It whines and rattles, the Yamaha, all the very long and wind-chilled Spring way to E. Grinstead. Boondock Central in other words, but not totally unpleasant. Not too many steep hills to trouble the bike. Long boring stretches of tingling vibration broken up by the whoop and whir of up-and-down shifting during the few winding, rolling changes in landscape.

So, a Gorilla-gram...for Patricia, who's getting married and having her hen-night piss-up at Martines, from all the girls at [Business-name-here]. Find the client/conspirator to point out tonight's "victim," and given a lowly broom cupboard (can anyone hear violins?) for changing into costume; prepare hand-scripted, special StardustTelegrams® telegram and the greatest gift from a gorrila, his last banana.

The DJ didn't help with his mindless AlanPartridge humour and patter whilst still pumping out the jams, but that was nothing to the crowded dance floor...oh shiny dance floor. One had to traverse this massed juttering space to reach the victim's reserved lounge suite, one of several surrounding the dance floor and DJ pit in semi-circle: the opposite end of the room, in short.

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Count me in on the journey, don't expect me to stay.