I like the calm before the storm. I am moving tomorrow. Its so serene and peaceful. Its the bit where you can sit back and think that nothing bad is going to happen and everything is going to be just fine. That lasted until about 11am.

"Hi MB, its your solicitors. I've got all your mortgage papers ready and just noticed that the price on the mortgage thing is 8 grand lower than the sale price on the contract. We need more mortgage documents! There's no way we can complete tomorrow."

I now face the possibility of being homeless tomorrow. And then on Saturday I'd have to start selling the Big Issue, while all my expensive Ikea furniture would be sitting in storeage. What type of cardboard box is best? I can get plenty of old Dell boxes, even if my very annoying collegaue won't let me take them. 5 minutes pass...

"Its me again. Sorry to panic you before but I read the figures wrong. Its all go for tomorrow."

And so mid afternoon, I decide to do a final ring round to check everything with everyone.

Mortgage broker: "Thanks for calling robin barsteward's mortgage brokers. Sorry but I can't come to the phone right now, I'm too busy playing Solitaire on the computer."

Vendor's Agents: "Everything better be Ok or we'll string you up to the nearest lamp-post."

My Solicitor:

"Looks like the previous panic wasn't wrong. There was a problem with the figures - we're going to be short a bit of money."

"Well I've already got a banker's draft for your (exorbatant) fees and the deposit. I can't get another one..."

"Can you not bring cash? Its only £30."

"Only £30? Well I've gotten use to just opening my wallet and letting people take money from it so why not."

And then Thunderbirds are go. I have a quiet night of packing ahead of me. Just put some stuff from the kitchen into boxes and I'm away. A nice serene evening overcoming the stress of the day.

And then I get the text. "Get down to Old Trafford Joel Glazer is there." So I do and take part in a five hour mexican stand off which ended at 11pm.

"If that happens one more time, I'm gonna leave it off."

My watch is annoying me. In the hot weather, either my wrist exapnds or my watch strap shrinks. The clasp on my watch is straining more than Michelle McManus' corset. It is a push and click shut strap on mine, like you only find on Argos' most expensively priced £19.99 items. I have done it up but it pops open again.

"Argh! I'm leaving it here." I put it down on the side of the sofa and go and help dish out tea. We are going to the cinema. We sit on the sofa and eat our Lasagne. It is not quite as burnt as I like it, the cheese is still runny.

"What time is it? My watch is on your side of the sofa" I ask, after using my last bit of garlic bread to mop up the runny cheese. "Its 6:28" came the reply. We have plenty of time. Batman Begins begins at 7:30. We start eating cherries. Since there is no gentlemanly way to get rid of cherry stones I have to excuse myself every two seconds to go to the bathroom.

"What time is it now? Do we have time for coffee?"

"We always have time for coffee. Hmm, that's strange its still 6:28."

"You're not reading the digital display are you? Because that's the date."

Its 7:45 and we've missed the movie. So we have time for coffee.

The church was a perfect example of a quaint village church. It had a green lawn with a tree hanging over the entrance to the church, it had olden style tombstones dating from the 1980s, a huge bell tower which dominated the village sky-line and a plasma screen just inside the door. They even had a WOMAN VICAR. I suppose if the Vicar of Dibley has done one thing, it has shown that just because a vicar has tits it doesn't stop her doing what vicars do - crack really bad jokes and annoy everyone. Without that show, a village like this would have dragged the WOMAN VICAR into the village square and stoned her to death.

The bride looked lovely. Well I say that only because that is what you're meant to say isn't it? But in my honest opinion she looked a bit pale and skinny. The ceremony was very short, which was a shame as the church was nice and cool. When we got outside, we threw petals rather than confetti because confetti can poison the flying rat, more commonly known as the pigeon. (Now I have learnt this piece of information, I will now be throwing confetti in Piccadilly Gardens every day.) I think I threw my petals to hard as I managed to knock the groom over.

