Friday, November 26, 2004

Drinks are free 

Never blog when you’re drunk says Scary. Bollocks says Pom. We’ve just come back from a party at the house of a father of a friend of our son, if that makes sense. It’s a great way to meet people, having kids. You are guaranteed to have something in common, even if it is only bags under the eyes and stains on your carpets. This promised to be a similar occasion to the usual: lots of Mum totty, and lots of like minded blokes to have a beer with. Oh well. We only went across the valley. Five minutes drive, but we arrived in Essex, circa 1989. Wham and Prefab Sprout on the stereo – DJ hired for the evening, and lots of cool guys drinking Jack and Coke. Tight tops and too much jewellery all over the place. And that was just the blokes.

There is a certain element of Cape Town people that is a bit – how shall I put this – Costa del Sol. Normally one mixes in the right sort of circles, but this one was definitely a step in the wrong direction. Tight jeans, baggy tops and stories about Harleys. Whee hee. Maybe it’s me. The only people I felt like taking to were the barman and the guy clearing plates. Yes, barman – also hired for the evening. Catering like a posh meeting. It felt weird not to have a tie to wipe my fingers on. We chatted to the au pair too. What does it say about me that I go to a party at a nice house full of dressed up people, and the only ones I can associate with are the hired help?

Then there’s the boogie. Oh yes. I am truly back in 1989. Maybe earlier. A high school era disco – drinking too much, don’t want to dance, can’t hear the people I’m talking to. Think I’ll have another. Now back home and I can still hear the music. I’m definitely getting old.

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