Well the weekend is over, and the crushing routine of the work-a-day week is upon us once more. But what a weekend it's been folks! It's at times like this when my sorry tales of omelette-related disasters seem woefully inadequate, almost prosaic in their mundanity. Highlights of the previous twenty-four hours include:

• Attending a black-tie Christmas party in 5-star paragon of luxury, the Landmark Hotel

• Failing spectacularly to get off with a girl at aforementioned black-tie Christmas party, despite such shrewd initiatives as:

1. Carrying her down the street when she was ‘tired’.
2. Looking at her face during conversation, rather than her cavernous, barely-restrained cleavage.
3. Plying her with as much white wine as I could get my hands on.
4. Going in for the kill a mere thirty seconds after she mentioned that she had a boyfriend.
5. Damn it.

• Attending a no-tie, unChristmas get-together in the no-star paragon of working-class vitriol and intolerance, the Surrey Quays Wetherspoon’s.

• Failing spectacularly to get off with a girl at aforementioned no-tie unChristmas get-together, largely due to the fact that I daren’t strike up a converstion with anybody there.

• Eating Wensleydale cheese off dry Jacob’s Cream Crackers because there wasn’t anything else in the house apart from a month-old cucumber.

You must admit, the unrelenting Bacchanalia is almost mythical in its scope and spectacle. And now here I am, sat in an empty office, with only the mournful sigh of the air-conditioning to keep me company. It's the kind of dramatic juxtaposition of which Spielberg himself might have conceived.

But never mind. Home time in two and a half hours. And if I remember correctly, there's still a little corner of that cheese left in the fridge. Fasten your seatbelts folks - we're back in action.

Until the next time...