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Thursday, 28th June – 7 weeks, 4 day

1. People who share Facebook posts like ‘Hey, put a star on your wall to support brain cancer’ or ‘Post this as your status if you have the best hubby/wife/dad/hamster ever.’ Stop with the whole global community thing. It ain’t gonna happen, not with me in the community anyway.

2. Tourists with their faces in their Greggs nosebags, who walk in human chains along pavements.

3. People who say ‘There are no words’ when there’s been some tragedy. There are always words. You’re just too lazy to form them into complete sentences.

Tink’s barking woke me up. Jim always answers the door to spare me and Elaine and today I heard a snippet – national press. How they found out I’m living here I don’t know, but one peek out of Jim and Elaine’s bedroom window shows they’re camped out for the duration.

I think about going all Tudor on their asses and tipping a bucket of piss over them but I guess I need them on my side, which is a shame because I have rather a lot of piss in me right now. And wind. And vomit.

Jim only announces callers when it’s a flower delivery – and we’ve had many. Sixteen in all. Jim will bring them in, vased, say who they’re from – their friends, the Gazette, one of the PICSOs (my old ‘friends’, the people I couldn’t scrape off), some random school friends – and set them down on my nightstand so I can see them as I’m drifting back to sleep. Then Elaine will come in, take my temperature, set down a plate of chopped banana and dry crackers and take the flowers out because ‘plants sap all the oxygen out of the room’. I don’t know where they go after that.

I managed one trip downstairs today to get a biscuit mid-afternoon. Saw a pile of business cards and scraps of paper on the dresser. Notes from reporters, asking for ‘my side of the story.’ My life with Craig Wilkins – the most vicious serial killer the West Country’s ever seen. We only want the truth.

If only they knew the real truth. It should be my face on those front pages. My headlines. I did those things, not him. I want to stand on that doorstep and scream it: IT WAS ME. ME. ME. ME. FUCKING ME!

But then another tsunami of nausea sweeps my way, crashing out every other thought in my head other than ‘Get to the toilet, quick.’

Not today, Mummy. Back to bed.

I’m throwing up water now. Elaine says it ‘must be something in the bottles’. She’s read how pregnant women drinking from plastic bottles can pass on abnormalities.

‘One baby in India came out with two heads and they said that was because of bottled water.’

I don’t want to split my hoo-ha so I guess I’ll have to make the switch to filtered.