I drive 90 minutes for dinner.

A week last Friday I went to London for dinner. That's right - for dinner. I was meeting up with some of my friends from my time last year, old chums, folks I've not seen for almost a year since I swept out of our final dinner to sprint across central London and catch my train out of Dodge with 40 seconds to spare. Apparently Jayne cried in the toilets, bless her, but not just because I'd gone. Lovely toilets though, dinner was in a London club, so there were little towels and small bins to toss them into when you were done dabbing your doigts dry.

All irrelevant details, but part of the sugary frosting on my delicious cake, as it were. I went to London for dinner. It was north London, so there was no dicing with Subarus full of gang members or trying to dodge tramps as I drove through Lambeth. In fact north London was a much leafier kettle of fish - fancier, more accessible. As you tipple off the end of the M1 you're in green suburbanite country, nice houses with on-road parking, semis that would set me back a lottery win and a light mortgage.

I was trying hard to look cool as I glided along in my turquoise Volvo, cursing my low-slung driving position as I stared up the exhausts of oversized 4x4s. I was firmly in the territory of luvvies, yummies and monies. I swear Lord Winston soaked me with his hosepipe as I drove through Crouch End and on my way down to Finsbury Park. Simon Pegg lives round the corner. My eyes were on another Simon, as I passed a train station. Four-eyed funnyman (I'm not being racist, it's alliteration) Simon Bird off the Inbetweeners was chatting to some thickset tall man and carrying a folding bike. I doubted my eyes at first, because I was creeping about in heavy traffic, and people always look different when they're not on the telly. Bigger, perhaps.

But he spoke, and my ears did not deceive me. I grabbed my phone, to take a picture:

Alas, all you can see is the top of the fat bloke's head. Still, dinner was lovely.