The reception was a two minute walk away at the village hall. The bride and groom were obviously feeling lazy as, in a move which would please Two-Jags Prescott, they were driven there. The village hall looked like a Challenge Anneka Project which was completed in 20 minutes by builders who gave their labour for free if they could squeeze Anneka's bum and have their company name shown on the BBC for 10 seconds.

And so to dinner. The good thing about being a clued up metrosexual liberal minded wuss is coming to backward places like this and enlightening the locals with the latest opinions I have been spoon-fed by the Guardian. As I sit at the table, I decide which topics I will cover - Aren't asylum seekers great? I think we pay too little in taxes... Well burglars have rights too you know. How would you like it if we sent you out in a field and had you torn limb from limb by a pack of wild dogs?

The speeches were not bad, which, for a wedding, is a good thing. The father of the bride was, unintentionally, the funniest person. His voice quivered as he talked about how giving a speech was like a batsman being in the nervous nineties in his first test at Lords. If this was anything to go by, even Australia would've been able to get this guy out. But he did give us two juicy snippets of gossip, apparently the bride's been suffering from post-natal depression and her brother couldn't be there because he's had to go back to Lithuania with his wife, because she's having problems with her visa (the immigration kind not the credit card).

A wedding speech is the best place to air the family's dirty laundry.

I am off to a wedding. I have to drive a long way to the ceremony which is starting at 2pm. Ideally I should leave at about 9:30 to 10 but I decide to wait until after Ram Ray on Ministry of Mayhem in which Ray, a midget, dressed in an American Football Helmet, runs into doors trying to find one made of paper. Since it involves a midget, it is well worth being late for a wedding for.

I zoom down the motorway. The Police are too busy drinking coffee and catching up on their paperwork to be out stopping Motorists speeding so I can get away with driving at 72 miles per hour on the motorway. I use the new M6 Toll Road. *Information for my foreign visitors* We don't actually pay to use roads in Britain, apart from our road tax and the tax on fuel, so a toll road is a new concept for us.

This is my first time driving down it. Like the first time you used a CD and tried to put the record needle on it, there are teething problems with the Toll Road. I get to the barrier and only have two crisp ATM fresh £20 notes. The woman in the toll booth shoots me a look as I hand her the money, obviously impressed at how rich I am. Working in a toll both must be fun.

I arrive at my secret destination in the sleepy countryside of Oxfordshire with great ease, apart from being stuck behind a tractor pulling a caravan. 'They' always claim that it is hotter down south. Today that is true. I step out of my car and immediatley, the plastic lining in my underwear melts.

The village is picture postcard perfect. There is a village green, surrounded by a pub and a church. Kids play kids games on the grass, old men sit on a bench doing old men things, Mr Pullin, who is a miserable old sole, walks past them without saying a word and home owners lay in wait with their shot guns for the first sign of a burgular.

I go to the pub and change into my suit. Maybe its a village tradition that I am unaware of but the floor of the pub is covered in a clear liquid of unkown origin and the door does not have a lock on it. I have to balance on my shoes while leaning against the door as I try and get my suit trousers on. I cannot sit on the toilet as there is no seat. One leg on, two legs on, socks on, shoes on, shirt on and tie on.

I stide out at 1:50 and begin the walk to the chruch.

Continued tomorrow.

Disaster strikes! We have no electricity. I cannot have a cup of tea. I cannot read my Yahoo mail! while eating my bran flakes. I do not know what time it is as the clock on microwave has stopped and I do not have another clock. Apart from my battery powered alarm clock, my mobile phone, my watch and my iPod.

I eventually stagger out to the tram. Chaos has hit the Busy Road as all the traffic lights have stopped. Cars speed around the junction in a random manner, car horns sound, dogs bark at passers by, the crazy man with the billboard and rag and bone cart stands on the corner screaming "Repent your sins! The end is Nigh!" and the walls of the Big Office Building are bleeding.

