The zombie and the smart phone

It’s Greg’s leaving do tonight - in the Barrel House, of course. He’s wearing what Paul described unflatteringly as “the world’s shittest shirt.”

There’s a tab at the bar. Dozens of colleagues come and go. The drink brings out some unlikely smokers, but Trevor manages to abstain.

Food is ordered. And then there’s the inevitable descent into more varied and dangerous imbibables. There are mini-Guinesses, tequilas, gins, and the flaming zombie (pictured).

I totter into a taxi after ten and head for Stockbridge. Rachel is sitting by the fire, an open bottle of red at the ready, which I really don’t need. She’s playing tennis early in the morning, so it’s not a late night.