When you live with six other people there is bound to be some unpleasantness in the bathrooms -- the multi-coloured magical pube carpet that forms if one is not vigilant about sweeping; the girl downstairs that doesn't wait around if her handiwork needs a second flush.

Earlier this year civil war broke out when a flatmate insisted on blowing her nose while in the shower. Every morning at 6.45 on the dot I'd be awoken by the godawful sound of crusty things being prised loose from nostril walls then propelled into the public domain by a torrent o' snot, no doubt hitting the tiles and annointing the shower curtains. It was so loud you could hear it downstairs in laundry with the washing machine on.

My sister is a woman of action, and following the Multiple Occupancy Code of Practice, she took the appropriate form of action: she wrote a note.

In an ideal world, seven people living together would communicate. Perhaps there'd be a monthly meeting in which to air petty grievances before they escalated. But no, if you're not happy with the state of the kitchen, you bang a lot of pots and pans around at midnight and slam some doors then dash off a quick letter. There's been notes about the back door being left open, the bin not being emptied, and Ancient Relics of the Refrigerator.

I have noticed that the following items have been in the fridge for some time and are taking up valuable space. One tub of Utterly Butterly, one jar kalamata olives (half empty), three Laughing Cow cheese triangles, one bottle of Corona beer... [and so on for twelve paragraphs] You have until September 18 to identify these items as your own by simply initialling on the list below.

September 18 arrived and noone had laid claim to the mould-encrusted delights. Instead of chucking out the offending items, the UN Chief Weapons Inspector edited her note: I have extended the deadline for one (1) week but if I see no evidence of ownership I will take further action.

Rhi and I resisted the urge to write SWEET FLAMING CHRIST ON A BIKE, JUST THROW IT ALL OUT, YOU DICKHEAD! Instead, we removed the stuff ourselves, pointedly banged some pots and pans about whilst yelling, "SWEET FLAMING CHRIST ON A BIKE, WITNESS HOW EASY IT IS TO THROW IT ALL OUT, YOU DICKHEAD!"

Then I nicked the bottle of Corona.

Anyway, Rhi's note on the bathroom door was a masterpiece. She wasn't about to publically shame the culprit, she gave them opportunity to quietly cease their disgusting behaviour. But in response we found the note shredded in the bottom of the bin and (perhaps not uncoincidentally) they moved out a couple of weeks later. Being a lover of quality souvenirs, I retrieved the document and on cold rainy days it amuses me no end to reassemble it over and over like a jigsaw.

click to read the note

The replacement flatmate does not blow her nose in the shower, however often communicates in strange hi-pitched mumbles. This mimics the tone of real speech but sounds like the incomprehensible babble of those claymation shows on the ABC in the 1980s. You know, balls of plasticine that roll around and their eyes fall out and stuff.

Thus conversations with the flatmate, let's call her Morph, go like this:

SHAUNA:  Good morning!
MORPH:  Gmmf Mrrifmrrf!

So very early this morning my thimble-sized bladder was calling out for relief, as it does of a morning, so I shuffled sleepily into the bathroom. I knew what I had to do and there was enough sunrise leaking through the frosted glass door not to need the light on -- I have inherited The Mothership's loathing of wasted electricity. Once finished and flushed I was about to totter back to the cot when I noticed there seemed to be something in the toilet.

I reluctantly switched the light on and peered into the bowl. Wedged on the bottom, all limp and pink and lifeless, was a BRA.

I ran screaming back to my room.

SHAUNA:  I just peed on a bra!
GARETH:  You kinky bitch!

After discussing the breasts of my assorted flatmates, we concluded that due to the daintiness of the garment that it must belong to Morph. Anyone else's and the plumbing would have choked on the hefty underwires.

How and why the bra got there remains a mystery. At first I thought as the pee-er that it was my responsibility to fish it out, but Gareth convinced me that if you're stupid enough to use a toilet as an underwear drawer then you take certain risks.

Hours later as I lay awake groaning, "I peed on a bra!" and mentally composing a politely worded note, I heard some scuffling and splashing in the bathroom and next time I checked it was gone.

They say it is bad luck if a black cat crosses your path. They also say good things happen in threes. So what does it mean if three black cats cross your path?

This happened to me today. I am just sitting here, waiting for the piano to drop on my head.

As with the last year the change of season has left me bewildered and slothlike, but I will finish one of my stinking unfinished entries soon, regardless of the level of stink.

Do you ever wish you were a bear? Hibernation really appeals.

At the Kremlin, Moscow

The cellphone is the cigarette lighter of the new millenium.

I discovered this at an outdoor pop concert in Tallinn back in September. The event was staged by local phone company Tele2. They gathered an army of popular Estonian bands to play all night for thousands of teens who danced and screamed and waved their mobiles in the air. I felt hoplessly out of touch with my ancient Nokia that spontaneously switches itself off. These kids sported latest models with glowing keypads, turning the crowd into a sea of twinkling neon.

The show was compered by a guy with a giant mohawk and outrageous manner. I asked Kristi who he was - she shrugged and said sagely, "It is very easy to be famous in Estonia".

