Anyhoo (yes "anyway" was already taken).

Finally got round to installing one of them proximity app things. Flicking through. Dull, dull, ok, hmm, maybe, maybe not, cute, dull, dull, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?

I know there's the quirk of art that meant men could be sculptured in loving, form-hugging detail if they're heroically vanquishing a monster, but we don't need to have that pretext to have rippling toplessness now, so why then would anyone think it would be a good thing to show, as their alluring profile picture, them cavorting with a python?

And while trying to find an image to illustrate this it turns out that, um, I really don't like snakes, hence don't have any pictures of anything vaguely related.

In other news someone in the next town over has my shirt.

Anyhoo,

PS. Oh, and why did I download that app? Just to check I'm not the only one in existence [round here]. If there's hope even here then I ought to be able to remember that there's hope elsewhere.

PPS. Are you sitting comfortably? Are you alone? Please record your reactions in the comments.

So it turns out that heads of engagement aren't terribly good at engaging with this head about the previous engagement of a head. But he is head of engagement for the Conservatory Front, so, not only do I have to wash my mouth out with soap, but really I should have seen this coming (rather than... yet things were left unconcluded), except I didn't see any part of the situation coming and while the situation was developing there wasn't a great of forethought going on (I would make someone pun about whore-thought, but not even that was going on).

Weirdly not broken-hearted. Not devastated. Merely a little embarrassed, although I'm protected by plausible deniability [BTW this is ghost-written fiction] and waiting for he who is without sin to cast the first stone; as at this party some people outright refused to expose how they met the host there could be a wait (and what is this sin of which you speak?).

So there was a party I wasn't actually invited to and which I was dreading, where it wasn't that bad—excepting some of the karaoke—and where I found myself rather drunker than I'd expected, so dragged into backing up karaoke and thus holding myself upright, and then ended up kissing the guy in the stairwell, with things stirring well, where gin-boosted gravity started winning (and his hands were on the, er, coaxing, side, which had I been more sober I'd normally have rebelled against), and um.

Yes, that was about the noise.

We heard somebody come out of the door to the flat. He gallantly, to save us being caught together in-flagrante-de-licked-hole, ran away down the stairs. I opened the door surprising and surprised at the woman beyond.

Then I pounded my way back in (well, more thrummed, but have you tried knocking on a door beyond which there is karaoke?), grabbed my bag, farewelled the host, and fled, the fellatio and fondling having flooded over my pre-last-train buffer.

So I ran for the tube in the effortless way of the drunk, then from it and so onto the last train of the night, by a highly efficient margin, where I made it to at least Clackslam Junction before the combined Stilton burgers (who the hell mixes Stilton into mince to make burgers? Who the hell likes Stilton to start with?), birthday cake, awareness, assorted wines, and whatever one could find to dilute the gin by the end of the night made themselves known. Was it the alcohol, was it the kinship with the lactose-intolerant, was it the blithe bounding?

Whichever the raisin loaf bag came in very useful although most of the raisin loaf didn't get used.

So that was a day of firsts (which is more incredible?).

This doesn't sound much like me, does it? Well, except for the drinking to cover uncertainty and finding myself actually 'unused to wine', the act of chundering neatly, the general polite, biddable ineptitude.

Anyway, for calibration, and for testing.

Anyhoo,