Awake half the night worrying about where I can hide my diary. I’ve been keeping it in my laundry basket, under my dirty clothes, but it doesn’t seem very secure. (With her mood swings, the MC could suddenly decide to do the lot herself, never mind what she said about not being anybody’s skivvy.) I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I mean, not only have I got the Mad Cow lying on my bed and snooping round when I’m not home, but I’ve got Justin bursting in whenever he feels like it to take pictures and nick my underwear and Nan wandering in when she forgets where the loo is. It’s like King’s Cross Station at rush hour. It goes without saying that NONE of these people respect my right to privacy. And also, in case you haven’t noticed, Sigmund still hasn’t got me my new door. Unless I rip up a floorboard, I can’t think of any place that’s REALLY safe to keep my diary. I have temporarily moved it to my closet, under a pile of stuffed toys. Even the MC doesn’t go in there since the time she opened the door and was buried under an avalanche of clothes. (Well, where did she think I was going to put everything? If it would all hang in the closet, it wouldn’t have been on the floor, would it?)