Quite a week.

Busy in work, as Rose is away and it's deadline time.

Went to Dad's on Thursday, and spent the evening talking to various friends of Nick, some of whom I'd met before, some I hadn't. Got a bit tipsy and played pool until four in the morning.

Friday. Went down to breakfast. As I was eating my toast and marmalade, Hermann (the German) came over to check that his English was up to scratch, as he was due to speak at the funeral too. I tweaked a couple of things but was very impressed with his grasp of English. Then Francesco came over. Hermann had already helped him to translate his speech from Italian into French, but they enlisted my help to check the French and get it into English as well. Then I became sort of translation service for all the other French people who had a few words to say. It took a couple of hours in the end, and I was starting to worry if I would have time to get ready.
Escaped upstairs, got changed, panicked for a short while.
Double whisky. That helped.
The funeral was good, as funerals go. The vicar had taken the trouble to find the French translations of all the religious bits. I was first up to speak, so I hadn't had time to dissolve into a blubbering mess. Got through the poem OK, but was very glad it only had two verses. I've never had to do that before, and I very much doubt if I will ever do it again. The rest of the service was amazing. Everyone who spoke clearly spoke with genuine love and admiration for Nick, and it was so personal and affectionate, without being morose or sickly. Or, as David Lyons put it, Nick would probably have complained that it was too long and there weren't enough pictures.

Back at Dad's, I took a few minutes to compose myself (meaning: I went upstairs, cried a bit more for a few minutes, then stopped, took a deep breath, fixed my make-up, and went back downstairs). Another Nick-related quote from Philippe this time... "the show must go on."

The evening progressed with songs and laughter and talking until the early hours again.

On Saturday, I joined a few of Nick's friends for a drive, first to the cemetery to see all the flowers and drink in the tranquility, then on a nice long drive across to Tregaron for lunch. They kept stopping for photos, and it was a lovely way to spend the afternoon. We then all went out for a pub meal in Llandovery, but I was pretty shattered by this point.

For some mad reason, on getting back to Dad's, I still thought that joining in the nightly pool tournament would be a good idea. It was down to Dan, me, and cousin Ol in the end, then Dan retired to bed. You would have thought that this would be a good time to call it a night, but yet again it was getting light before we finally went upstairs.

On Sunday I got a lift back with Uncle Tony and Ol, as they were heading the right direction on the way back up North. Was dropped off at Mum's, then reunited with Euan.

Feels a bit odd, to have had such an emotionally charged, intense few days, and now to suddenly be back home. And straight back into the routine tomorrow.

Spent a very nice weekend in Euan's company. Went shopping with Mum on Saturday - Euan loved Comet. A million TVs, all facing his way. And I never usually let him watch TV, so it was extra thrilling. He protested slightly on being torn away form the televisual multitude, but only until he spotted the refrigerators. Cue lots of exciting shrieking and jumping around as he opened each one in turn, shouting, "Fidge!!" and trying to clamber inside.

Next stop: new bed for me. The old one's metal-framed, creaky, and started falling apart four years ago. Every so often there's a "bump" in the middle of the night, but it's just another wooden slat splintering and falling. I'm surprised the mattress isn't touching the floor in places. Anyway, with Mum to help hold Euan back, I chose and bought a gorgeous new one. Yay, nice new comfortable bed for me, in a few weeks' time! Unfortunately, they deliver and put it together for you, so I'll have to tidy the house a bit... I wouldn't have minded assembling it myself, because I can work around the mess. Never mind.

Then on to Llangollen for a cuppa, and to watch the steam trains.

Euan insisted we watch it close-up, until it let off steam noisily and sputtered water onto the tracks, at which point he clung onto me very tightly saying "Scary!"

For the next ten minutes he quietly repeated to himself, "Scary. Water. Water scary! Scary water. Oh no water! Scary, mummy, no," and we watched the train set off from the safety of the bridge. He got upset when it started to move (Thomas the Tank Engine isn't that noisy and smelly), but when the choo-choo-choo-choo became recognisable he started choo-chooing along instead.

The day was rounded off with fish & chips at my house, before Mum escaped home.

Today it rained. Hurrah. I got the Scalextric set out, which provided for both me and Euan. Well, until he got bored of racing the cars round it, and wanted to use the pieces of track as weapons in his never-ending crusade of terror against Max. The poor moggy has started sleeping in some very to avoid him.

