My body feels battered and bruised after another poor night's sleep. As I aimlessly wandered the flat moaning “Why?” at 4.30am, I searched for reasons. Reasons why, despite being monumentally tired, I don't appear to be allowed to rest. I went back to bed, and in the morning the answer came; in a much-updated version of The Princess And The Pea, it transpired that I'd spent the night sleeping on top of a Nokia 6230. You see, if I wasn't a real man, I wouldn't have felt the Nokia 6230 through the polyester-filled duvet, and would have slept like a top. I can think of better ways to prove my masculinity, but there you go. I guess I should just be thankful that it wasn't one of these.

A perk of having a girlfriend who works for a food magazine came last night, with dinner for two at Pont De La Tour, courtesy of a generous PR, in return for two pages of gushing copy in a forthcoming issue. “Where's Pont De La Tour?” I asked Jenny. “Tower Bridge, you idiot.” Oh yes. Pont De La Tour. Makes sense, I suppose. If you're French. It's a Conran restaurant on the south bank of the Thames, with an untrammelled view of the bridge.

Well, a little bit trammelled, but not that trammelled. I'll tell you which view wasn't in the least bit trammelled, and that's the one of the hideous Thistle Hotel opposite. Fortunately as the sun sets over West London, the hotel disappears into the darkness, with the GLA having decided to focus any lighting resources directly on the bridge. Good idea.

I don't think I'll ever get used to the idea of eating for free. Jenny found it easier, as she's the one who has to imminently fashion a readable article into shape; so she had lobster. £32.50. Goodness me. I chose the cheap stuff and offered simpering gratitude to any waiter that dared hove into view. Clearly all the staff knew that the meal was on the house, as little “amuses bouches” were brought to us in between courses; a delicate arrangement of small terrines and oysters initially, and later, a lemon sorbet drenched in vodka. Yum. “Is there a name for the sorbet?” asked Jenny of the head waiter, an elegant man with a shaved head and round face. “Ah. The… the lemon sorbet?” “Yes. I just wondered if there was a name for it.” “Ah. Um…” At this point another waiter, an underling, glided past as if on casters. “The name of the lemon sorbet?” he said, pointedly and quizzically, at his superior. “No-no, everything's fine, thank you,” said the head waiter, irritably. He walked away, while the other waiter continued to glide in the other direction, having scored about 10 points. 15 minutes later, they were at our table again. “Would you care for some port?” asked the head waiter, wielding a hefty menu. “Well, that would be lovely, thank you,” I replied. “Yes, you'll find the port on page 17,” said the other waiter to his boss. Ouch. 50 point bullseye. You could sense the tension in the air, along with the delicate aroma of the finest unpasturised goats cheese.

Naturally, I indulged in some exceptionally gluttonous behaviour, and I'm writing this while barely sat up in bed, belching occasionally, Andrew's within reach – I mean the powder that relieves symptoms of over indulgence, of course, not . Tonight I shall feast on lettuce.