Dry, White and Bitter

I'm in an achingly fashionable Soho nightclub trying to explain to the girl next to me that my current routine of sounding cynical and angry, supplemented with cigarette and whiskey props, is merely a comic tribute to Dave Allen. In reality I'm tired and soul-destroyed, and she's never heard of Dave Allen.

It was a good week for the forces of chaos. My future carreer path is up in the air at the moment, and with my defences down absolutely everything seemed to get to me. And I spent three hours taking a client shopping on Friday, pausing only to let him suck the life out of me.

On Tuesday I decided the only possible reaction to my job problems was to do what I've always done in this case; I put on my best shirt and a tie and got to the office at 8.30. By Friday I was wearing jeans for the second day in a row and seemed to have acquired a beard from somewhere. And on Friday evening I was lying on my bed, totally unable to move, despite the fact that it's my mate's last night in town and I really had to go. So for a second time I made myself look as smart as possible, ignored the first traces of gangrene around my eyes, and went out. It was actually a good move, as my angry outburst was exactly timed to be incredibly rude to someone who really deserved it, and the beard definitely impressed the blonde who'd never heard of Dave Allen.

This weekend I'm very deservedly doing absolutely nothing. And like the wine I was knocking back on Wednesday, this week has had a few playful notes of citrus fruit. I think word's getting around that I'm unsettled, and I might just have a job interview lined up for Friday. And I might just have defeated the evil computer system; sometimes it really helps not to hold back.

And I got the blonde girl's number. Followed by 12 hours sleep. The recovery starts here.