Lager lout

I'm back in Juba, wildly busy and insanely bitter and depressed about being here, so I'm going to tell an anecdote from London until I get off my little stroppy horse.

I'm sitting in a pub garden with one of my best friends, her boyfriend and all of his mates, who have all just spent the day at the rugby and are hence very... what's the word I want... ebullient. We were sitting out back, telling inappropriate jokes, mocking each other mercilessly and, quite regularly, when someone said a word that made them think of a song lyric, they would all burst into loud, off key and absolutely hysterical singing. There is something about being in a cold but cozy pub garden at 10.30 at night surrounded by four lads in Rugby jerseys laughing and singing Sweet Caroline at the top of their lungs which is just priceless.

It was the first unabashedly happy moment I've had in, probably, eight or nine months.