I'd scarfed down the bacon-cheeseburger and the dive-bar-stiff Jack-and-cokes and now I was pounding the pavements of Adams Morgan trying to make it back to the hotel room in time. It was the first night warm enough to sit outside and eat, and on either side of road lazy sun-addled punters glanced up at us curiously as we sprinted past them, hands clutching our sides.
Now I'm betting that Paula Radcliffe doesn't load up in Maccy D's before a big race. But what we lacked in style, skill and tactics we definitely made up for in determination. It was 8.45 Friday night. If we got back up to our fraying Pop Art room in the next fifteen minutes we'd get to watch the next installment of Josh Whedon's trash-fest on a fuck-off big screen. Having made do with Hulu and a dodgy internet connection ("Wait! It needs to buffer. Again") for the last three months, it felt like a bloody red letter day.
We stopped for nothing. Except liquor stores. Every time we passed one we desperately scoured the shelves for screw-top bargains. The minutes were ticking by. My stitch was getting worse. Chris started singing "nhah nhah nhah naaaa naa, nhah na na naaaaaa" to keep our spirits up.
With over a minute to go, and a bottle of overpriced Californian Syrah stowed in my volumunous handbag, we made it back to the hotel. I drummed on the faux snakeskin walls of the lift as it climbed teasingly slowly to the fifth floor. Finally we were back in the room.
"Turn on the main lights. I need to find the remote."
"There are no main lights."
"Sod it, I've found it. What channel again?"
"Can't be Fox. It's Prison Break."
"What'll we do?"
"You flick through the others. I'll look it up on the internet."
"Shit! It'll be starting..."
Turns out that Dollhouse was taking a break that week. Our epic dash had been in vain. Instead we spent our Friday night in Washington DC watching a film about kids watching bands in Brooklyn and the Lower East Side.
"We really should see more live music."
I nodded placidly, and took another slug of the Syrah.