It was lovely to see hoiho looking a bit more perky this evening, even if he turned out to be still ill enough that he couldn't finish a burger or a pint. I managed a treacle pudding but struggled to finish the second pint of Old Hooky. The beer is still sitting uneasily on my stomach, but the company was comforting.

On my way home from the Carlton I found half an eggshell on the pavement. It was startlingly, eerily white in the darkness. I took it home, and it almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the passage from Hale Avenue to Frenchs Road. All the way home I was frightened that I would crush it, perhaps stumbling on a tree-root or tripping on a stone or simply moving my clumsy hand too suddenly. Frightened, too, that when I saw it in the light it would turn out to be dull and greyish, like the glistening jewels snatched from the sea-bed or shoreline which when examined at home turn out to be lifeless chunks of dusty rock.

I also encountered two cats on the way home. One of them was a comfortably and sedately fat black and white moggy, which sniffed me, rubbed its head against my ankles, and then went to rub its head (with no less enthusiasm) against a nearby gatepost. The message was clear: I was superfluous. The other was a tiny skittish kitten, which darted back and forth between my legs as I crouched to stroke it, licked my hand, pawed it, and then bit it with tiny needling teeth. Again I felt that I had been weighed in the balance, but this time I was left unsure as to whether or not I had been found wanting.

The eggshell was still gleaming white in the artificial light of the house. I put it down carefully while I made myself some decaffeinated coffee.

Only one thing remained to make my evening complete: I needed to know which cocktail best represented my personality. Of course.

""Which cocktail are you?""
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