The only thing to think a propos a long and tedious digression about how ulcerating wounds are cleaned, or treated, or something - I never was quite sure - in Nigeria. All very interesting on a purely intellectual level, but a bit annoying for a girl like me who is rather more interested in how wounds are treated in the average London teaching hospital. Call me parochial if you like, but I honestly can't see how wound care in Nigeria pertains to my training to be a nurse in England.

Ah, ulcerating wounds. The only thing to discuss just before lunch. Perhaps that's why I'm skipping lunch in favor of playing round on the Internet. Not that I'm particularly hungry anyway. I never am at lunchtimes, not that anyone's interested.

Today's irritation: Commuter Irritations. Yes, I am irritated about commuter irritations, and why? Well, if the average commuter is to be believed just about the only thing we are allowed to do on public transport is stare straight ahead and feel our withered souls start to atrophy that one bit more. Seriously, you cannot do ANYTHING on public transport without being made to feel like some kind of deviant. Listening to music, reading broadsheet newspapers, putting on make-up, talking to your neighbor or having the temerity to *gasp* eat something are all heinous crimes in the warped reality commuters inhabit. The minute we get onto a bus, we are suddenly supposed to possess all the humanity of a Sinclair Spectrum. Just who thought this was a good plan?

Still, if you've ever traveled on a bus with the average homeward-bound London adolescent, you can perhaps understand where this idea comes from. Much as it pains me to say this, London adolescents, but the rest of us do not care whether or not you think Shanice's new hairstyle is 'shit' or how unfair it is for 'that bastard' Mr. Gibson to give you a detention for failing to hand in your coursework. Why aren't any of you capable of having a conversation at a normal, human volume? Why shout so loudly that women sat at the other end of the bus (namely: me) are fantasizing about filling your mouths with cement? I'm twenty-two years old, but present me with kids like this and I suddenly metamorphose into a Grumpy Old Man, Bob Geldof hair and all.

It is a fine line on which we walk.

(Yes, I am still in a good mood, though. I'm just complaining about commuters because hey, when you travel on buses twice a day you get plenty of time to observe the habits of your fellow suffere-- uh, fellow commuters. And get irritated to the nth degree by the adolescents. It scares me... I was a teenage schoolgirl only four years ago myself and already I'm completely fed up with teenagers. Oh well, whatever.)

Oh, and this complacent kitty head here reminds me of Youji. Yes, I am a pathetic fangirl.