Kristi translated proceedings for us. Mohawk Man was urging everyone to download a certain tune as part of an attempt at the world record for simultaneously playing a ringtone. I'm not sure if the Guinness Book people knew about this record, but Tele2 market executives must have cackled with glee when thousands of kiddies obediently tapped at their keypads. Right before the last act, Mohawk Man did a dramatic countdown. 3 - 2 - 1... doo doo doo doo! The air filled with the tinny, hollow sound of digitised Estonian pop. It was all rather naff and disappointing for a world record, but the kiddies cheered anyway and thrust their phones to the sky.

Of all the things we saw in Estonia, that night most strongly illustrated how rapidly the country has changed. The show was held at the Sound Grounds, where in 1988 over 300,000 Estonians gathered to sing national songs in what is now known as the Singing Revolution. It was a huge outpouring of national identity and solidarity. Fifteen years on, Estonia has its independence and this hoarde of teens were as pimpled and lipsticked and mini-skirted as their Western kin. They would have been babies when everyone sang banned songs and flew national flags in defiance of the Soviets. You couldn't help wondering if they appreciated how different life was just a short time ago.

Having spent our Saturday morning picking wild mushrooms and wandering through country manors, it was surreal to end things with an evening of ROCK. Rhi and I were the only ones in the crowd unable to sing along with every word of Smilers, a "supercharismatic Finnish-Estonian rockband established in 1992" that seemed the local equivalent of Powderfinger. We also got to see the band who almost got to represent Estonia at the last Eurovision Song Contest!

In glaring contrast to the chirpy pop was Led R, the Estonian Led Zeppelin covers band. They were appropriately pompous but looked like crumbly high school maths teachers. The cameraman parked himself right under the lead singers crotch, but the trousers weren't quite tight enough and he looked more hungry for a cup of tea rather than a hot young babe to take backstage. When Robert Plant goes Oh yeah, ah huh in the middle of Black Dog, it's so primal one feels like humping the furniture, but the Estonian version was like the distracted Oh yeah... ah huh.. you mumble to your mother during her marathon phone calls.

It was fun to hear those classic tracks with fireworks blasting in the background. But it disturbed me how the kiddies didn't respond. Except for a dedicated pocket of headbangers to the right of the stage, the crowd went eerily still. The mad mobile twinkle faded to an occassion bleep in the darkness. It's like they didn't know what to make of this rock and roll business. There were no lip-synching divas or no hot-panted dancers. A gaggle of girls in front of us sipped their illegal beverages and stared at the stage with bewildered frowns. Some were furiously texting, probably the Estonian equivalent of either "Mum pls come pick me up now" or "Like what is this shit?" to their friend standing 50 centimetres away.

It's one thing to worry about Estonian teenagers and their understanding of the history of Estonia, but perhaps it's time we started worrying about the teenagers OF THE WORLD and if they're ever going to understand the history OF ROCK? There's a whole generation being raised on Busted and Brittney who will be terrified and confused if ever confronted by the sound of a guitar or a relentless rhythm section. Education is essential. Maybe I will have to lobby the United Nations.

There was no better way to see London on Friday night than from the air. It looked like it was under seige, hundreds of multi-coloured explosions punctuating the landscape. Were the fireworks some sort of elaborate welcoming committee? Hurrah! You're finally come to visit! We're ever so glad! But then I remembered it was Guy Fawkes Day and London really didn't give a shit that I was in town.

I'd forgotten that one of the most exciting cities in the world had been lurking just down the road all this time. Upon arrival I went into true Deranged Tourist mode at the sight of so many icons. Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Big fucking BEN! And Trafalgar Square really is chockers with pigeons! And all those places on the Monopoly board really do exist! Park Lane, Mayfair, Pall Mall. Are there any other ignorant children out there who began every game with an argument as to whether you pronounced it 'Paul Maul' or 'Pal Mal'?

By Sunday arvo I was knackered from all the excitement. I was quietly yawning beneath the famous neon signs on Piccadilly Circus when I became aware of an old lady standing in front of me, glaring over her spectacles and rapping her walking stick on the pavement.

"Nobody covers their mouth when they yawn anymore!"

"Sorry?"

"Nobody!" she shrilled in plummy tones. "Whatever happened to good manners?"

"Umm..."

She sighed dramatically, "What is wrong with your generation? WHO would have thought it was SO much to ask?"

I stared at her as I struggled to formulate an appropriately withering reply.

Did Shauna snarl:

A:  Just you wait, you old bat. When you call Geriatric Rescue to say you've fallen and can't get up, I WILL LEAVE YOU THERE TO ROT!

Or mumble meekly:

B:  Sorry, ma'am. I mean to do it but my hand didn't get there quick enough!

Either option ends with the condescending cow shuffling off in disgust.

Sometime last week was the One Year Anniversary. I spent so much time trying to figure out the actual date that the moment has now passed. These were the options:

1 NOVEMBER:  Out for birthday drinks, sitting beside each other in a bar, too nervous and crap to make any eye contact. Rory and Jane sat across from us no doubt wondering, Will these two bumbling morons ever get it together?

