They'll be Blue Birds over...

...the white cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, when the clown is free.

FREEDOM! I won't let you down, I will not give you u-uh-up...

Sing it Old war time singer and George Michael, that's right, sing off. Okay George is stoned and the dead war time singer has a better voice from the grave than a stoned George Michael but you get the picture.

Happiness.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew, cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two? Well, the Candyman can...but I bet you he's English...alright he's American but he speaks English. Didn't he have a room full of bees?

So people what have we learnt since school ended and Mickey and I seperated and Paris went back to being that city that looks well cool from a distance? Well one thing is that the intial thought is that the blog might just continue...at least until I go to rehab and or get whisked off my feet into the arms of Jared Leto or some such man or do some acting work, succeed in being the clown we are making me and forget who you are. Because yes I do have my diploma and thanks to my sister comedy large feet but I am still taking public transport and about to start begging for work and my supper. The scary thing is that if the blog continues I can no longer pretend it is for the amusement of me and my sister as we speak over an ocean (alright a channel but it felt like an ocean) and I may have to take it seriously. I have readers to think about. Oh yes people, don't be fooled this blog even gets hits in Iran. I'm GLOBAL. Or delusional.

So on that serious note...bums and farts. There I said it.

But getting down to brass serious tax here, what have we learnt? Well, as I have long since suspected I am flaky and prone to forgetting pets as soon as they are out of sight. Mickey who? My Mum's laptop is the most annoying thing since the French and my own laptop. Glastonbury is the greatest place on earth. Beer can replace well balanced meals and muddy boots clean themselves. No really. And Sleeping with the Enemy is a trully horrifying film. For more reasons than one. Not least the scary American curly mullet sported by the 'good' guy. You know the hair I mean, featured in Levi's adverts and American films in the late 80's and early 90's. So much better than the German straight haired version. Craig Maclachlan. Now you're picturing it. How can you cast a good guy with hair like that? He was scarier than the wife beater. I appreciate that the film makers want to raise pulses and get us questioning but if a man said to me the day after we had our first dinner 'We have to be honest to each other or it ends here' 'I don't know how I can feel what I'm beginning to feel if I don't know who you are' I would be imagining my own grisly death and running screaming to the police before he could say 'I don't even know who Ted Bundy is'. Which, if I'm honest neither do I, was he killing men or women? She just faked her death to escape her husband and you want to pin her down before you've even kissed her? Curly Mullet, chills literally just ran down my spine. RUN Julia, RUUUUNNNNN! However he did win it back slightly when he displayed that element of control we women do love...no not the 'put the towels in a straight line or I'll beat your face' type of control but the kind where a man puts the ladies hands on his waist and sweeps her into a dance in the presumptive manor of only the confident and well, frankly bullshitting man. But I like it. Yes, yes I will dance with you...oh wait I already am. Good move. Smooth. Oh shit, I just looked at your hair again.

What else have we learnt? It would appear that like any self respecting man of all ages I have an adverse reaction to the words 'commitment' and 'permanent' unless followed by the words Jared Leto, Johnny Depp or any number of generic rock stars that I have a crush on. Wow, even as I wrote Johnny I felt that usual sense of panic around the words again. I think I may have moved on...

Pause.

Yep, I am realising that two years in France without even a sighting has left me angry enough to say 'Screw you Johnny, Vanessa can keep you, I don't want you, you, you, you, old man who will one day look old, you, Kate Moss' leftovers' Which puts him in a category with Pete Doherty. No, I can't go that far, that actually makes me want to cry in remorse. I don't mean the Pete bit Johnny. Don't ignore me.

Now, bugger off, I'm going to go and cry over Johnny and watch an episode of Coast to remind me of how much I love the sea, how old I am becoming and just enjoy the beauty of bbc iplayer. TV! Which is generally shit. TV documentaries online. Less shit. Whoop! I think I am going to cry with joy the first time I get to sit in front of an episode of Grand Designs.

And this folks is England...