"Come here, little boy..."

"The zone, Robyn, is far, far away. And you're running even further away from it."

It seems apt to begin with twenty-five of us, crammed into Gemma's house, armed with several cameras and bottles of vodka. And so that's where I was last night, and where, frankly, I would gladly spend every night for the next year. Surprisingly mellow, for one of our get-togethers, though with the usual, slightly random highlights:

1)Kat setting Gemma's grill on fire. On actual fire, with smoke, and flames: "Oh, fuck... I don't think we should put the pizzas in there".

2)Simon and I (who, incidentally, shouldn't be allowed to use technology when drunk) stumbling upon Gemma's camera, and proceeding to take several (hundred) photographs of ourselves, my favourite of which was the one with Si's head in the microwave.

3)Someone throwing several clementines at Marshall, then an onion. Which he promptly ate.

4)Kirstin's advice.She is, of course, completely right. She also told me that I had "good boobs" in my LBD: deduce from that what you will.

5)Simon telling (poor, thirteen year-old) James, who was skulking around as a guest of Joe's, to "come here, little boy", in a terrifyingly seductive voice.

And a nice text, this morning, from Marshall, apologising for using me as a duvet after midnight. Actually, I was passing numerous spirits his way, so I don't think he was sleeping. Technically.

All that, without a single punch being thrown. We must be growing up. Ugh, though. I wish I knew what was in the hideously alcoholic brew that Jack cajoled me into drinking...

...on second thoughts, no. Ignorance, here, is bliss.