"That's what she said."

SUNDAY:

The Blonde limps into the kitchen, still wearing her leopard skin dress from the night before. "Fuck," she exclaims.

"Barkeep, fill me up!" She sits with a glass of breakfast Bollinger, and eats ham and crackers. Her hip hurts from last night's falling over.

"Is my limp sexy?"

"Yeah, it matches my trapped nerve. We look like hot polio twins."

She lolls around on the window seat, and stretches.

"Oh sorry Punk, I think you could see my flange then."

We sit around chatting, and The Geordie says to The Blonde that she needs to decide what she'd like for her birthday from his sister.

"If you don't tell her what you want, she's getting you a mirrored bag from India."

"I don't know - some vouchers for somewhere?"

"Threshers?" he volunteers.

The Blonde just shoots him a dirty look and burps involuntarily.

We head out to The Grumpyscot's birthday brunch at a lovely bar in Stockbridge, drink the world's spiciest Bloody Mary's and discuss the photos being taken around the table.

Me: "look at my clown blusher!"

Geordie: "Tranny."

Me: "Oh my god, I'm wearing tranny blusher."

Grumpyscot: "It's ok," he says soothingly. "It detracts from your Adam's Apple."

The Blonde returns from the toilet, wearing her sunglasses indoors like a twat, and wobbling precariously. "Puffin!" she says gravely in my ear. "I nearly just stood on a dog."

Chat idly, (and inexplicably) turns to lingerie businesswoman Michelle Mone. The Blonde says,

"Yeah, she got all skinny and hot, and her husband left her. That's what might happen to me soon."

Geordie looks up from his steak sandwich. "Not because of that, because you're massively fucking annoying."

The Blonde starts chatting about her work as a spa therapist, describing the pregnancy massages she does.

Geordie: " So, you ordered the motorboat package?" We piss ourselves. My phone buzzz with a text. It's from The Punk.

"Would you like the motorboat package?x"

I say that I feel a bit violated.

The Blonde: "Puffin, you say that a lot."

Me: "That's because you're my friends."

The Blonde wordlessly grabs my right boob.

Geordie: "Do you want a bum rub?"

The Blonde: "Everyone loves a cheeky finger!"

I excuse myself and hide in the loo for a bit.

When I return, The Blonde is raging about a bloke last night poking her in the chest aggressively as they chatted.

"No one pokes me in the fucking chest! Well out of order." She demonstrates on me, it hurts.

Geordie: "Stop going on about being poked in the chest. This is like middle-class fight club."

The natural progression of the brunch suggests that the best possible thing we can do at this stage, is karaoke. We get in cabs into town, and a conversation takes place about Phil Collins. The Punk explains about someone else being called Phil being also involved in one of Phil Collins' hits. (I don't know the details, I wasn't listening.) All weekend, we'd been throwing the phrase 'that's what she said!' into conversations. With flawless timing, after the Geordie commented on the awesomeness of the tune, "double Phil!", Punk quietly said "that's what she said." It was the best one of the weekend.

Alas, (or luckily, depending on your point of view) karaoke didn't open until 7, so we piled into the world's poshest Wetherspoons to drink very cheap wine. The Geordie is telling us about his creepy chat-up lines. He leans over and strokes my face, gently, lingering on my chin.

"I like to call that The Moistener."

As The Blonde topped up from last night, her eyes morphed into the vaguely belligerent expression she gets when she's reached her drinking limit. The Geordie said we shouldn't go back to the flat to party, because she'll get into her comfy clothes then go to sleep.

"This is NOT my idea of a birthday party! Fucking leggings and headband? Fuck off." At the next bar, after this outburst, she quietly disappears and goes home.

We join her some time later, where I fall asleep hicupping with my head on The Punk's lap and begin to snore loudly. Apparently The Geordie yells, "Shut the fuck up, Puffin!" and I do.

Monday morning brings The Blonde still wearing her makeup from Saturday night, announcing that she thinks she's dying. We idly watch This Morning before Punk and I need to get our train home.

Geordie: "I hate Eamonn Holmes. I hate everyone."

The Blonde watches a horoscope advert with interest. The Geordie berates her.

"They're not real. Like Harry Potter. Or The Bible."