Obviously the evening ended at Istanbul on King

Awoke from a dream about a long tall glass of Fanta with a Ronan Keating song in my head. In the kitchen I found a freshly poured glass of apple juice and liked to imagine that some rehydration fairy - with more appreciation of the rules of nutrition than I - had been sent to look after me.

Last night: St Vincents Hospital Revue. On the stage: "nymphomaniacs" in straight jackets dancing to Crazy In Love. In the audience: nuns. Oh, and others as well...accountants, children etc.

In our group at the pub before the show was the guy who sold me my car. He said that it was good that we got to meet up again. I agreed - but wondered just quite why. Him: how's the car going? Me: Great. Yep. No problems at all. Him: Well...I've got to go and eat my schnitzel. Me: OK, then.

I remember going to his office at the hospital to get the paperwork for the car. A table in the room was piled high with Delta Goodrem's get well mail.

But back to the show. For all the intricate live production elements my favourite moment was in one of the pre-recorded video segments. A student competing in Phd Survivor fixed the camera with an intense look as he sailed past on an office chair. Gold.

There was also a slightly worrying scene about a labyrinthine automated phone system used to alert the cardiac arrest response team to patients in crisis. I'm sure it had nothing to do with actual practice in the hospital. Ah, satire.

Later in the pub down the road the guy who played Joseph - no room for him and Mary at St Vincents Private - and I chatted about the Foo Fighters. We wondered how someone like Dave Grohl could start out with Nirvana and then turn into such a relentlessly optimistic performer. Actually, I think that was just me who wondered that.

We played pool, and I sank balls. Ray, I sank balls, sometimes two in a row. Sadly, I can never remember, though, the exact intake of beer that produces that kind of peak (for me) pool form. My partner was much better than me. He said that not only was he trying to sink balls but also to set shots up for me to build my confidence, which was sweet, but on another level annoying. He had a nice scarf though and I quite liked his overall look, so I didn't say anything. We lost both games by one ball. Not quite sure of the correct pool terminology there. And then we lost the table, to sharks, at which point we turned full focus to the juke box.

Obviously the evening ended at Istanbul on King (Gina and Scott, they said to say hi). Lee and Shannah agreed that kebabs are better without tabouli, which led to me explaining about my memoir that will be called No tabouli, thanks. It was about then that we realised the night had run its course.

A final word on dressing appropriately. It's not appropriate to wear thongs - or any type of open-toed shoe, really - in Sydney in June, especially not when also wearing several layers including a parka as the top one. I doubt that this kind of thing happens in Melbourne.