"In my day, all of this stuff would have been on fire." Frank, 57, anarchist.

When I put on his jacket I felt them there in the inside pockets - the shoes he'd worn when he was younger - and there were still blades of freshly cut grass in the tread of their tiny soles... My full stops are in all the wrong places.

When I answered the door, I'm fairly certain that my nob was hanging out. The cleaner said that she'd come back later, but why wake me up to tell me that?

The windows don't open far enough - you can barely get your head out - to suck in some cooler air. It's too warm in here - but the source of the heat remains a mystery.

I want to help you but when you get down I feel it too. We'll have to phone someone else - see if they can help.

Oh you have it all worked out but then when it comes to sitting down and doing it, well... it's just a million and one disgarded milk cartons. It's always some beefy middle aged skin who feels that it's his duty to force his way between two tiny kids to get to the front and shout for songs by some other band.

So I'm forced into closet space. USB compatible shampoo and wall paper made from what is obviously someone else diary - if they ever find out...

Only the bottom half of her legs were shaven. I think I might have to be ill for a while. I'm feeling sort of cold in my bones... I've been trying on clothes I haven't had on in years. I still don't look mature enough to wear them.

Roll[o].