Made progress on funeral arrangements, via many emails to and from Carole, Philippe and Yves, and a couple of phone calls for good measure.

Bug War Update: Max is looking a lot healthier and flea-free, and I haven't even used the rather chemical-looking flea bombs I bought. Still no ants, but the fly stickers don't seem to be working. Or maybe they are working, but the flies survive long enough to buzz off where I can't see them, hence the low bodycount. At the risk of speaking too soon, it seems that Nature has called a temporary cease-fire, and is considering her next move. If it's flying ants, I'm emigrating.

I'm really tired now. It took me the whole week to catch up with the work from Monday and Tuesday, when Euan was ill. When I got home, it was usually to several emails in French, to be translated into English, or vice versa.

Or worse, it was someone asking me questions I still didn't know the answers to but desperately wanted to help them with.

Finally fixed a date for Nick's funeral though - next Friday, the 29th. At least it's a date to work towards. People can finally start making travel arrangements and letting Dad know whether they'll need a room in the hotel, and which nights.

Dad's asked me to read a poem at the funeral. I said yes. He's also after someone to read a eulogy/tribute thing, and another in French preferably. A google for appropriate poems turned up alot of cheesy, depressive and religious ones, so it's going to be harder than it sounded to find a nice one.

On a lighter note, I remembered that Rose had told me about a particular variety of she was looking for, but hadn't seen for ages. She even carried a cutout of the packaging with her for comparison purposes. So I nodded interestedly, as I do with all her stories, and quietly jotted down the details. One quick Google later, and I'd ordered two boxes for her. Just the one would seem mean (and a waste of the delivery charge), but get any more and the poor woman would burst whilst politely drinking her way through it.

It arrived within two days, so that should be a nice surprise for her when she gets back from her hols in a couple of weeks.

Didn't go to Dad's after all this weekend, felt too tired - unsurprising really, after last weekend spent sleeping in a hospital room, and the previous one being spent on an exhausting hen night and Live 8. Rather an eventful month, all things considered.

Caught up with housework - there was actually furniture hiding under the grime!

Went into work this morning, but got The Call from nursery at 11am, so I had to go and get Euan and take him to the doctor's. Ear infection again. He's not letting it slow him down, just more cuddly and sleepy than usual. Hopefully nursery will take him tomorrow, now he's on antibiotics - if not, it will be another day's Care Leave...

I hope I can get into work - Rose is now on leave for three weeks, so I'll be doing both of our jobs through one of the busiest times of year, and I'm already starting at a disadvantage because of the inevitable backlog. Oh dear, listen to me, I actually care about the workstate.

Bug War Update: I got sticky sunflowers to put on my windows to kill flies, because I don't like the way they keep inviting themselves into the house. Still no ants spotted. Max has had flea drops on the nape of his neck (they make him look rather mangy for a while, but fleas disgust me), and there's a flea-repellent collar waiting for him when he's finished his treatment - in seventies disco glitter effect.
I also bought two "flea foggers" - you set them off, leave the house for two hours, then come back and open all the windows and doors, saying, "Hurrah, a fumigated house!" Overkill perhaps, but I'd rather not do a half-arsed job. I'll do it when Euan's not going to be around for a few days, because it makes me rather nervous. He's never really had a flea problem before, but this year just seems to be the Summer of the Bugs for me.

I've been in work all this week, thoroughly distracted by the thought of Nick being in hospital in France.

I've been either checking my phone obsessively, or getting sick of waiting, and just phoning Dad or Carole. "No change since you left on Sunday morning" was usually the answer.

Mathilde did get to see Nick on Sunday, apparently. I was so glad when I heard that. Partly because I didn't want Mathilde to regret a teenage strop for the rest of her life, partly because I thought it was the least Nick deserved.

On Tuesday night Euan went to Karl's family, so I decided to get drunk, and not worry about being all responsible and holding it together. So I did. Then Eleanor phoned for news, so I told her all about the weekend and the latest that I'd heard. (In a rather drunken way presumably.)

On Wednesday I got a phone call from Rob saying, "Don't be angry, but..." which is never a good way to start a sentence. He'd decided to come to Wrexham to make sure I'm eating properly. Since he was already here, I couldn't really argue.

