Have you ever, spurred on by white-hot fury and pain, sent a ranting defensive email to someone that you had an argument with?

In your head as you try to sleep the night before doing so, you set the scene- the imaginary scene- where you manage to say everything that you wished you had said, in an eloquent and well-formed fashion. And they understand what you are saying, they apologise, they beg for forgiveness. But you know that you couldn't get those words out face-to-face, you would misrepresent yourself, and forget those pithy phrases in a moment of grief and anger.

You are determined for them to hear what you have to say, though. You spent so long fretting, categorising your feelings and explaining them to yourself. Justifying. So you resolve that if it can't be said to their face, you will send an email. Yes. What a clever thought.

And so it is that you compose said email in your mind; an email that exudes hurt and rage.

And in the morning you sit at your keyboard and the words fly from your fingertips with ease and grace, and it feels so good to absolve yourself of those horrid feelings.

Yet you don't realise that you have built your fury up to a peak, and you might have gone a little- just a little- too far.

And you forget that receiving an email is not like having a conversation in person not simply because it allows one to capture the accuracy and precision you so desire, but also because it lacks humanity, it lacks the relationship-healing art of seeing one another's faces, of seeing that pain, of giving them the chance to interject.

And so what you have to say will be read as cold, calculated and heartless. Hurtful, even. And so you have reduced yourself to their level, by lashing out in misjudged retaliation.

You don't realise this. Until you hit 'Send'.

And the moment you hit that button, you think: Oops.

Yeah, I just did that. Oops.

*Edit: Oh my, I just re-read the email I sent. It was a tincy bit...mental.

And I've had no reply. Oh my. The shoe is on the other foot now. I may have to grovel.

No. Not yet.

Morrissey, take me back into your arms, embrace me! For I have strayed. I lost the love, the passion, the obsession.

And now I have returned to nestle in the bosom of your lyrics.

I watched the Will Never Marry video, observed the adoration of others, and realised that you give me comfort, focus, you validate my life.

I don't care what others think of my respect for you. It is not tawdry, or in vain. It is not pathetic. I am not lowering my own status by heightening yours. I am not insane. You give me satisfaction, so fuck the rest.

I hope that you are better by Saturday.

TODAY I wish to revel in the imperfection of my body. Unshaven, rounded, blemished etc etc. I feel a sense of pride simply because it's mine, and I own it.

TOMORROW: Things change.

It does annoy me so how some people wish to preach on what is right and wrong about the way our bodies ought to look, as if it were a moral matter. Pish.

After a period of darkness, it turned out that all it took to revitalise my life was Elbow's 'One Day Like This', and avocado on toast.

There is some beauty in life, it seems.

Listening to darling Rufus Wainwright's 'Going to a Town': pure opulence - something to soothe my state of workaday grumpiness.

I also tried entertaining myself by making a mix-tape of Rufus Wainwright’s bestest most prettiful songs for Mr Carpenter (he has kindly agreed to see Rufie live with me- hurrah!). This ended in failure: my neuroticism took over when I was writing the tape insert and I got a bit obsessive trying to make my handwriting as neat as possible; I wrote many versions and ruined the only passable one by going mad with a pink highlighter and an assortment of colourful pens. Then the songs didn’t actually all fit on the tape. Boo.

Let’s play a game! It’s called ‘WHO IS GOING TO HAVE THE BIGGEST TANTRUM?’, and basically, you moan a lot. Simple!

I’m sick of the fact that Morrissey is not real.

I’m sick of people’s inappropriate (and sometimes disconcerting!) questions:

- “Are you thinking of marrying Mr C?”

- “Oh, you’re left-handed?”
- “Mm-hmm”
- “Do you wank left-handed then?”

(To be honest, this one did kinda make me laugh. She caught me off guard a little though, and I’m a bit of a prude about things like that.)

Looks like I win. I'm tempted to stamp my foot in childish fury to seal the victory.

And so, on this beautiful crisp Friday morning I was to be found, at 8:59am, hunched over my computer, with a phone clutched in each clammy trembling hand.

I had planned for this moment with military precision: one of the most important events of the year (of a lifetime!) for a Morrissey fan, and I was ready...waiting for the second my clock flicked over to 9:00am.

Last night, I set my clock by the reliable (I hoped) time on teletext, stored two Moz ticket numbers in both my home and mobile phones, and set three ticket websites in my internet favourites folder...one click away.

And...we're off!

I decide to begin the onslaught by phone. I had planned to use both phone and net, but have made a grave mistake in forgetting that I only have two hands.

Dial...and redial...and redial...oh God, help me now!

And so, ten minutes have passed as I frantically fumble around with two phones, trying (not very successfully) to listen to both at the same time.

I despair. My breakfast lies cold on the side.

I decide to move to plan B. The internet. Click....click...type in a few details...and...Oh. I'm there!

Surely not? But...yes. I am seeing My Man. MY MAN.

I ring my mum to tell her the good news. I inform her that I am so happy I would like to swear very loudly. She drily tells me to hang up first.

