Cider.

253. A few seconds after entering the restroom at work, I hear the door opening and then Anna's giggles. From the other side of the cubicle comes her disembodied voice, "Gazpacho-y, Luke needs your password..." 

It is not everyday that I have the department's IT guy leaning against the wall, looking at the female toilet's door and waiting for me to come out.

254. Screening flatmates. Act 2.

6ish pm. I have left work early, specifically to meet a potential flatmate. "A Spanish guy" is all I know. It is not that Gaston and I have a strict screening process to choose the person to share our living room, see our underwear displayed prominently in the hallway, and continue the Tuesday dinner tradition ("someone nice?" was all we could come up with as a selection criteria, added later by, "someone young, but not *too* young?") Nevertheless, to act the part of a responsible flatmate, I have agreed to be home when this Spanish guy comes. "Maybe he is cute," I told Gaston; "I am not going to live with a couple," he pointed out.

Someone buzzed the door. A few minutes later, Something-Spanish and I are shaking hands as Tintin introduces us. I missed the name, because I am distracted by his smooth black hair collected into a chignon, and the assorted wristbands. "Nice to meet you," I tell Something-Spanish, thinking that Gaston has nothing to worry about, upon the instant realization that while some girls have the rule of not dating a guy without hair, it seems that I have the rule of not dating a guy with hair longer than mine, a rule that is apparently not shared by Tintin. As soon as Something-Spanish leaves, Tintin turns around, "My god, isn't he cuuuute?"

255. At Michael Collins. After nachos and spicy chicken wings.

Girl #1: So, next year, we all go to Brazil for the wedding! There will be no second wedding in Brussels, so you have to conquer your fear of flight and come with us. 

Girl #2, still not feeling emboldened after single-handedly finishing a litre of cider: But it's twelve hours flying...

Girl #1: No, it's ten hours.

Girl #2: No, it's twelve. We've looked it up...

Girl #1, demonstrating her incredible mathematical ability: Well, a twelve-hour flight is the same as a ten-hour flight. And, Gazpacho, even if you will be in Australia at the time, you should think about going to Brazil too.

Me: But, I am going...

Girl #1: You are? Good! See, Gazpacho is coming to the wedding too.

Girl #2: Which wedding?

Girl #1: No more cider for you...