Listening to: When the world comes down - The All American Rejects, Super Taranta! - Gogol Bordello, The Resistance - Muse, De-Lovely Soundtrack, UC Berkely Helene Cixious lecture
Eating: Lindor chocolate, Pariya Pashmak persian fairy floss, Baskin & Robbins cotton candy ice cream, Chicken parmigiana, Mcdonalds.
Drinking: Moon Valley Merlot, shifty Kamikazes from Establishment, Lipton Red Iced Tea, diet coke
Watching: How I met your mother season 1, The big bang theory season 3, Green Street Hooligans
Reading: A study in scarlet by Arthur Conan Doyle, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, the latest Rolling Stone magazine
I am home for what feels like a mere few seconds before I am whisked off again on the high school revival tour that seems to be my social life at the moment. I say that, but this is actually a thousand times better than any high school revival tour as it is happily devoid of high school people other than my two compadres, Em and Roze. It just seemed like a fitting way to describe the amount of time we're spending together. Mostly this involves two of us cajoling and annoying another into doing something they really don't want to do, for example Em and I getting R out clubbing last night through our sheer refusal to take no for an answer, and my being dragged off to arts and crafts at Em's in...oh an hour.
The weekend only truly began after I beat a hasty retreat from work, which was so mind-numbingly boring it is enough to drive you to tears. It was a vengeful 41 degrees and the kind of heat that feels as if someone is following you around with a giant hairdryer, so of course M and I decided that going to the fashion markets at Kirribilli was a brilliant idea. We promptly melted, and I am typing this message as a grotesque molten wax statue that was scraped off the pavement and stuffed in a freezer to reset. Not a total loss though, M did acquire some fashionable fashionables and I got a rasberry squishee/slurpee/whatever-you-call-them-wherever-you-are. Since this was the north shore we proceeded to disturb the staff of a fancy cafe by ordering a side of chips and a waffle. I must stress the 'a' preceding that 'waffle', since it truly was only one teeny waffle. And it was delicious.
Our amazing luck with securing air-conditioned trains continued, and I dropped Em home only to return two hours later now clad in the shortest dress I have ever possibly worn in my life - Miss R got it for me on her travels and as I hardly ever go clubbing and have no real idea what people even wear to clubs, I figured I might as well give it its first outing. R had by this point already tried to convince us to go without her, but heated messages were sent and ignored on both parts, and Em and I showed up at her door with dinner in one hand and the unapologetic resolve to drag her out if we had to in the other. She gave in of course, we always do - can you say peer pressure?
The sad part of it is that not one of us actually really wanted to go, but as promises had already been given and we were expected, we ushered ourselves off to the city sometime around 9 in order to meet up with others. The Establishment is not really what I would call a club, but whatever it actually is, it's got great decor. Most of my evening was however spent lamenting the fact that the bartender had no idea what a kamikaze was, and observing the other patrons in much the same way as Mr. Devine watches reality tv - "with the same keen enthusiasm and wide-eyed interest that Charles Darwin must’ve felt, having first discovered the swimming Iguanas of the Galapagos Islands in 1831. '…A new sub-species! How fascinating! How bizarre!'"
My dubious research into metrosexual clones and the pout-drink-photo habits of my peers were interrupted when it was decided to go locate the reason we were there in the first place, something I excelled at thanks to the fact that in my heels I was taller than virtually everyone there and could scan the crowd like an animated periscope. The height, while handy, is kind of awkward when you're standing against the DJ booth having a conversation and not dancing. Oh, that reminds me, we were promised there would be 80s music. There wasn't - unless I missed the part where someone time-travelled back and introduced Ciara, Timbaland, the Pussycat Dolls and Justin Timberlake to the decade. Now I don't mind r'n'b in a club, but I do mind false advertising, so to avoid future misunderstandings I must point out that playing one 80s song every hour does not equate to "80s night".
After what we thought to be a respectable amount of time had passed, the three of us executed a tactical retreat (much to others' surprise at it being too early which we responded to with blank stares and barely stifled yawns) and declared - yet again - to wash our hands of this clubbing thing. Despite our best efforts, we cannot help but come to the conclusion that we are not cut out for it. For one thing, we fail to see a point, for another clubs only really warm up when we're ready to go home. On the other hand, we will happily sit in a pub or a cocktail bar all night without any complaints whatsoever. So I think we know our niche. Still, we went out, we laughed, we put in an appearance, and so I declare it a successful evening.
During the course of this evening, my resistance to arts and crafts activities (possibly baking?) at M's place was slowly ground down by promises of a late starting time, and lifts there and back. It was all R's idea actually, so I suppose both M and I have been talked into it...and after what we did with the clubbing, there was no doubt some dialogue of obligation running through our heads. Hm. Still, if anyone *cough* Roze *cough* gets so much as glue, glitter, or paint on me, there will be blood. You don't understand, I spent four years in art class with this girl and though I scarpered as soon as she so much as looked at paint, I still ended up with it on my hands/hair/uniform. I'd be on the opposite side of the room, and she'd get it on me. The stuff's attracted to her and she just cannot seem to control it. It's insane. She is like a superhero who has just discovered her powers and is yet to master it, so it causes all sorts of mayhem and destruction around the place. She's Peter Petrelli about to go nuclear at the end of the first season of Heroes. It is a long standing point of contention between us, so I want it understood what a huge personal sacrifice the agreement to this afternoon's activities is.
Now, as I look for a pair of socks that doesn't have holes, wriggle into my skinny jeans and resolutely refuse to apply a scrap of make-up, I bid thee adieu.
Music: Start wearing purple - Gogol Bordello
Mood: Mischievous
No comments:
Post a Comment