He's doing better than Frank, who's still on pure guesswork at the minute. Things are very foggy. He thinks he remembers an invite, maybe. Remembers jumping at the opportunity. Who wouldn't, to get away from a little monster girl trying to tear them in two? But maybe he only thinks there was an invite because he just heard someone talking about an invite. He doesn't remember actually getting here, or who greeted him at the door, or what he did that first night that got him so fucking blitzed he woke up with the worst hangover he's ever had in his life. And he's had some real stinkers.

But sometimes he figures it doesn't matter how he got here. The point is, he's here, and there's a nice breeze ruffling the collar of his shirt, and there's a lot of booze.

"I'm not really a party guy. More of the 'drinking alone in silence' type." Which is not what he's doing right now – in fact he's doing exactly the opposite, but in his defence, he's curious. "Not to state the obvious, but everyone else here is young, dumb and full of cum. I'm just wondering where we fit in on that scale."