Oooh... a happy day.

I did not go to the opening night (what would have been) meal, and I feel better for it. Noone else did, I don't think.

I am with DB again, if only for ten minutes or half an hour- and this makes me inexorably happy. Our new person, KB, will be there as well- I will have to ensure that she doesn't tell LE. I told RA about my plan to go in for la petite francaise, and she said we'd just have to keep it quiet from LE, which I am more than happy about. I am also happy because, when I told DB that la petite francaise would be making an entrance and that I knew a bit of French, hence my presence, she said, "well, you're always welcome". I don't know if that's true or not, but I hope that I am welcome, actually and truthfully, and that it's not just something she says. With DB, I don't think anything is just something she says, because everything she says is imbued with meaning- she never says what she doesn't precisely feel. Her eyes bore into me and I go quiet and slow-witted, stuttering almost, and even vaguer than normal, which must irritate her.

What else was good? I spent a lot of time lazing today, because I wasn't needed. I felt I held my own a little bit in other things, and it was generally a useful day of sorting out odds and sods, and there'll be another one tomorrow. I spoke a bit of French, which is always a pleasure. It's far enough from the rejection onslaught, or just getting to be now. I watched one of my favourite films again (A Christmas Carol) and drew things that pleased me. I have consolidated the acquaintance of someone whose company I enjoy- so I know that two other people that I think are good don't think I'm rubbish. All of these factors have made me happy.

I skipped, on the walk. That is a sure indicator that things are better. I walked about six miles, all in all- one just before dinner, 5.2 afterwards.

KB is new to our post. I think she's ineffective; I mean, I'm ineffective but she's another kettle of fish entirely. I wonder what DB makes of her, as she's supporting? I know that I judge her instinctively; she's got a degree in English, yet she reads utter tripe- Jodi Piccoult books and so forth. She doesn't exactly look insipid, though this is the characteristic; her face is sort-of shiny, and she looks fairly bland. All sandy coloured, skin and hair blending into one matt tone. She never smiles with her teeth. She chooses to wear a great deal of purple, and her hair manages to be both flat and fluffy. Today it was a pair of blue-knit boots with pompoms; a style that spans the infantile and the dowdy in one easy swoop. She spends most of lunch brushing her lank mousy locks, which look as if they've been subject to a bowl cut. Or she checks her face. These small obtrusive vanities annoy me; if you look crap, just be satisfied or overhaul yourself, don't be checking constantly. She spends the rest of the time reading her substandard books. I wouldn't mind if they were good books, and another bugbear is that she's got nothing to say about anything; and it's not as if the conversations we have are boring. I would think that a reader would be able to be interesting- she isn't. And she thinks I'm good at my job, when I'm not- thus must be a bad judge. I feel almost as if she follows me about; sort-of crawls after me, lurking like a slug, though I know she doesn't. She's probably kind, or trying to be sweet. She failed a PGCE- how could she do that? I asked her if she'd had a good weekend- 'yes, but busy'. It turned out that all she'd done was get her computer fixed. I am happy not to be the shit one in our department anymore, but it irritates me that CB, who is brilliant at our job, utterly brilliant, has to leave after christmas and she doesn't.

Posterity.

I think that I might forget, in the future, for reference. So here, in a few words, is what DB is like. She's adored outright by all who know her. They all say she is charismatic, or has brass balls, or something brilliant, because she is, simply put. You cannot fault her excellence.

She is small and has got naturally curly bottle blonde hair with dark roots. I know this because I complimented her on it one day, "your hair's nice today", and she said, "it's just my normal hair", or something to that effect. Then there was an awkward silence. You don't realise she's small until she points it out, or in my case, until I stand beside her- and even then I just assume that I'm the giant.

