The King chronicles the horrors of his journal.
[Private]
- Areola.
- Misshapen breasts (Turkish prostitutes' were far more aesthetically pleasing; why did I not take that offer?).
- A naked anorexic hippie. Dear Lord, I almost vomited.
- Some sort of online gaming troll.
- More drunken escapades than I had ever anticipated from rational sorts.
- Miss Bloom discuss Miss Jacoby's knickers. Sweet Christ in the manger.
- There isn't any possible way Miss Stark is actually married. Good Lord.
- If I have to see another deluge of nudity/oversized letters/death threats/any sort of butchering of the English language, I'm removing to Bath.
Call Ahmed - items. Sent? Did Erik receive them? Must get them sold and out of the picture.
Max - guns. She couldn't possibly. My God, she's borderline autistic. There's no way. Investigate.
Good Lord. One more day spent recuperating, and I cannot be held accountable for my actions. Rosa has stuffed me so full of Spanish homeopathic cures and white cakes, I'm afraid I won't be able to move at all.
Dr Reynard - please. Allow me to return to classes full-time on Monday. I've even acquired a cane.
In the meantime, mates, I require a pint.