This entry documents what was likely my very first encounter with a real, live English person. Not that I was in the habit of socialising with English corpses, you understand (although that would explain a lot). At least this proves I wasn’t exposed to strong anti-Sassenach sentiments in the home. It would have been distressing for me to have come across a childhood diary entry that went like this: ‘Met Bryan from England. Stabbed him for Culloden. Did homework.’ Thankfully, I only assassinated Bryan’s character, not his nationality. Boring. Is there any worse label? Well, OK, ‘murderer’ is slightly worse, and I dare say most light entertainers from the 1970s would kill to be remembered as ‘boring’ right now. It’s not a good thing to be called, though, is it?: ‘Aw, you’re really gonna love Bryan; he’s so boring!!!’ Bryan’s a name that drips with boring anyway. If his parents knew they were going to pass on the STD of dullness to their son they should have taken preventative measures and called him Papa-Zulu, or The Hawk. Or Dancing Peter or something. Did you see what happened in the text though? I didn’t just call Bryan ‘boring.’ I said he was boring ‘aswell.’ As well as me? What a high opinion I had of myself. We probably just sat there in that shed sipping green tea, as I flipped through my stamp collection, and he made a series of withering remarks about how impossibly high the mortgage rate was for first time buyers. Thank god my un-boring cousin turned up to add an exciting dash of bullying into the mix!