Had a bit of a mixed weekend.  On Friday night I went to a pub quiz at O’Malley’s
(sample question: “Which LA celebrity has a tatoo of an angel with her wings spread across the back of his neck?“)
we came a respectable fourth although I have written to my MP to demand a recount of the points.

As I was enjoying a post-quiz cocktail, I received the first of approximately 314 phone calls from work . Things were wrong at the airport and they kept going wrong all the way through Friday night until around 3:30am, then started again at 8:30am on Saturday morning.

To make sure everything was OK I went to the airport on Saturday afternoon, and didn’t get away until 8pm when I went to a friend’s birthday party at Bambou.
After the meal I had promised to go back and sleep at the airport to make sure nothing else went wrong (although how me sitting in a nearby hotel with my fingers crossed would help, I don’t know).

Sunday after getting back home, I thought it would be fun to ride my bike to the Photography mall. Well it must have been 38 degrees in the baking sun and I rode around for 2+ hours getting more and more lost. When I eventually returned home, my black t-shirt was covered in the white salt I’d sweated out and I stank like a Weasel in a rubber catsuit.


“Excuse me chaps, which way to the photography mall?“