"Italia! Campioni del Mondo!"

So, Italy won the football. This is a Good Thing, since their players are prettier than the French ones. Luca Toni's new haircut, however, is not a Good Thing, as one could almost call it Short.

I've come to the realisation I'm doing Too Much Stuff. Following my slightly scary cinema visit on saturday, during which I realised that I was the only member of the audience that wasn't Irish and had to sink deep into my seat while everyone else shouted obscenities at the on-screen Black and Tans, I clambered up onto the roof of St Michael's to deliver some food to my rooftop priest (sorry, Deacon). It's very high. Quite glad I didn't volunteer to sleep up there. Braving Camden Odeon again on Sunday I saw the next installation of "Pirates", and concluded there are worse ways to spend three hours of your weekend. Johnny Depp is still rather wonderful, and while some of the effects are a bit cliche and the story somewhat spurious, it's worth the money, patricularly when you get a student discount. My cinema weekend does mean, though, that I was subjected to three "Try Not To Die On The Roads Or Kill Anyone Else On The Roads" ads.

Then on Monday I met up with "My Director". I just thought I'd slot that in because I like being able to say "My Director". The reason I have a director is that Hampstead Theatre, for whom I completed two Equal Opportunities monitoring Forms (see January posts) are putting on a scene from "Ducklings", my artier/soppier rewrite of the Play Formerly Known As "Hell and High Tide". My Director is about 45 going on 19 and calls me "Darling". He was at pains to point out my working class characters are not stereotypes (cheers!) and was not thrilled at being made to go up to the counter just to ask for a Latte.

In the meantime I have also finished my dissertation, and as a result have signed myself up to go to Palestine (if indeed Palestine hasn't been bombed to shit by next June.) I have been warned not to stand in front of any tanks or Caterpillar bulldozers. Please rest assurred that I am neither than brave nor that daft, plus my lovely boss is giving me the time off even though it's during term, and will not be thrilled if I'm returned in a box.

On which chirpy note, I plan to go home tonight, cook chilli and listen to the Morrissey CD I finally acquired last week and have only since listened to once. There's only so much excitement you can take in one go, and inside me there's a very mundane, middle-aged woman screaming to get out.