Brothers, sisters of the faith, it was at three in the morning when I was sitting in couch-bed watching Batman Forever on VHS and trying valiantly not to puke, that I reflected to myself, this is the lowest I have ever sunk. Now crouched over this feeble laptop in the neon horror-hole that is the McDonalds across the street from my house - that Dawson's Creek song is playing, to give you an idea of How and Why this is Hades Infernal - and anxiously circling the McMuffin which will either heal all my ills or murder me (either the skunk or me must die, certainly; neither can live while the other survives), I cast my eyes bleerily forward. No wines. No more wines.

Soon I must go north to grapple with Quantum of Solace, which is getting unutterably shite reviews, which either means I am going to hate it with the Lord's vengeance or spend a year wondering aloud why people don't understand how awesome it is. Time to kill before then, though; reading Harmful to Minors is proving as upsetting as watching Lake of Fire two years ago. Americans and their hypocrisy - well, everyone and theirs. The whole verdammt planet. A family - three girls and a mum - trying to scrabble back across the street in the rain, to the hotel, where their wet weather clothing must be waiting for them, because they certainly are not here. All three kids in t-shirts and thin Lulu pants, on a rainy Saturday in November in Toronto. That's sloppy parenting.

The McMuffin has passed. I live. The coffee is tasting better with each sip, which must be a horrible sign. There's a sale at the Snail, but I do not have my metropass. I love. Maybe a rain shower will do me good.