Fan Club

Today saw the Dive Club's Champagne Brunch. This annual festive event involves bottles of the eponymous fizzy beverage (or at least an Australian copy of the French stuff) plus enormous quantities of English fry-up.

One group went diving first, so the boats were trailed back to the clubhouse at around noon and the festivities got well and truly under way.

At one point, a large glass jar was filled with an unholy concoction of liquids from the bar, and consumed by various volunteers through a hose pipe. The syphon principle ensured that no-one could fake drinking anything.

Syphon: Down in one, down in one, down in one...

And the Fan Club bit? I was taking photos and climbed up on to a table to get a view over everyone's heads. This, I discovered far too late, put my own head in range of the whirling metal blades of the ceiling fan. I am now the slightly embarrassed owner of a two-inch gash in my scalp. Luckily it's below my hair line so the sticking plaster isn't going to rip my hair out in the next day or two.

That was Friday. It is now Saturday and the office has been bombarding me with questions concerning the hole in my head. I have made my usual remarks about no-one on the planet having skin that is the same colour as skin-coloured Band-Aids, and have also grown tired of telling people that I cut myself shaving.

The current story is that I've had a horn bud implanted, and will be going back next week to get the other one done.