Throup fight at the OK Corral... The horror, the horror... Down, and out for the Goose... Take twenty-seven.

I couldn't decide the right title. It's been that kind of a week. Sunday was the worst Goosing I've ever had. As an experiment, landlord Steve Throup had me down to start work at 2pm, which is - unsurprisingly - the nadir of the shift. It doesn't get any busier at lunchtimes - the Goosing doesn't come any worse. And into which section was I drafted with my Vaseline smile and dazzling customer service skills? The 10s? The 40s? Outside? No. Steve had me pegged for 'Backup'. This is, according to the other waiters, an invention. It means I scope the entire restaurant with the principal duty of hand-washing cutlery. Marek thought this was very funny. He is gigantic, almost Andre the Giant size - 6'8 tall, and top heavy with 21 stone of muscle. He also speaks excellent English, which renders him unique amongst my colleagues. Scottish and Polish, I'll hasten to add. Last week a diner asked for mayonnaise and Emil returned five minutes later with extra menus. We have almost exactly one fork per customer, which leads to terrible shortages as the more experienced staff hoard cutlery for their section in cubbyholes hidden throughout the building. The restaurant has undergone two large extensions in the last nine years, but the kitchen is the same size. The result is chaos when front of house is full and baying for the blood. I imagine this to be a bit like chronic plastic surgery.

Sunday. My Christ, Sunday. The horror. After waiting over an hour for their meals, roughly a quarter of customers walked out. I grew so tired of taking complaints that I gave up even asking the kitchen when the meals might be ready for table 27
6
47
44
91
22
Your lucky numbers: it could be you. Every head in the restaurant turns to the kitchen door when I emerge with my plates in dribs and drabs, and every head sighs, curses, mutters evil things as I drift past their table and take the plates elsewhere. One man pleaded with me. "I ordered fifty minutes ago," he said. "I don't understand. Please-" he caught my arm. He had a thin moustache. "Please. I'm hungry."

I resigned. If I really wanted a job where I was paid minimum wage to be roundly abused while addressing non-stop customer complaints, I'd work in a call centre, and then I'd quit that too.
"Leaving us so soon?" asked Steve. He has eyebrows liked a badger.
I was grim. "Yes," I said. "Hell yes."
"But why?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. I took a deep breath and began listing reasons. I had ticked off six fingers by the time he spoke again.
"You don't want to give it another week?"
"No."
"Just one more week?"
"No! I'm going to London."

And so I am, readying myself to Megabus the country with final destination of the spare room in my brother's East Dulwich apartment. I'll stay with him for a while - Tim reckons he can point me towards some recruitment agencies who will be much better at working out what I want to do than I am. I'm dubious, and I still want to get back on my travels, but I'll give it a go.

It's been a strange few weeks in Inverness. The Goosing has slid by in a flash of loathing and disgrace; I barely noticed my birthday until it actually happened. Twenty seven years old, and hang your head in shame if you didn't spot 'take twenty seven' coming a mile away... now it's almost over. Another three-hundred and sixty-four days to go. A curry with mum and dad, dog-walking, bouldering on plastic, books in the attic, forgotten things. Everything in a compartment! It's hard to feel positive about it all. The girls I kiss and the tears I burst into during ad breaks, the rocks I fall off and the beer I drink, the friends I catch up with and those I won't see or speak with for months at a time, the streets I walk and the films I flick between. Trying to write more than a thousand words at a time, trying to make it all stick together, somehow, anyhow. The things with which I measure happiness, little victories like roaching Noel Edmonds' business card or playing cricket with Banks and Phil. Failures like constant uncertainty, my returns to the Goose. Things inbetween like the girl wearing suspenders at fancy dress but I drink too much wine and go to bed. These things haunt me for months at a time.

It took me two weeks to latch that last sloper at the climbing wall. I'd been stuck for so long, made so many attempts, that I actually started laughing aloud when I realised I was about to finish it - that I'd finally got my balance right, finally found the sequence, the right foothold, matched my hands, reached the top. No-one is around when I drop back to the mat and lie there laughing. The lamps in the ceiling make hot white dots in my eyes when I look away.

London is gigs and carabiners and house parties and eyes that meet and flash green in the Underground where the trains complain with whale song but still turn every corner.

Take twenty seven.