Gillen's the name ...

... good old-fashioned hilarity's the game.

My busiest and most successful week yet in my new job meant I was on a bit of a high as I caught the 1600 to Liverpool (via York) to spend the weekend with Jennifer.

Our group presentation (the Big Brother spoof) at the departmental away day was extremely well-received, my knowledge of Bond films meant my group got all the answers to the energiser quiz, and my personal presentation on a Rough Guide for Chavs in Edinburgh went down a storm in the afternoon. In addition, the real work moved along at pace and I feel like I'm really starting to understand things. Nice one.

The social side of life was better yet with Sam and I enjoying a Bon Voyage meal at the Grain Store on Monday night, Mog and I enjoying an 'I need a rant' meal at the King's Wark on Wednesday night, and the dizzying combination of after-work drinks and the Tiny Monkey gig on Thursday. Thoroughly knackered, I stayed just long enough to applaud Keith and his fellow monkeys at the end of their set. Reading about the trials and tribulations of TM on Keith's blog over the past few months meant I was more nervous for them than I ever needed to be - they did indeed rock! Go the Monkey!

Friday at work was a bit of a joke as I turned up at 10am, went for lunch at 11.45, returned at 2.15pm and got a taxi to the station at 3.30. Various comments about allergies to pieces of office equipment, and work in general, ensued.

It took 4.5 hours to get to Lime Street but the wait was well worth it. A woman in an outrageously short, sparse and tacky outfit asked me a question as I was walking along the platform. I told Jen about it and she replied: "Oh yes, the fetching green number. I swear, until I moved here last month, I didn't realise that Atomic Kitten were actually classy and sophisticated." Oh how I've missed my friend.

Jennifer had a shocking cough. I'd always put her down as someone who's bite was every bit as bad, and probably worse, than her bark, alas, on this occasion she was reduced to a cliche. We enjoyed a Thai takeaway and some wine as we caught up on the immediate stuff. Jen showed me to my room, apologising for the fact that this was the only room the owners had neglected to decorate. The next morning after a fantastically comfortable night's sleep, I told Jennifer that the only thing the room was missing was a kitsch picture of the Virgin Mary above the bed. There was an unused picture hook in the correct place and I suspect this may have been the one item the owners took with them. I'm not sure if anyone else gets what I mean here, but some rooms just feel so Catholic. This was kind of how I imagine a priest's bedroom might look, only with Stargazer lilies for decoration as opposed to young boys.

Saturday afternoon was spent at the Docklands where Richard and Judy used to film, and the giant floating weather map was moored. Sadly both Richard and the oversized wobbling items have moved on. The former Miss Gillen and I enjoyed the offerings of the Tate while she told me about her lukewarm relationship with her married name. She is now Mrs Sloan, but doesn't like having to say it and is pretty convinced that when she booked a table for an upcoming meal the woman recorded her name as 'Slod'. Unfortunate.

Jen and I share a contempt for the pretentious wankfest that is modern art, but I have to admit the upper two floors of modern shite were an absolute Godsend after enduring the Turner exhibit on the ground floor. Jen overheard a couple discussing the merits of one of Turner's paintings: "The light in this painting is exceptional," said the woman. "Yes," agreed the man, "it has an almost ethereal quality wouldn't you say?". Shite! In my opinion, Turner and Constable are pretty much the same in that their paintings are dull, dreary, depressing and generally quite pish. Don't get me wrong, the art upstairs was 90% pish too, it's just that most people will actually admit it's pish while they seem to have to pretend that Turner and Constable are excellent examples of arty wonderfulness.

An early dinner of top notch tapas was thoroughly enjoyed before we headed off to Oddbins to stock up for an evening in front of the TV. As we drove back to Jen's, I noticed that the names of shops and bars in Liverpool were appallingly bad and difficult to fathom. There was McHale's Irish American Bar complete with a smog-rotted replica Statue of Liberty. Jen asked what made it Irish-American as opposed to just Irish. I had no answer other than perhaps they put pretzels rather than peanuts on the bar. There was also a shop called Kut-A-Bill. I have no idea what service it offered but did deduce that whatever it was, it was offered cheaply. Just in case the lame play on words didn't impress the idea of cheapness strongly enough, they opted to spell cut with a 'K'. Klassy. There was also some construction work going on under the banner of 'considerate construction'. Jen and I pondered what was so considerate about it and came up with the idea that perhaps the builders wore their belts tightly enough to keep their jeans from sliding half way down their arses.

Copious amounts of wine meant that our witticisms on Saturday night TV came thick and fast. Of course, with Celebrity Stars in their Eyes featuring Jade Goody and Charlene Tilton we couldn't fail.

On Sunday Jen showed me some pictures she and Derek had taken whilst living in Africa over the last couple of years. The scenery was truly stunning and the Rhinos were up-close and massive. A leisurely stroll through Sefton Park with some general musing and pondering of life was the perfect end to a much anticipated and enjoyable weekend.

It took 4.5 hours to get home on the train, but some quality time with a much admired and cherished friend was well worth travelling for.