Z had a week off between leaving his old job and starting his new one so we spent a lot of time laying down wooden floors and painting walls in his old house before people move into it. In many ways it was gruelling and exhausting and in some ways it was fun - (like eating takeaway pizza on the bare newly-laid floor of a bare house, and dancing with no music through heaps of sawdust)- but in most ways it was boring and exhausting. I don't think I'm really cut out for DIY. I lack the attention and the patience and physical co-ordination. Also powertools make me nervous since my vivid imagination always provides me with many scenarios of disaster.

I think the heat and the paint fumes conspired to make me light headed and I constantly had flashes of myself from the vantage point of an outsider watching a movie in which a dark-haired woman pranced around hammering and painting walls in her underwear. As though with each laid board we deposited the ghosts of ourselves around the room, filled pockets of still time. Left them scattered around like love, or laughter.

But hey at last the floor is done and the walls are done and all limbs present and correct and to celebrate this we got some Turkish takeaway bad voodoo lamb yesterday which has been disagreeing with me ever since. I spent the night tossing and turning and wailing in wretchedness and begging for death. But I happened to survive, and the cat and I have spent this day embracing and moaning our miseries to each other while he wilts from the heat and I swear to not ever ever ever eat anything again ever(except for apples and dark chocolate, for medicnal reasons). My cat, I've discovered, shares my penchant for drama and melancholy, and we both find our bitch fests soothing. (I swear that animal could not be more like me if he went around in pink glittery hats; one of these days Z is going to come home from work and find us on the sofa molded into each other eating popcorn and watching trashy films; for the moment though we content ourselves with mutual sympathy and forlorn asthmatic wheezing).

I went to Belgrade recently to see my grandmother and make my peace with her as well as I could, which was by and large a success. It feels good to be able to say I forgive you and be loving and gentle. For years it was a very important part of my healing to feel like I had a right to be pissed off on my own behalf and the behalf of my parents, but I think fundamentally I'm not an angry person. It felt good to let go of being angry not because the reasons for my anger were not justified but because it felt like the right thing to do. To say I forgive you in full knowledge of everything she had done, and who she was and to just love her, regardless. Ultimately because it feels more good to be kind than to be the record-keeper of transgress and disaster.

And while I was there I ran into an old lover of mine, who is married with children these days. His wife doesn't like me, so we don't really keep in touch, except sometimes when our paths cross in brief, unexpected meetings. It always feels good to see him again, no doubt more so for the spontaneaty of the encounters. A burst of joy, a gift. Like finding a £20 note in between the pages of a book, like a postcard from a friend.

We hug, we smile at each other, we make small talk and inquiries of what's new while in the background memories of summer afternoons and that winter night float on by. We part as warmly as we greeted, we are always happy for each other. And walking away the insidious unsaid words swirl about our heads like streamers: I still care about you, I sometimes miss you, do you ever think about me in your new life.

I have done many interesting things last week, such as be ill and go to Paris for the weekend. Originally I considered myself too tired and too poor to do the latter, but Z put all his powers of persuasion to the test and caught me at tender moments when I was drowsy and benign from Lemsips and daytime telly.

Z: Come see me in Paris, for the weekend.
N: I am ill and tired.
Z: It will be okay. I will be gentle. I won't force you to exercise. We will take taxis and stay still and drink lots of tea and I'll carry you around if I have to.
N: It's expensive.
Z: I'll pay for your ticket.
N: I should stay put and take care of the kitten.
Z: He will be fine for a couple of days with the neighbour feeding him.
N: I don't know honey. I would really love to come but it's not sensible. You know it's not sensible and it's mean of you to tempt me.
Z: But it's Paris! It will be so romantic! We'll have fun!
N: Oh all right. But if I die, it will be all YOUR FAULT.

And so despite the fact that I was exhausted and fluey I hauled myself off to Paris for the weekend and I am glad that I did because it was indeed very lovely and fun and I didn't die. We ate lots, walked around Montmartre and the Latin Quarter, visited the Montparnasse Cemetery [very pretty, lots of graves of dead famous people]and the Catacombs [bones of six million 18th Century Parisians arranged in a decorative way].

