Body of evidence

Sunday 12.01am: Go to cashpoint with Anna and Dylan to play national Switchcard lottery. "Insufficient Funds Available" in triplicate and alternative cash resource point (Sainsbury's cashback) now closed. Dreams of clubland shattered, traipse despondently back to Dylan's. Several games of Connect 4 later, everyone so bored that D decides to go out onto street and invite home first five people he sees in bizarre social engineering experiment.

1.10am: Spot D being battered by large black woman, who clearly thinks he is inviting her into house of ill-repute. Anna is doodling weird sausage shapes all over piece of paper. Probably don't need to be Sigmund Freud to figure that one out. Set about trying to beat Dylan's personal best spliff record (12 Rizlas long).

1.50am: Growing concerned about lengthy absence of Dylan, but more so about Anna, who is staring intently at the sausage doodles. "The thing that doesn't ring true about that Lewinsky woman," she says suddenly, "is how in God's name could she remember the exact details of President Clinton's knob?" "Paula Jones," I correct her. "Jones is the one with the memory for detail, Lewinksy's the one with the big hair." See Anna looking puzzled. "Who's Gennifer Flowers, then?" Explain she's the other one, apart from all the others. "Okay, so Paula Jones is lying," says Anna, who has apparently taken on fantasy role as US state prosecutor. "According to her, Clinton's got a five-inch dick, with a mole on one side and it hangs funny or something and has the circumference of a ten pence coin. So she's lying." Suddenly remember Earl Spencer incident. Surely she hasn't done Clinton...

2.20am: Crucial questions surrounding integrity of the President interrupted by sound of scary dog barking and yelps (Dylan's) in hallway. Dylan appears looking glum. "The first woman started, like, attacking me with her handbag. Then I asked two geezers and I had to run away very fast and hide because I thought they were going to kill me... " He is interrupted by appearance of bearded old man dragging along v. big dog by shoelace. "Erm, this is Mr Fagin, and, er, Biter," finishes Dylan. "Make us a cuppa tea, love," says Mr Fagin, lurching towards Anna and gesturing for the spliff she's smoking. "Biter here will have one an' all. In a saucer, three sugars."

3am: Mr Fagin explains that Fornigate is merely smokescreen to provide domestic diversion from fact the US has just invaded Mars and is killing baby aliens. He also wants to know why Anna is drawing Frankfurters everywhere. "I'm reconstructing the private parts of recent partners I have known," says Anna as if it's the most natural thing in world. "This Paula Jones woman says she can remember every detail of the content of Clinton's trousers. I can't even draw from memory the tackle of the last shag I had and that was under 48 hours ago." Even Biter looks impressed. "I conclude, members of the jury," says Anna, "that Ms Jones is a liar and a fraud." Worry about future when Anna's legal career might one day lead to her making a similar disclosure in a court of law.

3.15am: Suggest to Anna State Prosecutor that although most individual members might not leave particular imprint on one's mind, if you were actually having sex with, say, the US president, you might take more notice of it. She indicates drawing on the edge of the page. "This sketch here is of Earl Spencer's equipment. Note that I was a young and impressionable girl at this stage of my shagging career and not unconscious of the fact I was engaging in a sex act with a man of a certain level of celebrity. Yet... " she pauses for effect, "... all I can now conjure of the experience is this Linda McCartney sausage." Further speculation ended by realisation that Mr Fagin is fiddling with his flies and offering himself for an on- the-spot portrait. "Erm, party's over, I think, Mr Fagin," says Dylan, gallantly. Biter bares his teeth. Suspect, very unfortunately, party is only just beginning.