The smell of diesel zero plus.

Sitting at a table on the lower floor, surrounded by glass and candles and shallow modern art. The type that doesn't have any meaning to it, doesn't clearly depict anything; it's only there to provide a break in the monotony of post-magnolia walls. And to give a conversation topic to drunks. We don't need that though. We'll fill the time talking about living on a barge, how the Royal Mail would deliver your letters to a floating home, and how to avoid paying over £100 per year for a TV license.

Cross over the road into the club. No one there but friends. Durkin and Ducky (Duckie?) talk about pilot licenses and Gary Numan. Later Taylor and Paul C invite us to their gig later this month. Weird talking with people who I haven't spoken to for the best part of 3 or 4 years. Cool that we still remember each other though. Real cool.

I guess it's a thin line to tread. On the one hand you're so damn happy, and even if it's just for one night it doesn't matter because that feeling will be enough to last you for a while. Won't it? Depends. At the same time sad - nothing lasts forever. Prove me wrong. This time next year, or in two years, or whenever, lets meet up in whatever part of the country/world we're in. And lets sit on a roof or a balcony at night and stare out at lights and talk about ways to avoid TV licensing. Or the logistics of living on a barge.