Swing when you're winning.

I made a conscious decision to do absolutely nothing this week. In the end my resolve cracked on Thursday (see below), but Monday to Wednesday were filled with nothing other than mundane domesticity: work, cook, watch crappy TV, play bass, and booze. Gill's a boozehound par excellence:

RF: "Guys, dinner's ready."
Gill: "Thanks!" <sound of wine cork popping> "Splashy splashy?"

Swing on Thursday was chuffing great. It was the last session in the beginners' block and we were taught a few new Charleston moves. Although I came dangerously close to freaking out in the middle of the lesson (I have a finite and rather low capacity for getting to grips with new moves, after which my brain starts generating rather more heat than light), I gathered my shit enough so that by the end of the evening I managed to dance with, and lead Gill for all of three minutes without abruptly stopping and apologising profusely.

Ya dancer!

Afterwards we went to the pub and congratulated ourselves with lots of beer. Excellent evening all round.

Doug and I went along to Waxy's birthday bash in the west end of Glasgow on Friday night. It was a rather good night - I met the semi-mythical Jesus Andy (turns out he's neither mythical nor much resembles Jesus anymore, but still has excellent chat) and his girlfriend Lou, and after the pub closed we sat in their flat eating kebabs, drinking their beer and listening to Lou shame us all with her guitar-playing virtuosity. It was...kebabylon. That's the second decent kebab I've had in as many months. Fortunately, it's also only the second kebab I've had in as many months.

Back in Edinburgh on Saturday, I was fashionably late for Katie's dinner party being held in honour of Ben and Joanna's return to the fold. My pirate gear from last Hallowe'en had apparently been looted (alright, I'd thrown out a load of old clothes that had previously been deemed piratical) and so I donned instead my RAF gear and pretended that I'd misheard.*

Once Jez arrived with the French girls in tow, we took a pair of taxis into darkest Leith, looking for a party Katie had been invited to. "I didn't tell Laurence that I was bringing anyone," she said, "but I'm sure it'll be okay." It was. The party was taking place in four flats around a central courtyard, best summed up by Devon as a yuppie commune.

"You're a waste of taxpayer's money!" a short, slightly posh man said to me as I cracked open a bottle.

"I'm not actually in the RAF," I said. "You twit," I almost followed it up with. Instead I said: "This is a fancy dress party, right? Look - there's Teenwolf. I'm dressed up."

On reflection, an RAF uniform probably only really works in context. Like at Vegas, for example. Or if one is, in fact, in the RAF. I'll stick with Vegas for the time being.

* <snort>