Oh my god. I look as if I've been hit by the back end of a bus. I can't eat (not necessarily a bad thing) so I'm reduced to Ribena through a straw and Ibuprofen through the corner of my mouth.

Hilde took me to the doctor to have everything checked. I can't shift this cough - still - and because I've been smoking, I now sound as if I'm hacking up all sorts of icky goo. She's given me some antibiotics - something the nursey people should've done yesterday apparently but probably didn't in case I tried to take them whilst still 60% proof - for if I get any kind of bizarre sensations in my face. Pain, numbness, puss (mm-mm) or any more swelling.

I have spent a lot of time sleeping (I am actually desperately tired but I guess that's just my body's way of asking for help recovering in addition to the fatigue from an eight hour drive) and feeling slightly wibbly.

Terri and Hilde took me to a Saint Germain (café jazz stylee) gig in the evening which had fab music but crap sound. Terri and I weren't really enjoying it as much as we could and I was feeling a bit wibbly, so we disappeared elsewhere and ended up at Pascal's drinking vodka - through a straw. I had a couple of girlies come up to me at the gig asking me all about my poorly lip. Clearly I look ruffty-tuffty with my stitches.

The dog is still alive, although I've now downgraded my hatred to "buy it a muzzle, you stupid lesbian, or I'll kick it." The whole debacle has left me far from thrilled.