You know it's not good when you resort to smoking bits of stalk that you find on the floor in your room. Fortunately, tonight the bit of stalk was offset with a bit of green I found on my bedside table. It's been sat there for at least a month. I can't believe I've never noticed it, resting under my Brass Eye DVD.

The findings came as a relief, as I returned from an hour of busking in my usual spot by the art shop in Newquay. Wounds from last night's drinking were still apparent as I walked down the hill. Despite spending the afternoon laid out on the sofa watching US Open tennis and Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends, drifting in and out of consciousness; I was still feeling knackered at 11pm. Plus after last week's over emphatic singing (which resulted in the loss of my voice for a few days) my throat isn't getting the best recovery from the battery of alcohol and smoke that passes through it. Within the first song I knew I wasn't going to last long. A lozenge and some pleasant punters eased the first half hour by, but both had evaporated by the time I called it quits at around 11.45. With around enough money earned to buy an eighth, if I could only afford such luxuries.

On Wednesday, I passed two major milestones signaling the end of the summer. Before jetting down to Falmouth, I handed my week's notice in at Somerfield. To my amusal the managers were having a meeting when I arrived. Knocking on the door (which has a window in it, thus making they're presence in a meeting immediate to me), I was greeted, as a blind person or one with mental difficulties, with the observation: "We're in a meeting." Condescending tones, as store policy, added for affection. "We'll be done in an hour." Added to assert authority. "I can see that, I just need to give you this letter." I said, placing said letter on the table. I left with a grin of mirth, with the knowledge that I were to end this term of insult at the hands of middle aged, middle managers.

By about midnight on Wednesday, I decided to call it quits at the Q Bar. For the ninth or possibly tenth week in a row, nobody apart from myself made use of their Open Decks. For being the only fucker to play, I've been kept in casual employment on a free drinks all night deal. A deal that is pretty shit, in any cases, but especially so in my case of traveling over from Newquay to do so. Two jobs down in the space of eight hours. A personal best.

On Thursday, after a few hours of snooker and a few pints, I popped into Somerfield to pick up a well needed snack and my hours for the last week. In a repeat of last week's piece of managerial ineptness, I found that I had been given no hours. At around quarter to four, following a drinking and catching up session with my mate Harrie from uni, I decided to call in sick. Fuck them. If they're going to play nasty with me, I can play nasty with them. I would pay good money, and probably cringe at the possibility of hearing the drunken slur I left on the store's mobile's answerphone.

At about one o'clock. Minutes after the departure of Harrie and his friends from work. I received a call from Somerfield. (I was supposed to work at 12.30.) "Tim, you know you're supposed to be in today." Said the voice on the phone. "Didn't you get my message?" I asked in return. Apparently not. No surprise there then. A five minute chat with the manager, who I've yet to meet properly resulted in my explanation of the series of cock ups that has left me with my roguish opinion of the store. It sounded like Russell (I believe him to be called) had a hint of understanding of where I'm coming from.

And so with my only income being from busking, it's taken me til this afternoon to appreciate a simple truth. I'm a professional musician.

Checking my inbox for any word from Front (might have to just show up at the offices), I just had a comical misreading of one of my emails. It read: 'Win a trip to see where Iron Man was made'. I thought to myself, what sort of location is Birmingham for a holiday?

I'm this very second doing the live card dance. It's a term that I've just coined, as I pushed all in with K 10 and hit one of my live cards (matey had A 8) to survive. It's a pretty simple one, but to those not fluent in the poker lingo I can see how it'd possibly be confusing. Especially as I'm not really dancing. I'm lying down in bed, with my laptop resting on my crotch. But you don't know that. Ah balls, you do now. Never mind.

Talking of being fluent in things. I'm no where near fluent in Polish yet. I don't know if I've mentioned on here (cos I don't read it, I'm not quite that narcissistic to do that) I'm learning Polish, to aid my attempts in going over there, taking their jobs and shagging their women (well, one of them to be precise).

It's a little bit complicated at the minute. As I'm still in the first week of my four week course. I say course, when in fact I mean 'book'. Which is designed to be completed within four weeks. (28 lessons, 28 days in four weeks... They haven't met me before.) I've been at it [I haven't been 'at it', I'm on my own aren't I?] for (insert another live card dance) about ten days and I'm still get the hang of the first three lessons. I've even been getting help via MSN from the missus. The thing is, Polish, like most other languages in the world, has different genders of words (masculine, feminine and neuter) as well as different endings for words depending on their use in a sentence.

And they say English is the hardest language in the world to learn.

Bollocks.

I've been speaking and writing in English for fucking ages. It's a piece of piss. I can understand there are plenty of numpties out there who can't quite handle it (usually those of which it is their first language), but still, everyone speaks English. Therefore, it must be easy.

Stupid comments aside, I reckon after the next four weeks of studying (and I'm pretty good at it it, when I put my mind to it) and a few weeks of being surrounded by it it'll be łatwy. Easy.

It's now about 3.00am and I'm starting to wonder whether the coffee I had earlier was de-caff. And whether orange and cranberry juice mixes all right. It wasn't, and it does. My tournament has ended in success (after coming back from being short stacked 5 handed, and a marathon heads up against a luckbox). I think I'll have one more game and carry on studying. I don't have work til tomorrow evening.