Another one of those days... Although to be fair, after a fantastic weekend away with the unholy trinity (and Dirk Benedict!) it's so far been a week of 'those days'.

I have on occasion been described as quirky. Everyone at work is convinced I'm an obsessive geek (the Dexter Fletcher thing was pretty much the final straw). One of my friends affectionately calls me nut job (at least I *think* it's affectionate). My taste is definitely eclectic, and I do have a tendency to get obsessive about keeping things... As my individually labelled and organised taped-from-the-TV videos of Star Trek:TNG, X-Files, Press Gang, and Drop the Dead Donkey (with a few Whose Line is it Anyways taped on the end to fill gaps) might indicate.

But probably the largest selection of taped episodes gathering dust in a box at my parents' house (which ties in nicely with my penchant of cheesy musicals) is episodes of Fame - the TV show. It drove my sister nuts as kids when every night at 6pm on Nickleodeon everything would stop in the living room so I could watch it, and various long-suffering flatmates over the years have had to put up with no less than three taped copies of the Kids From Fame soundtrack (they wear out. What??!) being played a lot.

So in the supermarket on the way home I splashed out on this - the best songs from Fame. The lot... the TV show, musical and film. I am now a happy bunny :)

Today started badly and got worse fast. It's deadline day and having cleared my desk I was sent to a court well out of our patch to hear the sentencing of a child porn downloading copper in our area (couldn't be dealt with by the local justice system, you see?).

So I left my house at 8am to do the (45 minute) journey to court where everything was due to start at 10.30am. And then my life turned into planes, trains and automobiles without the laughs.

Ten minutes from our destination we grind to a halt. The man on the tannoy tells us because of a suspected fatality on the line we've been stopped. Lots of yuppies start tutting (gorram these suicidal people inconveniencing *us*) while I try and think of the bigger picture. It's not as if I'm going to be late is it? I've left *loads* of time.

After twenty minutes the tannoy man comes back to tell us that we'll be going back the way we came to the nearest junction and then taking the alternative branch into the station. Phew. I was getting worried there for a minute.

We start moving. Tannoy man is sounding a tidge sheepish now. The whole track has been closed in a ten mile block so we're going 20 minutes in the wrong direction to the nearest major station. Ring work in a panic. Am told to get a taxi 'unless it costs too much, get a quote first'. Ring round to find a taxi who'll get me where I need to go for £25 and in approximately 20 minutes to half an hour. By this point it's quarter to ten.

Run through the station like I'm escaping from the gates of hell, leap into my taxi and start reading through my background notes to cobble something together so I spend less time writing copy after the case is over. Am interrupted by the chirpy and apologetic cab driver telling me he's never actually driven this way out of the city centre before and do I know the way to go. I don't.

Finally get to court just 25 minutes late. After handing in my umbrella (it's the rules) I dash up to court three and attract the attention of the usher who tell me the case hasn't gone ahead yet. Thank fuck. Walk out of the court room to ring the office and tell my increasingly panicky news ed friend that all is not lost. As I'm speaking I catch sight of the defendent with his brief. They're deep in conversation, and then, as I watch, the brief picks up a pile of papers, shakes my guy's hand and then pootles off towards the exit.

My blood runs cold. Pull myself together to finish the call (tra la la la nothing wrong, just think I'd better go and see if anything's happening) and dash back into court three. Hissing at the clerk I ask again. Ah. Yes, that case went next door to court two. Feeling more and more like Eliza Dushku in bloody Tru Calling (but without the pout or need for a wonderbra) I leg it through the side door to the other court, where I'm told the case was dealt with at 10.25am.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccck.

Defendent is picking up his stuff and walking towards the door, I chase after him in true hack fashion to ask if he wants to make a statement. He tells me no (but with more Anglo-Saxon) so I retreat to a safe distance to cobble together something from the info I've gleaned from the clerk (3 year community rehabilitation, £2,500 costs). I only need to write 350 words for the front page splash about it in.... ooh, 15 minutes.

Took refuge in a cupboard, rang a contact (actually a friend, hence she couldn't turn me down!) working for a charity supporting survivors of sex abuse. Paired with info from the previous hearings I've covered I write it, then ring it through, dictating it to a very flustered colleague.

In the end it all turned out fine, albeit if you read between the lines it's obvious I didn't go to court (no comments from the judge) although my ed didn't realise I hadn't been there till I told him. Not sure if that's a good thing.

Plus it took almost another 3 hours to get back to the office. And I'm now owed £35 in expenses (train and taxi) which I won't get back till next month. Bah.

Now after a day like that wouldn't you be wanting to warble along to High Fidelity at full volume while wearing comfy pyjamas, taking bites of a toffee apple and swigging wine from a goblet the size of a bucket?

Exactly.

I rest my case. As the prosecution (might have) said.