muscles, but this was only true for a few seconds – at which point they were ripped from the bone, and in turn the bone torn from the body and strewn across the parklands. All that was left of the larcenist was a twitching torso and the smell of blood in the air. (Oh, hello, what is this? Suddenly it gets a bit gruesome and you turn into into Tom Clancy. Or, you know, someone good at writing.) But I wasn't finished yet. I pulled the pin from a grenade and jammed it in his mouth. I stomped on his face, forcing it further into his broken and bleeding skull. I walked away calmly and counted to five. Despite the splattering of warm scally brain on my back, I smiled, a slow, wide, satisfied smile. Live and let die, I thought, live and let die. (ok, that's it. I quit. You're on your own from now on. *footsteps walking away, a door slams*)

And how is everyone else today?

My systems analysis lecturer would make a great alcoholic tramp. His voice has just the right timbre for shouting incomprehensible abuse at pigeons and passers-by. His gut-enhancing posture would lend itself so well to having a bottled cocktail of fortified wine and meths inserted into his hand. And his style, like everyone's, would be greatly enhanced with some vomit stains down his chest and a splash of Eau de Dog Urine.

I can't decide whether to mention it to him now or whether to wait until assignment time.

My soon-to-be-spawning boss is looking though the job applications for her (temporary) replacement. She says they are all "nutters" which worries me slightly since job applications are one of those areas that you tend to turn down the nuttiness; if it still shines through then they must be absolute psychos.

I’ve told her to employ someone who is bitter and cranky so I could be the happy, perky one in the office for a change. From my point of view, the ideal person would who dreams shockingly vivid dreams about murdering our colleagues or spends hour upon hour of work time plotting increasingly elaborate torture methods for all those arseholes we put up with during the course of the working day. The guy who does everything at the very last minute? strap him to a bomb with a faulty timer so he keeps thinking it's going to explode, but then doesn't, until it lulls him into a false sense of security, then it does – KABOOM. The guy who sends flame-mails when he has nothing to flame about? burn him on a fire fuelled by the printouts of his emails. The woman who always passes the buck? pass it back – in the form of a 12gauge shotgun dispensed into her frontal lobes. Yes, that would be quite ideal. But, sadly, I didn’t apply for the job.

A close personal friend of mine shuffled off the mortal hinge this weekend. The Big Green Wardrobe (tm), which, for the best part of a year, has faithfully served as my living room coffee table, was taken by Jesus to be a sunscreen on Sunday afternoon. Police are still investigating the circumstances surrounding its demise but believe that having a circular saw run through the middle of it may have attributed to its becoming Davy Jones’s locker/wardrobe/firewood. Suspects are being suspected.

Big Green Wardrobe, RIP(ieces).