TM troika:

I met up with Mart and Dom, the original Tiny Monkey triumvirate, in the wanky upper reaches of Bruntsfield last Tuesday for some good old fashioned food and booze. In Henrick's, I was gratified to see Mart choose Peeterman Artois instead of the usual Stella, propelled, I think, by the same desperation that caused me to swear off the hard stuff myself. "It tastes like water," opined Dom, hitting the nail on the head in a most concise fashion. Compared to the Irn-Bru fizz and chemical tang of Stella, the newcomer is pleasantly neutral in both taste and pH terms and lacks the mule-kick to the frontal lobe characteristic of a wife-beater-induced hangover.

I had an 80/- instead, as is my current wont. The resultant hangover from these bad boys is an entirely different matter. Where Stella neatly dangles a red-hot poker directly into the nerve centres of one's conscious mind, causing flashes of truly criminal pain to strike whenever one moves (hence the couch-bound nature of the typical Stella afflictee), an 80/- hangover is a more pastoral experience. The entire brain is enveloped in a slowing, treacly fug that retards one's movement and thought processes and which gently encourages one onto the couch. I cannot help but think fondly of such mornings, in stern contrast to the near-death experiences meted out by la famille Artois.

Anyway, Dom and I blew any sort of controlled hangover experiment out of the water by sharing a bottle of wine next door in the Apartment while Mart stuck chastely to bottled water. I've been to the Apartment once before, back in the mists of time, and could remember nothing about the experience apart from the fact that the waiting staff are either wafty model wannabes who move only from the waist down, or cheeky chappies who confuse absolutist browbeating over menu choices with friendly service.

This time round we had a friendly waiter who could actually have been a little more forward with menu suggestions, a so-so meal (waiter: "Oh, the chunky healthy lines are a bit dull sometimes. You should have gone for the sea bass if you'd wanted fish. And here's your bill.") and a seat at the window, and I can't really complain. The food might have been dull but the company most assuredly wasn't and we talked non-stop until we decamped (decanted might be a more appropriate term) to the Traverse for a final jar. A great night!

Apart from that, and a nice evening round at Neil and Vanessa's on Thursday, it feels like we've been a bit static of late. Ash's visa travails seem to be occupying most of the spare mental energy we both have with scouring websites and phoning contradictory helplines whenever we get the chance. The idea that a Canadian national should find it so hard to live here for an extended period of time without having to jump through flaming bureaucratic hoops is starting to annoy me!