THE THIRD WAY - POSTSCRIPT

I forgot to tell you anything about the club I went to for my birthday, being too busy relating the story of my friends' incarceration. In fact it was much like the places I used to frequent in Nottingham - small, dirty, seedy, unpopular. And that was just the clientele.

The DJ in this place, for the whole evening, played only David Bowie and obscure French pop, in rotation. Either he was being willful or he had only two CDs; I suspect probably the latter.

This place also did food - small Russian sandwiches (bread with salami). I'm only mentioning this because my friend Rich is a fat bloater and managed to eat 10 of them. Sorry, but this has to be written down for posterity.

My flatmate - the new one - got dragged off onto the dancefloor by a middle-aged woman, to boogie to Bowie and obscure French pop. My flatmate - the old one - got cornered in the, er, corner, by a group of much more attractive young Russian ladies. He stayed behind when the rest of us went off to rescue my Russian friends.