the weekend began...and ended
The heartfelt counsel of a friend is as sweet as perfume and incense. (Proverbs 27:9)
At 9.23pm (I had just looked at the time on my phone) the song came on and it closed the elipses of the weekend's beginning. A few hours before I had gone to a play with my London-shy friend(s) for her birthday. It was hilarious, which is always a good start to an evening. We ate at a plush restaurant, one of those places where if you haven't already clocked the veg is under "side dishes" you're severely disappointed at what eleven quid bought you, and the waitresses sneer at yet another order of three jugs of cocktails. If you were next to a table of girls singing along with the guy on the piano (Easy Like Sunday Morning, if you weren't) I do apologise.
A little while later we found ourselves in Covent Garden and people started to talk of outside bars and chilled atmospheres. I know the birthday girl too fucking well to let the night slide into respectability so I dragged them (my ho's to the bouncers) into the Roadhouse. She loved it. Heck, we all loved it. And at 9.23pm I Can't Wait for the Weekend to Begin came on.
At one point in the night, when I Don't Feel Like Dancing was playing, her little sister leaned in to drunkenly tell me "You're the best dancer!" I stopped doing the Charleston and stared back at her bemused.
"But I take the fucking piss!" I scoff.
"I know," she says. "But you look so good doing it."
Big grin!
As we walked out of the club/dive one of the girls remarked, "I love going out with just the girls!" We all agreed and carried on walking. I started thinking of course and over-analysing the situation. The night had been about my friend whose birthday it was. There were some cute guys in the vicinity but they were wallpaper to the showpiece of a night spent talking, laughing and dancing. These are the nights that empower: when in your unselfconscious rhythmic swaying you catch the gaze of someone you not only like and are comfortable with, but who is not appraising you and are not themselves being appraised. Oh, unless you're taking the piss in a stylish way...
The whole weekend was wonderful. I stayed with a friend on Friday night and enjoyed cigarettes, wine and conversation. One of those evenings/nights/birdsong at dawns that give you a lot to think about, from the superficial or trivial to matters far more significant.
Perhaps I do think too much, but I'm inspired by so much I hear and see (shades of my father) and more often the people I meet. It could be the attitude someone takes to their workplace or the intensity with which they communicate - both verbally and non - their passion for a subject I care nothing for, or their verbal tics and facial scars. I think I collect people. Does that make sense? Not in the manner of getting contact details and making new friends with every new acquaintance, far from it. I remember those I meet and what interests/fascinates/appalls me about them. Friends are different because they become more than a categorisation of their parts, but there is still a part of me that says: "That! And that!" These things, these are what I want to pin down and display in a glass-fronted case that may one day be donated to the Royal Sociological Society for public exhibition.
So didn't sleep with anyone this weekend. Did not kiss anyone. Flirted only from afar (cheeky wave to the piano player, cheeky wink flew back) and all this with the equivalent of 2 jugs of cocktails in the system. On some level knowing that I had this blog to write on Sunday was a guiding force. Feeling pretty good about myself helped too. Now I desperately need some sleep.
At 9.23pm (I had just looked at the time on my phone) the song came on and it closed the elipses of the weekend's beginning. A few hours before I had gone to a play with my London-shy friend(s) for her birthday. It was hilarious, which is always a good start to an evening. We ate at a plush restaurant, one of those places where if you haven't already clocked the veg is under "side dishes" you're severely disappointed at what eleven quid bought you, and the waitresses sneer at yet another order of three jugs of cocktails. If you were next to a table of girls singing along with the guy on the piano (Easy Like Sunday Morning, if you weren't) I do apologise.
A little while later we found ourselves in Covent Garden and people started to talk of outside bars and chilled atmospheres. I know the birthday girl too fucking well to let the night slide into respectability so I dragged them (my ho's to the bouncers) into the Roadhouse. She loved it. Heck, we all loved it. And at 9.23pm I Can't Wait for the Weekend to Begin came on.
At one point in the night, when I Don't Feel Like Dancing was playing, her little sister leaned in to drunkenly tell me "You're the best dancer!" I stopped doing the Charleston and stared back at her bemused.
"But I take the fucking piss!" I scoff.
"I know," she says. "But you look so good doing it."
Big grin!
As we walked out of the club/dive one of the girls remarked, "I love going out with just the girls!" We all agreed and carried on walking. I started thinking of course and over-analysing the situation. The night had been about my friend whose birthday it was. There were some cute guys in the vicinity but they were wallpaper to the showpiece of a night spent talking, laughing and dancing. These are the nights that empower: when in your unselfconscious rhythmic swaying you catch the gaze of someone you not only like and are comfortable with, but who is not appraising you and are not themselves being appraised. Oh, unless you're taking the piss in a stylish way...
The whole weekend was wonderful. I stayed with a friend on Friday night and enjoyed cigarettes, wine and conversation. One of those evenings/nights/birdsong at dawns that give you a lot to think about, from the superficial or trivial to matters far more significant.
Perhaps I do think too much, but I'm inspired by so much I hear and see (shades of my father) and more often the people I meet. It could be the attitude someone takes to their workplace or the intensity with which they communicate - both verbally and non - their passion for a subject I care nothing for, or their verbal tics and facial scars. I think I collect people. Does that make sense? Not in the manner of getting contact details and making new friends with every new acquaintance, far from it. I remember those I meet and what interests/fascinates/appalls me about them. Friends are different because they become more than a categorisation of their parts, but there is still a part of me that says: "That! And that!" These things, these are what I want to pin down and display in a glass-fronted case that may one day be donated to the Royal Sociological Society for public exhibition.
So didn't sleep with anyone this weekend. Did not kiss anyone. Flirted only from afar (cheeky wave to the piano player, cheeky wink flew back) and all this with the equivalent of 2 jugs of cocktails in the system. On some level knowing that I had this blog to write on Sunday was a guiding force. Feeling pretty good about myself helped too. Now I desperately need some sleep.
posted by from sychar to eternity at 23:34
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