Friday 23 January

Q. What is worse than a three-day assault by a raving Scotsman?
A. When said guest is buffed to a prime only glimpsed (through a hedonistic haze) in our middle-‘20s when life was all shared houses and mutual hosiery.
A. When said guest has acquired an unpatriotic tan in his new home of Grenoble, has traded late night cabre-tossing for early morning boulder climbing and is consequently fit, ready and able to drink you under the table.

Yes, Cameron is in town, a bottle of bright green Chartreuse shoved into my trembling paws upon arrival, he is soon reassembling his Hulman army – no new models here amongst Presuming Ted (‘yeah, I’ve given up the drink,’ comes the deceptively reedy voice, ‘just fill half of that vase wi’ red. The flowers? I ate them. Thanks BB’), Jesus Jones (fond of a chat, the beard seems to filter out all but the best stories this weekend), Melanie (more tempting tales of Southern Abroadia), Dieter, Swish and their recent babba. Tonight’s climax sees me accidentally locking Cameron out of the flat while Bateman and I chase erotic shadows of our former selves in Macca’s Thumbs. Meanwhile Carmona tries to co-ordinate the men-children from faraway France via the Worldwidewotsit. It proves too much, even for one so experienced in controlling this particularly fiery breed.

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