The shitty week begins...
The shitty week begins.
So life goes on huh? I guess it does. Not content with having to work on Sunday, today I seem to be unnaturally anxious about my job, my life, my relationship, and increasingly, my sanity.
After a lovely afternoon where we had a couple of drinks at the absolut ice bar (yes, complete with thermal ponchos, mittens and glasses made of frozen water in which a caccophony of crisp cocktails spat and sizzled) and a brief dance along the masala mile that had transformed Regents street, we found ourselves yet again languishing beer in hand outside the sticky windows of Rupert Street in Soho.
My natural instinct in these situations is to be completely obsessed by the passing trade, after drinking a skinful, talking and gesticulating wildly to anyone and everyone who will listen, about a myriad of topics that generally revolve around me. I think this instinct comes from years of drunken laneway recovery parties in Sydney, with the divine Miss H by my side, conducting vox pops and stealing peoples party whistles and glow sticks, covertly disposing of them in the name of all things good and decent. There should be a safety warning in all bars and clubs around the world regarding serving me beer.
So back to yesterday, and on this particularly heady afternoon full of beer, yumcha and vodka, I launched myself upon the unsuspecting crowd of like minded Sunday revellers hovering expectantly like hungry bees around the open doors of the soho honeypots.
What I didn't expect was to run into a lovely couple whom we had befriended over a year ago in Montreal whilst attending the cities gay pride parade. We had spent many fun hours with these lovely boys in various bars around Montreal during our two week holiday there, and seeing them on the street in London was such a treat, even though it felt like no time had passed at all.
'Right' says me 'I think it was my shout' ....
I so wish this morning was as delightful.
Awakened to the tickles and purrs of the little Mrs Pussy Tummycurtins, After the busiest sleep imaginable, my lateness in getting out the door was soon after rewarded by a hideously crowded tube where in a last ditch attempt to jump between carriages to get a seat, I found myself quite embarrassingly tripping over the threshold onto the platforms as the doors slammed shut and the train breezed off without me on it. I swear someone laughed and waved to me too. Bitch.
So life goes on huh? I guess it does. Not content with having to work on Sunday, today I seem to be unnaturally anxious about my job, my life, my relationship, and increasingly, my sanity.
After a lovely afternoon where we had a couple of drinks at the absolut ice bar (yes, complete with thermal ponchos, mittens and glasses made of frozen water in which a caccophony of crisp cocktails spat and sizzled) and a brief dance along the masala mile that had transformed Regents street, we found ourselves yet again languishing beer in hand outside the sticky windows of Rupert Street in Soho.
My natural instinct in these situations is to be completely obsessed by the passing trade, after drinking a skinful, talking and gesticulating wildly to anyone and everyone who will listen, about a myriad of topics that generally revolve around me. I think this instinct comes from years of drunken laneway recovery parties in Sydney, with the divine Miss H by my side, conducting vox pops and stealing peoples party whistles and glow sticks, covertly disposing of them in the name of all things good and decent. There should be a safety warning in all bars and clubs around the world regarding serving me beer.
So back to yesterday, and on this particularly heady afternoon full of beer, yumcha and vodka, I launched myself upon the unsuspecting crowd of like minded Sunday revellers hovering expectantly like hungry bees around the open doors of the soho honeypots.
What I didn't expect was to run into a lovely couple whom we had befriended over a year ago in Montreal whilst attending the cities gay pride parade. We had spent many fun hours with these lovely boys in various bars around Montreal during our two week holiday there, and seeing them on the street in London was such a treat, even though it felt like no time had passed at all.
'Right' says me 'I think it was my shout' ....
I so wish this morning was as delightful.
Awakened to the tickles and purrs of the little Mrs Pussy Tummycurtins, After the busiest sleep imaginable, my lateness in getting out the door was soon after rewarded by a hideously crowded tube where in a last ditch attempt to jump between carriages to get a seat, I found myself quite embarrassingly tripping over the threshold onto the platforms as the doors slammed shut and the train breezed off without me on it. I swear someone laughed and waved to me too. Bitch.
Labels: About town, Whinging
posted by Eddie Knittster at 7:19 am
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