Big weekend. Big, big weekend.

Friday night started off gently enough. I went to see Zatoichi with Kate, and then headed to Cloisters for a quick pint before a party at Michelle's flat. There was Kahlua - lots of Kahlua - and hence much terrible chat from your inebriated host. I spent the latter part of the evening (after Kate had gone home, fortunately enough) faced by a worryingly Shallow Grave netball team, explaining (again) how we had met. They had some fun skewering me with nudge-nudge wink-wink comments, and I had some fun getting drunk while they did so. A pretty standard evening then, and a nice warm up for the main event.

On Saturday - actually, I can't for the life of me remember what happened during the day on Saturday. I suspect I had a bit of a bass practise and perhaps drank a cup of tea. Pretty humdrum stuff. There may have been a low-grade hangover. That evening, however, was when the fun really started.

It was Sam's birthday on the Sunday, and so he and Ally had organised a bash round at their flat in Marchmont. Our itinerant German friend Louise was visiting with a friend of hers, so the Mafia assembled at our flat about 8 and then hauled our skipload of booze along to Ally's. Picture the scene: the party's going well; cocktails are being experimented with; everyone's getting along famously and someone's just opened the kitchen window so they can scale the scaffolding behind the flat.

Erk.

It wasn't me what started it, but it turns out that climbing scaffolding is a whole lot of fun. So much so, in fact, that the front window is quickly opened to reveal the awesome six-storey majesty of more scaffolding at the front of the block. Cue much tremendously ill-advised (I mean this really is a spectacularly bad idea. Stay away from scaffolding, kids. Especially if you're trying not to spill your drink) climbing about and admiring the view from fifty feet up.

Eventually the scaffold-fever died down and we settled into a safer, let's-party-indoors groove. Jeff, Josh and I called it a night at around 6.30 am, and staggered off back home with some friendly, matey, knockabout hijinks along the way. You know, the kind of stuff fifteen year-olds like. Jeff dumps me over a low wall into a garden, I try to insert him into a hedge. That kind of thing.

I stop to tie my shoelace at one point. Three attempts later, I've more or less managed to do it up. Jeff is standing nearby and I suspect he's going to push me over while I'm crouching to get to my shoe. I give him a playful nudge to preempt him. He staggers slightly backwards.

Into the window of the Dragon Way takeaway.

Which breaks.

Suddenly, no-one is laughing. Apart from me, and I just can't stop. We stare, respectively aghast and doubled over in laughter. The newsagent next door comes out to see what's going on, and helpfully offers to call the police. Josh calls the Dragon Way's number so we can leave a message to explain what happened and we hear the takeaway's phone ringing through the ex-window, floating over the fake plastic plants that are now covered in pretty shards of sparkly glass.

I cannot stop laughing. I offer to leave a message. This consists of a full minute of my helpless guffawing. Jeff takes the phone off me and more soberly recounts what happened, and leaves our details.

We wait for the police to turn up. Josh leaves, because he's A) bored and B) cold. We wait some more. We decide that maybe, because we are also bored and cold, we may as well leave the police to deal with it. Just as we're wandering off, the 5-0 arrive, and we walk back to meet them. Both of the cops are nice guys, and optimistically opine that perhaps the Triads we've just mortally offended will just claim it on their insurance. They take our details, and call them in to check we're not wanted drug dealers or kiddy fiddlers. Jeff comes up clean, but as my friendly neighbourhood bobby waits, his radio crackles: "Advise, we have a possible on Houston K, 4/10/69. Outstanding warrant for <static>". The cop takes one look at me, suppresses his laughter and says "Er, no. I don't think it's him".

We leave. I go to bed at 7.30 am. It's a lovely morning.

On Sunday I had what might be considered to be a very bad hangover. I dealt with this by watching, at a conservative estimate, three hours of The O.C., taped by Josh while I was in France. One of Jeff's fellow postgrads had a party that evening, and so we gamely trundled along with a case of mini Buds - dinky 200ml bottles (let's face it, any larger and I suspect there may have been some alcohol-related health problems coming our way) - and spent much of the evening trying to focus on something actually in the room.

I'm still trying to focus at the moment. It seems to be getting easier.