Going out with the girls to a club in town to celebrate end of exams and taking full advantage of the day off school we're having on Thursday. Preparation: vodka, one bottle of. Money: twenty pounds of. Friends: one large group of. Tomato soup: two tins of. Just kidding. Attempt stunning manoeuvre by trying to put in left contact lens, brush teeth, apply mascara and walk in 4 inch heels, leading to a spectacular arse-over-tit tumble. Ouch. Quell pain with obligatory tequila slammer races at Bar Joop with Parul and Rachel; it's a hard job but someone's got to do it. We're shaken and stirred, and loving every minute. Why are men such lecherous bastards? OK, a tad of a generalisation, but we're getting more and more ticked off. OK, every girl likes a bit of attention, but being grabbed at and chased around a club by some sleaze is neither wanted nor enjoyed. Claire got so pissed off she lost her temper and chucked her drink over one guy - he looked a bit sorrier dripping wet. One bad effect of this, the alcoholic missile sort of side-swiped a rather famous British soap star who was lurking near by, who must have perfected the frosty glare he shot at us. Oops. Ah well, c'est la vie. 2.30am - technically Thursday but sod it. The post club, pre-going home kebab and evening run down. Woozy, head hurts, but fantastic day. Now just got to try and get that taxi home ... hmm ... about Katy Lindermann >