Continuing in my quest to eat desperately healthily, I had chicken breast in potato pancake which just oozed lard when cutlery went anywhere near it. It was rather yummy but the couple sitting reading the Independent on Sunday didn't seem impressed by my "Recovering Slut" teeshirt.

I have been drinking all the time with no ill effect. Sort of. Graham and I had a litre of beer when we left the flat (to get us into the mood for walking around being tourists) in a beer garden nearby. It was here that we realised why all the boys are fantastically gorgeous: national service. Frankly, I don't think I could get bored of looking at striped teeshirts, pedal pushers and olive skin. Big arms. They all have lovely big arms. Grr.

I'd planned to go to Gejzeer again in the evening but it turned out to be closed, so we ended up sitting in Stella again drinking. I think I have consumed about 4 litres of Pilsner today, and a good fair amount of Becherovka.

Met a nice music student called Martin. I think he's done his national service as well. Certainly I have noticed some clues

Martin was instrumental in me getting home because I tried another spirit - Fester, or something - which managed to render me suitably incapable of walking home. I "forgot" where I lived (although it's right underneath a HUGE fuck off television mast with flashing red lights on top) and had to have him help me. I can barely pronounce Krknosska when sober!