Friday. I could feeling nothing but the razor blade of irritation slowly cutting into the back of my skull, tinting everything with angry sparks. Paul and Hannah had requested my participation for drinks over at The Rake, a public house on the fringe of Borough Market, but it was the end of work and the days events had left me in ill humour. I was tired and hungry, so i grabbed half a wild boar pie at a nearby grocers and wolfed it down before entering the pub.

The Rake serves a wide variety of beers, wines and spirits to reflect its status as a bespoke Pub. My feelings of irritability were goaded by the ridiculous rules tacked up all over the bar telling guests what they couldn't do. NO FOOTBALL T-SHIRTS, YOU WILL NOT BE SERVED. YOU MUST BE OVER 21. NO GLASS OUTSIDE, ASK FOR PLASTIC. NO TABS OR CARDS BEHIND THE BAR. The one about the tabs floored me. Some of my best nights out have involved me handing over my debit card to a stanger serving drinks and not knowing if i'll be sober enough to settle up at the end of the night and whether i'll get my card back (and not someone else's, which has happened before). I don't drink as much these, hardly ever get falling down drunk, and i'm thinking maybe i should, but the events in Camden that unfurl around me every day like hundreds of rancid tiger lilies make sobreity a more appealing option. The next day, i would be stepping over a tramp curled around a bottle of white cider to get past my front door.

Paul made some spirited attempts to rouse me from my funk, including punching me on the arm while saying "cheer up slugga!" and "at least you're not in prison". I ordered a milk stout and the barman, who looked like a cross between Tubbs from the League to Gentlemen and a Chuckle Brother, served me up a pint of the stuff, charging just over a fiver for it. After a while, i had calmed down and the stout put a rosy hue on things, so we rounded of the night with food in at a Tapas bar in covent garden.

"Seriously, what's wrong?" said Paul. Han had gone to freshen up and this was as good a time as any to explain.

"The worst part is that i have no idea. It's just the whole week has been one long non-stop flux of pressure and annoyances. Also, they turned on the air conditioning at work and it is so cold that i think the queen ant i was breeding to my miniture army from has died."

I sat back, the realisation dawning on me.

"Dude. THE MAN killed my ant."

Hanna returned and our meal was delivered. We were all hungry and i was looking forward to dipping bread to the red wine sauce they cook the chorizo in. We devoured around eight plates of tapas, ranging from the usual suspects of chorizo, bravas and calamares, to the more specific. I ordered a catalan stew which tasted really good.

At the end, i felt somewhat better and i parted with Paul and his girlfriend, somewhat grateful that they had counteracted a week's worth of annoyances.