I spoke to Dad on Wednesday evening, and nothing much had changed. He then phoned shortly after midnight (1am in France) to tell me that Nick had just died.

I thanked him for phoning me, and asked several inane, pointless questions, then asked how Carole was, then said thank you again and hung up. Then I took the dry washing off the radiators, hung the wet washing out, and went to bed. I think I was a bit stunned.

I woke up without my voice on Thursday. I wasn't too surprised, just mildly irritated. It happens when I'm tired or stressed. Went into work because I had to. I couldn't mope around at home on the day before work's North Wales Fun Day, when I'm meant to be an organiser. I threw together all the timetables, instructions, rules, team packs, scoresheets etc, printed them off, and croakily explained it all to Sandra.

The Fun Day went OK, despite the managers trying to kill it by only allowing an hour's spectating time out of work, instead of the usual afternoon. Dan and Rob came along to help, as did Paul, which was a pleasant surprise. It was his birthday, so he got a pop-up pirate ship card from me, and one-third of a present!

It was windy but sunny, and I managed to avoid Sandra for the whole afternoon. I was still struggling to speak, and I could never tell if the expressions on people's faces contained more pity or amusement. It was hard work. Photos in Photos section.

When it all wound down, we headed into town for a bite to eat at the Nag's Head, then back home. Sprog was dropped off, had a bath, then went to sleep.

Rob was rather sunburnt today, so he's suffering and sleeping.

I've just used the time to catch up on translating emails.
Might go to Dad's tomorrow. Don't fancy sitting around the house all weekend, Euan will go crazy.

Bug War: I've been fighting a war against insects since Tuesday - to quote Andrea, "I've got nothing against nature, except when it's making me itch." Instead of my usual laid-back approach to the woodlice and spiders that share my house, I went on the offensive against the ants who were starting to take liberties. So far, it seems to be working - windowsill and front door ant-free for four days. One bottle of weedkiller later, and the weeds have been persuaded to stop their advance over the yard. Progress updates to follow.

Just had a rather awful weekend.

I think it counts as the worst I can remember, and it's beating quite a lot of humiliating and/or upsetting occasions at that.

I wasn't going to put it into my Babblings, but I suppose I can't just write about the happy things I do, because otherwise it won't be a proper blog.

Last week work was the same as ever, just busier because it's a peak time. Rob came to visit again. Went back to Liverpool on Wednesday to retrieve my mobile phone from where I'd left it on the hen night, and did some shopping and browsing whilst there, then had a bite to eat in the most unpleasant Subway in the history of franchises.

On Friday morning I had my BMI appointment (I don't know anyone who *hasn't* been referred to BMI for their sick absences), which went well. She realised within the first twenty seconds of the interview that my absences were legitimate, and not a worrying pattern or an attempt to defraud my employer. She suggested relaxation or meditation classes to help cope with the panic attacks, because she said I already seemed well-informed. I wouldn't mind a couple of hours a week being forced to relax, to be honest!

Got back to my desk and that's where my bad weekend started. Carole phoned. I'd been speaking to her since earlier in the week because Nick had been poorly, but he'd just taken a turn for the worse.

Long story short: has been fighting cancer for the last couple of years, it keeps going away then coming back, but he's been on an experimental type of chemo where they hit you with three different chemicals instead of the usual two, and it's been very effective. He'd been feeling rough for the last fortnight, but I last spoke to him the night before my mad weekend last week, and he was just starting to feel a bit better. Well, actually, in response to the question "How are you?" he replied, "Puke, tired, deaf, blind, bad taste, starving, no sensation in extremes, etc. Need more?" and at this point I stopped typing and picked up the phone. He said that at least it was having an effect and he was optimistic about going onto the next bout of chemo the next day. It made him feel worse though, and I'd been speaking to Carole since Wednesday because he was taken back into hospital as he hadn't been eating anything except ice cream. They kept having to tell him off for trying to get out of bed and check emails etc.

So Carole phoned me in work on Friday. This meant it was serious, because she wouldn't willingly phone an officeful of English people unless necessary. She was very upset and said that Nick was seriously ill, and the doctors had said he wouldn't recover. She didn't know what to do, and asked me to let the family know. I phoned Dad, then Mum, and asked them to set the family grapevine in motion, then phoned Rob (who was still staying at my house) to ask him to search for flights to Paris, just in case no-one else could make it that day and give me a lift. Several phonecalls later, and it became clear that no-one else intended to dart over to Paris anyway. I reiterated the phrases "kidney failure", "seriously ill" and "life support", just in case I'd accidentally said, "chattering away and dancing around" in the first phone calls. Everyone was a bit busy. No, wait, that's not fair. No-one else saw the point in spending several hundred pounds just getting there, and being unable to do anything constructive.

