Saturday Night In With The Sad Gang

Two bottles of chardonnay, the television and a modest-sized bag of Mistrels. Thus runs Monkey and my Saturday night in.

The discussion began when I revealed that Bernard Cribbens, Imelda Staunton, Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer are my celebrity grandparents. My celebrity parents are Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry (shut up). We eventually decided (a bottle in, and brain-damaged by Britain's Got Talent) that Ant and Dec would make reasonable celebrity big brothers. At a stretch, I'd say Kate Winslet and Helena Bonham-Carter for big sisters. And then we began on celebrity boyfriends/girlfriends. As we reeled off names, both Monkey and I began to drink more and speak less, each lost in our own worlds.

"Fucking hell," said Monkey, as Pushing Daisies began and I commented quietly that actually, could we add Ned to my list (even though he actually reminds me strongly of a decidedly real ex-boyfriend of mine), "Fucking hell, we are lame."

He wasn't wrong. Monkey and I had our individual relationship supernovas in January, which means were are both now single and frankly a bit lonely. We are also both unhappy at work. Things have reached a crisis whereby Monkey has forsaken his lager and I have forsaken my gin so we can both drink wine every night, constantly, for maximum alcohol intake we have combined forces. You know things are bad when you have invitations to go out but can't quite be bothered. Why leave the sofa, when American Pie 3 is on?