I get to the tram stop and board the first tram that arrives. It travels 200m before the Emergency breaks come on and we're stuck. The driver comes on the loud speaker, "Sorry about this folks, normally when this happens we ask control for permission to continue and they say yes and we carry on. But he can't see us on his computer as he has no power." We are invisible. An eerie silence falls over the tram as everyone remembers "The Outer Limits" or "The Twilight Zone" and the realisation dawns onto the commuters that we have slipped into another dimension.

I look around the tram; there is an older lady wearing a blue cardigan who is clutching her rosary beads tightly and rocking back and forth saying her "Our Fathers". But there is hope! If we are in an alternate universe then there is a very pretty brunette wearing a summery red and orange prairie skirt who would make the perfect person for me to start to repopulate this universe with. I am just about to approach her and make this suggestion when the driver tells us we are leaving the tram.

"I need a strapping young man to come and help these ladies jump down." I was there in a flash. I sweep the brunette off her feet and lifted her gently down to the ground. She says "Thanks." I think she fancies me. We take the long walk back up the tracks towards the station across a Mad-Max like barren wasteland. When we get there, I fully expect to find a town full of zombie people or that in this Universe Hitler won the war.

We arrive at the station, I pick up a copy of the Metro and find out that asylum seekers and travelers are to blame to everything.

I am a law abiding subject. I believe that if something is a law then it there to protect me and I should revere that. I have a respect for the law (apart from music copyright). Actually, to be more concise I don't have respect for the law, but rather I have a fear of prison, even though Ronnie Barker in Porridge, Pele in Escape to Victory, Morgan Freeman in The Shawshank Redemption and Michael Clarke Duncan in Green Mile have shown that prison can be a fun place.

Ok, so I'll drill down even further, I don't have a fear of prison per se. I actually have a fear of being taken up the wrong'un by a large man with tattoos all over his body, who insists on stroking my hair and calling me Abigail. Now, that may sound paranoid, and slightly homophobic, but its kept me on the straight and narrow.

It even kept me form stealing a tram today. I was sitting at the very front of the tram when they changed drivers. The first driver, who looked resplendent in a "lovable rogue Lovejoy" like mullett, got off and left the door to the cab slightly ajar. Being a tram geek, I was itching to sneak into the driver's chair. I'd press the little black button, to close the doors, and push the little lever forward and away we'd go. Zooom!

It'd be easy. I could get away with that, bit of TDA never hurt anyone. I'd go to exotic sounding places like Pomona, Navigation Road, Mosley Street (only if traveling South) and Besses o'th' Barn. Of course, I may be stealing a tram but I wouldn't want to give away my identity to the Police, so I'd still stop and pick up passengers and remember to announce what the next stop was.

But in the end, I'd have to give myself up. I mean where would I actually take the tram? When I'm done with it, its not like I can take it round to a garage and have it broken down for spare parts, is it? Or is it?

The definition of confusion: Father's day in Liverpool.

I don't usually celebrate Father's day. I don't need Clinton's and Hallmark to tell me which day I have to show my dad how much I appreciate him, how much I love him, how wonderful he is for all that he has done for me and how greatful I am that his wallet spreads as wide open as Abi Titmus after one glass of white wine every time I say "Hello".

I also don't like the idea that its only fathers (and Mothers. And Grandparents. And Secretaries / Personal Assistants.) that get a special day. When is there going to be a single person home owner who blogs day? And there's one more reason why I don't celebrate it - I'm as tight as an EU financer asked to give Britain back a few billion pounds for no aparent reason.

But my older sister, the one who spends most of her time living with a bunch of crazy psychopaths - or Londoners are they're also known, always buys the most extravagant gifts and wraps them up with little purple ribbons which are curled using the back of a comb. She isn't allowed to use scissors anymore - not after the last incident.

So her generosity forces the rest of us to buy him stuff. I bought him some tickets to see the Tickling-stick maestro from the Jam Butty mines of Knotty Ash, Mr Ken Dodd.

Buying the tickets puts me a position of power.
I can insist that he doesn't take me.

My morning has been pant-tastic. Pants to the left of me, pants to the right of me.