I hang up:

I cast aside my dressing gown and run up and down the hall in my underwear with my arms held aloft. I scream:

'FUCKING YEEEEEEEEES!'

'I LOVE YOU MORRISSEEEEEEEEEY!'

Then I play some Moz favourites in a room-tremblingly loud fashion:

The loop
The last of the famous international playboys
No one can hold a candle to you
How could anybody possibly know how I feel?
Alsatian cousin

I have printed my ticket confirmation page three times. Just in case. I might frame one.

Fuck love. I expect I shall delete this tomorrow...

Deleted!!

I have been stacking up so many questionnaires that it would be silly to answer all of them. Therefore, I have picked my favourite questions and jumbled them up to make a new quiz. Cheers to everyone that I stole them off. :)

Are your parents married or divorced?
Divorced, thank God. The thought of them ever being married fills me with horror.

Piercings?
Six earrings. But nothing more; I find that the thought of anything else being pierced makes me go quite squirmy.

Do you speak to strangers?
No. Most certainly not. I find that if people talk to you in the street then they are either:
a) Mad
b) Slimy bastards
c) Genuinely nice
As the niceness has a one in three chance (actually, less than that- there aren’t many nice people around) you’re best off ignoring them. Like yesterday when a bloke said ‘hello’ to me on the bus. I looked away; his eyes were slightly glazed. My suspicions were confirmed when he sneezed in a way that no rational person ever would; he managed to spit everywhere- even backwards (on me).

Do you like candles?
I tend to get a bit out of hand with candles…I like to stick things in the flame, and do that thing where you swoop your finger through it so that it doesn’t hurt but leaves a big black mark. And dip each fingertip in the wax, to make finger hats.

Do you believe in God?
Aye.

Last gift you received?
'The Magic Christian' on DVD. Great film, BUY IT!

If you could have permanent possession of any single object in the world, what would it be?
Morrissey. Ooh, I know it's naughty to objectify, but I respect him for his intellect y'know!

Who do you love?
Mainly myself.

Disney character with whom you most identify?
Pinocchio. Eugh, my nose!

Preferred sleep position?
Oooh...lets think. It’s very exact, I suppose. Curled up on left side, left arm tucked between legs and right arm curled into top left corner of duvet.

Do you talk in your sleep?
Gibberish, apparently. (And when awake.)

Do you sing in the shower?
Yes. And dance.

Have you ever given money to a bum?
I buy them food so that they can’t spend the money on anything that I wouldn’t approve of!

Last sport you played?
Sorry? What was that? Sp...sp...sport? No, can’t say I know the word.

Do you eat the stems of broccoli?
I prefer the stems to the ‘fairy bits’ (yes, it’s a technical term), because I always imagine that there are flies stuck in those bits.

Wear makeup?
Even if I’m not going out I’ll put it on. And you never know when postie might knock on the door. :) I guess it’s a comfort thing. The only problem is that I sometimes wear glasses now, and when I put my make-up on in the morning I can’t see myself very clearly (because I don’t have lenses in). It has had some comical results.

Left handed, right handed, or ambi?
Lefty.

If you could describe the perfect body, how would you describe it?
No such thing. Bodies are rather ridiculous.

If you could create any one thing, no matter how expensive, what would it be?
What are you talking about? What has expense got to do with it?! Anyway, I suppose it’d be a novel that I’d like to create.

If you didn't have to work, what would you do?
I like to think that I’d ‘create’ that novel…but I have a sneaking suspicion that I would just watch Cash in the Attic a lot.

If you could tell your boss any one thing, would would you say?
You hired the wrong person. I’m completely shit!

If you could bathe in anyone's dirty bathwater, whose would it be?
Morrissey’s...like being baptised in holy water!

If you could be the king of something, what would it be?
England is mine...and Morrissey could be my Queen.

If you could be invisible for one hour, where would you do?
On the streets I would run...naked.

Future child(s) name?
Steven Patrick Morrissey Junior. :P

So yeah, the interview. People say never to wear black because it makes you seem ‘closed’. Bugger that. I wore black…classy, chic, smart, and businesslike. That’s what black says to me. And I wore the pointy-toed heels. Because they mean business too.

I dealt with my nerves the usual way: denial. I would say that that is my number one defence mechanism. Pretend it’s never going to happen, honey. (But as a result it did leave me unprepared and I almost ended up being late.)

When I was answering the questions I was tempted to tell them that I knew I was talking crap. As I was saying all this stuff I realised that I don’t want a job. I almost stood up and walked out.

I got a call a few hours later. I could tell from his tone of voice that he was preparing me for rejection. Then he told me that they were offering me the job. As I was not ready for this I simply said ‘What? Oh…right. Oh. Thanks’. (Yeah, nice one Wildey.)

They asked me to go out for a meal with them before I started. It was ok. They are nice people. But I truly am A Complete Tit. Do you know what I did? I did one of those things that normally happen on a bad comedy film. I was washing my hands in the restaurant loos, and I turned the tap on full blast. It sprayed all over the crotch of my jeans…

Holy fuck…it looked like I had wet myself.

