Dinner

I have just returned from an excellent dinner hosted by my good friend Lionel Hump. Lionel heard of my accident and immediately summoned several people to a dinner party. When I heard about it I rang him and after some badgering he said he would be pleased if I attended.

I must say though the conversation was not of the calibre I expected; Egypt, Patio furniture, golf, Yhatzee all featured heavily. No one really seemed interested in my wound, my condition or what the doctors had told me. Mike Simon, the manager of the Bond Theatre in Leicester seemed to be interested at one point, but sadly had to leave. He did give me his mobile number prior to departure, and, when I returned home I rang it eager to tell him how it had given me a gusto (the shooting, not the telephone number) and a renewed thirst to explore the human psyche. He must have been driving, poor love, because the call routed through to voicemail. I don't want to waste the opportunity so I rang forty two times (they only allow for three minutes per message) to tell him how I felt closer to God and if there was any panto work going.

On my return home my copy of the Stage had arrived, and in it my nemesis, my would be assassin was for some reason being interviewed by them, as opposed to be interviewed by the metropolitan Police as he should have been. I became enraged at the wording. 'Not even bleeding', 'difficult to work with' and the final coffin nail 'whining prick'. I am afraid I became so enraged I immediately went into the garden and broke a gnome.