64 St. Clemet's Street

Dear Will,

I am sorry I did not arrive at your party yesterday night. I tried.

I rapdily arrived at the front door, but that has a message taped in the window saying something to the effect of "This is not a real door. Go around to find the other one." Well, I could see through a shuttered basement window that a bunch of people I half-recognised were sitting around in a room that was twenty metres by one, and that looked like a very elongated party to me.

I strolled up and down the street for a bit, looking for the entrance. A dude cycled by me at high speed, using both hands to swig from a red wine bottle. For some reason I decided that you might be in the Duke, so I had a look in there. The clientele looked at me and said "Boyy, you ain't even nearly cool enough to be in here, not even with those kickin' sandals".

I wandered down Boulter street and Bath street hoping there'd be a obvious way to the back of the house and hopefully an inviting back garden, maybe with some spanish guitar music and tapas. Instead, there was a murder alley with a dog and a hobo. The dog started barking, but I was wearing the aforementioned kickin' sandals that prevented me from leaving as rapidly as I might otherwise have done. I tried to assert control of the situation by looking kind of stern. The homeless dude decided to leap over the wall and, judging by the sound, crashed through an ivy bush into someone's garden. The dog was as nonplussed by this as I was, and stopped barking.

At this point, homeowners were starting to look out their darkened windows in judgemental ways. "Screw this" I thought, "I'm going home to drink Kentish Ale and drink Knights of the Old Republic until the early hours".

It was a good Friday night.