I passed up the chance to spend quality time in scintillating company at the weekly pop quiz at The Boogaloo, I passed up the chance of a ticket to see Dylan Moran do a secret gig at the Soho Theatre, and instead I wandered back to Tooting to hook up with and look at the floor while shaking our heads and mumbling a bit. Eventually Paul wandered off to the nearest pub that had Sky Sports so he could watch Liverpool take on Millwall. He texted me after a few minutes to advise me not to join him as the pub was full of boneheaded men reinterpreting Derek And Clive scripts, accompanied by the persistent threat of violence. Instead we visited a local wine bar which had altered its music policy from repetitive dance music to barely noticable guitar jangle, presumably in some half-arsed tribute to John Peel. Baros slotted a goal through the Millwall defence; Paul went to the toilets and threw up, twice. Millwall fans started rampaging on the terraces; we wandered back to the flat feeling sombre.

In the post I'd received a double DVD collection of both series of über-sketch-series Big Train, and I settled down to watch it. I giggled myself into a doze, and dozed myself into sleep. The ringing of my phone woke me up just after midnight. Jenny had been working late and was on Regent Street, trying to get a cab. Suddenly there was an enormous noise and the phone went dead. I tried ringing back, but it just went to voicemail. The next half hour featured me pacing up and down the flat with my phone clamped to my ear, Paul telling me to stay calm, and me picturing Jenny's remains spread evenly over the front of a Norbert Dentressangle juggernaut. Eventually she rang me when she got home. It turns out that her mobile phone is a bit knackered.

So am I.