Well the deed is done. Complete strangers spent their hard earned cash to dance in a dimly lit room all because of me. I should be ecstatic, it was a great night; almost everyone I invited came (a Herculean feat in London where everyone is so fickle), the room was busier than I’d ever seen it and Kate and Andrew (Scooby and flat mate respectively) made me oh so proud with their erudite music playing. But it wasn’t Studio 54. I’ve got to realise that clubs take time to grow and evolve and that I’m just being unrealistic. I think I’m suffering from a similar malaise that used to affect me after finishing a run of a play - PPD (post performance depression). And don’t start sending me pictures of starving African children. I realise I’m being a bit spoilt. But give me a few days to get some perspective. Alright?