I am at the Kimbo. Jonathan Garham arrives and reminds me of a Pro Helvetia party at The Assembly, a club just down the road. And Jonathan Garnham’s wife is hot. Some Swiss Djs and Vjs. Yawn. I am broke. I finish up a meeting with the organisers from EVOL for a future project and calmly sit and watch the cool kids roll in for their pre-party drinks. I spot a friend James, who I have not seen in years. We chill on the steps outside as the cool kids are hogging the bar.

I enter to buy a round of drinks and spot a lovely blond girl sitting by herself. I invite her to join us and she does. We have a little chat and my friends explain to her what a crap artist I am. She leaves for Assembly.

She returns five minutes later with dead starling in hand. She seats and strokes it lovingly. I always seem to attract the fucking freaks. I explain to her that there are about four diseases that I can think of off the top of my head that she might contract from the dead bird. She explains that she was walking and the bird kicked the bucket right in front of her for no reason. I explain that that might be a vital reason for not touching the bipedal, endothermic, vertebrate animal that lays eggs.

She buries the bird in a gutter and leaves again with her friends. Another artworld person arrives and shouts at me for writing the diary again and that people get hurt. I fuck off and have a good nights rest.