More socialising - this time an office-warming party (I kid you not). Lots of champagne, lots of poncy food, zero atmosphere. No speeches, even. All of this makes it quite difficult to write about. The most amusing part of the evening was a drunken colleague (long-haired, unshaven, Sun reader) chatting to our millionairess MD, giving her financial advice. I found this hysterically funny. Unsurprisingly, the guy phoned in sick the following day - too much Bollinger, evidently.

The evening was over by 8:30pm, and after an incredibly frightening car journey, I found myself watching Star Trek: First Contact, which was somewhat less awful than I had envisaged. I'm not much of a sci-fi fan, but this didn't drag too badly, and was vaguely enjoyable, even.

My Inbox fills me with Deja Vu...

 

From: S----- B-----
Sent: 26 November 1998 1:29 pm
To: Nelson, Ian
Subject: Mock Journal
 
Journal Entry 4 - Thursday.
 
"Yesterday evening I dropped Ian off at the town-centre, where he'd spend the evening at a restaurant with his team. Ian returned from his alcohol binge at around midnight. The next morning I couldn't see any bloody footprints, so I safely assumed that he hadn't murdered anyone yet, though I was suspicious when he got up at 7:30am to watch the morning news. Ian's madness seems to have worsened and has no bounds. Today he exclaimed: "Oooh, rainbows I hate those things they're always crawling up your legs and eating the inside of your ass..." - I think he's beyond help now. At lunch he didn't sit with us and S----- L-----, though he looked at him with a macabre glint in his eye. I could see the fear on L-----'s face - his days are numbered. I often think that Ian lost touch with reality a long time ago, when he became a self-indulgent recluse who only listened to records, people across the internet, and occasinaly chatted to his car. Maybe that's what people from backwater villages are like. The contrast between his sheltered village-life and the realities of the world have altered the balance of his mind. He can't cope, and so we await the ineveitable violent outburst. Someone should have recognised these traits a long time ago. I could see that something was wrong when he got on his knees and did his E.T. impression, it was really a cry for help, and this depression led him to alcholism. Maybe Ian, his listening car and his Sylevester/Tweetie bow-tie believe that he's a sane man in an insane world. His bright orange shirt and his longing for a similarly-coloured suit signal what goes on in his mind. He's ready to snap."

It's vaguely amusing, the contorted view that other's seem to have of me, or choose to have. But this is getting dull, now.