Friday

Clearly, staying up until almost 4am on a weekday is not particularly clever - even if it is for something as important and rare as a general election. The fact that the election has resulted into a confusing and inconclusive hung parliament doesn't help the feeling of tired dislocation - usually, you wake up on the morning after election day and you know who the new prime minister is, for better or worse. In this case, we are left with mere probabilities amid talk of coalitions, deals and further elections within the year. It's the sort of thing that first came close to piquing my interest in British politics when studying history at A Level - I think Ramsay MacDonald may have been the first tale that stuck in my head.

Work is, predictably, a bit of a fog of sleepiness and not particularly productive, especially given the necessary second window open showing BBC live updates and rolling News Channel coverage.

The plan after work is to head into town for a few Sam Smith's drinks at The Cock, but first I stop off at The Tollgate for a swift jar with Alex, who is on her way home from the shops. Hoping that a little booze might give me a second wind, I am nevertheless exhausted for most of the evening and can attempt only the most basic conversation. If this is what happens when I stay up a mere four hours after my normal bedtime, it's probably good that I do most of my weekend drinking during daylight hours.

We head home early as K gives in to my protestations and order a takeaway pizza from Papa John's before finally, wrecked and broken, heading to bed.