Yeah, yeah, camera phones are shit, I know. Giving up smoking is so deeply earling difficult. Now, I guess most of my mates already know that I ain’t really giving up for the sake of my lungs or heart. Despite Dr Ian Gibson, MP,’s excellent course “Genes in Action” (BIO-3C07) when I was a student of his at UEA, the real reason I give a toss about giving up smoking is because smoking is bad for my stomach. Now I’ve been very ill with my stomach so far this year — and becoming more reclusive because of it, too: feeling less and less comfortable with going out to places; not good when you have a new boyfriend who wants you to go to meet his friends and stuff. I came off nicotine patches in mid-January, having finished the course. Since then, most evenings have been topped with a small spliff and I know that I’ve been trying to fool myself it was to chill and not just for the nicotine in a joint. In the last two or three weeks, my narcotic intake has increased, but little else has changed — my diet and alcohol intake aren’t pticly different from the previous few months. I mentioned all this to Scott on Monday, when we met up over lunchtime, and he suggested that might be what’s making my stomach worse. So I decided I’d see if I could manage a week without any of that (or any nicotine) would help my stomach. I’ve lasted not quite 36 hours. I’ve been climbing the fucking walls all day; I broke (and then fixed) the fridge earlier because inanimate objects were stressing me out (obviously). Watching Shameless (fucking good ep next week, notDan) — with pretty chav boys again on Ch4 and then on E4 for next week’s — with Lip and Ian spliffing their way through both eps didn’t help either. Realised I was too stressed to sleep, despite being shattered. So fuck it. I just hope I can sort my bloody stomach out sometime soon. My head too. There’re two OUT events coming up I’d love to do — one in Dublin that Ebby, Alan and Rob are organising; one in Las Canarías that OUT is organising — and I dared’n’t. The only time, at James’s, when we ventured much further than Brian’s house was when we had a fab night out in Limoges, where I ended up curled up in a ball in the cubicle, in Limoges’s only^W hippest gay nightspot, trying to calm myself down from a panic attack. I’ve managed to call the osteopath this year, maybe I should call the hypnotherapist as well. On the plus side, both Scott and Rob are being really helpful with stomach stuff at the moment, so I’ve got good moral support, which really helps. San Ffolant* coming up. Not sure what to get Des and a bit worried that he’s gonna wanna do something big and romantic (clichéd or otherwise) and then get upset if I don’t say “I love you” at him. He’s an absolute sweetheart, but I’ve only known him just over a month; I can’t fall in love with someone that quickly. In lust, sure, and I definitely lust after him, but not love. I’ve known love, with Scott, I know what I feel now isn’t what I felt — feel — for him. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be. But how does one say that to someone who’s besotted with you and just wants to hear three little words? Work’s goin