Tuesday 2:
11.23pm, as good a time as any to begin; indeed, a better time than most. A satisfying sequence of numbers, though 1.23am is better. Me and my best friend used to wait for the digital numbers on her clock to redly glow out this sacred hour to creep downstairs for clandestine honey on toast eaten sticky-fingered in front of the late night TV we weren't supposed to watch, the volume turned down low.

Strange the significance we place on numbers.

About the same time we were sneaking around having midnight feasts, we invented a method of converting the letters in our names into numbers and adding them with the names of boys we fancied to determine our chances of luck in love. Otherwise wayward schoolgirls, we would spend hours in our diligent calculations. What complex systems we devise to make the mystical forces of love and destiny conform to the concrete logic of numbers.

Hardly a new idea though. Numerology is ancient - the ascribing of occult meaning to numbers to determine the significance and influence of names, dates, ages. And maybe here I have hit on the reason for my recent return to my numerical fixation: the close proximity of April 25.

Saturday 22:
An even-sounding day... Afternoon. Mountains alive with purple trees, fresh green expanses glistening in the spitting rain under swollen grey clouds. Bertha is loaded full of rucksacks and shoes, wellingtons and booze. B and B are bickering over music as usual. J and I dozing, waking to fight over toys, ask the requisite: "Are we there yet?".

L: "Is this our turning?"

B: "Nah."

L: "Sure?"

B: "Yep."

Later. Shit. Bertha is wedged across the pavement, between the pedestrianised town square (just driven across in error, to the consternation and amusement of onlookers), and a rather big drop down to the road.

Only one way to go, forwards. Unhealthy sound of metal scraping on concrete. Moment of tense silence. But everything remains intact. The four-hour "detour" up and down mountains, along flooded roads, around hairpin bends, spiked with the jagged rocks of recent avalanches has come to an end; we are  reasonably unscathed.

B: "C'mon, it was the scenic route," (sitting in the passenger seat, beer and fag in hand).

L: (glowering from behind steering wheel) "Bastards".

Later. The silver moon melts along the quiet rushing river, reflecting the canopy of stars edged by dense silhouettes of pine trees, encapsulating us in nighttime wonder. No breeze on my skin, neither hot or cold. Stillness.

Later still. Eight of us crowded around the table; blazing fire, wine-warmed blood and pink cheeks, Easter lamb licked from fingers.

Wednesday 26:
Feel surprisingly good. Walking through the park to work, light, warm breeze rushing over me, dandelions nodding in a sea of green. The air feels full of possibilities.

Thursday 27:
6am, I get into bed.   "It's 11am, it's time to get up. It's 11am, it's time to get up."

Goddamn alarm clock, what sadist thought up this stupid device?

J and I join in, mimicking the  soulless electronic voice. Headache, aaargh.

Walking through the park to work, close, sticky air clings to me. I wonder if every guy with a shaved head or big boots is from Ataka - they are holding a rally today - and is ready to beat me up for being a foreigner. Paranoid thoughts.

Midnightish. We finish cleaning the flat and unpacking the boxes that have been loitering in the bedroom since we moved in nearly a month ago. Pack up sleeping kids and bags and drive to S and E's where we are house-sitting.

1.23am (or thereabouts), cuddle up on the sofa feasting on baked beans and red wine, watch MTV.

Friday 28:
Stuck in traffic. Adrenalin from the past two long days has subsided, giving way to that sour, aching feeling in body and mind. Ripped police tape flutters outside NDK, riot police are  walking aimlessly. One leans against a tree, having a smoke. Feeling surreal. Listening to the same song again- another fixation, when I'm hooked on a tune I can't get enough - it's loud on the car stereo. The police striding in unison down the road, dark glasses, uniforms, swinging truncheons, look like they're in a music video - this is what happens if I don't sleep enough, watch too much MTV - become one of the dumb generation, reduce everything to style over substance. Trouble is, with their feigned nonchalance poorly disguising self-conscious swaggering, they look like they're thinking the same thing, living the same movie.

Monday 1:
9.31am, as good a time as any, a worse time than most. An unsatisfactory, jagged sort of number. Head hurts. Wine bottles and beer bottles on kitchen table. Ashtrays overflowing. Evidence suggests that yesterday's Sunday roast turned into an all-night session. Dim memories. Keep them at bay. Gather supplies: duvet, DVD - pull out Withnail & I, seems fitting. Go to fridge. All decent booze gone. Balls, will have to make a start on the bad stuff.

Tuesday 25:
J: "When I'm five, you're going to be four."

I: When I'm five, you're going to be six."

Conversations often start this way between these two. Today, it progresses in this way:

J: "Is it your birthday today?"

L: "Yes."

J/I: "How old are you?"

L: "How old do you think I am?"

I: "Umm...27?"

L: "Noooo!"

J: "Twenty-three?"

L: "Noooo!"

I: "Sixty-four?"

It continues in this vein, until:

L: "Yeah!"

J: "That's big! I'm not that big. I don't want to be a adult."

L: "So, when do you become an adult?"

J: (convinced) "When I'm 10."

I remember thinking that one day I would "become an adult", just like that, pass through a magic door into the world of grown-ups. I thought that adults had it all worked out. Yeah. Maybe on April 25, 2025. For now, I'm just waiting for...

Thursday 4:
04/05/06, 1.23am. A perfect time for toast.

Some things never change.