Questionable
A good day working on Skelton, a good session in the gym. Heard that the bipolarity pitch I worked on was successful, which is always good to hear. A nice note from Keith and from Graham the Van Gogh faced creative director.
I went late to the pub quiz and fell in with an odd assortment of guys who became increasingly dysfunctional as the night wore on. One or two of the people I was with last week arrived late. My new team came second and repaired to the Eddy and I went out of curiosity. There the arguing in the team grew increasingly fractious. I ventured to wonder aloud what might have happened if they had come third. Soon joined by a highly drunk gay married couple. The one with the potato face spent some time fondly massaging my shoulder, and that of the rather tired and emotional quizzer sat next to me.
Meanwhile an earnest youth, who had been showily reading Crime and Punishment at the bar joined us. I said I noticed he'd been reading Dostoevsky, and he asked if I had been spying on him. Mad as anything. Someone's dog then did the most astonishing fart. Disentangling myself from the potato faced fondler, the wild eyed Raskolnikov, and the arguing quiz posse, I left, pausing only to shake the hand of the barman who I pulled out of a fight last year. The evening air was cool and refreshing.
Just another night in Brighton.
A good day working on Skelton, a good session in the gym. Heard that the bipolarity pitch I worked on was successful, which is always good to hear. A nice note from Keith and from Graham the Van Gogh faced creative director.
I went late to the pub quiz and fell in with an odd assortment of guys who became increasingly dysfunctional as the night wore on. One or two of the people I was with last week arrived late. My new team came second and repaired to the Eddy and I went out of curiosity. There the arguing in the team grew increasingly fractious. I ventured to wonder aloud what might have happened if they had come third. Soon joined by a highly drunk gay married couple. The one with the potato face spent some time fondly massaging my shoulder, and that of the rather tired and emotional quizzer sat next to me.
Meanwhile an earnest youth, who had been showily reading Crime and Punishment at the bar joined us. I said I noticed he'd been reading Dostoevsky, and he asked if I had been spying on him. Mad as anything. Someone's dog then did the most astonishing fart. Disentangling myself from the potato faced fondler, the wild eyed Raskolnikov, and the arguing quiz posse, I left, pausing only to shake the hand of the barman who I pulled out of a fight last year. The evening air was cool and refreshing.
Just another night in Brighton.
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