Now it is incredibly sexy when a girl shows the top of her thong above her low cut jeans. That little bit of lacy, black material just popping out from above some stone-washed browny blue jeans. Especially if it's accompanied by a slightly tanned stomach that is so flat you could break the land speed record on it.

The pink haired girl showing two and a half inches of blue thong today - that is not sexy. That is my-one-dream-in-life-is-to-appear-on-Trisha trashy.

And then to cap my morning off, I am working to my place of work, which if I named I would have to kill you, and I pass this young man. I do believe that it is common place amongst the younger generation, who are into the loud music and the skateboards, to wear very low baggy trousers. I'm not Trinny nor Susannah so I don't really care what sort of monstrosity people wear.

But this guy was not showing off the top of his pants but all his pants. I could see the bottom of his bottom. His pants were blue-y grey and on show in full glorious technicolour, with added skid marks.

I was just about to go over and tell him to pull them up and then I realised that I wasn't his mother, so probably shouldn't.

"But I'm really desparate!" pleaded my mum.

"I don't care, you can't!" Maybe I'm being a bit too harsh, but the line has to be drawn somewhere.

I am at my new flat taking some measurements and looking around. Mr Dave, the foreman and builder of my future home is showing me around. He shows me the coded entry system. "If you forget your key, all you have to do is push Code and then 8752. The door will then open." He pulls the door. It is locked. "I don't think I was quick enough. I'll try again."

This time the door opens but it was opened from the inside by a shaggy haired tall gentleman. I look my new neighbour up and down and in true English fashion take an instant dislike to him. He is, I think, the sort of person who will be burning insence and listening to Oasis till the early hours. And once more in true English fashion, I hide my dislike of him, smile and say "Good Morning!".

The carpet is down and kitchen appliances are in. Mr Dave takes me round and shows me the boiler, the gas taps, the fuses, the extractor fans and the bondage dungeon. He still has to do some stuff around the flat but he leaves us to take measurements. And that is when my mum breaks the news.

"I need the toilet."

After 5 minutes of badgering about how she's going to explode if she doesn't go, I finally allow her to use the guest bathroom. I check that the toilet flushes, I am not having a floater sitting in my flat for two weeks. She goes but comes out looking all embarassed. "I seem to have made a mess of the bowl. It wasn't really my fault, it came out at the wrong angle."

Sure enough there was a big brown stain on my nice new clean white toilet bowl.

Bloody Labour Government and their stealth taxes!

The way they attack small businesses, with their endless mountains of paperwork and steath taxes, is horrendous. It causes them un-due pressure and forces them to raise prices and thus annoy the hard working families which make up their customer base. As an influential blogger who holds sawy over the opinions of literally 10 people, I decided I must speak out against this trend.

What has brought this rant on? I hear you ask. Starbucks have raised the price of an Americano from £1.75 to £1.85! That is a rise of 5.7% which is three times the rate of inflation.

(To gain extra marks I will show my working:
0.10 / 1.75 = 0.0571
0.0571 * 100 = 5.71%
The Bank of England puts inflation at 1.9%
5.71 / 1.9 = 3.0
QED a rise of three times the rate of inflation)

I cannot take this. I demand that every sane, coffee drinking person in Britain take up arms against the Government and march on Downing Street. The Goverment may have fended off the lentil eating, hippies in the anti-war movement but they've never faced anything like a 20-something Bridget Jones wannabe who hasn't had their morning caffine fix.

And we must bring this government down! Because it has to be their fault. Surely it can't be Starbucks' fault - could it? They are just a simple business, exploiting an addiction which is stronger than heroin. They are just a tiny multi-national profit hungry company who want to squeeze every last penny out of their customer. So it would be wrong to blame them wouldn't it?

A time comes in a man's life where he has to face down his fears and stare them in the eye and say "Enough is enough. You will no longer have a hold over me and I refuse to be afraid of you." I bare down on my nemesis. My eyes are locked on it. My heart beat quickens and palms moisten. I know this is illogical but I have fear running through my veins.

