A fairly generous lie in yesterday morning preceeded a fairly useful day. I steadily worked my way through an enormous basket full of washing while reviewing software, wrote an article and emailed it to myself at work. Let’s hope it shows up in my inbox tomorrow morning or it will all have been in vein.

Soaked in a bath from four until five then jumped on a train to London. Paul’s office was having an end of project party and he’d asked me to go along as his +1.

‘Dinner jacket or lounge suit’, it said on the invite, which for someone who doesn’t own a suit and has little intention of ever buying one was a bit of a problem. Eventually found a tie in the back of my cupboard, so threw that around my neck and put on a white shirt - although not in that order, obviously.

It was a massive do - one of six held in London, Ireland and Scotland, this particular one in Excel, a tricky venue that requires several train changes and long cold waits on station platforms. The food was press=party fodder, so plenty of goats cheese and roasted peppers, and there was plenty of it. I left feeling thoroughly stuffed and more than just a little uncomfortable.

A well-heckled comedian did his best to steer the evening on a logical course, but his jokes were years old (’my son wants this brand new games machine called a Playstation2′, Bill Clinton jokes, mother-in-law repartie etc) that half way through his act the next table was yelling for him to leave. I shaln’t give his name, but I see from one of his agent’s site that he’s ‘the giant of corporate entertainment’ and from another that costing between

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