I once made light of Delta Goodrem's cancer in a supermarket queue while Blockhead was with me. The impulse buy stand was filled with magazine after magazine crowing about 'Delta's dreadful plight' or 'Delta's brave fight' or 'Delta Delta Delta!' and too much Delta and no Jessica Simpson (secret confession: I have a total, inexplicable boner for Jessica Simpson) make Rachael go crazy. 'It's such a publicity stunt!' I fumed. 'She's not princess fucking Di! She's some scrag from Neighbours who figured out the virginal act is popular with the under thirteens! I mean, cancer is bad and all but it's so fucking tacky that they're milking it like that!'

The middle aged woman behind us, with the bristly middle aged woman short haircut and a nose like a strawberry, crossed her sweatered arms across her chest and huffed. She was going to feel sorry for Delta no matter what.

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I'm all moved in and aside from a few mental sinus clearing pangs of homesickness it's all good. Our nearest neighbour drives a BMW and looks awfully professional but still offered to help a greasy, sweating me with my boxes and Ikea shrapnel and so on. My housemates are marvellous. They took me to the pub Saturday and bought me beer, and last night they humoured my disaster movie obsession and watched 'War of the Worlds' with me. Everyone has dogs. School, however, does not start until Wednesday, so I have an awful lot of time to kill until it does.