The Hazards Of Too Much Food And Not Enough Alcohol.

Honestly, I might just as well have gone to conference. Greg's been on the phone all day about one thing or another. He's still texting me now, completely distraught, even though I keep replying that I am asleep.

"I am going to have manboobs the size of a house again," he says. "I will never get another girlfriend."

I give in. There is quite obviously no point in aiming for an early night.

"Why?" I say. Or text, actually.

"Third meal I've had to eat in the last four hours," Greg replies.

It turns out that one of Andrew's diary cock-ups was that he accepted invitations to three separate meals this evening. One buffet, and two sit-down meals.

"Even The Boss is full," Greg says. "Never thought I'd see the day. He could live off all the food he's got stuck in his beard for the next week too. Answer the phone, I'm going to ring you."

God. I do as I'm told. It's not as if there's anything better to do, I suppose. I should have tried harder in Ann Summers.

"He didn't remember about the third meal until we were half way through the second one," Greg says. "I feel sick."

"You sound sober, though," I say. "Congratulations. I didn't think you'd actually manage this teetotal thing."

"There's no room in my stomach for anything other than all this bloody food," says Greg. "And anyway, Andrew's drunk enough for both of us. And he's left his mobile somewhere - so if he wanders off, I'll never find him again."

"Well, don't feel obliged to look too hard," I say. "How's it going apart from that?"

"I haven't met any women yet," says Greg. "It's a dead loss. Andrew keeps getting in there first. Why do they like him so much?"

"Raw sensuality," I say, to which Greg makes a retching noise that sounds alarmingly realistic. Then the line goes dead. Oh well, maybe I'll get that early night after all. I wonder if there's any point in asking Max if he wants to join me, regardless of the lack of new equipment?