I've decided to start this daily journal of my stay with a view to sharing it online upon discharge. I don't care if everyone thinks I'm nuts, because I know I'm not. It can't be any worse than chain-smoking again, anyway. I'm puffing away on the toilet. If only my dad could see me now, I think, pants down, cig in hand. Ah well. I'll soon be back out on the treadmill again, Catching Hassan. Safir Hassan is an Olympic distance runner whose style I admire greatly. When I train, I pretend I'm catching up to her on the finishing back straight. Along with some motivating iPod music, it really gives me wings. Every smoke I have in here will make it harder when I get back to it, but hey, I could be smoking worse things, like crack or smack. Or smack and crack, lol. Christian Stormer escaped today, and Dave 'Angry Man' Daggers had custard creams on toast for supper. I was seeing, but I wasn't believing. Stormer used to bounce around like a man possessed, in and out of rooms like a duck's arse, spouting random incomprehensible nuggets of conspiracy theories to anybody who would listen. Daggers Dave just stares at people as if he wants to throttle them with a length of flex. He has a keyboard in his room and a portrait of Lucifer on his wall. His mum explained during a visit that his organic psychosis is down to four strokes, that his schizophrenia is a misdiagnosis. He's nice when he wants to be but nastily aggressive at other times. Ash is a new patient. He had a naked fit in his room. On one-to-one observations by staff. I left the snooker cue my dad left me alone in the pool room earlier, only to return and find Ash repeatedly banging it against the table. It's bashed to buggery but fortunately not bent beyond repair. I stopped fuming after five or ten minutes because it wasn't personal. The poor sod doesn't know what he's doing; Satan is using him via voices if you ask me. Matt the staff member cheered me up because he said it adds character. Matt was pissed off all day because he bought an Audi estate with an oil leak. He showed me the evidence on the car park. I expected a big puddle the way he was rabbiting on about it, but it turned out to be a single drop. I'd swap a wee dot of oil for voices in the head any day of the week, I thought to myself. Went the gym again today, threw some weights around. Dreading my next cardio sesh. Should get some escorted leave next week. Go and get a few bills sorted out. Minimal voices again today. Less than a dozen. That's nothing. Not compared to the running commentary. Long may it continue, but somehow I don't think it will.