I am getting some fantastic hits. "Joggin holsters"? "Fingers up his ass"? Magnificent.

So hungover. So hungover. Date went better than expected. Met him in a pub on Battersea Park Road, not really expecting much other thana beer and a quick chat. He'd bought me two pink carnations, so that I'd recognise him.

Nice guy, we talked about films and books and Formula One and football. I drank just over three and a half pints of Kronenberg 1664. I was sloshed (I'm trying not to think of the calories). He offered to walk me home, and on the way warned me that he was going to have to kiss me when we got back to my building. I was all giggly and coy, like a stupid teenager.

In the end we wound up full-on making out, drunk-stylee, on the steps of my block, drawing extended glances from my neighbours. I managed to extract myself after five minutes or so, get his phone number, and stagger into my flat, giggling like an idiot.

C was surprised that I'd been so long and was that tipsy, and that we'd got as far as snogging. I was rampantly horny and found myself being chucked on the bed and given the shagging of my life. Fantastic.

I could get used to this...

Meantime, I have to go nurse my headache. More later, maybe.