"I don’t want to get married."

M. appeared on the nose of my easyeverything hours being up. We found good curry (not at all like the review it gets here) and, nicely stuffed, hit the birthday party.

Saw some people I’d not seen in years, and met a bloke who works for the Independent who also knows his Who. We discussed the relative merits of Hartnell, and he explained how you make an Astrakhan hat. Induce the lamb so it’s born prematurely, and you get those fetching close-curls. Naw.

Little bit pissed, stumbled back to the train with B. and got home to dish all to the Dr about people’s haircuts and who snogged who.

Into town this morning for a work thing that went well, made some deliveries and then met the lovelies Charley and C’rizz for lunch. I now know much about the future of Who things.

And again I'm not telling.

Ballsed up the settings on my costly new-bought machine so it cut out halfway through the interview. As yesterday, the trusty (and borrowed) Olympus Pearlcorder S701 did the business.

Home again to write the thing up, and my night out with the brothers is off, so I’ve an evening of work now ahead of me. But first I am going to watch Dr Who natter, then feed the cat, then have my own tea. By which time, if I manage it right, it’ll be bedtime.