I stood for an hour at Victoria Station on Friday night, cursing the fact that trains run every half hour to Brighton EXCEPT there's no 6.30pm train. I attempted to amuse myself during that tedious, empty hour-long wait by stalking pigeons, but I never got much further than a few feet before they noticed me, and I certainly didn't get anywhere near finding out where they lived or what their mobile phone numbers might be.

In Brighton I immediately called someone to say I could see the sea – an integral part of any visit to the seaside – and waited for Jenny and her friend Chris to return from a day out in Hastings, while sat on a bench in Regency Square looking a bit suspect. Fortunately I didn't have to wait long, and was whisked off to a Moroccan restaurant to sample the delights of tagines and cous cous to the accompaniment of deafening North African music and a gyrating, loose-limbed belly dancer. The epitome of exotic, she shook her booty around all the tables despite the malfunctioning PA, which saw fit to cut out every 45 seconds and thus somewhat interrupting her flow. The waiters attempted to get us all to clap along while cheering her on, but as someone from the Home Counties it just seemed a bit tawdry, only one step away from shouting “Get Em Off! Get Em Off!” A North African businessman decided to join in with the dancing, and stood up to make aggressive rhythmic movements in her direction, which ended up pinning her into one corner. After she'd finished, he moved over to her, asking her whether she would like a drink. She told him. He turned and boomed loudly to the restaurant: “A MALIBU AND COKE, FOR THE LADY!” Not that exotic, then.

Woke up to see Matthew Pincent blubbing on national TV while his three rowing partners sang the National Anthem at hoarseness-inducing volume, and then came back to London. We had an invite to go to a party at the house of a famousish man and a famousish woman who were on holiday and for 1 month had left the place to the mercy of their son, who immediately invited everyone he knew and everyone those people knew to a barbecue. It was a sedate and relaxed affair, spoilt only by my friend Mark attempting to get mentioned in this journal by behaving eccentrically – e.g. wearing a blanket around his shoulders all night, thus looking like a cross between a tramp and someone who has just been plucked out of the sea by the rescue services after a cross-channel-ferry disaster. He then proceeded to be chased around the garden by a small child, before getting very drunk and slumping on the floor of the office of the famousish man and famousish woman, an office packed with sexual instruction manuals that been co-written by them. Mark's girlfriend asked the host if they could stay. He took a look at Mark and said “no, I don't think so.”

Excessive laughter and exposure to some unknown allergy-inducing substance once again left me a wheezing asthmatic. I really must go to the doctor next week. As I wheezed and coughed, a girl called Cressida appeared with her boyfriend Troilus Mark. She was a nurse, and gave me an inhaler. Instant relief. It turns out she used to play flute in band Fosca. There are no other co-incidences to report, as of now.