jayne and i decide we want some fun. we haven't been out on the town in an age.
round one doesn't get the honour of a photograph. our way was barred from my venue of choice. i wanted to find my inner emmet honeycutt and plant my feet firmly in the present on the dancefloor with the twinkies and drag queens but tonight it's the Goscars and the staff are still setting up for a ticket only event, decked out in wingtip collars and blacktie. we move on.
i'm not willing to conclude that gin makes me morose but an otherwise fashionable alternative venue sends my mood down rather than up. an hour earlier i was hyped up and ready to embrace the night and now i'm feeling decidedly prickly. there are demons in my head and i wish they'd stayed at home. we move on again, this time to more colourful setting, with drinks to match. i came for fun and i'll be damned if i'm not going to get it. i shrug off the past at the door like a too heavy coat and inside our destination is less jammed than i've ever seen it. the credit crunch gives us a good spot at the bar with room for elbows.
round 2. poshmopolitans. i think the name a bit of mouthful but the taste matched. a kick ass combination of citrus vodka with chambord, fresh lime juice, cranberry and orange zest. it's all we can do not to down it in a one-er. holding a martini glass is akin to placing a pile of books on your head. it begs for some poise. so we drink as slowly as we can.
round 3 is an unexpected donation from a man doing a good impression of an id with legs, whose middle name must be lame. sex on the beach, (for us to share, since he is convinced we girls are more than 'close'.) i last drank this in 1991. he returns to his guest for the evening and we get on with having a good time.
round 4. i forego my usual rule of never drinking anything i don't know the ingredients of and we opt for the mystery house mix. one cranberry version. one apple. whatever it was it was vodka based and refreshing, but nothing to write home about. lacking in a certain kick.
we're enjoying the buzz and i'm glad of the buffer it creates when our friend mr id returns. turns out there's no such thing as a free drink after all. he laughs his way through homophobic 'jokes' with our barman, and since 'fairy boys' exist to be ridiculed, but perceived lesbians exist to decorate the pleasure garden of his mind, announces what he wants to do to me right then and there in the bar. it's all i can do not to openly gag on my drink. i pray for a miraculous growth spurt as i'd like to be a foot taller but it doesn't happen. i'm not laughing at him. i'm mentally castrating his tongue. finally he leaves and the barmen congratulate us on putting up with him as long as we did.
we need a round 5. so we repeat round 2 to go with our horrified laughter. wasn't quite the entertainment we'd be expecting, especially here in the Pink Quarter, but no matter.
it's been a long time since i've been out on the tear and while we didn't get to dance, we have a good laugh with our own company. which was exactly the mission. accomplished.