Some, but not all,highlights of the weekend:
Saturday 9am, bus stop in Mancsville
State of slight haziness from having gone to bed the night before at 3am miraculously disappears as adrenaline suddenly shoots though my veins and I burst into an involuntary can-can dance along the pavement. No, it wasn't a reaction to the sunshine; nor the intravenous injection of illegal substances; nor an unexpected sighting of Simon Cowell inspiring an off-the-cuff audition for Britain's Got Talent.
A bee had flown up my skirt.
Bloody skirts. More of which later.
Saturday, midday, on train to Lahnden
Curiosity as to what the sound of slamming one's backpack into the disapproving face of a middle-aged woman would be like becomes almost unbearable as the tsk-tsk, tut-tut-tut and *SIIIIIIIIIGH* heralds another text message conversation via my phone, which is on silent and vibrates soundlessly in my pocket and doesn't make a noise when you press the keys and we're not even on a quiet coach anyway, why the feck did you have to plonk yourself down opposite me, you tsking, tutting, glaring old windbag??
Saturday, 2pm, Lahnden Euston
Meeting of Mr MJohnson and RTB. Greetings are exchanged. Plans are discussed - and not decided upon. A random guided walking tour ensues, during the course of which I find out such fascinating facts as follows:
- The Other Mr Johnson, he who compiled the first dictionary, used to live in a little street behind Fleet Street. Not the street that MJohnson pointed out, of course, but the one that actually has the plaque on it providing this information.
- There is a bookshop on Fleet Street that is very famous for something of great historic importance that more people should really know about. Including MJohnson, apparently, who couldn't remember what it was. Something to do with freedom of speech. Or freedom of protest. Or freedom of a book when you buy another two. Or something.
- Reuters used to be in that building there. Yes, really. Unless it was that building there. Or perhaps it's another one.
- The Inns of Court are open to the public and are really rather fabulous inside, with lovely gardens. MJohnson would definitely recommend a visit. Perhaps I would do too, if we'd actually gone to any of them.
- St Paul's is as elegantly majestic as I always remember it to be. How I adore that building.
- The Tate Modern and all its works exemplifies that art is subjective in the truest sense of the word and there can be no right or wrong when it comes to the creation and appreciation of it. Except, of course, when it's crap.
Saturday, 5pm, outside the Tate Modern
TKK is late. Hmph. Tsk. Lateness. How rude!
Saturday, 7.30pm, in some pub
We're late for the blog meet. Oops. How rude!
Saturday, 8.30pm, Gypsy Moth, Greenwich
Blogus Meetus. More of which later.
Saturday, 11.30pm, outside the Coach and Horses
Absolutely no-one in The world took note as one MJohnson leapt onto the bench outside the pub podium for his inspirational "People of Greenwich!" speech, during the course of which he proclaimed his newly self-appointed status as Greenwich's Cult Leader, inviting one and all to follow him on the path to enlightenment or whatever the feck it was he said, which I'm sure I wuld have taken greater note of had it not been drowned by my helpless peals of laughter and gained the rousing support of one amused barman who is obviously well-versed in placating drunken madmen the entirety of Greenwich, if not indeed the City. Enjoy your throne while you may, Boris.
Sunday, 12.30am, Greenwich
Departure of Blogus Meetus for Chez MJ.
Sunday, 1.30am, Chez MJ
Arrival at Chez MJ, whereupon much mopping up is required to stem the flow of blood from our weary, blistered feet, courtesy of our inexplicable midnight trek, and the other flow of blood from our weary, blistered ears, courtesy of the complete inability of TKK to stop whinging about the inexplicable midnight trek for even one milimetre of the two-hundred-mile journey. Or after it, in fact. Try it in heels, pussy boy.
Sunday afternoon, Greenwich again
Filled with enjoyment of the radiant sunshine, mostly while lying sprawled on the side of the hill in Greenwich Park, drinking in the view, along with a bottle of beer, and enjoying the conversation of MJohnson and his lovely friends. Exclusive blog preview: watch out for a shocking post revealing the sordid secrets of dolphin nose sex, at a blog near you soon...
Sunday night, Mancsville town centre
Lesson learnt that a short skirt which seems perfectly reasonable to wear amidst the scantily-clad sunbathing crowds in Greenwich Park in the middle of the day is decidedly not the thing to be wearing in the middle of a night-time Mancsville that is ever-so-slightly more testosterone-fuelled than normal following Man United's triumph at the top of the Premiership earlier that day.
Bloody skirts.
And yes, more on the actual meet later... 
