For two days I couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop talking, just couldn't stop.

The agitation builds and builds and finally I tip over the edge and go into a blind rage, which yesterday expressed itself in screaming at two men meandering across Princes Avenue as I tried to drive down it.

At least the release meant I could sleep last night, which I haven't really been doing all week, and woke around six this morning feeling refreshed and relatively calm.

Now I can feel the energy beginning to swirl again. It animates my face and hands, and sets my thoughts racing. Sitting in one place for too long is physically painful and mentally unbearable. The ideas come too thick and too fast to record more than a quarter of them.

At what point do I stop being able to handle this?

I've been way too busy to post this week, dealing with a bad bout of what my Auntie R likes to call "pre-monstrousness". I actually relish these few days each month when I feel bad enough to consider myself justified in behaving like a total cow.

I spend so much of my life concerned with with feelings of others, and not upsetting them, and far too little concerned with the things that offend me. It's nice to let that go for a couple of days.

It's nice, on a Sunday morning in Tesco's, when confronted by the woman standing by the papers trying to foist copies of The News of The World on unsuspecting shoppers, instead of muttering a meek "no thank you" whilst gingerly reaching round her for my copy of The Observer, to instead look her straight in the eye and say loudly, in a condescending tone, "Actually, I'm after a newspaper."

It's nice, when the really annoying post-room guy comes into the building, instead of hunkering down behind my computer and squirming at his out-of-tune humming, sing-song "I've just come for your ma-il!", and general smarminess, to instead stand up, walk right up to him, and say: "This is an office, people are trying to work, and some of us have jobs that require a little more concentration than picking up bundles of post. Please shut up."

It's nice, when some moronic semi-adolescent boy passes comment on some portion of my anatomy, rather than furiously blushing and moving away from him as fast as I can, to instead turn round and say as loudly as possible "Well, you clearly have a tiny penis. Why don't you go and fuck yourself with it."

It's nice, just every now and then, to be concerned with some of the things that offend me. Like tabloid newspapers, people who don't know when to shut up, and men who think they have a right to make sexual innuendoes to strangers on the street.

It's my hat! I made that! (Thank you Hello Mango for the picture.)

I accidentally opened the letter containing my anthropology exam result this morning. I hadn't meant to as I knew I hadn't failed the module and really didn't feel the need to be confronted by my extreme crapness unless it was strictly necessary.

So imagine my surprise to discover that I somehow managed to scrape a first. Blimey. It was only 70%, but that's still a first, and together with my 73 for the essay I seem to have done quite well. I also have a provisional mark of 72 for the psychology module I took this year, and 73 for sociology. Yup. I may not be quite as crap at this as I'd feared.

I know I don't need to get a first. A 2:1 is perfectly respectable and would get me onto any course or into any profession I might wish. The problem really is that I know I can get a 2:1 without really making an effort, so if that's what I come out with at the end I'm going to feel I've failed.

This all sounds much more ridiculous written down than it does in my head.

Aunt B told Granny, who told Mom, who told me, that it would be a good idea if my cousin, L, who's having a hard time being seventeen in a family that admits no weakness, came to stay with me for a while.

See what fun games of chinese whispers we play?

I told Mom to tell Granny to tell Aunt B that L is more than welcome at any time, but I would prefer her to ask me herself.

I shouldn't really entertain the whispers, but had no time to phone Aunt B myself, as this usually entails a solid hour of listening to her extol the many virtues of my cousin A (who does indeed have many virtues and is a lovely young woman). Is anyone surprised that L has problems?

In my opinion, (not just mine, but I'll protect the innocent) L's major problem is her mother, who has no tact whatsoever and the force of a steamroller.

What I really don't understand is how I, the family screw-up, became the family psychologist.

Some thoughts on feminism, and how to deal with the doubters

I discovered that feminism was a dirty word at the age of twelve. On answering the question posed by a teacher "are you a feminist?" in the affirmative, I was then confronted with, "So, you hate men then?" I didn't understand the question.

Having been raised by a mother who was on the front line of the second wave, I had blithely assumed that feminism was generally associated with the seven virtues, rather than deadly sins. I was entirely flummoxed by the idea that it had to do with hating anyone.

Over the ensuing 16 years I have naturally had some time to formulate a response. This is what I've come up with.

Assuming the principle that attack is the best form of defence, I find that, when confronted by a situation in which the "feminist?" question is likely to arise, it's generally best to get in there first. Once you've posed the query, and received the reply, "Feminist, me? Of course not!" you can go for the jugular.

Adopt a quizzical expression, puzzled yet fascinated. As if examining some strange and rare museum exhibit.

Follow up with: "Really? Wow!" and then: "So, you believe that women were created subservient to men? (it's in the bible and everything.) Girls should not be entitled to receive the same educational opportunites as boys? Pursuing academic enquiry is damaging to the fragile female mind? Women should be paid less than men for work of equal value? Only men should be entitled to vote and take part in the political process? Women should not pursue interests outside the domestic sphere? Women should not own property? The word of a woman ought to carry less weight in a court of law than that of a man? A man has the right to rape his wife - no, sorry, there is no such thing as rape within marriage, obviously. You're not a feminist? How fascinating!"

Maybe it doesn't work, but hopefully it gets people thinking.

Just for the record, here's my personal feminist manifesto:

1. All human beings, regardless of gender, race, disability, sexuality (the list could go on, but I'll stop there) are entitled to equal access to education, politics and protection under the law.
2. Men and women are different. Fundamentally. Genetically, biologically, psychologically. However...
3. ...What unites us is far greater than what divides us. I have a lot more in common with a human man than a female chimp.
4. The fact that men and women are on average different does not predict the talents, abilities, disabilities and shortcomings of any one individual.
5. "Feminine" qualities are as essential to the survival and success of the species as "masculine" ones.

So no, Mr Teacher. In answer to your query, I don't hate men. In fact I love them, in general, and kind of wish I had one to love in particular. This single life's getting tiresome.