Notes on a Saturday evening:

London was fizzing with William Gibson-esque energy last night. As we hung around outside a couple of Chinese restaurants near the Prince Charles cinema, a girl with brightly coloured dreadlocks cycled up on one of those low-riding rickshaws that are taking over Soho slowly, very slowly. I kept catching a whiff of something unknown but familiar: the way London smelled when I would first visit, strange and almost pornographically grown-up, daunting. It reminded me of why I chose to live here, why I didn't feel that I could live anywhere else - a different type of necessity to that which you feel once you've made a place you're home, and just can't leave for other, sometimes more practical reasons.

A new Ghostface Killah track plays on Westwood as I sit in Nina's bedroom and type this. In the pub where we met people after dinner - most of them well on their way to a state we were never going to catch up with - Danny and I chatted about Westwood, and how while our primary response to him is always hilarity - "Warwick University is one of my favourite spots to tear the party up" being the choicest quote from tonight's show - our basic opinion on a profound level is that he deserves respect...