Allotment last night, courtesy of the National Theatre of Scotland.

An inauspicious beginning. The venue is the Govan Cross shopping centre. I've possibly never been to Govan. Unless maybe to visit a needle exchange. But my hopes did not fly high as we trudged through the dark wet night to find a shabby door with an "ID may be required" sign plastered over it. Although I did not have id with me, tellingly Brian did not think this would cause us problems.

As we queued in the rain, an official looking girl came darting out, spied Joyce McMillan in the queue behind us and spirited her inside. Not sure I agree with this preferential treatment for critics.

We were let in to be greeted by a pack of apparent monks strewn about a chessboard. They held up mobile phone screens with instructions to incomers: move a square to the left, for example. Once they were satisfied (presumably) that you'd adequately completed your task, you were permitted to enter the venue proper.

Which was a big big dark room. Beeline for the bar at the far end via a table tennis table, a giant video game projection onto the floor, basketball players on a projector screen on the wall, a little space invaders console, a table football table, lots of spindly green lasers that looked like wires you shouldn't trip for fear of a trap falling on your head, some crazy green grid taped across a big portion of the floor, a video game unit with a screen on which CCTV footage of us was being relayed, a shop window with two chairs, a tiny table, two Rubiks cubes on it (this later played host to the Rubik's Cube Face Off), board games galore on tiny shelves, noughts and crosses in a grid on the wall and a curtained off area with a girl attendant who advised that Something would happen at 9.

It was amazing.

We took drinks from the bar. You were given a card with each drink which had an instruction or suggestion on the back. Brian's card suggested he should make conversation with a stranger and use the card as an excuse. Mine told me to find Gary and challenge him to a game of silent something.

We played Space Invaders, table tennis (an unbalanced game with Russell and weirdy scarfed fellow on one side and me on t'other. And I'm not that skilled at table tennis), table football, tried noughts and Xs but no chalk.

The curtained area at 9pm yielded up card tables. Each little group got a croupier. Ours was an adorable little girl who bubbled her way through their routine which posited (new favourite word) that sport spectating was only really worthwhile when you watched a match live and felt that your willpower could influence the outcome. Neatly brought to life with a game of higher and lower where the group had to agree which way the cards would go and - miracle of miracles - we guessed right every time. Magic or luck? Not sure. Maybe it doesn't matter.

So Piggy in the Middle (brilliant team name) got straight onto the leaderboard. As everybody else also did, this was a Pyrrhic victory. But it did mean we got to choose from a box of delights containing space invaders and milky way stars as a reward. A master stroke. Russell was immediately won over.

And then more drinking. The face off. More games. Karaoke. The night for me was complete when I happened to catch John Tiffany and Vicky Featherstone's rendition of "Something Inside So Strong". The one-time monks were now pacing about wearing what could have been radio-signalled headsets or could have just looked the part. I asked one who looked like he might be the leader if he might find Gary for me. He perhaps forgot or perhaps didn't care about me fulfilling my task. But I must take back anything spiteful I ever thought about Joyce M as giant hats off to her, she struck up a conversation with our very own Brian in response to her card task. A brush with an almost star. But I think he ruined any prospect that he may have had of finding love (with her) by savagely challenging her about why she never reviewed amateur theatre...

All this to a rather fine soundtrack of electronic music that beautifully was building the night to a crescendo when we darted off to catch the tube.

One final gorgeous detail. When I went to the toilet mid-evening, there was a little card fastened to the cubicle wall: call this number for a good time. Determined that this would be one detail where they hadn't followed right through, I phoned. And got a magic message saying that a good time was largely dependent on luck. But she hoped I was having a lucky Saturday night. If I wasn't, I should try these lottery numbers...

I'm sure they were making some deep philosophical point that I should puzzle and tussle over in the forthcoming week. But I suspect I'll just run round telling everyone instead that I played table tennis and space invaders. Disappointingly shallow as ever.