Thursday wiped me out until lunchtime today. It started in Islington at ten for Mac Expo, transferred to the office some time around lunchtime in the middle of the anti-Bush demos, moved on to the hotel mid-afternoon, the awards in the evening, and then partying until half five Friday morning.

So anyway, the Expo was at the Business Design Centre in Islington, which I’ve not been to in about ten years. I still can’t decide whether or not it was once a train station but it certainly looks like one with its metal struts, big arched roof and an enormous clock at one end.

I spent the morning flitting around between the various stands, shaking hands with the exhibitors and dispensing business cards and at one point met up with Rachel - technically my sworn enemy since she edits the competition - for a brief natter on her stand. She asked if I was nervous about having to give my speech that night but strangely I wasn’t, and it stayed that way right up until the point I had to make it.

Grabbed a cab back to the office around half one and got stuck in the middle of the anti-George Bush protesters marching through Bloomsbury to congregate outside the University. There were thousands of them, from all walks of life. One had a teddy bear sticking out of her bag; it was holding up a little ‘librarians against Bush’ placard.

Another carried a far larger sign: ‘America voted for Gore, not for gore’, with the second word ‘gore’ mocked up to be blood and guts. Gruesome but clever nonetheless. The police seemed to be just standing around watching it all happen. Our driver reckoned they were probably on the protesters’ side, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was right in a lot of cases.

After a few delays he got us back to the office, where I checked my mail, picked up my tux and headed off in a snazzy hired car to the Sheraton Park Lane. Of all the hotels in London it’s one of the most beautiful; art deco throughout and with a ballroom that looks like it was taken straight from the Titanic. The story goes that Churchill had decided he’d move the war cabinet there if Germany ever bombed Whitehall so badly that he was forced to flee, and you can see why - it’s two floors below ground, down some wide deco staircases, and there is no mobile coverage anywhere.

Jon Culshaw was already there, waiting for us in reception so we could do a dry-run of the ceremony and check the script one last time while the serving staff continued setting up the tables and chairs for the evening. It went fairly well. We ironed out the last few kinks in the lines and although my part had been slightly tidied up since I’d written it, it was close enough to the original for me to remember it more or less from end to end without looking at the prompt card.

By the time that was over, I’d tuxed-up and watched an hour of news, the guests were arriving, and before I’d noticed, I was doing it for real, unable to see beyond the first row of tables because of the blinding lights. The awards were presented (’the awardifications were winnerised,’ as Jon Culshaw put it in a George Bush voice), dinner was eaten, much had been drunk and it was suddenly half five in the morning. We were sitting in the Palm Court Bar drinking champagne on someone or other’s expense account and I was on the verge of slumping onto the floor, asleep. I dragged myself up the stairs to bed and lay wide awake until an hour before the 8am alarm went off.

Naturally, that made for a very unpleasant Friday. I was first in, and feeling as bright as a bell, but as the day wore on I got more and more tired and twice found myself drifting off at my desk, so I’m fairly pleased by the amount of work I managed to get through. I didn’t make it back to the Expo as I’d planned after a whole-morning meeting that called for pencils, pens and plenty of paper to draw on pushed everything back and things stacked up. I ended up leaving the office at half eight, arriving home at ten, going straight to bed and sleeping for almost twelve hours.

That wouldn’t have been a problem had I not had to be at the vet at 10.30. I made it, though, and it turns out the reason the cat is losing all of its hair is that it’s stressed. It’s apparently pulling it all out itself, which is the cat equivalent of biting your fingernails. He gave her the cat equivalent of a shot of Prozac and dispatched us with a steep bill and an invitation to come back in three weeks and spend some more money if that hadn’t sorted it out. At that price he’s probably hoping it won’t.

The rest of the day was spent drifting around doing not very much at all. Dinner with Trevor, Jon and Paul, and a repeat viewing of Meet the Parents.

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