Shambles

Spent most of this morning hidden away in the basement filing room nursing a hangover. I simply could not take the wrath of irate clients or the teams' barbed comments. Sweated most of it out by lunchtime when it was nearly time for home. I should have been heading straight to Portland Hospital Radio but decided to lie low for a bit after yesterday evening's encounter.

I had stopped by the studio after a light tea of sardine toasties to see how Ray was doing. He is now officially sofa surfing after his wife changed the locks to their home. I also wanted to get his opinion on the whole Dianne situation. Pierre was on air when I arrived and I noticed he had my Johnny Hates Jazz CD in the studio. I went in to claim it back when in walked Ray and started asking how Saturday had gone. I laughed and gave him an edited version when suddenly Pierre was back on air and I had divulged my angel workshop encounter with the whole of Portland Hospital, every poorly person, their consultant and everyone in between now knows I picked the pieces out of a ham quiche and took it to a vegetarian lunch. They know I had my aura cleansed by a chap in hemp breeches who needed a good wash himself. And most alarmingly they know, that I know that Dianne and Mathieu - the lead facilitator in the merry dance - are together. But I still asked her out (after a rather heady hour long chakra dance to the sound of Mathieu's tin pan percussion) and she declined. But not before she extracted another £20 from me, somehow.
So my chakras maybe realigned but I am humiliated, penniless and could face a serious caution from the law after catching Pierre's eyebrow ring with a ruler. Ray suggested a pint of Cocksmith's Bottom to ease my nerves, how could I say no?