Carrie and I had the
standard wardrobe dilemmas… “What to wear?” “Does this look okay?” “Can I wear
this and that together, or is it just weird?”
- All those hundreds of questions that make men cower in the corner and
break into a sweat. Women are quite good at answering them, quickly and
efficiently but in the process of trying on multiple combinations.
We left the boudoir
after additional glasses of wine and got aboard the good old London bus to from
Balham to Clapham Common (apparently there are no direct buses from Balham to
Clapham Junction – how utterly ridiculous). We joined our superb group of
friends, at Chez Gray. It was an equally lovely boudoir where we proceeded to
consume more beverages to eliminate the stresses on the purse later. It all got
a little rowdy, and as was to be expected the conversation tone lowered
significantly. It’s what happens amongst friends, sadly. Even the educated
amongst us (the entire group) joined in…
Before it got worse,
we vacated the flat and navigated to the first pub.
I don’t know where it
was or what it was called, but it was a very small pub, with a wedding out the
back. There was a group playing monopoly. I, the token monoply loser, advised a
fellow loser from this random group of strangers how to win – monopolise the
board and bankrupt your friends. When you win a single game of monopoly, it
seems you are granted the divine right of passing along the knowledge. I have
in all the years I have played this very British boardgame, won once. But the
power to share my knowledge had still been gifted. The board was packed up
shortly after so I don’t believe my new companion was given a fair shot… but he
knows for next time.
Somebody bought
crisps. I don’t know who. But they arrived at our table. They’re tempting at
the best of times, but even more so when you’ve given them up for forty days
and forty nights, for no other reason than to see if you have the willpower. So
far so good and I didn’t even succumb to the temptation when inebriated. It
seems I’m made of stronger stuff than I give myself credit for.
Then again, maybe not.
By the second pub I’d briefly
become the tearful drunk girl. Oh the shame. I swore never to be her. Carrie
bought another drink for me. And then it was fine. I jumped back on the band
wagon and wholly embarrassed myself with some atrocious dance moves.
I can’t really elaborate
on the night, since I don’t remember huge amounts of it. I do remember the
almost punch up I had in Macdonalds with the moronic cashier.
Please note, he was
not a moron because he worked for this fast food chain, I think he was a well-developed
moron long before he found his job.
I had ordered a
chicken nugget happy meal (the rationale being that there is less food therefore
it’s better for you) and an impromptu portion of onion rings. Twenty minutes
later, I was still stood there. It might not have been twenty exactly since all
perspective of time disappears with alcohol, but it was longer than was
acceptable for fast food.
He handed me my food
but instead of the onion rings, I had a quarter pound of ‘meat’ sandwiched in a
bun (bread that I can’t eat thank you very much). I calmly explained that I had
in fact ordered onion rings, but it was so noisy I don’t think he could hear
me. So I proclaimed a little louder … “ I’m sorry, I ordered ONION RINGS!”
But I couldn’t be
bothered to be persistent and strain my vocal chords over a burger. So I
relented and skulked off to the table to join the team. They shared the burger
between them and I looked woefully at my golden nuggets of chicken and suddenly
didn’t fancy them anymore. I don’t think I wanted them in the first place;
since that ‘restaurant’ makes me feel a little gross when sober.
Next to us was a party
of chimps.
I use that phrase in
its truest sense.
 |
| The aftermath of three drunken, hungry men. |
Although only the
remnants of a feast remained, I couldn’t get over how much food three young (heavily
intoxicated) men could eat. It had to be documented, but I got my little camera
out too late and was unable to press the buttons quick enough. All that was
left was a Macdonald’s carcass.
The night bus.
Such a wonderfully
bizarre experience where you meet all manner of people. Some quietly minding
their own business, others out to make as much noise as possible. I’d like to
think I was comfortably in the middle, but I think perhaps it would be the
latter… sadly.
We made it back to
Carrie’s boudoir, threw everything from the bed to floor, clambered in and
passed out. I didn’t even drink my obligatory three pints of orange squash (a
preventative hangover cure if ever I saw one…).
We woke Sunday morning and Carrie refused to deliver her now iconic phrase, “I think something died in my mouth…” So I said it for her. I felt pretty disgusting (nothing that a shower and coffee wouldn’t sort) but generally just tired. The ninja hangover caught up with me on the train home. Git.
Luckily, we’d had coffee, or a mocha – there was a whole mix up with the caffeine based hot drinks and something to eat at The Nightingale Café, 193 Balham High Road. It was on the wrong side of the road to sit in the sun but it was pleasant enough. Great spot for people watching. And also marvelous cakes and pastries. I could have sat there all day… well until I got cold and fell asleep at the table.
Roll on some more
sunshine this weekend please, just don’t expect my little milk bottles to be
making an appearance any time soon…But I will be reappearing in London town.
More adventures to follow.