She sounds as if she comes from Essex, but I can't be sure; she could equally be genuine East End. Somewhere round London, anyway. She's somewhere between chubby and thin, I can't ever quite fathom where. She's got quite a round middle, and thin legs and arms, and a round serious face with extreme eyebrows; they're very thin and they slant, almost into an M with the middle removed. She's got a delicate little pointy face, with browny eyes whose pupils seem to have expanded to fill the whole eye, white too, which gives her a sort of squinting, unblinking ardour (not unlike TV detectives, and she uses it to stare people down. "Yeah, and?" is one of her favourite phrases). Her mouth is very small and thin-lipped, so she can easily look severe, but it's a Cheshire cat grin when she smiles. I'd put her at thirtyish, or late twenties. She moves with a rollicking sort of walk and lunges when she's explaining things, from which I deduce that she might be fairly athletic. She's fairly pale, but does better in the sun than I would. Her face is round and not exactly carved; it's a face made from softness though she looks tough, and she's got a large forehead.

She's recently acquired bits of new wardrobe, but she persists in wearing a grey fleece on top of everything, so I assume that she feels the cold. I avoid fleeces, but when I see her wearing hers it looks lovely. Her hands and feet are small and neat, like the rest of her, and then it's sometimes topped by this mane of exploding blonde. She's just wonderful. I can't do anything except moon about and not make any sort of right impression. I wish I had a hint of what she thinks about me.

Good things about today.

1. I skipped a little bit on my walk home.

2. A maths person asked me if I was a mathematician, or had a maths brain.

3. I have cleared out my room and rearranged two of my draws. This is sad, but it has made me happy.

4. I shoplifted something for the first time. From a massive supermarket. My brother's girlfriend talks about it constantly, and it pisses me off that someone else shoplifts and I'm expected to just take it. And I wanted to try it, to prove that I don't always have to be good. I was nervous but I did it. A necklace and a bracelet. They're birthday presents for people. They weren't expensive but it was exciting. And I don't feel good. I felt really guilty, briefly. Now I feel glad I have done it, so that I can say I have and speak from experience.

Are charismatic people more likely to be psychotic? I spoke to someone today that described DB as charismatic. I don't know about that. Well, she is, but I always associate that word with cult leaders, and hypnotism. She's too loud and bouncy to be associated with those sorts of words; I always think that charisma and hypnosis have a quiet quality to them. Though I didn't think of her as loud until today, though of course she is. I felt quiet next to her; I reverted to the introverted bookworm type, I still do whenever she's about, I go a bit shy. She is charismatic. She is good at people, she's good at making them think and do and admire without even meaning to. She's good at appearing effortless with people and hardworking with the things that matter, like studies and making sure everyone's cared for sensibly; that is, without mollycoddling, but just with surety and capability. So I suppose that this is charisma, a kind of weird hypnotism with no ulterior motives, other than to be herself and to get people to learn.

Everybody else is doing it, so why can't I?

Well, I should start doing things if I want to be considered. I should start to follow things up. I will follow up Lau- I'll investigate and get back to her about dropping the thing she wants to drop and we'll see about it, and I will be capable too. I won't be a child. I'll be good.

Hm.

I went out with R last night and told her about Little Bird. Her reaction was pretty good, even though I couldn't really articulate properly what it felt like now. But I can't articulate that to anyone. It's a culmination of things; I don't really, really want her, but I do like her and I had wanted to hold her, in the past. Then there's the blunt edge of being rejected by someone else for something else; another reason that I am crap, which serves to bring me down further. But I can't tell R all of this because when I tell her about my problems, I'm always aware that they pale into insignificance compared to hers; so I should just shut up. But it was nice to be able to tell someone, and not have the reaction I'd expect from other school friends.

I went to town today but couldn't seem to focus on anything; I'm getting old, and everything seems commercialised. I don't want to buy things if other people are so intent on being mercenary about it. I always feel greedy and grasping by buying things other than food and essentials; with clothes, sometimes I get anxious after I buy something if it's not exactly what I want. Which is kind of good, I suppose, as it prevents consumerism for its own sake. I went in yesterday and managed to find clothes (which is a rarity for me)- but today I just felt vaguely nude. It's the same sort of feeling I get onstage sometimes, when I don't know what to do with my hands. I secreted myself in a bookshop- books are always a comfort- and read the first page of lots of tomes instead. I walked home. I'm not skipping again yet, but walking calmed me (because I was doing something with my feet and it occupies my mind enough to put me at a remove from a problem, like smoking). I will skip, but at the moment I just want to listen to comforting or sad songs and drag my feet a bit. Rejection of various sorts does tend to make me mope, it's ludicrous and self-serving and not at all useful, but there it is. I will indulge and then get over it.

