216 Back in the Plaza bar. Flurries of snow outside, stopped already. I decided I don’t want to go to David Bowie’s Berlin house and next door café ENOUGH. I can no longer be bothered. It is too damn cold. No, it’s snowing again. Wow, hard now. Not sure what to do. I would like to pop back in to King George and/or Caligula but the trouble with flat-rate 100 euros entry f—k all you want brothels is it deters you from ever going in as you might not fancy anyone. I would love to go in, have a look at the talent on offer, have a couple of drinks and then move on, but at King George and Caligula that would set me back 100 euros even to do that (and last time I went to King George I went with girl to room only to have her demanding more money before having sex with me, which seemed to run counter to the whole idea of the place. When I refused she just gave me a handjob and wouldn’t even take her bra off! Scammed!). Better to save that money for Vienna—all those night bars filled with floozies are free to get into, just a beer to pay for. The new black ponytail Yugoslavian receptionist just came through the bar. She is like Princess Mort from Orpheé. On check in, she was checking in someone else, her blouse tight over bosoms and low cut and falling open, and you could always see the top of her cleavage. Quite intoxicating.