"looking for a job" = "drinking cider until you cant talk"

"You told my sister that I was a homosexual arms dealer last night" Chris shouts from the kitchen, I don't know why he's shouting; I'm only a few foot away. I think he may be a little bit cross with me. I don't really remember talking on the phone but I vaguely remember Chris apologising into one, and I have to admit that that sounds like something I would say.

The sounds of String vomiting (what must be his stomach lining and food he ate as a baby by now) are audible from the tiny bathroom, has they have been all night, he was so bombed last night I might start calling him "Dresden". Poor delicate String has been in Chris's bathroom all night calling god on the big white telephone and, strangely, at one point, showering. Bless his socks, he was drinking the wrong drinks (cider and cocktails) at the wrong speed (quick), it's his own fault though, he came to Liecester so he could "look for a job before term begins" but that was probably out the window as soon as he invited me, the closest he actually got to looking for a job is accidentally leaving the bag with his CV's in at the first pub we went in.

Myself, I am fine this morning, through more luck than judgement, and it may or may not have anything to do with the anti depressant I was dared to take before we left the house. I have managed to sidestep the hangover, although I am feeling a little tired because Strings wretched wrenching kept us up most of the night.

I'm sitting in the park now, enjoying Britain's final fling with his mistress summer before going back to its dowdy and miserable wife, winter. Waiting for String to sleep off his poisoning and Chris to come back from doing whatever those Northerners do when left alone (probably something to do with coal and/or whippets). I'm watching a wild haired drunk doing his own form of weird yoga – it mainly seems to be stretching your arms out and swaying, breaking occasionally to swig cider from a giant bottle. Even the squirrels look confused