Andrea

I only had one tutorial to do today so I soon scampered off, but only as far as Liverpool St because I was thirsty and the sun was out and everything felt good and 'Woodin's Shades' has a good window seat or two, so you can sit there for hours if you like watching the city pass by in between it's machinations drilling up debt we don't understand. I'm just sitting there looking at the city tits and arse of course.

But in such delightful circumstances, thoughts float to the surface over Stella Black (I'm not sure this is a good marketing ploy in the UK, too close to Cilla Black). I smiled at the recollection of a certain Andrea, a woman with tits beyond compare, and a night in an Oxford hotel room where I fell asleep on her lap. It was in the early nineties. Now these things happen all the time no doubt to all of you, but this occasion was a bit special, for Andrea is the only woman who has actually written to me to thank me for my endeavours that night (and I hope I've kept it somewhere) and if that can't bring a smile to the face of the old boy once in a while, nothing can. You could laugh and laugh and laugh, especially when the numpties from Fitness First in uniforms and sunglasses outside the window are setting up their promotional stall on a broken wallpaper table, and furnishing it with promotional mugs and promotional flags and all the rest of the tat, and then taking photos of themselves on their mobile phones as if this was some kind of achievement.

Wherever you are Andrea, my turn for thanks from the heart.