I am back from Thailand in one piece, just about anyway. It was a sensational and unforgettable trip . However, things are starting to go a bit pear shaped. On the last day the scooter I hired has a slow puncture and I took a bit of a nasty spill onto the road. I did not break any bones or do any major damage but it is an interesting experience to feel like you have pulled, well your entire body. Then, when frolicking that evening, went out and had a bit of a drunken mess about in the water. When I came back, my wallet, T-Shirt, trainers and glasses had all walked. Moron. Anyway, I just about held it together and was actually laughing about everything on the ferry back to the mainland. However, now that I am home I cannot open my bloody door. It works like a bank machine almost in that there is a code that needs to be punched in to allow entrance. Mine is seven or six digits long and I cannot for the life of me remember the last few numbers. Bloody stupid I know, but what is genuinely astonishing is the fact that no one seems to have a copy of the number. Not the fucking apartment office, not the fucking work office. I swear, how hard is it to keep a copy of a number in a file. They gave me my workmates code, but well the thing is, that is his apartment, not mine. And he knows his code. I have not slept right in days, I am genuinely bloody exhausted. Right now I feel like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, on the verge of an absolute meltdown.