La Fievre du Samedi Soir

Saturday night. Choices, choices, choices. A Client dinner. An even more dull dinner with a bunch of journalists. An even duller event with a bunch of parliamentarians. I'd prefer to sit home figuring out the jazz for tomorrow's show (which now starts at 8pm cutting right into cocktail hour - far be it for a radio executive in Karachi to figure that out!). But then that would make me middle aged, wouldn't it ? After, all old men in cardigans ("cardies") sit around in velvet shuffle slippers sipping cocoa listening to jazz on saturday evenings. Given the enviable stereotype, I shall defy definition and bore myself silly by going to all three dinners. It is at times like this that I wish I were a cokehead.