I have a friend who is tied to the code of the A.F.N, or "All F***ing Night". The principle is simple: he will receive a message stating a place, followed by those three portentous letters. He must then make his way to the specified endroite by as close as possible to noon on the next day; there follows twelve hours of drinking. Yesterday, he jumped ship mid-afternoon, and headed from Cambridge to, I think, Camden. I have yet to hear from him.
I, likewise, seem to be honour bound. I must drop everything when one of my friends (and the only people for me are the mad ones, quoth Kerouac) sends me one simple word: "swim?". So it is that at quarter to seven on a warm but distinctly overcast evening in early May I am heading to meet Blackbenz, Blair and Braude, to submerge myself in the Granta.
It is a Sunday, afterall. What better time for worship?
Aqua Vitae. Uisce Beathe.