I've been choosing photographs for the donation exhibition I keep going on about, and half the ones I loved don't work beside each other. Apparently having a hundred pictures of strange objects is not the same thing as having an exhibition, devastating news for my bedroom. I keep choosing by how good the story was when we opened the bag, but a person looking at the photograph won't know that story. Tried picking six that made sense without me standing beside them explaining. It's a much smaller set and I quite like it. Haven't shown my boyfriend yet; he's asked twice, so I can't continue pretending nobody is interested while hiding them under everything else.

Wore a pair of boots from the shop to a gig because they looked class and felt grand for the entire thirty seconds I tested them. By the second band I was shifting from one foot to the other and pretending that was dancing. My boyfriend asked if I wanted to sit, which I rejected on principle, then accepted about one song later. Taking them off back at the flat was nearly better than the gig, and the nurses gave me a very unsympathetic welcome. The boots are lovely. My feet are not currently speaking to them. I've put my boring trainers beside the door for tomorrow, where they'll be smugly waiting to take me to work.

A woman brought in her mum's coats today and kept telling me which one was the good one, as if I might miss it amongst the bags. I said we'd take care with them and she looked so relieved I felt a bit useless, standing there holding a coat hanger. After she'd gone I needed a minute in the back room. I still have the coat that looks like Granny's and can't imagine handing it across a counter to someone who might just call it stock. Usually I can make a joke and get on, but today I didn't fancy it. One of the volunteers made tea without asking what was wrong. We talked about the window instead, which was exactly enough.