I walk up the stairs, copy of Martin Crimp's The Country in one hand and a vodka and diet coke in the other (because, hey, I am in Oxford so faux-intellectual drunkenness is clearly the way to go). Just as I turn the corner, I almost collide with a boy wearing a t-shirt with dark stripes across it who is walking in the opposite direction.
"Hello" says Griffin.
"Hello" I say back, feeling only slightly sheepish about the fact that over the past few days he has not seen me once when I haven't been drinking vodka.
"So, you made it".
"Just about". For it was a just about, a decision that I wasn't even sure I was going to make as I got up this morning. After all, I was only going to one gig this tour. But the fact remains that I am susceptible to pressure from floppy haired boys who sing and offer me guestlist spaces.
"And" - a smirk plays on Griffin's mouth - "how are you feeling today?"
I wish I'd kept my sunglasses on indoors, if only for the fact that I could avoid looking at him directly at this point. Because, if my drunkenness in Manchester the night before wasn't enough of an embarrassment, then the fact that I am not remotely hungover probably is. I make a mental note to give my liver some respite.
"Okay, actually". I decide to take a different, though potentially as embarrassing, route. For it is a question which needs to be asked. "Was I horrendously annoying last night?".
"No". I'm surprised with the speed with which the answer comes. "It was - banter. And that's always good".
Later, when I have abandoned Crimp on a stool in a corner, I remember this moment and I am almost unable to conquer the sadness it arouses.