It was very lovely, and pictures will be upcoming next week when Z returns from France.

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However, impulse holiday did not detract much from knowing that things at work are kind of awkward and tense right now, and so busy that I feel like most days my head is ringing and I can't remember the last time I actually had a lunch hour or even a 15 minute break during my workday and by the time I get home I feel braindead.

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Z's boiler carked it, and yesterday morning a British Gas eeingeneer mysteriously showed up to fix it even though neither Z or I had made an appointment for him to do so. I was in equal measures pleased and astonished considering that I'd been meaning to call British Gas for days but always got to the phone too late or was too exhausted and I am at a loss for explanations other than that I am nowadays making coherent phonecalls in my sleep [which is more than I can say for my waking life I can tell you].

Although much as I am pleased to believe in miracles and telepathy, when a young, fit male shows up on your threshold [unexpectedly and uninvitedly] while you're hopping around wrapped in towels trying to get ready for work, one may also treat this as a sinister occurence. I was inclined to suspect him of being a con-artist/maniac/rapist/burglar except that he did actually fix the boiler. My paranoia and dark bend of mind probably mean that I am ungrateful and don't deserve Gift British Gas men and I should request that they be forwarded on to scarletdemon.

And in kittening news...

It rained last night. I know this because intermittently during the hours of darkness a sopping wet kitten would come bounding into the room and into bed demanding instant human love in a chirpy mewl.

Its new favourite place to sleep is on one of the handy contours of my anatomy - such as the hillock of my hip or the valley between my shoulderblades.

I am discovering all the anxieties and pride of parenting: the baby seems to have gone off his tinned Whiskas nosh but thankfully Whiskas KatMilk is like crack to cats so I know he won't starve. And today I feel like we've crossed an important milestone because - my baby answered to the sound of his name!

This is not nearly as simple as you might think considering that the kitten has gone through three homes and four baptisms in its short life. Since at first it was believed to be a girl and lived with Portugese people it was Gatinya - then it was Tinkerbell(!) and finally Milica. Except that when we discovered that
Milica is a boy, Z wanted to call him Milo [a male moniker, and the name of the Montenegran president]. However, I wasn't keen on it since a) I think it's ugly b) I don't want the baby to have a corrupt oaf for a namesake c) it's hardly likely that kitten would have a sufficient awareness of Balkan culture and gender to have being called a girly name matter and d) so what if it ends up gay.

Z and I had a furtive battle for the kitten's soul, or at least its sense of identity with each of us addressing the poor mite by our preferred version of his name. I'm sure it could all have led to a lot of confusion but the kitten resolved this by not responding to anything beyond the call of the opening fridge door.

However since then it's become clear that the one who spends the most time communing with the baby gets to warp his sense of identity. Yesterday I was afraid that the kitten had run away through the front door [which the British Gas man had left open] so I was out in the back garden calling him, and was truly chuffed to hear my cries of "Milica!" answered with a Miaow! and to see a furry little creature scrambling over the edge of the fence like a living dead clawing his way out of a crypt.

Wheeee! My baby answers to his name! And he comes to me when called because he loves me and he hopes I'll feed him!

Today's other milestone was having the kitten puke on the carpet for the first time ever, but I'm slightly less chuffed about that.

Several years ago, in February of 2000 I met a man called Jack who I proceeded to fall into love and into bed with- but not in that order.

When I met him I wasn't looking for love. Mostly I was just looking for a convenient, decent-seeming person to sleep with as virginity had got tiresome by that point.

It was an impulsive thing to do, but I have been known to be highly impulsive and I've always been blessed with finding gems in unlooked-for places. Like a sunburnt man with skin the colour of polished walnuts and a quiet smile and polar-blue eyes beneath the trees in a shadowed garden where no one saw us speak or kiss.

I've always quite liked that. The fact that officially we never existed. What happened between us was never documented, not in letters or photographs or eyewitness accounts - there was no one who knew where I was or who I was with - no one who watched our eyes or mouths or hands beyond the moon (who keeps the secrets) and the twisting boughs and trembling leaves.