The way I saw it, the *only* thing I could do was be there and wish for Nick to get better, so that's exactly what I did.

Dashed home from work: Rob had kindly left the booking screen open on my computer so I just had to enter card details, pack a few things into a bag and get to the airport, apologising profusely for being a thoroughly crap hostess (Rob told me to shut up and get to the airport, in a polite way). Mum offered to give me a lift there, but then realised she'd taken on a lot of driving that weekend, so I ended up asking Rich Poynton from work instead. He instantly said yes and zipped up to the house. I don't know how to begin to thank him.

The weekend got steadily more surreal from there on in. The following was written late on Sunday night, mainly to try and sort things out in my own head, but it will do as a Babble too.

Bonjour
I end up sitting next to a French person on the plane. He strikes up a conversation. Yes, I speak French. No, it's not a holiday. I'm visiting my uncle. Because he's very ill... This shuts him up for the rest of the flight, at least. Must bear that phrase in mind for fobbing off unwanted advances from idiots.
Dans le Métro
I sleepwalk from the airport through the Métro, the familiar names of stations flitting through my mind as I pass them. It guides me like an old friend. My feet take over. I'm almost surprised to find myself at my destination with so little effort.
C'est sa nièce...
I arrive at the hospital late at night. Everything is hushed. Some of Nick's friends are there, but the only person I know is Carole. Even the French people seem unsure of how to greet me... two kisses on the cheeks as if Nick had just introduced us? Or the more reserved handshake? I end up with a mixture of hugs, kisses, handshakes and nods, then they step aside like a biblical sea and usher me into Nick's room. I am, after all, the only family member there.
Chambre sous oxygène
The gentle constant hiss of oxygen bubbling through sterilised water and plastic tubes. The whispered voices of friends flounder and disappear in the susurration. It gives the room a detached feeling, slightly unreal and remote.
Je suis là
I don't know what to say. There's an expectant hush from the friends gathered a polite distance away. I take Nick's hand and tell him I'm there. I can't tell if he recognises me. I joke to him that I've come all that way, and he's impolite enough to be high on drugs. He looks up at me, through me. I cry, a little, but I smile at him through the tears.
Il faut lui parler en anglais
I stay Friday night at the hospital, as does Daniele. We talk of Nick's daughter, Daniele's niece, my cousin, Mathilde. Daniele says she looks a bit like me. No-one can persuade her to visit Nick. Every so often Nick stirs, upset, and tries to pull at a tube or his sheets, and one or both of us jumps up to hold his hand and talk to him. The doctors are happy I'm there to speak English to him. He drifts between shallow and deep sleep, held in limbo by morphine.
Il a réagi
I doze on and off as Nick's friends come back and the light streams through the window. Francesco arrives, having driven 1200km through the night as there were no available flights from Italy. Nick reacts, seems to recognise him. People dare to hope for the best.
L'état comateux
The day drags on. I field concerned phone calls from strangers and call about insurances in case we can get Nick to Britain if his condition improves for a short while. It's rather an academic question, as he is too ill to move, and getting more uncomfortable. It becomes clear the doctors are hesitating to give him more sedatives as he would then be properly unconscious, and they're waiting for the rest of his family to arrive. We explain that no-one else can make it, and can they please just make sure he's not in pain? They increase the dosage. He slips into a coma. We dart to Carole's house to reply to Nick's emails and translate Carole's blanket email into English for her, and another fruitless search for insurance papers. I grab a quick shower while I can, and we return to the hospital.
Au revoir
It's Daniele and I staying over again, but tonight there is no need to dash to Nick's side, as he is deeply asleep. I wake up early, freshen up, and say goodbye to Daniele. She tells me Mathilde intends to visit later that day. I have to say goodbye to Nick. He hasn't stirred since they increased whatever it is dripping through the tubes. I tell him he's rude not to have spoken to me all weekend, and I'll be back as soon as I can, but I've run out of babysitters. I say that next time I see him we can have a nice game of Scrabble and hopefully he'll be more talkative. I squeeze his hand and say "au revoir", not "adieu", then turn to go before the tears come.
Walking through the morning haze to the Métro, I wonder which one of us I was trying to fool.