Strangely enough, I did not panic…I have found that in moments of acute embarrassment or fear I go into a sort of detached mode, where I don’t realise that this is actually happening. To me. So there I was, standing in my toilet cubicle, looking in the mirror and laughing at the idiot facing me. Then it struck me that this was actually happening, and I had better do something about it. I presented myself in this ridiculous state to two of the girls I went in with…it broke the ice, anyway. I only hope that they were laughing with me and not at me.

Still, it could be worse- I have heard tell of a woman that reversed into the wall in front of a manager one time. And at another job she fell up the stairs and broke her ankle. So, comparatively, looking like I had wet myself was really rather trivial for a first impression.

I started work this week. As I am incapable of dealing with new situations, at times I have felt so incredibly miserable that it is almost unreal. And I hate to think of all those mistakes I made. But…aside from that, it has been ok. The amazing thing is: I work with a huge Morrissey fan! I have never really met a real live one in the flesh, and so this is just wonderful! She leant me ‘Peepholism’ and ‘Introducing Morrissey’, I leant her that new DVD documentary and ‘The Severed Alliance’.

I got my final A level results. AAB. Which means that I can get to university at some next year.

So: I am going to attempt writing up my FIRST MORRISSEY CONCERT EXPERIENCE. This is gonna be bloody long, sorry...

We set off at about half one. During the journey I keep checking the tickets, just in case I’ve brought the wrong ones.

We arrive at about 3.15. A few people have started queuing, so we too stake our claim. I sit waiting patiently with my foil-wrapped tomato, tomato pâté and salad cream sandwiches. WE NEARLY FREEZE OUR ARSES OFF. Fortunately we are relieved of some of the misery with frequent toilet and coffee breaks. (I almost split myself in two trying to get over the queue barrier- stumpy legs aren’t great for climbing over tall things like that. I am quite impressed that I didn’t kick anyone’s head in.) Someone in the queue mentions m-solo. I would say something, but...y’know, I’m not the sort of person who likes joining other people’s conversations. At about half five, a lady turns up and hangs around at the front of the queue. Someone mentions Julia, and I assume this is she. I stare at her in awe (and jealousy): she is a celebrity in my eyes.

Just after six, before we are let in, we are told NOT to bring meat into the venue- loads of people snigger at this, but I am proud of Morrissey. When they open the barriers, we rush through and are repeatedly told “DO NOT RUN!”...So we attempt to walk at running speed. We’re then made to queue some more. Then more very fast ‘walking’ into the hall. I am actually really nervous at this stage. MORRISSEY!

I get a good place: second row behind the barrier, to the right of Morrissey. Unfortunately I have to put up with someone who appears to be attempting to dance into my place. I have to spend the whole gig with them grinding their body into me (even in the frigging intervals!), but I stand strong: you will not get the better of me! I decide to myself that if they do get my place I will have to kill them.

First act: Kristeen Young. Strong voice, but it’s so bloody overdramatic that I think I am about to go into a coma at one point. Someone shouts ‘You’re awful! Get off!’ and a security guy who clearly thinks he is a joker pretends to be injecting himself with drugs and hanging himself. Second act: Sons and Daughters, great! Pretty lady, pretty man in the band.

Then, finally...Morrissey. I would write a detailed analysis of what he did, but I’ve said a lot of it already and so have other people. I thought I was going to collapse when he came on- this is the real man IN THE FLESH. I really cannot put into words how weird it is for me to see him when he has occupied my thoughts so much…and here he is, a few metres away from me. Fuck. And when he stands in front of me I try to soak up the image of him, of his lovely blue eyes- but then he’s prancing off to the other side of the stage too soon. He is beautiful .

When he sings ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ I am delighted; the band plays it so fabulously, and I feel joy. ‘To Me You Are a Work of Art’ is beautiful, and I hope Morrissey realises that the audience really is singing it to him. But my highlight: Trouble Loves Me. Good gracious. During this song I get that feeling: I want to die. Right now, in this moment because this is so intense. I am worried that my heart might explode.

It amazed me how...well, how fucking incredible his voice was! I was expecting it to be good, but that good? I could never have hoped for that!

And despite what everyone else said, I myself was not crushed. (Apart from one incident with some berk who managed to crush everyone against the barrier for a bit.) I was actually surprised at how lacklustre the audience seemed- I expected more from a Morrissey crowd. I obviously wasn’t in the mental bit. I got shoved back only a little, and only a couple of heads obstructed my view at some points. (For goodness’ sake, people! Don’t spike your hair up or wear big hats at concerts! Have pity on the small people!)

I didn’t mind the short setlist- any longer and I really would have exploded. I can understand why some people have moaned about a few things (it’s a little sad that he missed out ten years of great music), but this is life- you don’t get perfection. And you just saw MORRISSEY. One of the greatest men that ever lived. I have waited ages for this, and I am grateful for the experience.

But ever since I have just felt sad. It’s over.

At least I have King's Lynn.