2 NOVEMBER:  After sulking all night that he Didn't Even Know I Was Alive, he called! I went to his house and we talked talked talked. By dawn I almost dared to think this could be something special. Just to be sure, I poked through his record collection. Didn't find anything too disturbing.

3 NOVEMBER:  Standing on the platform in the chilly night air, my breath shot out in anxious, near-hysterical puffs. I'd called in sick that day coz I couldn't bear for the conversation to end. And now five long months since we'd met at a pub quiz, the time was ripe to make my move!

With the train rattling towards us there was potential for a dramatic and memorable moment, like Anna Karenina or something. But an ill-timed lunge, my kiss landing somewhere up his left nostril, was hardly something to tell the grandkiddies. Neither was me blurting, "You rawk!" before fleeing onto the train. All executed without any eye contact whatsoever.

6 NOVEMBER:  After days of agonising over the You Rawk Incident, we sat in a beautifully dingy old man's pub. I was nervous and euphoric, fumbling with Walker's crisps and a gin and tonic. The MTV Awards were on the telly, live from Leith. I had no Zany Stories left to charm him with after discovering he'd stalked his way through the entire WNP archive, so I resorted to probing intellectual debate: "So, re Michael Hutchence -- would you rather people think you committed suicide or wanked yourself to death?"

We walked home in the drizzle, stopping outside a lighting shop. My heart was clattering against my ribcage as we made inane conversation about lampshades. I was considering attempting another Move when I felt his hand curl round my fingers, so warm and inviting. Simple, effective. Why hadn't I thought of that?

Twelve months on I've mastered the art of looking him in the eye, but the giddy excitement remains. I've know only made vague references to Gareth on here, and there's a few reasons for that. Part of me still feels so shy, lucky and nervous that I fear it will all disappear if I dare say it out loud. Yet at the same time I've never felt so calm and confident about anything in my whole little life, so sure that something was good and right. I'm wary of getting too personal on here and the dear readers becoming nauseous and thinking I'm an indulgent wanker, but for a whole bloody year I've been bursting to blurt it out in besotted detail.

I have a terrible habit of looking at life as a series of Exciting Episodes waiting to be rolled up into blog entries, so I may as well acknowledge we have a new character on the set who is just as top shelf as The Mothership or my dear sister Rhi. It's like how Heather Locklear was always billed as Special Guest Star on Melrose Place when everyone knew she was just as much a main player as Andrew Shue or Josie Bisset or any of those other talentless hacks.

So, how about a character description? On paper he sounds a bit of a badass. I told The Mothership I was seeing a tattooed motorbike-riding shaven-headed rock-band-playing lout, so she had to come to Scotland to investigate. She discovered he was just a harmless lovely lad with an accent she couldn't understand a word of.

What else? He is kind. He is a complete dag and makes me laugh. He listens to people when they talk. He's a committed vegetarian who occasionally gives in to cravings for lamb. His family are nice, especially his dad who sends baffling text messages such as, "WHO ARE BLUE?". He works hard on his Crocodile Hunter impression. He has an infuriating inability to cut cheese in proper slices, instead hacks the block to shreds. He not only tolerates my compulsion to document everything but encourages it, "That'd be good for your blog, with a bit of exaggeration". He's up for all sorts of adventure, whether it's driving to the top of Scotland on a whim or lazing on the couch to snigger at personal ads on the Teletext.

It's also reassuring to have finally met my match in ineptness. While I busied myself with destroying photocopiers, he was accidentally locking himself inside my house, setting oven gloves on fire and riding around France with a crash helmet full of maggots because he hadn't noticed he'd spilled food on it.

It feels incredible to love someone this much, to worry about them, to feel inspired by them, to want their happiness more than you want chocolate or for The Darkness to break up. It takes me by surprise every day. When we first met I was so wrapped up in the excitement of moving to a strange country, it took me months to realise I had fallen for the guy. Okay, Rhiannon had to stage a sort of INTERVENTION in a restaurant to make me see it. I admit I am useless. But it was an incredible surprise, and I continue to be surprised every day, especially the days when I wake up and there is this precious person snoozing away on the half of the bed that I used to use for storage. I feel so stupidly lucky that I give him a tiny poke in the arm to make sure he's not just some sort of Very Realistic Mannequin That Says 'Aye' A Lot.

Even in my dark old days of yore, I was always an optimist deep down, excited by life and the scary/delicious uncertainty of the future. But these days I'm looking forward to it just that little bit more, knowing he's around.

Thanks to the groovers who said happy birthday for yesterday! The day started with me gulping down orange juice so violently fresh my face screwed up like a cats' arse. After nineteen months of Made From Concentrate Imported From Chile horridness, it was a true shock to the system to taste the real thing. I choked and spluttered like my first vodka shot back in Russia.

The day ended near midnight with us wandering around Alicante looking for our hotel. Clever Shauna had scrawled down "Eurohotel" and "31" but neglected to write a street name. After an hour of swearing and searching for the mysterious 31 Alicante, I reluctantly called Rhiannon and confessed soy un idiota and she looked it up on the internet.

I called her when we got back to Edinburgh today, "We're home!".

"Oh very good. Do you know where that is?"