Time Flies When You're Having Fun

Dear Diary, I am sorry I have neglected you these past...erm...four days? Does that make it Wednesday since I last checked in? I have failed to submit my freelance expenses to my last employer, and the guilt is weighing heavy on my heart - not to mention the idea that they might be rejected. I told my last boss that I would do them before the end of last week, even mentioning Wednesday in the equation. The same Wednesday when I rattled on about bleeding late night TV phone-in quiz shows. Perhaps my focus should have been elsewhere.

Actually, I don't know why I'm apologetic in tone here: I've just worked like a rabid monkey for 12 weeks straight (ooh, don't work too hard, me lad...) and have earned a break. I can't believe I'm feeling guilty because I haven't done anything for a week. God damn the Protestant work ethic. Not that it should interest you in the slightest, but as I've been doing sweet Fanny Adams since we last spoke I might as well mention it, even if I do sound like a dweeby bastard or complete show-off. God, I've really built it up now, and I'm afraid the vinegar strokes may not be rewarded with the money shot that you perhaps expect. I got myself this really tidy laptop. An "ultraportable" they call it. Anyway, it does everything I need it to do and it's less than A4 size and weighs the same as a bag of sugar. Dull. Dull. Dull.

On Friday, I met up with an old friend from school down in the south of England. While my family lived in Africa, I went to boarding school near Gatwick airport, and I appreciate how glamourous that sounds. This chap went there at the same time as me, but was a year older. We would have last schooled together when I was 12 years old. I like the fact that we still have lunch together 20 years later. Anyway, he had this brilliant idea. Really superb. The idea was beautiful in its simplicity: to set/programme/browse your digital TV set-top box via your mobile phone, and remotely set it to record. Never miss that programme again - you can record Juliet Bravo from the comfort of the pub. I'm sure you can see the genius. Despite the consumption of Guiness by my friend over lunch, neither the luck of the Irish nor the pure genius of the black stuff was on hand to assist. On Saturday morning - about eight hours after he was talking about taking Intellectual Property out on the concept - Sky TV announced their groundbreaking new technology drive: "Remote Record - set your Sky set-top box from your mobile phone". So, as you can imagine, the disappointment was palpable. Despite his being a pretty switched-on character, he hadn't seen the news. I hated breaking it to him. However, it did solve the problem of who to sell the idea to, and how to raise capital for the costs of IP lawyers.

I've just had a very drunken Saturday night out with my good lady friend and a gaggle - I think that's what I should call it - of her old London girlie mates. Two doesn't really constitute a gaggle numerically, though the collective noise the three of them generated made the gaggle tag seem somehow inadequate. Thankfully, and I don't mean any disrespect, one of the number brought her bloke along and a fantastic bloke he was, too. I think he was as glad as I was that there was another fella there, though I must highlight that he knew all the associated characters much better than I do and was able to comment on individuals I am yet to meet. After a swift pair of cocktail rounds at Bank in Birmingham - simultaneously the most stylish and supremely wankiest bar/restaurant in central Brum - we slipped through Brindleyplace to the canal, and walked along past Gas Street basin to The Mailbox. The missus and I felt like tour guides, pointing out such local delights en route as The Tap & Spile - Birmingham's oldest pub, and colloquially known as The Spinal Tap - which also happens to be Birmingham's grottiest pub. In the summer, the easy canalside access to the toilets (sorry, I do not mean to offend the American sensibilities: the restroom. the bathroom. Though why you bath in there, I have no idea. And as for being restful...well, there are clearly more differences over here in Europe than I ever imagined.) Anyway, the toilets: they reek, acting as they do as a public canalside pissoir. There is a 20 yard stretch of canal that, on any given summer's evening, is awash with the drifting stench of urine and those blue chemical blocks they bung in the urinals. Urgh. Enthralled by the city they had descended upon, our southern guests - a pair from Brighton on the south coast in Sussex, and the lady-half of a married couple from south Devon - seemed more awestruck by Birmingham's Mailbox "complex" than I'd ever imagined anyone could feel. There was a wow factor that I did not realise existed. If anyone can shed any light on this, that would be grand.

During dinner, and after the consumption of much wine and beer, conversation turned to the wilder, more hedonistic days of late school and university. It seemed everyone had a tale to tell, everyone had their favourite Class A or B, and proferred an experienced user's guide to the respective substances. I'll not bore you here with tales of people crouching in cupboards "waiting for the man", nor running around barely-clad and diving into lakes in university hall grounds, or any such frippery. The best part (and the point) is that the couple sitting next to our table - a pair who had resolutely refused to communicate with each other during their entire meal - apparently took enormous offence at the content of our druggy conversation. I missed this completely, and merrily chatted on about Daft Situations I Have Been In. But, after they had left - and I had taken the opportunity to point out their Benedictine silence to the others - it became clear that the rest of my party had observed the distaste and poor humour with which our co-diners had judged our banter. I find that terribly amusing and fart in their general direction.

Bonsoir, mes amis. A toute a l'heure.