I am having to use the third treadmill from the left hand wall of the gym. We have a chequered history. It has tried to throw me off twice. After the second time, I vowed never to use it again. But this time, it is the only treadmill available.

The first time, it decided that every minute it would lower its speed without telling me. Anyone who has run on a treadmill will know that this can throw you off - a lot. The second time, the treadmill decided to position itself the furthest possible distance from the TV that is showing the Simpsons. It was a good episode, the Monorail one. So I strained my neck to see it, and the treadmill moved and before I knew it I had hit the side of it and was stumbling. I managed to regain balance but not before I had every gym instructor running over to admonish the treadmill.

As I place my towel over the top and my water bottle down the side. I stare it down. I start trash talking to it, "You don't scare me, I'm da big dog in this gym. I knew ya momma, she was so fat, her blood type was gravy. She was so stoopid she could trip over a cordless phone" Everyone in the gym looks over and sees how serious I am.

All goes well. I start thinking that maybe I have mis-judged this treadmill. And then it strikes. After 4.97km of the 5km I was running, it decided to wobble under me and my foot nearly hit the side.

But I regained my balance in a second. "Is that the best you've got?" I shouted. "You're pathetic!"

MB 1 Treadmill 0

I am buying a flat. Its not the one that I had a look around but it is on the same development and a stone's throw from that flat. I know that because I threw a stone and it hit the other flat. I have to meet with my mortgage guy because we are aiming to complete before Australia win the Ashes. So that gives me about 2 weeks.

He is coming to meet me in the canteen of a place which, if I named, I would have to kill you. He is in a rush as he isn't being paid by the hour. He takes a deep breath in and begins talking very quickly.

"Well I have this mortgage from Halifax, which is a special offer to my company. Its about something something something. And then there's something something something. And you have to pay something something if you do something something. This is what it looked like before being soaked in Cillit Bang and ten seconds later its clean. Mallet's Mallet is a word association game, you mustn't pause, you mustn't hesitate, or else you get a bash on the head like this or like this, the one with the most bruises loses and our first word is...."

Or at least that is what I think he said. I kinda drifted off in the middle. As soon as I heard the words Halifax, my mind started replaying the 'hillarious' ads with Penfold from Dangermouse singing away. And I started to worry, would I be endorsing the use of rotund singing men from Birmingham if I signed up for this mortgage?

"So if you want to take that mortgage then sign here." he said.

I take the pen and sign.

Its one of the hardest decisions I have to make on a day to day basis. I can spend hours agonising over the choices. Don't get me started on the problems I have deciding if I should watch Big Brother or Celebrity Love Island. And I can spend hours arguing with myself over if I should use the :) smiley or if I am actually happy enough to use :D

For life and death decisions like these, I try to gain all the information I can. I do not want to be branded an ignorant racist by disregarding the works of certain artist but it is one of life's key turning points - deciding what to read while on the toilet. I do not buy a daily newspaper or this problem would be solved, I prefer to steal my news from impartial bloggers and the Guardian’s RSS feed. I have several choices:

• Pick up the latest copy of Men’s Health, although looking at muscular men on the toilet is not something I am inclined to do.
  
• Flicking through City Life is usually a good way to pass two minutes but I feel that this could be a longer appointment.
  
• Books containing collections of comics like Dilbert are perfect. As each cartoon only takes thirty seconds to read, a reading session can be perfectly tailored to fit the length of time available. So if anyone wants to buy me one……
  
• These new mobile phone-thingys offer a range of games which are ideal for playing on the toilet but most require concentration.

In the end I have settled for the good old fall back and use the Argos catalogue. Oooh, look! They have 66 x 54in Pair of Lima Tab Top Curtains in Spice. And they have tie backs!!!

Damn! I’ve no time to look at the calligraphy curtains in terracotta, its time to flush.

I had a haircut. Being one of these swish urbanite metrosexuals, my haircut is as important to me as Wellington boots are to "them there country folk".

