SUNDAY 12.01am: "What is evil?" says Dylan. Great. Like we really need to get into some sort of philosophical debate when we're this much off our heads. "Margaret Thatcher is evil," I say, with a bizarre trippy rush off the pills we've all had that makes me think for a moment that she's walking through the club past me. Transpires to be someone's elderly mother, who has got lost looking for toilets. "Excuse me, dear," she says. "I'm a little lost. I came here to see my son who is a deejay of ambient house music, I believe it is called." Think of Mark Thatcher DJing and shake head to dispel image. Woman looking madly about: "Have you seen him?" I shrug. "I should try the DJ booths if I were you," I shout over the music. "There's one on every floor." Mrs T smiles benignly. "What a lovely polite girl you are. Perhaps you would escort me to the one on this floor, only I seem to keep getting so lost and it's so very hot in here." Smile sweetly at her. "Actually," I say. "We were just having a philosophical discussion about good and evil." Mrs T nods, "Yes, terrible that Mary Bell business. She ought to be outed you know. Let the vigilantes deal with her, I say..." Dylan grins as we pass him (decide on reflection that getting rid of her at the DJ booth is best option). "See you've pulled, Emma... "

12.15am: "What did that young man say to you?" Mrs T wants to know. Have to repeat everything six million times because of lethal combination of loud techno (this floor) and deaf old biddy. "He was making a joke," tell her. "Not a very funny one either." Mrs T frowns. "He needs a haircut. You should tell him. Otherwise how will he keep a job?" Try and explain that in Dylan's vocation, personal appearance is not of paramount importance. "Is he a dustman?" asks Mrs T. "No, he deals things," I say. "I always fancied life as an art dealer," she sighs. "My father wouldn't let me go to art college though. He was a grocer, you know. I suppose one can wear anything one likes if one is talented - but one should aim to keep up standards. Have a word with him, won't you?" Say yes I will and look desperately around for DJ booth. "You did say ambient house, didn't you?" I shout in the speed garage room. "Only, I can't seem to find anything that sounds anything like ambient house in the club."

2am: Luckily, just then spot Vikram. "Have you seen the ambient dance room?" shout at him. "Thank God!" shouts Mrs T, clutching at Vikram's arm. "A waiter! Be a dear boy and get me a glass of water... " Vikram looks amused. "Sorry!" he exclaims, "but I don't speak any English thank you." Mrs T is horrified. "Why do they bother to come and live in this country if they won't learn the language?" Try telling her he's got First in English Language and Literature, but she won't listen. Want to just dump her there in the middle of dance floor but she is v. old and what if she collapses from dehydration and exhaustion...

2.10am: Am dragging her towards bar where can get her bottle of Evian and leave her to sort herself out when hear gentle strains of ambient house coming from next floor up. "Come on!" I tell her. Drag her upstairs where, bizarrely, several sheiks are sipping Evian in air-conditioned luxury. Push past sign saying "Private Party". An easily recognisable Mark Thatcher in beige suit is leaning against door with a sozzled older man. "Margaret!" he exclaims. "Where on earth have you been! The security men are looking everywhere for you!" "You silly old fool!" she hisses, suddenly. "How could you leave me like that! It is Babylon down there. Young people on drugs, men kissing each other, Pakistanis, terrible loud music as if Armageddon were approaching! And as for you... " she turns to me, nastily. "Who in God's name are you!" I look at her. "But, we're your children," I tell her. "You created us. We're all Thatcher's children."