Well it’s a good job Mark was at Cirque du Soleil on Tuesday or my week would have been all upside down. Somehow I’d got tonight’s party marked down for last night, and last night’s dinner and drinks marked down for today.

So, with that all sorted out I mooched towards Soho with Mark last night to meet Kathryn and Ems in the Pitcher and Piano, on account of the fact it’s doing half price bottles of wine for the whole of January (guaranteed to have me flat on the floor far faster than any other drink). Mark, it seems, was coming down with my cold, while the sheer quantity of champagne I’d drunk on Tuesday evening had flushed away all my bugs and I woke up the following morning, Wednesday, feeling as clean as a bell.

If that’s the phrase…

Anyhow, the wine did it’s usual trick as quick as might be expected so I was fairly relieved that the place was so packed and we were relegated to standing around a pillar guarding our bags, the upshot being that after the first bottle was empty we headed off in search of food.

We ended up on a small table in Soho Thai beside a guy and his girlfriend who were practicallly having some sex over an appropriately named vegetarian chilli dish called something-or-other prick. Two people pressed up against the glass of the window were up to much the same thing, so I guess it was the night for it.

Or perhaps they’re all desperately trying to get themselves lined up with dates for Valentines.

Emilie Ems was still feeling grotty after seven days in bed with the flu so zizzed off sharpish some time after nine, leaving the three of us to neck what was left of the wine and return to the Pitcher and Piano, where we slumped on deep leather settees, practically falling asleep.

After all that, then, I didn’t go to tonight’s party at all in the end. I got out of my last meeting tonight at something-to-seven and couldn’t bear the thought of another late night, so fiddled with my spreadsheets for a while and trundled home.

Stupidly, I’d caught the bus to the station this morning thinking I’d be out, so it was a long walk home at the other end, but it was certainly the right decision. Word from those who went was that as soon as you walked in the door you got ‘attached’ to a product person who would sit you down and talk shop to you all night, which is not really what I’d class as party behaviour.

After three days of walking or bussing to the station, though, I’m almost looking forward to fighting my way through the traffic and the swearing drivers tomorrow morning.

Almost.

But not quite.

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