Keith turns 33 on Monday. Last night we went out in Shoreditch to commemorate this. En route I walked past a pub that had in the window “Fancy a game of giant Jenga? Come on in!” No. Not remotely tempting in a pub environment. I did used to enjoy the giant Jenga games they played on The Big Breakfast a few years ago, though. Thrilling battles that used to frequently extend past 9am, no doubt giving the schedulers a collective aneurism.

Keith told of a drink that's served in spiit'n'sawdust East End boozers, called rum'n'pep. Rum, with peppermint cordial. Last night, at an inappropriately chic Hoxton watering hole, Keith decided to ask for one. He obviously had to explain what it was, and ended up with a glass of Bacardi & creme de menthe. Quite tasty, actually, in a vodka & toothpaste kind of way.

I'm feeling incredibly intolerant today. Woe betide any who cross my path. I've already had to hold my tongue about three times this morning, when confronted by very earnest and enthusiastic co-workers who are bandying about ludicrous marketing jargon, thrilled by the prospect of selling books on the internet. “It doesn't matter,” I feel like stating, solemnly. “We'll all die eventually, miserable and alone. Here, listen to this collection of songs by Joy Division.” I seem to have a reputation here for being miserable. My angle is that if there were anything here that remotely amused me, I'd join in. But the sight of 5 people hooting with violent laughter after seeing the office “joker” rub a tea bag on his face, pretending that it's perfume, is almost enough to make me put on my coat and walk out. It would probably be fantastic material for a dour sitcom about the tedium of office life, but I think that's already been done.

Jenny is not at work, clearing her considerable intray. Instead she has to attend a “strategy day”. This pretty much sums up my frustration with the world.
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