Thin on the ground.

Frankly this last week has been boring. Terminally so. I left the house, not one, not twice, but thrice (as Janet Jackson would say). One trip was to Ilford (which rather counts as an endurance test), one to a temping agency who were rather positive about things, and the final one was today, going for a run and trying out a new watch I'd bought. This watch is amazing. It has a built in Global-Positioning-System. It plots your movements on a map, times you, records best speeds, calories used and can plan training routes, dinner dates and train timetables. Or something. But that's not the point. The week's been boring. Thank God the preceding weekend was a bit more full.

Friday was Verity's (a.k.a. Dorothy Brody) birthday, so I met up with her and her friends in a bar in London. All was going well and we were all suitably trolleyed and laughing when a man plonks a drink on the table in front of me. Now, I've seen this man before, but I said nothing. I actually laughed because I was drunk. And then 10 minutes later a tequlia was plonked in front of me without so much as a word. And the 15 minutes later a bottle of water and a bottle of wine. At which point I thought I could go for broke and sit it out for the champagne or go and talk to him.

Turned out he was the bar manager. As he handed me a beer, he asked me what I did for a living. "I am currently looking for work", I answered. "What are you looking for?", he asked. "Anything really, I have extensive life experience". "I'm not interested in your life experience", he said with a leer. "Oh," I replied, "so it's not my brains you're after..."

Well, that was that. I made my excuses and went to sit down with Dorothy and pals and laughed a lot more and got a lot more drunk. And when we left the bar I decided to go to Trash Palace, a Soho nightclub, where I danced for a few hours in between getting groped by random men. This reached it's peak when one man entered the club, walked up to the stage area where I was dancing, put his bag and coat on the floor, and put his hands all over me. I am quite sure I don't dance in a suggestive fashion. It's more a dangerous fashion, with arms flailing about me usually causing a few bruises. But then he did have the look of a doctor about him. Perhaps he was undertaking an intervention...

Saturday was much more civilised. The start of Terese's birthday celebrations with dinner at hers in the company of Mark and Therese (note the "h") and then a trip to nice pub in Mornington Crescent. Given the previous night's overindulgence I took it fairly steadily and ended up getting the last train home. This was good as it meant I could meet Terese, Therese and Mark on Sunday for more celebrating.

Terese's cold was worsening, so were planned to take it easy, but Camden's Bar Solo made sure it was a slow, slow day. Everything was delayed- menus didn't come, orders weren't taken, drinks were delayed and were then served incorrectly, food took an hour to come. What should have taken an hour and a half took 3. And then the bill came and it was horrendously wrong. And after we complained the manageress came up to apologise personally, explaining that one of her waitresses had gone home with an allergic reaction, one had called in sick and the chef was being problematic. I'm sure she understood when we didn't tip for good service.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a pub enjoying each other's company and talking about Swedish things (both Therese and Terese are Swedish). And that's what's giving me something to look forward to this weekend. Eurovision season is starting up again- the Swedish preselection events begin this weekend, and numerous other countries' qualifying heats will occur.

My life is desperate.