Because I don't really want Little Bird at all, I want DB, because she's brilliant and inspiring and funny, and she gives me chances when I didn't think she would, and she is beautiful. Little Bird is all of these things too; but DB is just too cool for me, I think. Too good. Too clever, too quick, too bold and brave and all the things I wish I was.

She's a killer queen.

She was always strong and quiet, and watching, but tonight was different. She'd been stunned by my saying that I liked her in the way I did, but I couldn't gather the words back into my mouth and kissed her instead. It was a very neat kiss, with her hand on the side of my face, so neat. She couldn't think of anything, she told me afterwards. Like when you've been punched, but you don't feel it straight away. There are a few seconds when the world turns a shade greyer, for you to realise, before the colour seeps back in. And then we went to the grass that was wet with next morning's dew and lay. And she lay her head on my cold chest, to warm it, in her make up- red lipstick round her eyes and a pale, pale face. I was made up the same. She always was pale, and long and thin. But tonight she looked wild and weird, and she felt harder than I had expected. She still wore the dregs of newspaper that I'd taped on earlier for costume. She said, "I want to keep you safe"- she was shivering now, with her tights round her ankles, "does that sound strange?", and I said, "no", but it did. This little shaking thing, wanting to keep me safe, when she couldn't keep herself sound and safe. I couldn't trust her as much as I had. She shuddered. The moment had gone. I let her kiss my nose and put her hand on my cheek, but in the morning, when she put her arm around me, I moved away despite the coldness of the stone slate floor.

Ugh.

I am still in the pit.

B rang. I am meant to be a good friend, and yet, she's going through this terrible thing at the moment, and I'm moaning and whinging about far smaller things. Far more insignificant ones. She's talented and intelligent and she's going where she wants to go despite her Mum dying. I, on the other hand, sit and stagnate and whinge.

She's got a habit of glossing; she always glosses over unpleasantness, anything, and always ends on an upbeat note. Maybe it's because I'm so dolorous, but I can't fathom why; I'd just say that things are shit and let that be it. I don't know why she has to make everything good; it disconcerts me; where's her outlet? Because things aren't always good for her. I think she likes to do it by controlling things; by cooking for people and organising for them, things like that.

She asked me if anything had gone on with me romantically. I responded the usual, no. Of course... I couldn't say, "yes, me and Little Bird". Little Bird is our close friend. I would have liked to tell B, but I just couldn't because Little Bird hasn't told anyone, so neither can I.

Rejection, rejection, rejection.

And not being good at anything.

Today DB said, "Lau has started coming to my group, at lunch". I responded that it wasn't because of me (which is true- she'd done it after I talked to her). It's because of NG, who can work miracles (it seems to me). She's got life experience. I can put it on this. I can say, ah, it's because she's got experience that she can encourage teens to come in instead of skiving. It's because of the way she is. Another colleague, who's been there a matter of weeks, managed to sort someone out with mild schizophrenia. It's not that they can because of any number of reasons; it's that I can't, and I can't stand DB thinking I've done something good that I haven't done, any more than I can stand being rejected for this slew of things that I might have been alright at. It's so depressing; seeing her face light up in the corridor only to tell her, no, it wasn't me. It was NG, who she'd get on far better with. Another way to let people down and to let myself down; by not doing, by not being able to.

Walking on, walking on broken glass.

I can't bloody well...

do anything right. Or well. I'm always... good, or mediocre. Which translates as utterly shit. Another rejection; this time from someone who said I had, 'fantastic energy; I'd offer you the part on the spot now, guaranteed'. I must be so shit. 'I'd like to work with you in the future'. On fucking what? Why not just come out with it; 'you're shit, and you weren't as good as I thought you were', would at least allow us both to know where we stood. But no, people have to dress it up. It's all complete bollocks. I'm an untalented piece of crap, and what's the point in trying? He saw me in auditions, then decided that I was crap. Great. People give me a chance and I shit all over it.

