Monsoon conditions up here in Liverpool, and it's been like this for a few weeks now. The rain has been hammering down at a 45-degree angle, bouncing off the roofs and window ledges, splashing onto me as I sit on the sofa. I love dramatic weather, and on Saturday night the taxis were swooshing through the river outside our flat, honking their horns as laughing, screeching people ran for cover. Then, come 1am, it was silent, save for the sound of further flurries, water hitting more water. The copper sky.
Things I learnt yesterday: a phobia is not just a fear - it is a fear that is irrational; the highest volcano in the world is in the Andes.
So it's confirmed. This is by far the most depressing transfer window I've experienced in my adult life. What a mess. There is no way for this to come good - even if he stays, he won't be playing with his heart, and if he goes, who on earth do we get to fill the hole?
Not having the easiest week: banging headaches. Trying to make my peace with Liverpool is difficult when packs of women scream at each other outside our flat at 4am on a Tuesday morning.
We have been here for nearly a year and not a day goes by when I'm not watching the clock and looking in my diary and firing up Google Calendar, as though by looking and planning I can jump through time. I have not been myself for nearly a year; in fits and starts I let my guard down, then snap it back up. Retreating into myself, stuttering over sentences. I miss so much, down to tiny details, but the biggest thing of all is the free-flowing, easy chat of close friends who do not judge, or at least do not give the impression of judging - a world away from the silences, the stares and the disapproving shrugs.
"Oh, she's got YOU doing her dirty work now, has she?!" "No. She's driving."
It is thrown into relief: I should not be over-sensitive, I should be confident. But something has to come first, something that facilitates the growth of that confidence, something to grab hold of and settle into. Something to make me feel at home. Retreating into myself and music and books; thrashing away at The Ghost Of A Thousand, escaping into Dickens. Looking everywhere for a foothold but finding none. Drinking every night.
I am digging beneath Liverpool's skin in stages, a city bound together by community, by tough times shared, by a common language, by football. A city I will never be connected with.
If I'd actually put my money where my mouth was and gambled on Federer and Serena Williams winning, I probably would have made a whopping 50p, or some such life-changing amount. What a cretin. (Though I am quite sneakily proud of guessing that Murray would get to the semis but no further. You have to cling to the tiny victories in life.)
Now I have to deal with the annual Wimbledon withdrawal symptoms, tinged as they are this year with sadness for Andy Roddick, who I quite desperately wanted to win by the end. Poor bloke. Imagine being so close to something you've craved your entire life - three times - and to have it snatched away by the same person on all three occasions. His relationship with Roger 'The Greatest Tennis Player Ever In The History Of Mankind' Federer must be intense to say the least.
Monica Seles has got a new book coming out, and I'd be interested to read her troubled life story. Well, I would have been until I read this article, which tells you everything you need to know. If her skill, grunting or stabbing made any kind of impression on your youth, it's worth a read.
Michael, Michael, Michael. So much grim news. First Jacko pops his clogs, then Shields is refused his pardon (Jack Straw better avoid this city for a while), and now Owen has stabbed a knife deep into all Reds' hearts. I can't express how sick the image at the top of that article makes me feel.
So it seems there's some dodgy Michael-related karma about at the moment (just remembered about Michael Vaughan too!), which is why I'm barricading myself into the flat until something nice happens to someone with my name. It's the only safe option. Please let me know if you spot anything. In the meantime, I'll calm myself with the nice Kenny news.
Time for a few more of those 'escape' games (because it's Friday). You can now escape the basement, the living room, the kitchen or the bathroom. Or, you know, all four.
Couple of fascinating women's semi-finals yesterday, and as bad as Safina was (thus rendering my predictions USELESS), Venus is looking unbelievably good. As the commentators were discussing, surely if Venus wins tomorrow she can sit alongside the greatest Wimbledon champions of all time? This will be her eighth Wimbledon final, her fourth against her sister, and, if she wins, it will be her sixth title (matching Billie Jean King's tally) and her third in a row (the last person to do that was Steffi Graf). Roger Federer, meanwhile, has won five titles and appeared in six finals. He is considered one of the greatest Wimbledon champions of all time... surely Venus deserves the same credit?
Does anyone else feel that the 'media storm' around Andy Murray has been whipped up through gritted teeth? Is anyone seriously going to be that devastated if he loses to Roddick today? The only reason I'd be gutted is because Roddick doesn't stand a chance against Federer, so it'd be a waste of a final, whereas Murray can pose more of a threat. Also, it'd be great to get all this nonsense out of the way this year - if Murray was to somehow win the whole thing, all that stress and hype will disappear. If he fails, we've got another Henman on our hands, dragging the country through an emotional wringer each summer. That Stanislas Wawrinka bloke was incredible, though - I don't think I've seen a better backhand in my life.
Monsoon conditions up here in Liverpool, and it's been like this for a few weeks now. The rain has been hammering down at a 45-degree angle, bouncing off the roofs and window ledges, splashing onto me as I sit on the sofa. I love dramatic weather, and on Saturday night the taxis were swooshing through the river outside our flat, honking their horns as laughing, screeching people ran for cover. Then, come 1am, it was silent, save for the sound of further flurries, water hitting more water. The copper sky.
