One of my esteemed work colleagues, Simone, had her leaving do this Friday. Along with Andre, another good bloke also leaving the Dutch helpdesk. I got to the Chicago Rock Café after taking late calls at work (grr, grr) and having a coffee at Starbucks to wake up. Despite the party having started at 7.30 and me being there an hour and a half late, there was hardly anyone there. It was slow to start, really, and the DJ'ing at the pub was awful - the tunes were hardly rock and DJ's talking through Kylie strutting her stuff on the screen - it's just not on. True to the apparent quality of the pub, the crowd got bigger (Simone and Andre popped up as well), as I was lamenting the lack of proper beer, decent music, live Rugby (Ireland vs France!)... And I lamented the crowd: it seemed to turn into a bit of a hen party with desperate looking girls that looked 13 in a dozen. Four of these girls tapped me on the elbow (they were too short to tap me on the shoulder) and through the immensely loud bass asked me if I wanted to take a picture.

It would have made perfect sense for me to think they wanted me to get the camera and take their picture, but instead I asked: "Why, is it because I am tall?" I had my newest smart jeans and shirt on, thought I looked al right, and obviously it had gone to my head. "Sorry," I replied, "I don't take good pictures, I'm not so photogenic." Of course the girls soon asked someone else to take their picture, after rolling their eyes at my arrogance, but I was rolling my own eyes at my arrogance as well. I blame my girlfriend for fancying me like she does, against all the odds, making me feel quite handsome. Perhaps if she were ugly I'd have less trouble convincing myself I'm rather ugly. Certainly, a year ago I'd have had no such qualms, having been single a while and told many times I looked like a pile of crap. Then, I had to start thinking I'm OK really. No, I have to get over myself and realise I'm not a lanky George Clooney. What has she done to me?!