Fourth entry.

It’s been fifteen days since I last posted on here. Sporadic updates suggest that my sparkling blogging career is dissolving before my very eyes. I haven’t actually been doing very much, which I suppose is the real downfall when writing entirely about oneself.

     “You should change the name from ‘Daisy: on the blog’,” my friend Dewi proposes. “You can call me childish but I’m sure a good 50% of people will think ‘on the blob’.”

     Idiot. That’s the point you see; it’s a clever play on words. It’s tasteless yet eye-catching, and people like to indulge in that sort of morbidity, don’t they?

     Probably not. But enough about menstruation; now it’s the festive period, which means I get to return to the motherland to fill my lungs with Welsh manure, after a long term at uni.

     It’s good to be nestled between the rolling hills once again, safe from gun crime and car theft. Criminal damage, I must hasten to add, does not go without mentioning, after a sheep once hurtled itself onto my bonnet, denting the vehicle and severing all remaining ties with cloven hoofed beasts.

     Things I like about being home include: Being warm, all the time. Not smelling indistinguishable smells from unidentified parts of the house. Being able to put food down on the worktops without fear of disease or contamination. Being able to have time for solace and contemplation, without the seven housemates concerning themselves over my mental state.

     Things I dislike about being at home include: not having a lock on the bathroom door. This is a measure implemented in the event of one of us ‘having a fall’ in the shower. Not that this is likely to happen, of course, as all residents are under the age of fifty.

     Further resounding fears include the classic Dad jokes being flung recklessly all over the place with no regard for my emotions. “Is that suitcase big enough for my presents?!”   Considering I paid most of my train with the emergency bag of 5p’s; yes, yes it is big enough.

     Actually, with regards to the aforementioned suitcase, it undoubtedly wouldn’t be big enough. I’m buying my parents chickens for Christmas, so it would probably breach RSPCA guidelines to battery pack them in this way, and most certainly my own morality.

     How to wrap said chickens is incomprehensible. I certainly wouldn’t want them escaping. Terrifying things. It’s those meaty, red chin growths I don’t like. I’d imagine touching them would be as horrifying as when you accidentally grab an unsuspecting strangers foot in the swimming pool; awful.

     The Christmas tree is coordinated with the living room. There seems to be some unjustified fear that breaching the colour scheme would result in Laurence Llewelyn Bowen flouncing in at any moment, gurning with shock at the sacrilege bestowed upon then Christmas spirit. So enough of this; I’m going to have a word. Considering my lack of inspiration and good will to all men, I really should make ‘on the blog’ a monthly occurrence.