The weekend was spent watching my cold slowly decline in severity as I became used to performing tasks that had temporarily become impossible e.g. having fun, going outside. Yesterday I went outside to my back garden to look at my shed, for instance. There's a small patch of “land” outside the back of this block of 6 flats which, in the lease, has been conveniently divided into 6 portions. Through the jungle it's difficult to make out where no 4's bit of garden ends and mine begins, rather like that uncertainty we've all had while wandering through the Sahara – “'Scuse me! Oi! Am I in Chad yet?” Anyway, one thing I do know is that my shed belongs to me, so I opened it up and made some space for the staggering amount of possessions that my newest flatmate owns but “doesn't need right now”, most of which were filling up the bath. A large proportion of this stuff comprises unsold CD records, and his, together with my many hundreds, started to give my little shed the appearance of BMG's international warehouse in Frankfurt. After 2 gruelling trips up and down the stairs we decided to replenish our energy levels by going to the pub.

The Trafalgar, my local, is a very busy but thankfully quiet and cosy pub, run by a gigantic, rather frightening and extremely homosexual landlord who offers free gay mags for you to peruse along with your pint of Adnams and crustyfilledbaguettewithchipsandsalad. Last night, though, Paul and I stumbled into “Freshers Night”, promising a “disco” and “buffet”. The disco was excruciatingly loud, so we went around the corner to The Victoria but only got within about 15 feet, hearing as we did the sound of Whigfield's “Saturday Night” and the sound of a dozen middle aged women cackling insanely. So, back to Freshers Night.

Paul and I were conspicuous by our haggard complexions, greasy hair and stern facial expressions as 18 year old boys and girls bounced up and down around us, nibbling on complimentary sausage rolls and downing alcopops. I went to buy a couple of drinks from a depressed looking barmaid who, in the spirit of the event, was wearing a couple of flashing deely-boppers. I asked for two pints. “Two for the price of one,” she said. “Ah, excellent,” I replied, giving her a fiver and imagining I would, indeed, get two for the price of one. But no, she poured out four pints and gave me no change. Paul and I sat there, with the pints lined up, considering our options. “Well, shall we just stay here for 2 or 4, and then move on?” said Paul. We then considered going up to a girl who looked exactly like Rachel Stevens to ask her if she'd like 2 drinks before having a feeble attempt at chatting her up. “So… er… do you go to, um, all night raves? How about that, er, Sonic The Hedgehog game, eh?” But we didn't. We had 2 for the road, and left.