Me, Laurel and Higson were in London earlier this week for two days for meetings with the top brass. As luck would have it, the surf was apparently cranking here on tuesday. Sick. We had some pints straight after work in Farringdon where the publisher’s HQ is and felt the effects fairly promptly. Then we ate in an Italian restaurant where I told the angular Eastern European waitress that she smelled nice, which she pretended not to like. As if.

Last night the Silent Assassin and myself went Central after the Crime Cafe’s strum along Jam night, and ended up, after Dick’s, in the Bakoua. When my ralfing incident went down last week the Assassin was claiming he’s “Never puked from booze, ever.” Hmmm. This morning he woke up in the back of the Mothership outside Griff Dawg’s house minus trainers and t-shirt and covered in his own vom. He’s changed.

At least he didn’t have a tramp’s todger in his ear too.