Though it's not technically my birthday till tomorrow I have had already had two birthday nights out. Thurs involved Amaretto, gin, saki, tequila, cocktails and more tequila , as well as eating our weight in dim sum and sushi at Inshoku (with some of the boozing at Bar Cuba) at Lower Marsh with stickette, minusbat, godgirl, davywavy, Northernbint and Gavalu. The presence of the strangely lugubrious Davy made me a little edgy, but even though at one point I told Godgirl to stop whingeing she didn't actually assault me with her chopsticks. Which is quite surprising given her reputation for violence.
I did however have a little bit too much tequila and disgrace myself by taking my tights and knickers off in the lift, apparently so that I could go to the lavatory quicker when I got in.
Then woke with a hangover and went to Colchester, where I grew up, with Stickette. This was very strange indeed and I'm still mulling over how it made me feel. I'll probably post something morbid about it at a later stage...
Saturday Stickette and went all the way back to Lower Marsh (i.e a ten minute walk from chez Rosa) where I acquired a shiny new pvc top and Stick a noisy new rubber skirt at Honour, some very fine chalcedony jewellery which the Stickish one kindly bought me, and a fities' net skirt and gorgeous thirties' black jacket with an astrakhan and dodgy white fur collar from the marvellous Radio Days. This would have been fine had it not been for the fact that the guy in the store was like Ainsley Harriot on E and would not stop small-talking to us, to the extent that I actually started growling at one point.
Having pre-birthday blues I failed to organise anything for Saturday, so it was just me, Gav, Stick and my friend Stevie Fridge heading into Soho for a fantastic Chinese banquet at the Golden Dragon in Chinatown. Damn fine food, especially the seafood elements of the menu, washed down with three bottles of fragrant French Gewurztraminer. Now the original plan was to head to Club Bohemia at Kings Cross but this just didn't happen. We ended up in a place in Soho called the Sugar Reef which I would not recommend, not least because of the quantity of lechie and vile Asian men, some of whom got thrown out for harrassing me (expect a rant on this later), the crappy PA and the suburban pub-with-pretensions-decor. We eventually sought sanctuary in the good old Shadow Lounge which was full of polite gay men and has a star-studded ceiling and a proper sound system.
I used to be a member there and some of the staff remember me (I'm female, speak French and tip well) so to celebrate my sudden re-appearance after a long absence the bar manager gave me a bottle of champers for my birthday. The best thing about this was that he was going to give me a bottle of Bolly, till the one of the barmen hissed 'she NEVER has Bollinger, she always has La Veuve Clicquot'. So Veuve Clicquot it was. The fact that I always had the Veuve is another reason why I will end up in a pauper's grave. The champagne was the Final Straw and led to me snogging Stevie. On the podium, no less.
The highlight of the evening was Stickette's rubber skirt and the look of sheer panic on her face every time she had to go to the lavatory in it. I fully expected her to get trapped in the bog with it concertinaed round her waist like a deflated tyre. It was almost worth getting a camera phone for, except that if I had a camera phone I know I would get drunk and end up in a nightclub toilet sending my boss a photo of my genitals. Or someone else's...