HIGH

Well, what's new?

Seems like the next big work night out is on the cards. They're planning a trip to one of those all-you-can-eat-from-all-over-the-world buffet places. I wished them luck and the very best of health.

They must think me antisocial. After all, I turned down the beer festival the other week, not to mention the upcoming fishing trip. Now this! Refusing to stuff his face with processed mush that was defrosted in a grotty kitchen and left to gently warm in an illuminated cabinet of noodles. What's wrong with him? Doesn't he want to be with us while we scoop up platefuls of red Thai jelly and soggy chips? Too posh, I reckon. Too snooty. Now he's saying he doesn't want to queue up with a grubby plate and drink lukewarm beer in a room which has all the charm of eating in an airport terminal? Loser.

Meanwhile, as the developers probably think I'm hiding away from social interaction, the boss overheard me on a phone call to Southern Electric and somehow picked up the impression that I might be on drugs.

Brilliant.

"Did I hear you right, Matt? Did you say you were high?"

"WHAT?" I asked, eyes popping out on stalks.

"On the phone just now?"

I chuckled, out of relief more than anything.

"No, just my electricity bill," I said.

I've never been high in my life, by the way. Though I can imagine that that state of mind might just be the only thing that gets me along to the all-you-can-eat-from-all-over-the-world buffet place.