By the time I got into Liverpool (where Mum had had a nightmare trying to park because of the yellow submarine they were manoeuvring into place), the cavalry had started to head for France - David Lyons, John Adams, then Dad. It made me feel slightly better about having to come home.

I was awake and ready at 8.30am when Steve came to the door. I swigged down the last of my cuppa and chucked my bag into the boot of Colin's car - he was giving us a lift to Chester station. I was keeping the hangover at bay with paracetamol, and I had forced many pints of water down since staggering home several hours previously. I hadn't slept at all.

The journey was uneventful - for some reason I couldn't sleep for once - usually as soon as I hop into any form of transport I go straight to sleep, to be woken from my light snoring and occasional drooling when the destination is reached. I prefer it that way, it means I catch up on much-needed rest, and I skip the boring bits.

We didn't have any trouble finding our hotel, but asked one of the many policemen lining the road why it had been closed off. Turns out the Pride Parade was due to go right past our hotel in the next hour or so. We had a bit of spare time before Live 8 kicked off, so we thought we'd have a look. I've put up a gallery in the photos section, but here's my favourite clip:


We weren't in a rush to get to Hyde Park, as we'd heard that people had been queuing since the previous day, so we thought we'd let the mad people stampede in first. We saw the very start on the TV back at the hotel. By the time we got to the gates there was no queue, but it still took us a good 30 minutes to walk from there. Hyde Park's a big place, especially when they send you all the way round the edge of it! We got there at 2.40ish. We had luckily missed Elton John.

The rest of the day was amazing.

Dido was good. We were getting food (late lunch!) when she started, and by the time she'd finished we had ambled through the crowd and found a niche. She was then flying off to sing at the Eden Project and Paris! Busy lady.

The Stereophonics were also good. I was just happy they played Local Boy In The Photograph - one of my favourites.

REM were rather stunning. I don't know why. There was just a buzz in the air. And Everybody Hurts was predictably lovely.

Ms Dynamite was OK. I'm not a big fan.

Keane were very good. I murmured along with the words.

Travis were absolutely wonderful; they engaged with the audience a bit more. They sang their classics, and Staying Alive by the brothers Gibb. Strange choice, but it worked.

Bob Geldof seemed to be enjoying himself. I've heard people complaining that he put himself on stage alongside the bigger acts. I think he had every right to sing - after all, it was his party, so to speak.

Annie Lennox sang well. It was made into an even more moving performance by the fact that the screens all showed a rather poignant film throughout her performance.

UB40 were OK. They're named after a form you had to fill in to get Unemployment Benefit. Presumably it doesn't exist any more.

Snoop Dogg was very good, as far as getting the audience interested goes. Yes, he swore, but he was the first act that really got us all involved (in a woo, yay, putting our mother****ing hands in the air kind of way).

Razorlight were fantabulous. I'd been waiting for this one. I wasn't disappointed. I stood on tiptoe, and couldn't decide whether it was better to look at the rather small shapes moving around the stage, or to look up at the big screen and see close-ups. Johnny Borrell jumped around rather enthusiastically, and they definitely put on a good show. OK, so he loves himself a bit, but I'll let him off...

Madonna was OK. We'd gone to grab some food at this point, so we saw her on the big screens.

Snow Patrol were good. We weaved our way back into the crowd at this point - a bit further forward because some people had already left to get the last train home.

The Killers were excellent. I really enjoyed this one. Not that I'm biased or anything because I happen to like them anyway. Proper join-in-and-tap-your-feet stuff.

Joss Stone was OK. She can certainly sing. By this point I was pretty exhausted, so I stayed sitting on the ground for this one! I passed my camera up to Steve so he could take a photo and I could see whether it was worth standing up. It wasn't.

Scissor Sisters were one of the highlights. Although all the bands had a short while on stage, these really got the audience involved in the time they had available. Upbeat and fun.

Velvet Revolver were brilliant, nice and loud, fantastic feeling to be in the crowd for decent old rock music.

Sting was very good. Glad I've seen him live. Didn't he do Live Aid too?

