RIP VAN COHEN
Jet-lag, night-shifts and drink can be a potent mix. I only realised this after waking up at 1pm, almost 12 hours after I'd gone to bed. I can't remember the last time I've slept in so late. I needed it.

Last night was definitely worth it. A Friday night dinner with a surprisingly-low neb-quotient. After wandering around the dining hall aimlessly for 10 minutes, wondering if I would end up on a table with man-eating harpies and 45 year-old saddos who get excited by accountancy and still live at home, I found a friend.

S was with her usual sidekick, L. Better still, they were with two other fine young fillies, one of whom sat up so straight that she appeared taller than me even without standing atop her heels (I really need to work on my Alexander Technique).

S was stunning, tanned and freckle-faced with boyish wavy hair that jutted out at bizarre angles when she pushed her hair back over head. She wore a mole-toothed top, cut just low-enough to reveal the whites left behind by her bikini top.

I asked her if I could call her. She said yes, but there was no hint of whether she was just being polite or genuinely liked me. Until proven otherwise, I'll assume the former (old habits die hard).