Gin, Amanda and I are snuggled in a hangover nest of duvets, tea, and biscuits in Amanda's king-size bed. Three sausage sandwiches have been eaten and the plates dispatched back to the kitchen.
We are watching episodes from series one of Angel this morning. Since none of us feel like getting up, or indeed doing anything, it's good there are at least four more series to go.
"I'm bored of Joss Whedon. Can't we watch My So-Called Life?" asks Gin.
She asks this every time we watch either Buffy or Angel. At this stage, I think it's more of a token protest than a real request, a quick reminder to me and Amanda that Gin likes to think of herself as the "normal", non-geeky member of our trio. The Peter to our Egon and Ray, if you like, although of course one must remember that normal is relative and no-one could say Peter Venkman was exactly socially acceptable. How normal hanging around with Amanda and me makes Gin is open to debate.
It occurs to me that I have just made a comparison which entirely confirms Gin's opinion of me as a geek.
"No," I say.
"No," says Amanda. "We can watch My So-Called Life when we stay at your place. This is my place."
Gin settles down to watch Angel. She eats the last Jaffa cake. Her hair is sticking up in corkscrew tufts which she would doubtless hate if she knew they were there. The truth is they look cute. I imagine this is something several of Gin's boyfriends have thought over the years first thing in the morning and not one of them has dared say it.
Gin thinks she's Peter; but in fact she's Ray. Sweet, sunshiny, unworldly. An innocent abroad, sometimes shocked by the world but never bitter. Amanda is our Peter, our fast-talking, wheeler-dealing unscrupulous blagger. Amanda would, quite definitely, try to get someone in bed by pretending to discover their psychic powers.
Who does that leave me? Egon. Oh yeah, that works.
I've always loved that scene where Annie Potts is trying to flirt with Egon and he is utterly oblivious. I do recognise that I am, indeed, the kind of person who would say "I collect spores, moulds and fungus," when a man I don't realise is trying to chat me up asks what I do in my spare time.
Gin is wearing stripy pyjamas. Amanda is wearing her gold and black Adidas Firebird tracksuit. I'm wearing a Keith Richards t-shirt and a pair of red shorts.
Gin is thinking hard about something. We watch Angel decapitate a large ugly demon.
"So," she says finally, "this whole thing where he turns evil when he experiences a moment of perfect happiness, that's an orgasm, right? So does that mean he can't even have a wank? No wonder he's so angry all the time."
Amanda says, authoritatively: "I think that he could only have that moment with Buffy, because he loved her, right? Anyone else, it's going to be like, this is great but you aren't Buffy, so it's not perfect happiness."
"So he could, in fact, screw anyone in LA," I say.
"He's a bit like you," says Gin, looking at me.
"What's that meant to mean?"
"He's so busy brooding over the past he doesn't notice what's right under his nose."
"I would," Amanda says, picking another dark chocolate digestive out of the packet. She has perfectly manicured lavender fingernails.
"Who was that guy last night?" Gin says. "The dark-haired guy from your work? The beautiful dark-haired guy from your work who has a crush on you?"
Oh shit. Yes. Martin expressed an interest in coming to see the band, so I got a ticket for him as well. I should have known this would lead to excitement and expectation.
"He doesn't have a crush on me."
"How old are you, Gin?" I ask.
"Let's see," Amanda says. "Item: teenage drama series. Item: sleepover. Item: talking about boys with crushes. I think we are all...oooh....about 14? Maybe?"
"This is fucking sad," I say. "We're all on the downhill slope to 40. Don't you guys ever worry we should be, I don't know, married? Or at a yoga class? Achieving generally?"
"Meh," says Amanda. "Maybe it's sad you can't just enjoy yourself without worrying about your age and what other people think of you. You want yoga, you go get yoga. I'm staying here and watching TV."
"I've known Martin for nearly three years," I say. "I think he would have done something about it by now. Men and women can be friends, you know."
"Look, I'm just calling it like I see it," Gin says.
We lean back against the cushions and watch the show. I am annoyed with Gin for putting this idea into my head. I would much rather Martin was my friend, was someone I could think of as a friend, and now he is a threat because that is how I think of it when people say someone's attracted to me.