My dead diary - zombies and alcohol

Tuesday. Make it outside at last. Not much has changed; Tottenham Court Road as drab as ever and there’s obviously been fighting recently – no idea what the problem is. I help out this battered zombie lying in the gutter, brush him down and take him for a drink. He perks up but can’t tell me much about what happened – apparently was just ambling along, the way zombies do, minding his own business, when five Holborn crypt-ghouls came round a corner and laid into him. One of his mates turns up with the same story so that’s another round of drinks and before I know it we’ve settled in for the night and I’m having to put up with all their jokes about missing body parts. It’s well known that Clerkenwell zombies can drink anyone under the table and I leave the place staggering worse than them. Back at the museum, Trimalchio is waiting in the reception trying to chat up the pale lady, so one thing leads to another and I wake the next evening with vague memories of wild Assyrian dancing and a sense of having achieved very little. Still, at least you don’t get hangovers when you’re dead.