I knew when I met him that he was a biologist leaving shortly for Australia to do conservation work there. At that time it was one of the chief attractions - the fact that we did not have to see each other again.

Of course, there are always things I don't count on. Such as the fact that he was more than just a decent man - Jack was a gem (a graceful man - self-contained and gentle as a tree, who loved deserts, and loved and that loved to draw lizards and me, sometimes).I've never had a very good sense of time, nor a good sense of the rules and orders of things. And you'd be amazed how much intensity and passion and beauty a person can fit into three days, or how wonderful it feels to be loved by a man who is unhidden and wholesome and kind. Or how easy I found it to trust him - me who had not trusted anyone for a decade, with my body or my heart, or how love flowed as easily between us as our bodies did into one another.

But that was all later. At first there was just us talking in the garden, and I was not paying attention to whether he was going to help rescue salamanders or dolphins in Salamander Bay - I was somewhat drunk at the time when he was telling me these things, and preoccupied with how soon I ought to kiss him.

I have been wishing I'd listened more carefully the past few days though, when we went to Port Stephens and found a place called Salamander Bay that's full of dolphins and people who work on the conservation and well-being of the species and I found it impossible not to think of Jack.

Not to wonder how he was or where, and what he was doing and whether he was still in Australia - it had been years since I'd seen the man after all, but ever since I set foot in Salamander Bay he's been on my mind.

I didn't ever get the sense that I'd run into him while I was here, I definately don't get the feeling he's in Salamander Bay anymore (if he ever was) but still...

There is a part of me which wonders, cannot help but wonder:

Where are you now? Were you ever here? Did we swim in the same sea, tread the same beaches, look at the same stars? And did you think of me when you watched the ones that fall, my love?

I've found out that the mother of a close friend has leukemia. It seems a fairly mild form though, as far as those things go, and my friend is concentrating on the concrete things she can do in the situation : at the moment it's trying to find medication and alternative therapies, such as acupuncture.

It means that my friend needs to pack in Uni though, so she can go back to work full-time as the family is going to need all the financial help she can get. OF course this is full time work in Yug we are talking about because there salaries are not only measly but generally several months late.

What I love about my mate though, is that she doesn't complain and bitch, she just gets on with things and at the end of the day does what needs to be done. She might not be the most witty or imaginative person I know but she is nonetheless one of the best and I feel sad about her mum.

Although having said this, a positive twist for me is that it allows me to divert my mother's attention away from me and onto D's mum instead because I think D's mum will probably really appreciate someone taking an interst in her health and providing her with vitamins and holistic therapy ideas, and my mum gets something useful to do.

I often feel bad for my mother, who is basically very well-intentioned and would be perfect as someone else's parent. I know lots of people who would really love thier parent taking an interest in their life and thier health, and calling them to bang on about vitamins and exercises etc. I'm just not one of them.

My eating has gone screwey again without me really noticing - until it occurred to me that three apples and two slices of bacon was probably not a highly balanced meal. I'm just not hungry.

I think my hormones might have got whacked again because ovaries are giving me hell. Lower tummy is very swollen, pierced by sharp pains and it hurts to move. Which is why I suppose they invented snuggly duvet covers.

Hugely enjoyed watching Michael Portillo be a single Scouser mum of four earlier on BBC2 and tonight's Channel4 lineup is highly promising.

Finally got tired of sending Christos telepathic messages to call me and dug out his number from the paper jungle on my desk and rang, miraculously caught him at home and had a chat. I hope soemday we end up living in the same country again.

In which I have to read and tidy up a 93 page single-spaced document (by tidy up means to structure it and sort it out into some sort of semblance of order and sense).

It's not to bad really. I'm enjoying it so far and learning more than I ever wanted to know about the Dental Oral Health Behaviours of Minority Ethnic Populations in England and Wales

My brain has turned into allergy central and anti-histamines have been putting me to sleep and I feel very drowsy and slightly zombified, entertaining thoughts of curling up under my desk and hoping nobody notices.

