Saturday, 4 August 2012


In my circle of friends, or any circle of friends for that matter, there's one that seems to … disappear. They come, they're fickle, they put their left leg in, they put their right leg out, flutter round the venue acquiring new bosom buddies, littering their night with flirting, loosening their tongue and losing the ability to control their emotions.

That friend is me. I admit it.

On reflection, I can see how vexatious this standing must be for my cronies, but, call me egocentric, I cannot help it.

Take last night for example. Libation and snacks kicked off around 4pm at work, I hop on public transport around 7 to meet a dear friend of mine in a local joint. We chitter chatter for an hour til I see the girl who washes my mane, I invite her to join us, I'm just nice like that. She brings her strange chum who I can only descirbe as an annorak. The most thrilling sentence in his stream of gab included his supporting of gypsies and paying in cash rather than credit. Interminable.

My eye is caught. I see someone who I vagualy know, but names or any details escape me. Sane members of society would leave it at that, wake up the following day in a lightbulb moment and think 'AH, that's who it was'. Not I. I stroll over, interrogate him as to how I know him and after what seems a frustating exchange, my Eureka moment came. He was holidaying in the same resort as I a mere 5 years ago. Not only that, but my best-bud had a hol-romance with him, that old chesnut.

Where is my dear friend in all of this? Sat with wash and anorak, I cleverly combine both parties to make an awkward assembly. Another bottle of wine comes and the evening takes a queer turn, I'm sat surrounded by a troupe of mis-matched proportions: a Greek Othadox priest, russian waitress, insurance broker, a dentist who converted to Greek Orthadox 15 years ago (bought yours truly a drink), all who drank, smoked and were seeminly normal. 

I found myself deep in conversation* with the priest who I decide to tell all my problems to – from my absent father, to my decision whether to study for more qualifications. I'm travelling down to crazy town making like road runner. I'm offending people with my narrow minded, parsimonious opinions.

Crocodile tears fuelled by liquor ensure. Coyote got me.

If my blonde-bombshell casts her eye of this, I apologise. I may get a set of reins like I had at the height of toddler chic. Smooch central.

Note, one drink is never one drink. It's a cyclonic episode of catastropic proportions that will form yet another story for a female who already has too many unfabricated absurd incidents in her catalogue.

*incoherrant babble

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