By Georgia Horrocks
Please excuse the writing, I’m running on two hours sleep.
My head hurts, my eyeballs are burning and the glass of wine I took into the bath has made me feel like a doped up sloth. But scabs must be written or dances will be performed.
Earlier today, Adam misinterpreted a high-five from Ben, diving out the way as if under attack. I laughed, but I know how he feels.
I’m beginning to notice more and more similarities between myself and the residents of Brixton.
On Friday, Clarissa and I jumped in front of a moving car screaming and clutching each other because of a suspicious looking white pigeon. We’d thought was a dead cat. A rather suspicious looking resident then asked us, seriously, if we were, ‘fucking joking?’
Yes, D&AD has got to most of us. Across the room, Frazer has morphed into his computer; they are one. Tom EB’s eyes are feverishly bright and he’s decided that now’s a good time to wear the eskimo coat again.
Meanwhile, Nathan’s developed a limp and I could’ve sworn Stephen just yelled ‘Sheepdogs unite’. Oh God, he’s tweeted it too.
At least Lawrence is holding up. Amid rumours he’s watching Clueless on his laptop, he saunters past.
He’s off to chill his champagne.
That has really pushed my buttons. Maybe I’ll go to the pub…
Ah, here’s Eytan, doing the rounds. Thank God.
Yes, I think I’ll hang in there after all.