As I'm sure I may have mentioned once or twice (or perhaps even three or four times), I'm going to be going to the Land of Hope and Glory, Hamburger-a-go-go Land, the good ol' U S of A, America and whatever else you might want to call it, for a whopping three months.

For a normal person, with a fully-functioning, non-diseased bowel, this is quite a normal thing to do.

However for me, and my bowel which is fully-functioning but has potential to be disease-ridden, this is not.

It means 3 months' supply of prescription medication (a total of 630 individual pills), as well as half a plane load of 'just in case' pain killers and God knows what else, endless medical forms, letters to explain why I'm transporting half a pharmacy to Carrie Bradshaw Land and the joy of finding medical insurance which will cover all of my camp counselor needs. And having to explain, "It's only Crohn's disease, I'm not dying or anything."

However, there is positive news to be told! I've found a company who will cover people with Crohn's disease, as long as they haven't been in hospital in the past 6 months or something, and it's not that expensive. In fact, they'll give me up to £5million-worth of medical care for a 90-day trip in North America and the Caribbean. All for about £75!

If you've got a wonky digestive system, too, and you can't face another quote of £10squillion, I suggest you have a look at GF Baskeyfield. And suggest to them that I get commission.

You just need to be a member of the NACC, which is a Crohn's disease charity, et voila. You can go off with peace of mind, knowing that should anything go wrong, like a flare up or even a quick dash to a doctor's if you're worried, you will be covered.

Bon voyage indeed.

I'm sitting beside Jane in the library. Apparently, I have to write about her. So, Mum, before you do the 'stop skiving' comment which you do so well, you will have Jane to deal with.

She wants to come to our house to play Mario Kart, by the way. Is that ok?

So anyway, as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, I am sitting in the library with Jane. I'm having a study break. Well, I say study. I've been writing a review of an Ian McEwan book. It's slowly killing me.

I just did it again. Back to the point. This is a blog about Jane. You can read her blog here.

Jane is a curious creature (yes, I just called you a creature). She likes bags and KitKats and Oreos (and probably biscuits in general, but I have yet to breach that subject), and kissing unsuitable boys in bars. Although, she's found one boy in particular just now to occupy her time. The best way to stop her talking is to give her an iPod and tell her to plug in.

If it's a green iPod, she'll be even happier. That's her favourite colour, you see.

She's my friend for marathon MSN man-bashing sessions, who will make fun of me then make it better by telling me she fancies me, and the scary thing is, I haven't really known her that long. Well, maybe almost two years.

She's muttering something now, I have no idea what. She's probably overanalysing something. It's what we do best.

She's a master procrastinator, lover of Adventure Elf and all-round good egg.

And yes, I just called you a good egg.

Now, however, it's back to review-writing, when Jane will probably interrupt my train of thought every two minutes with something like:

"It's better than sex."
"Let's laugh at..."
"Are you transcribing everything I'm saying?"
"I don't even think you're listening."

Oh, I am Jane. I am.

Apparently I'm not allowed to think people are cute any more. And yes, I'm talking to you.

I love putting messages on my blog to see if people read it, haha!

Anyway, I'm feeling a bit fragile. There was some rather violent disco dancing last night, too much vodka and lots and lots of creepy men.

"Could you take our photo, girls?"
"Aye, sure!"

Yes, that old chestnut. It's almost as good as, "We're new to the area, where could you recommend to go onto after this?" Although, Elaine tends to send them to over-40s club nights, claiming it's the best night out in town.

Anyway. After much faffing about with a camera, one of them comes back over. The big fat one.

"Do you know why we asked you's to take our picture?"
"Oh, I have absolutely no idea. Please, do tell."
"Because you's two are the hottest lassies in here."
"Well, yes, we are."

That stumped him, let me tell you. He was expecting us to get all coy and flattered. But, no. We went for the big-headed prat option.

Works a treat, it really does.

It's rather reminiscent of:

"You're pretty cute..."
"What are you talking about? I'm hot stuff."

How to scare off boys, the Lindsay way! And I wonder why I'm single... Oh, yes, that's right. Because all men that do compliment me tend to be a bit mad-looking / fat / balding /under the age of 18 / smell of BO.

Says a lot about me really...