Weekend was good. Friend stayed over to indulge his compassionate impulses and nurture me and my allergies and hangover which= food + cuddles, which = happiness.

My house smells madly of lillies, and so does my skirt a little. My skin smells of sunlight and Davidoff Cool Water for Men.

I have been experiencing terrible longings for Belgrade and I can't wait to steal some vacation time. I feel crazy urges to be in my land, to walk around the ruins of the Kalemegdan fortress in Belgrade, or to sit on the banks of the Danube in the dappled shadows that leaves cast, and watch the Sun setting on the river and listen for the distant rumble of spring and summer storms. Or to walk barefoot in Montenegro, to feel the long grass under my soles and climb trees to shake the figs loose from them; I want to plait flowers into my hair, or to climb onto one of the flat roofs at twilight and lie on my back watching the moon's ascent and the bright fall of shooting stars.

But mostly lie in my bed in Belgrade with all the windows open and listen to the sounds the city makes, while the voice of a part of me says I'm home

A friend kissed me today.

I'd ended up in his house, sharing coffee and chatter, watching the news and the footage of the drought;
street sounds drifting up through the still air and the open window;
the coiling heat gathering, gathering and intensifying since last week and us in the coolness of his room looking at corn dying on a flickering screen and waiting for the rain.

There is a feeling when a storm gathers, just before it breaks.
This feeling of heat and pressure steadily building.
The heat which coats everything and the world seems veiled in a film of perspiration and alive with tingling of the electricity in my skin, the beating of my heart.

Sometimes before a storm everything seems expectant, coiled, bating its breath. The trees shiever, to pant, as though the entire world is at attention, watching, listening, waiting.

Sometimes before a storm or duirng a full moon i feel very stange, hyperaware yet removed from myself almost, distant from the part of me that rationalises and thinks and i am laughter and pure power and the ability to make a crazy choice in an instant and not regret it. Everything wears a faint corolla of energy and there is a pressure that gathers in me, in my chest, in the pit of my stomach like thunder in a cloud before it breaks.

We realised I was going to be late, he said he'd walk me home. We stepped outside, and almost as soon as we did the storm broke. We looked at each other, and it seems without thinking grabbed hands and ran. Down the street, splashing in puddles, dodging cars, breathing in the smell of dust and the wet stone.

I didn't want him to let go of my hand. The city seems a secret city, newly discovered and he and I were newly-made, shaped by longing and the rain, with something whispering in the spaces between us- weaving itself from storm and light.

I didn't want to leave that moment, the shadowed doorway (mine) in which we stood saying goodbye while the rain fell. It was one of those moments that seems so slowed down its almost frozen, for a second we had broken rules we had stepped out of time and if we didn't breathe, didn't move, didn't say anything at all we could stay there and not have to return to our lives and think and hurt again.

It was one of those moments that makes my vision suddenly sharpen, so that I saw him with incredibly acuity, the way the light seemed to coalesce around the bones of his face and the rain sliding down his throat and my wet hair and the sky above flint-grey sky above Belgrade and the magical way that wet earth smelled. And with the same absolute clarity even before i felt his hand on the back of my neck I knew he is going to kiss me.

He did.
I surprised myself by kissing him back.

We are friends who love each other but are not in love.
At best we are in love with the rain. With this moment, with the idea that anything is possible, with the freedom of following our hearts desires and doing something unexpected and impulsive and surreal. We are in love perhaps with the notion that we have stepped out of our lives, with the sweet and above all illusory idea that we have a future together.

We don't.
This is a crossroads- that's all.

I am not sure what it all means except that another realtionship just got more complicated.
I had to go home to a dinner I was late for. We may see each other in a few days and not talk about what happened and never mention it again. Or we may indeed talk about it and kiss again and make love for a few days and hold each other briefly because we are running away from ourselves I think, in this crossroads between lovers.

but etiher way i know how it ends long term.
in six months when i will be back again there will be a girfriend in his life or a boyfriend in mine and we'll chat about what's new and drink coffee and not cross the boundaries which we don't talk about but which exist nonetheless.

And all I'll have is this - the memory of the rain and of a completely perfect moment.