...for approximately four and a half decades now, by my reckoning. I look deranged and my skin is unspeakably horrible. My hair is averaging a 6.7 on the Robert Smith scale like, all of the time. Ugh.
We (there are four of us staying in our flat at the moment) were doing that awful drunk girl cackling on the way to the bar. Howling about men and sex and feminism. I think Lena was the soberest at this point and was trying to get us to shut up but to no avail. On we went, knackerdrinking from shared bottles and throwing derisive comments at the sheep queueing at Watergate (honestly, what is all the fuss about?).
We went to Madame Claude's, which I really like. It's got that picture of Laura Palmer framed on the wall as you walk in. It does seem to be having some Polizei issues at the moment though, the music is ver ver quiet after 12. But still, a good time was had by all. We were fairly mangled by the time we even got there. Jessica claims to have been "incapable of holding a normal conversation with anyone" and I think I may have made an appointment to have my hair cut by a French Canadian who spent most of the evening demonstrating how his flannel shirt could be used to conceal the fact that he'd pulled his trousers and pants down until whenever he felt it necessary to reveal his bare arse to relative strangers.