MMcD is going to sort out my jaw. I don't know if I trust her or not; well, I don't, but I don't want her to think I'm affected by rejection, though I am, and I would like my jaw sorted. I like being in her company as well, even if she irritates me and doesn't tell me the truth.

Then there's work. I can't bloody mentor people. I want to turn people round on my own, without AG helping or anything- but this is unlikely because I can't hold a bloody conversation on my own with a kid for ten bloody minutes without feeling horribly awkward or deciding I'm bored or being tired. And then LE decides that I don't know what I'm doing- 'the best thing to do is leave KAG when she's like that'. No shit sherlock- that's why I asked her if she wanted me to stay or not, and she said yes, so I listened. At least I've got people skills, you arse. AG's right about her.

Drawing is pointless. I am not clever. I can see MH thinking, 'when the hell is she going to get this?', and she's given me so many chances to get it, to get into it. I am a slow learner. DB must think that I'm pathetic as well. I can't stand it, all these people that I hold on high (MH, DB, AG and MC) and I can't do what they do. I can't do things that they find so simple; and they can do everything that I can do, because I'm only mediocre at everything. Or worse.

Then there's Little Bird, another awkward conversationalist- but that's on her part, because now she feels awkward because of what we did together and now she doesn't want me. A tried and tested route; people think they want me, then delve a bit deeper and find out I'm crap. Bombazine is the same. Little Bird might have wanted me more but she sobered up and found out that actually, I'm not what she wants. I'm not what anyone wants in the cold face of sobriety or discovery. An epiphany of my own mediocrity.

I walked 5.9 miles today to sort this out in my head, and I hit some fences but it just feels like I don't want to jump any more, I can't be bothered with leaping because I'm fed up.

Nightwalking.

This is a thing that I do like, though I felt weighted tonight with everything. I didn't want to bounce; I wanted to balance and weep a bit.

I like it though. I can hit signs and bang the pavement with my feet and it's not odd. And the moon and the streetlights pick out different bits that you don't notice in the day; the red-brick cornicing on the cheapest shops that's been there since victorian times, the low-hanging half-cut orange moon that's broken in one place by a chimney, just for a few steps till I've turned the earth on itself and there's just that orangey orb again, almost like the sun that seems to wait for me round so many different corners, just for me because motorists won't notice it- they won't be looking. Eyes on the road. I like the way the wind hits my cheeks and spurs me to walk faster. I like seeing the stars. I even like the dew on my trainers and the way that nothing's strange at night because it's expected that night is strange.

Eating today:

an egg and soldiers-300

smoothie-120

biscuits-210

chocolate-120

750

sunday dinner-400

biscuits-120

chocolate-120

640

1400

And a 5.3 mile walk, which should burn off about 400 calories. The sunday dinner comprised of 3 roast potatoes, 2 mini yorkshire puddings, stuffing, carrots, broccoli and some other bits of swede and parsnip. And a little bit of chicken but some of it was purple, and that makes me feel strange about eating it because it brings home the fact that it's muscle I'm chewing.

Bugger. I could have been so bloody good in that fucking play, in two fucking plays, but no.

Argh, arrogance.

I didn't get it because it wasn't right. And who wants to work for someone that bloody patronising anyway?

Noone wants me.

Think I'll go and eat worms.

But it's true.

Well, I just had a message from him. He still wants me, but he's a narcissist and I don't want him any more. He's just too complex a prospect and I never relied on him for judgement, not really.

There's the dual rejection: Little Bird and MMcD, or theatre in general. And the fact that I'm rubbish at my job, despite having all the tools that should make me good. But no, I just loll about being crap; this is entirely under my control. I can't fathom how I am shit, but I must be doing the 'wind up' thing that AG and MC keep talking about- they say other people do it, but I must be doing it too or else the kids wouldn't respond to me the way they do.

