Where Marianna complains like an old woman. apologies in advance. It was one of those really hot London afternoons, so I tucked my little folding chair under my arm, sat in my backyard and read in the sun. Which was lovely, really, until my serenity was disturbed by my neighbour - the devil in a fish net muscle shirt - and his appalling musical selection. You may remember I once told a story about my neighbour playing a selection of great tunes out his window and onto the streets below. And how this was great, and I loved it because it made this fenced-off street feel like a little community. Well, I've since changed my mind. He is, officially, the fifth most odious person I have ever had the misfortune to know. Primarily, because he conducts ALL his conversations as if he were yelling, and his musical choice has moved from the wonderful Destiny's Child to playing rubbish Euro-trance tunes so loud I /literally/ can't hear myself speak. He is the bane of my existence and he makes me want to kill things. But, you'll be pleased to hear, I wasn't going to take this abuse any longer. I was gonna kick his ass the only way I knew how. Musically. And so began the Hackney Stereo Battle-Off Royale! Who will win this clash of the Titans? King: Hot dang! The ref's whistle has barely blown, and the neighbour has brought out the big guns, playing MousseT's "I'm Horny." Longmire doesn't stand a chance against a player of this calibre. Cole: But wait! She's reaching for her CD collection, what album do you think she'll choose? She's going for Ladytron, but no it's BRAINSTORM! BRAINSTORM! BRAINSTORM! King: Wow, that's a smart move from Longmire; the neighbour is on the floor in agony! It seems Eurovision 2000's runners up are positively SLAYING him with their indie-lite stylings. This match is ove. hang on, what's this? Retaliation? Cole: I can't believe it! He's actually managed to make it up again like an 80-year-old on Viagra and OUCH! He's playing The Vengaboys! King: Oof, that's gotta hurt. But Longmire seems undeterred. In fact she's laughing as her volume dial goes up to 35. What's she gonna do to him?! Cole: Oh! My! God! It's DAPHNE AND CELESTE! King: HE'S GOING DOWN! And so, I won. For about ten minutes, after which my celebratory cup of Earl Grey started to tremble as the opening refrains of DJ Otzi's "Hey Baby" came bellowing from the flat above. And, like all good Australians, I cursed. And, like all good Australians, I couldn't actually be arsed to do anything more about it. So I sat in my room and played the entire B+S (content!) back catalogue at a rather more reasonable volume, and danced, and wrote, and pondered. And a niggling thought came back to me and poked me in the eye. I hate my name. Rather, I hate the fact that my name hasn't (to my knowledge) been used in a song. Oh sure, all you Lisas and Janes and flipping Belles get a mention, but just once I would like my name to be used in a song. Or even a television show. Fact: I once wrote a fan letter to the chief script writer of Neighbours, hoping that somehow, he would become so enamoured with my name that he'd introduce a new character to the show, just so he could call her Marianna. And then, you know, she'd get it on with Kristian Schmidt. And it would be like we were dating. Or something. But, NO! My dreams were never realised. And I was forced to watch my sister Caroline jump about in glee to Shaggy's "Oh Carolina", bragging about how great she was as her name was in the top forty. I mentioned the misspelling, but she never seemed to listen, so I just punched her and went off to read her secret love letters. Of course, this whole egotistical issue of wanting my name in a song could perhaps be traced back to a brief period of being ostracised in primary school. This wasn't because I joined the boys' dungeons and dragon club, and it wasn't because I refused to smoke after school in the all-ages playground simply because it sounded far too much like a rebellion cliché. No, I was on the outer because the hippest thing you could have in your pencil case was a ruler with your name PROFESSIONALLY written on it. And of course, 'Marianna' was deemed far too obscure for the manufacturers to bother. Bastards. I can't tell you the pain it used to cause me seeing all my friends with their gleaming plastic named rulers, whilst I had to do with a 30 cent wooden ruler. Although, granted, I did jazz it up with 'Marianna loves Corey Haim for eva!' And 'Madonna rules!' etchings made by my compass. Still, mustn't grumble. On #sinister chat there was talk about the Beckham's insistence on naming their children after where they were conceived. I would be called Barrabarrup Longmire. Now try finding THAT on a ruler. xx Miss Marianna. PS. Sarah is /so/ right. 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