Life on the list

Over the summer I had an extensive and cathartic clear out of my bedroom. In addition to the bags of total and inexplicable shit that went straight into the bin, I filled two of those large, blue Ikea bags with clothes and lugged them over to my nearest Marie Curie charity shop. I walk past this shop often and in the weeks following my donation I took the time to carefully study the window display, certain that I would see my wares on the mannequins, said wares being exponentially cooler than the offerings of the Islington Blue Rinse Brigade. I stopped every time I went to the gym, peered over from across the road when I went to Tesco and had a gander on my way to my therapist's - but nothing. The mannequins continue to be dressed in the two-tone taffeta and linen trousers that epitomise charity shop couture. My trendy cast-offs are nowhere to be seen and when the Islington branch of Marie Curie Cancer Care is repulsed by your sartorial choices, you start to ask yourself some ques...

It didn't work out with the Irish Guy. He turned out to be a bit crazy-bananas. The experience has confirmed that I don't want a boyfriend, but almost everyone under thirty that I know is either happily ensconced in a long-term relationship, or is dating and about to become ensconced in a long-term, happy relationship and if I don't get in on the act I am destined to spend Saturday nights alone until I die or I fashion a life partner from a mop and a pumpkin and call him Christophe - whichever comes first. I like doing my own thing and I value my free time; after work, hospital, the Masters, the Book and some occasional, watered-down socialising, I don't seem to have a lot of free time left. That which I do have I would rather spend on my sofa watching The West Wing with Bear and some custard cream than in a pretentious wine bar straining to hear some guy, who I know won't ring tomorrow, despite what he says, bloviate about the merits of golf/the NME/ his ex-girl...

It is Saturday; it is almost half past one, pm, and I am still in bed. This is unusual for me; I should have cleaned the kitchen and gone to Pilates by now, but I have spent the last hour reading The Guardian online, cuddled up with Bear. I have not taken to my bed amidst a wave of Victorian hysteria: I have just finished a week of hilariously entitled "twilight" dialysis sessions. I do not like to shake up my routine - I am quite the curmudgeon in this regard. But this week I was required to attend a Group Relations Conference in advance of the start of year two of my Masters and it ran from 9am - 6pm as of Monday, leaving no time for afternoon dialysis and only just enough head space to have a crack at the Evening Standard crossword each night. In order to make the conference I opted to do a week of twilight dialysis sessions rather than die. The term "twilight", when you exorcise the ghastly tweenie Vampire thing, suggests soft, romantic dusk light, a gentle ...

I have gone back to work which means summer is officially over, although you probably already know that if you have been outside recently or seen the mince pies in Sainsbury's. But hell, what a summer it has been. More has happened in the last six weeks than in the last six months and my associated emotions have been more up and down than Jordan's knickers. It started horrifically, with the news about my chances of getting a kidney from The List - this I received on the very first day of my summer holiday. Darkness followed. Then, from out of the gloom, emerged the Olympic flame and slowly, slowly, I found my way back to the light. My God, the Olympics were amazing; I loved every track-burning, high-jumping, triple-piking moment and it proved my salvation. I was overwhelmed by pride in our athletes, as well as the sensational atmosphere in London, but nothing takes the mind off one's dismal transplant prospects quite like three solid hours of handball. The sun came out....