2002-05-12 - 2:27 p.m.

There's nothing that precipitates an enjoyable 11 hour flight quite like having half a pint of Bloody Mary tipped over you by the PR dweeb about 15 minutes in. And even though it's not your fault, your own glass remaining in the full and upright position, the cabin (we're in Club Class, though what kinf of "club" this constitutes is a matter of some debate) looks at you, the red juice seeping into the only pair of trousers that you bought, like you're the only Motor -Nuerone Disease case in the Bolshoi Ballet. I mop down, and settle back to watch Annie Hall twice, smelling like the Girl-Drink Drunk.

I'm not really tuned into this trip. Sometimes I'm not sure how I manage to fuck things up so spectacularly so consistently, but everything is hollow and I want to go home. A night out with newlyweds Grim n' Outbox and the always-entertaining J & D raises my spirits for a few hours, but I pretty much feel like shit about myself and that's how I feel. You know when you've forgotten to do something really really important and then you realise and there's nothing you can do? That's how I've felt all weekend.

I'm so very sorry, you.