8am: Hurrah! Rejoice because tonight I'll be reuniting with my university friends at a dinner party, at long last.
4pm: Oh dear... Ex. Prom Queen Rebecca is attending dinner with her gals. An evening with Rebecca is like going into a sea full of jellyfish. Things will proceed smoothly and you'll think all's well that end's well, hunky-dory and she'll strike at the most opportune moment to burst your bubble. Don't underestimate, she'll intrude into personal conversation, subtly aim at ones' Archilles Heel, gloat about how she worked very very hard to get Prom Queen status, highlight indirectly that she's the best, and strut off. Mind you, she attained Prom Queen status in 2003 which is definitely old news. She clings to it for dear life like that's her only redeemable trait. Suddenly recall Joey briefly mentioning her in conversation back in London, accentuated that I should be matured enough to handle Rebecca. She's right.
11.20pm: Still at dinner, massive headache, this is no good.
