The end of last week was overshadowed by the launch of Neil Bailey’s exhibition at the Oxo Gallery. Keith, myself, egremont and charleston were a few of many who attended; all of us were astounded at the amount of wine that had been ordered on sale or return, and all of us were equally doubtful of the ability of a small bowl of cherry tomatoes to soak it all up. Post-gallery we went to Shunt, a bar which lies through a secret door below London Bridge station, and down a long, eerie, poorly lit corridor. I’m not sure what it was used for before it became a cool urban hangout, but I think grisly torture might have figured somewhere in its history, as I’m certain that no-one could hear you scream down there, especially if the music is playing too loud.

The evening ended with Keith stumbling towards the river, where he was later assaulted by one of the homeless people that he foolishly attempted to make friends with, “I remember being punched,” he told me the next day, “and I remember running, and falling over.” This was presumably the moment where he lost his phone; attempts to contact him in the morning were met by an enthusiastic response from a random scouser who had used the phone during the night to call Keith’s friends in America to let them know he’d found the phone. He called so many people to let them know of his good deed, that he eventually ran the battery out. As scissorkicks pointed out, it’s unlikely he’s got a charger. Goodbye, phone.

I have buckled to no pressure whatsoever except from my own internet addiction, and got myself my own Myspace page, as opposed to The Free French’s one. I also used a couple of productive hours this morning constructing a Bogshed one; if you can’t find the profile of someone you want as a friend, well, make the bloody thing yourself, I say. I look forward to lawsuits filed by some Hebden Bridge solicitor.

[PS, I'm denying every single friend request from every single band. Apologies for any offence caused.]

Jenny’s flat incurred slight water damage last week, thanks to some shenanigans in the flat above, so she appears to have moved in a few weeks ahead of schedule while it’s all mended. We have celebrated this fact by sitting a short distance away from each other, tapping silently on our respective laptops. I remember in 1996 or so when my boss first started sending me emails rather than talking to me; I’m sure he’d be gratified that he was in fact blazing a trail which is now taken up by couples firmly embedded in long-term relationships. If you’re reading this, Jenny, could you pass that pen, thanks.