A phone call arrives, if you can describe a burst of micor wave hitting your mobile phone as arriving, from a well known waster and writer of this parrish.
"Nick, it's juzzy - where are you staying next weekend in birmingham"
"Eh? dunno."
"What? you must know where you are staying! Have you got a room booked?"
"Yeah, erm"
"So where are you staying?"
"Dunno"
"What?"
"Well, Mr S has booked a room for him and Mrs F and one for me, sort of thing and erm, so I just follow along, being one of lifes followers. And stuff"
"Oh. So anyway, where are you staying?"
"Dunno. Tell you what, when S&F land in Edinburgh later I will ask them and let you know. Hang on - why do you ask? are you going to be wandering round the hotel I am staying in dressed in curtain fittings again?"
"Possibly. I just thought we could all stay in the same place and then we could all get wankered together."
"We? Wankered? is this some liverpudlian term of social endearment?"
"Shut it you posh southern git! its just a thing we do up here. like. lar"
Or something like that. Anyway - why do people try to get sensible information out of me when I am not in the least sober and sat on my arse waiting for Dr Who to start.
Eh?
EH!
Still. That's next weekend sorted anyway.
Expect great tails of much sillyness some time in the near future.
Or not.
Or something.
Now, I reeeeeeeely should think about packing.
OK, thought about packing and am off to do more palinka drinking.
Mmmwah!
