I have just surfaced from one of the better weekends of my tiny life. A weekend where not much really happened but has left me grinning inanely at random moments (in the car, when I wake up, showering) and feeling really darned good.
Friday: I thought my soul was going to be destroyed before I hit the street. Slowly but surely being ground down by the usual suspects- the public, mangement and bureaucracy. Disassociating wth a smile to survive. For the preceding week I had been discussing the evening, talking up the possibilities with work colleagues. Debauchery was promised so when I rolled up at the agreed meeting point, accessoried with pirate hat, eye patch and my gorgeous over-the-knee boots (aaargh), I was a little disappointed to see a rather sedate scene. No room at the table for this birthday girl (one of three attending) but free champagne courtesy of a lovely Parisian and the arrival of my second-favourite-manwhore. Owen is, of course, my alpha male on that front. It was good to see my manwhore#2. He’s morally flexible on sexual matters and a good person. Flexible surrounded by a good moral framework and a brain to boot. Hoorah. After being attention starved for so very long, it was nice to talk and flirt the evening away through our usual subjects of sex, death and wrestling.
Leaving after an enjoyable, somewhat stilted conversation with the Monster, me and MH#2 proceeded to a nicely skanky biker/rawk pub. I was complemented by a co-worker on my nice even teeth and took a celebratory trip into the mens toilets for a comfort stop. I thought there was only one. I swear. Two drinks, several sets of breasts and many noisy metal tracks later, on to the final resting place of practically every evening in my provincial haven.
My piratical accessories had been popular wherever I went, but in the final bar I was extra popular. There was I- alone, defenseless, holding two drinks. MH#2 had gone to fire the pink pistol at the porcelain firing range. An object of mutual admiration had been a retro-tressed platinum blonde with a full sleeve of tats and a nice rack. Heh. Anyway, she spied me avec hat and plundered (borrowed) it whilst her crusty girlfriend modelled my eyepatch. There is no other word to describe her other than crusty. She was. Anyways, Lori (as she introduced herself) told me I looked gorgeous in my getup. I praised her lovely red lipstick to which she replied “let me know honey and we can go upstairs and i can put some on you.” Oooh. I said thanks, and that i’d be outside. Then everything happened at once. I was attempting to retrieve my hat and patch, holding the drinks, having poppers shoved up my nose by the lesbians and MH#2 reappeared.
I managed to get out a “hello, MH#2” as my head spun and I lurched sideways. Drinks beginning to slosh onto the floor, I was very glad to see him. Much excitement. I spent the rest of the night drinking, chatting and getting my belly button teased. No, that is not any sort of euphemism. But was disturbingly erotic. *shivers*
After fighting my way onto the night bus (trying to pay using gold doubloons) and being complimented by the driver “you look really good” (que hysterical laughter); I wandered through the deserted streets of suburbia to my nice warm nest to spill some pizza. You can do such a thing. I’m experienced.
Saturday: Woke to not too cotton-stuffed a head. Was stood up by a Young Professional but saved by a long time, long time no see friend. We talked, we drank, and it were proper fabulous. An evening of good, brain-taxing, dumbed down, intimate discussion that left me feeling happy, but also like a complete fool that I do not look up said friend more often. Just felt really good to see him, see how he was getting on, and talk about the texture of prostates. Woo.
A great weekend. Best i’ve had in a long, long time.
How’s this for a programme title: The Day My Boobs Went Bust. Classic.