2005-03-01

I�ve arrived at work with a splitting headache (not alcohol-related, oddly enough) to find city workers JACKHAMMERING outside the door � what is this, a bad sitcom? Purgatory? Holy GOD. If they. Don�t FUCKING STOP. I am going. To fucking die. This I swear.

Brighton was fun, anyway. Top city. Very pretty and bohemian and cool; I�ll probably move there at some point. The shopping was good: it was, in truth, very good. I really didn�t know that shopping could be like that. It was so good I had to have a cigarette afterwards. I bought a wicked tweed jacket and a pair of jeans that actually fits, for a change (archaeological excavations reveal that I do in fact have an ass! Exciting news for everybody!).

Kitted out in my new gear, I went pub-hopping; I was hit on by a ludicrous Frenchman who told me, incomprehensibly, that my �behaviour� would �get me in trouble someday� (maybe so, but alas for you, creepy Frog, today is not that day); later on a friendly bartender got me into an after-hours club for free. Sunday morning I slouched listlessly around Brighton Pier for a few minutes in the snow and then nearly expired on the smelly, jolting bus back to Portsmouth; the proper end to a jolly mini-break.