Awoke late with a clear and distinct hangover. Busied myself with a few light domestic chores, and beginning my old university friend Andy's explosive novelised account of his experiences in mine clearance. Find that there are fictionalised versions of his friends in it too... I am wondering if I am the character called Steve who is a poet who writes pornography. If only I'd thought of that.

Texted by Anton who was going to take in some more of the Open House art shows today. After he called around and I went upstairs to get my shoes, he pulled my new walking boots from their bag and discovered to his horror that in my ignorance I had bought the ones he had been coveting, only slightly better.

Spent the afternoon with him and David, his nice father-in-law, snooping about Brighton looking at a variety of artworks, their originators, and their interesting houses. David also keen on painting and he and Anton found a woman whose art was very loose with a wet on wet style, that is exactly the technique Anton wants to master. They both took cards to take lessons with her.

We three adjourned to the Battle of Trafalgar afterwards for some cheeky beers and then I went home to enjoy a chilled and blameless evening.

An amusing van (not a phrase I find myself over-using) parked outside one of the open houses featuring Steptoe and Son TV's loveable rag and bone men from the 60s and 70s.