I avoid "Male only" hairdressers as they tend to be for real men who have dirty fingernails who do hard graft and manual labour like builders or lawyers. Given the complexity and girly-ness of the treatments I get on my hair, I find it necessary to pick a unisex hairdressers.

I was worried. My usual hairdresser was in Amsterdam and I was booked in with A MAN. I have a simple rule when it comes to guys cutting my hair. It is imperative that he at least acts gay, even if they are as straight as George Michael, it helps keep up the ambiance. As soon as I walked in, I saw he was wearing a tight leather trousers and after 5 minutes I ascertained that he lived with a big bald guy called Kevin. I was happy.

The young YTS hair washer took me over the sink. I started leaning back with my head dangling over the bowl. Not the most comfortable place you could be in. She lathers, rinses and repeats. She is very slow and this is getting quite painful.

She then adds the conditioner. I can no longer feel her rubbing the back of my head. Has she stopped? No wait, I have lost the feeling in the back of my head. This progresses into the back of my neck. She rinses the conditioner and adds the colour sealant. By this time, I have lost all feeling in the upper half of my body.

"Right we're done, you can go back over to the chair."

I go to put what I think is my arm on what I think is the side of the chair and miss completely. And end up like a prat on the floor.

One of my favourite movies is Cube. I found myself in the same situation today. No not trying to escape from a room whose walls will suddenly turn into a criss cross of chicken wire and dice me up smaller than the "Ultimate Slice and Grate" available only from Deal of the Day TV and at a knockdown price of £19.99.

No rather I was stuck in a place with someone I didn't know and had nowhere to go. I could tell he was going to be chatty because he started discussing the weather almost immediately.

It turned out he was a photographer and liked going on and on about photography which meant we had something in common because I like avoiding having to say anything strangers. He took bland / artistic shots of places and objects that he then sells as packages to people who need smiling lady pictures which show nothing but are a main stay of any corporate website.

"And I've been taking lots of photos to do with bestiality too." My ears prick up. "I mean there's been so much in the news recently about bestiality and you always hear people going on about a bestiality problem with children. I posted them on my website as I thought they would come in handy."

I don't exactly sit with my head in the sand. I read the papers (or at least their website - I mean why pay 60p for the Grauniad when I can get their news for nothing) and I watch the news but I don't remember hearing anything about a huge spate of animal shagging. As far as I can tell the five stories I have read this week are about average for England. I have deliberately excluded Wales from this average.

"No wait.... I don't mean bestiality do I? I mean Obesity."

Which is an easy mistake to make.

If Richard Branson and Stelios Haji-Ioannou really were entrepreneurs then surely they wouldn't be squeezing the profit margins on cheap flights to some one Starbucks town in Poland or installing casinos in their jumbo jets. No. If they were really interested in making loads of money then they'd open a shop for men which stocked presents for female relatives that they are too embarrassed to admit they don't know as well as they should.

It's my sister's birthday and I need a gift. Since she is now over 30 and well into old age, I ran out of interesting ideas for her ages ago. Last year I got her a see-through tea pot. Boring but practical. And I had had a tip off from an inside source (her husband) that she wanted a tea pot. So I got one. Why can't all present getting be this easy?

I am tempted to get her a herd of goats from Oxfam but I'm worried she may think that this is too practical. She's not the sort of person to squirm with un-ease when unwrapping a present that is of no use to her at all and sit there muttering niceties while actually wishing she was unwrapping the new White Stripes CD. She would see the practical side of it and love me for thinking of someone less fortunate.

We can't have that.

I spend several hours wandering around the very large covered shopping centre that may or may not be near my home and during this time I can hear the distant call. "Heeeeellllooo! I'm easy and practical and you know she'd like me. C'mon who could not like the special blend of bland, un-interesting and inoffensive clothing I can be exchanged for. Y'know Next Vouchers make sense."

And then I realised why Stelios is too busy charging £5 for a cheese sandwich and not opening a new line of shops. Because someone has beat him to it.

Thank the Lord for "The Pier"!