God, so little to report. i had jetlag for a month and i've been sitting in this office doing nothing. i negotiated the terms of my rehabilitation with my brother. i'm allowed some wine with dinner, but any trace of drugs, i'm nixed. Oh i've no time for that any more i lied. in the evening i go home and i eat and i drink and i watch tv and i go into work, and i sit and the secretary brings me coffee and i wonder at the wonder of it all. i'm still waiting for this random drug testing to take off. it's quite exciting in it's way. and in other, more real ways, it isn't.

Last Friday, however, i said, fuck this, and i went out. i had, craftily, the locks changed again, so even if he turned up on saturday morning, he wouldn't get in. You must be accountable for all times, he smarms. If you're not where you say you are, i'll want to know why. Ok, i say, that's fine. But i have to go to the garden centre this weekend. The garden center, he further smarms, and i smile, delicately. The artifice is gossamer. And of course on saturday there's a great raging at the door, locked of course. i see my brother out side, trying to climb in a window, tempted to smash it. funny bastard.