No piece of paper can be folded in half more than 7 times

OK, I have to admit this gets a bit tricky, because I have forgotten what happened to most of Thursday. I will try and piece it together from a half a brainful of miniscule fragments of vague memories.

I know – I went to the launderette and had my very last dodgy French conversation with my friend there. I thought about telling her that I would soon be leaving, never to darken her door again, but then I didn’t want any tears in my pillowcases. I marched on (then slowed down, quickly remembering that marching hurts) to the local Champion supermarket to buy…well, stuff - how much detail do you need?

Hugo arrived. I cooked. We drank Pecharmant and mulled over the events of the last couple of weeks. Quite a lot of mulling. We were mulling for Britain. If there were awards for mulling, we would have had a shelf full. Infact, after all the mulling we decided to drown ourselves down at the Sherwood Pub, where the barman tried to rip me off. He should have known better, for now I am fluent in saying, ‘Oi, you! Are you trying to diddle me or wot?’ in French.