Well, that was quite some night. I finally got round to celebrating my birthday with a rooftop BBQ featuring several kilos of prime Argentinian steak straight from a highly secret source at the embassy. Touchingly, my friends finally headed my pleas to help me find a woman, buying me two girlfriends for the evening. The first was of the virtual variety on CD-Rom, whilst the second was made of high-quality burn-resistant rubber, with the look of a Russian long jumper applying an indecent amount of make-up for a podium appearence. It was also the first party I’ve ever hosted that was gatecrashed by a successful author, chick-lit star Lisa Jewell. Naturally enough I immediately bored her senseless with a drunken ramble about my own lofty literary ambitions, ignoring the likelihood that this was a conversation she probably has with every new person she meets. I swear I’ll never learn.