Red Snapping

The Red Snapper is to restaurants, for my set of friends, what The Crescent is to pubs - in other words, we've somehow become fiercely territorial and unswervingly loyal towards it, simply by virtue of it being nearby, cheap, cheerful, reliable and, most of all, a bloody good fun place to go, even if doesn't do anything flash and suffers from inconsistent service. Last night I went with my fellow Snapper-afficianados Dan and Ali, who I always go with, and the lovely Dave, Anita and Stev.

The Red Snapper is a bring your own bottle restaurant, which is ace, except for occasions like last night, when everyone brought at least one bottle, calculating that someone else would neglect to. So when we sat down, surrounded by modest couples with solitary bottles, we had to sheepishly pile our seven bottles into the corner and resist the urge to open them all. Of course, as Anita well knew, we'd polish off the lot - after all, her and Stev calculated that it would be necessary to bring, such is the prodigious intake of Brighton's most recent emigrant, "one bottle for ourselves, and one for Ali".

We had fun in all the usual ways - glugging wine, comparing scars, singing rude songs about fraggle rock, getting accosted by phantoms from the past, and using the word 'slammers' in an innapropriate context. It was great. Today, however, my head hurts - but that may have something to do with another day of racing around at work: I even at one point today did the job I've been putting off for months - I did my expenses.

Terrifying.

I'm off to America tomorrow, yay!!!