And then MMcD. Alright, the rejection by amateur dramatics hurts; smarts more than I could know- but by her, it smarts more because though I can rationalise it (she's mean and nasty, she likes to draw people in and then knock them down, she's not that brilliant an actress) I know that she is an excellent director- she directs me well, and I would dearly have loved to be in a play with her directing. The other thing that kills me is the way she rejected me; she didn't just come out and say it, she felt she had to smother it with her wincing tone and say, 'this other girl looked so much like him, that's all, I thought you read really well'- when anyone with half a brain would have been able to see that I was six kinds of shit on the day- I was hungover and tired as hell. 'Keep trying, so and so directs too, you read really well'.

For god's sake. If I'd read that fucking well, you'd have cast me, so don't be trying to paper over the cracks. I was shit, and that's all there is. I'm strong enough to take that, you don't have to lie to me about my ineptitude that I'm all too aware of. It just makes me feel like an utter loser to have been rejected in such a patronising way. She is generally patronising- when she found out what I did for a living she said, "oh, good for you". I know what I'll say to her if she mentions it again- 'oh well, it's only amateur dramatics- something else'll come along". The other thing that irritates me is this thing about 'shapes'. She said that it was the 'shape' of the family she was looking for- but I know full well she means body shapes. And I ain't it. I bet she's cast some bloody sylph.

Everywhere that I've interned for, and countless others that have just ignored me, slough me off. There goes another one; she's shit, who cares, another one into the pot, off into the ether, that we've used and that's it. Fucking cunts.

Then there's Little Bird. At a time when I could really use someone to put my head against and just be soothed, there's noone. I learnt long ago to self-solace, but it's just been the worst time for anything to happen; just when I'm feeling like everything else is collapsing round my ears, she goes too and holds out something that could happen (and it does, inebriated and brief on a public lawn) and then says

no

that isn't what I meant at all

no regrets but

and it wasn't as if it could have worked out anyway; we've been friends for too long, she lives hours and hours away. I don't even know that I've liked her that way for a while, but then I did once we'd been together. It's just that now I could really use someone soft and kind that would listen and let me read books and watch crap TV quietly with them whilst stroking my hair. I don't want a lot.

And worse, it's mon anniversaire next week. The day I loathe and detest; another year, an inch closer to la grande morte and I'm still here, not out on my own, still working this job that I want to be good at but I'm not, still being crap at theatre, still written nothing worthwhile because I'm pouring all my creative juice into this at night. This vitriolic little epistle to myself. Ugh. Turn a new page, I'm just having a crap time at the moment. It's all momentary. I'll self-medicate with walking and cigarettes.

Oh, and it's so strange with you Little Bird.

And yet not strange, not strange in the least.

I'm sat here disappointed because the play's off and I'll never get to show people how good I could be. How good I know that I could be, if I'd had a chance... and I won't get to be in the next plays, because my face doesn't fit and because I didn't do my best. I am angry and sick at heart and almost relieved, that I didn't balls it up. Because I think I might. I can't do the things I'm good at and care about too much because I overthink, and then maybe I'm not that good? MMcD sometimes helps, but she won't anymore now that the play's off, and I won't be in her next one because I was useless.

And Little Bird. Oh god, what about Little Bird.

I keep sighing when I think back. I can't (couldn't) articulate what I meant. I spin and yearn on here, and then on crisp cold nights over cigarettes behind a van I'm stilted and monosyllabic. And is it any wonder that when the bloods come, it's suddenly easier because of her having eased the passage? It's a shock to find. Now I just want to do all sorts of strange things for her. And there's marks on the back of my coat, and she... is beautiful. Consolidating all of those things I'd wreathed in ephemeral wants for years and I think I terrified her because I wasn't as I usually am, and she was as she always is. I should have known that this was why it wouldn't feel strange, to be so close to her, because it was the reality (this is Little Bird, Little Bird) and then a realisation (of course it's Little Bird; it could be noone else) that made it feel out of and inside of at once. And suddenly, there's things there that I am thinking that are redundant now. Like I want her, when I'm disappointed and angry, to go night walking with and curl up with on a sofa to watch some dross. And how her body is firm and soft (and it is) and pretending won't do so easily. How she can sleep on slate. How I've always thought she was beautiful (always, before and after and during).