Mariah Carey should be locked away in a cave at the top of a cold, dangerous and inhospitable mountain, preferably with bears and lions. She kept singing despite having killed off any atmosphere! And diva-ing. She wouldn't go away. The crowd (which had been built up into a real buzz as the light faded) just dropped like a stone. What was she doing there anyway? Silly cow. Grrr.

Robbie Williams was surprisingly impressive. I've never been a huge fan in a throw-your-knickers-on-the-stage kind of way, but I'll admit he's got some catchy tunes. Several of which he sang. And so did we. It really was like singing hymns in church, but with enthusiasm. Yes, he loves himself, but he's a natural performer.

The Who should technically be called The Whom. But I'll let them off this minor grammatical misdemeanor because they're legends, and they were good, and I'm glad I've seen them.

Pink Floyd. Yes. Well. What can I say? About four hours behind schedule they came onstage, and despite the aches and the tiredness I stood on tiptoe and drank in every sound. They were stunningly good, and it was surreal to see them. It made me tingle. And at the end, when the three big screens on the stage showed a brick wall, and across the first it gradually wrote M...A...K...E... and the second followed suit with "poverty" and the third with "history", it was a very strange and amazing experience. I was in a little Floydy world of my own, surrounded by people but detached and buzzing with shivers running down my spine. I desperately hope they do a gig or two before sinking into arguments and squabbles.

After that, we all had a jolly nice sing along to Hey Jude, before setting off across Hyde Park (we didn't retrace our steps along miles of circuitous pathways, but instead chose to follow the large crowd of people who looked like they knew a shortcut). Strange to be walking through the night with a few hundred other people, all still singing "Na... na na... nana nanaaa.... nana nanaaa... Hey Jude..."

I suppose I'm just finely attuned to seeking out bizarre situations.

By the time we had staggered back to our hotel, it was past 2am, and I was practically falling asleep standing up (remember I hadn't slept since Friday morning, before work, before War of the Worlds, before trains and the Pride march and Live 8!). Thankfully, the bed was blissfully comfy, so I woke up feeling a lot better and all my aches had vanished.

It was a bit late for breakfast so we skipped straight to lunch: I had a nice big steak. Well, it had been a tiring couple of days! A bit of shopping in the biggest HMV I've ever seen, then back to Euston for the train home. An uneventful journey, a packed train, and a suitcase falling on my arm. It hurt quite a lot.

Colin picked us up from Chester, and the subject of discussion on the way home was, unsurprisingly, Live 8. Apparently the sound was a bit funny on the TV coverage, which was puzzling to us because it had sounded fine from the audience. And SkyPlus or whatever it is that they'd set up to record it had got confused when the concert overran, and refused to show anything. Ah well.

Got dropped off at Mum's, got lovely hugs from sprog, went home, danced around the living room a bit.

Pinched myself, and wondered if I'd dreamed the whole fantastic weekend. I won't forget it.

Ever.

Wow.

Went to work, got important stuff done, went for lunch - my new top hadn't arrived yet, as the nice lady at the sorting office gave me a blank look when I asked if anything was being held for my address. Met up with Steve and his friends Kerry and Danny and went to see War of the Worlds. It was good. I didn't scream (although I may have jumped once or twice), but the suspense was constant, and the effects were impressive. Good fun.

Got dropped off at home to find that the nice postman had kindly delivered my parcel by shoving it through the open window. Yay, new top! My appalling home security measures have paid off. Got ready, got picked up by Andrea and Aidan, and Aidan's sister, Corine. We started the night in Lloyd's (it feels like a school canteen, but the drinks are cheap so it's a good starting point) and only had time for one drink before the minibus came to collect us. Off to Liverpool, where we started at the Rat & Parrot, before moving on to Yates's. After that I don't remember where we went, except that we headed down Mathew Street, and it was a lot of fun. We accidentally picked up a stag party or two along the way, like limpets.

I remember drinking 14 vodkas. I have no idea what happened after that. Maybe on Monday someone will clarify the finer points of the evening for me, but for now the photos will have to do. New album added, well worth a look, if only to see me looking bleary and drunken. For a change...

It is now 4.42am, and I will be leaving the house in under four hours. I can't decide whether to sleep (and risk being achy and yuck on trains) or just to stay up and have a nice bath (and risk being exhausted...)

Ah well. Either way it's been a fantastic night, and should hopefully be a good weekend too.