The playwright who looks like Miranda July is in the music shop. She's in a red coat and looking at the sale table. The vibration in my pocket tells me that my laksa is ready next door and I have to leave.

Tom finds a guitar pick on the floor. Then the artist from WA is talking about Johnny Ramone's plectrum flying through the air and - of all those damn people at the gig - landing near him. That pick, though, ended up in Richard's mum's vacuum cleaner. He suspects. Perhaps Richard has it, I say. Then he's asking me about my own luck and I draw a blank and change the subject. Nothing specific, just routine consistently medium luck.

Taming of the Shrew reminds me of the line "we go together like accident victims and blood donors".

Andrew O'Hagan talks about the many ways we choose to betray ourselves. I can't remember the line: "Say I was..." Thom Yorke's equivalent idea: "there's always a sign leading you to shipwreck". For.