Night On the Town
It's approaching ten and I'm getting antsy. There are a lot of plans, but they're all hovering, flittering around like fireflies, fairies refusing to be locked down.
But then comes the text, and I'm off, taking a bus up through London, north towards Picadilly, Soho, and beyond. By the time I arrive at Charing Cross Road a half hour later, I push my way through the sea of inebriated detritus. It's quite a shock for a New Yorker (I'm from London, but living in Gotham makes me a New Yorker) to see so many drunks at the early hour of ten-thirty, save for special days such as St. Patty's or July Fourth.
I make my way to meet my friend Caitlin, who just recently moved here from New York. Her American/Irish name is intially invariably misheard/mispronounced by all in the UK ("Please to meet you, Catherine" being the most usual butchering).
We saunter off together to wonderful bunch of gay friends of hers, and they ply us with good chat and good drinks as I unwind from the travelling and bustling of the week. But after an hour and a half or so, an interesting conversation about fisting later (I maintained that it wasn't strictly a gay thing, obviously) we must leave our gracious hosts, and head to...
...a wrap party for my friend's play, that he'd helped produce near St. Martin's school of Fashion in Holborn. I honestly couldn't tell you the name of the production, but I had known David since we were both born in the same hospital two weeks apart, and he's always been one for an interesting, if not exciting, night.
Now sometimes (i.e. most of the time) my favorite parties are not those filled with glam (really) celebrities (really), or models (okay, maybe that one is essential), but house parties of a few close friends. All right, so this house party was in a flat in Clerkenwell, and apart from David, I knew no one save for Caitlin, but all the girls there (and there were quite a few, though many taken) were cute to gorgeous and there was a variety of alcoholic beverages floating around.
I was introduced to people with names like Fergus and Georgina (You think her father expected a boy, and then just decided to add a couple of letters at the end?) and quickly went from red wine to straight vodka, with an unwise backstep to beer (but it was Becks, which I love, and there was no other booze).
I eyed the gorgeous girl I was chatting to, and over to my new friends making group trips to the bathroom, coming out rubbing their noses, and wondered if I had a stab at either. I decided on stimulating chat with the girl over stimulants of other varieties.
Before I knew it, I looked at my mobile and realized it was almost four a.m. Not bad for someone who had just flown in that morning. Still, after exchanging numbers with the girl and tentative plans for later in the week, I decided not to push my luck.
An opportune night bus later, a raiding of the fridge at my World's End home, and I'm cosily ensconced in my bed.
Aaaaaaah... London.
But then comes the text, and I'm off, taking a bus up through London, north towards Picadilly, Soho, and beyond. By the time I arrive at Charing Cross Road a half hour later, I push my way through the sea of inebriated detritus. It's quite a shock for a New Yorker (I'm from London, but living in Gotham makes me a New Yorker) to see so many drunks at the early hour of ten-thirty, save for special days such as St. Patty's or July Fourth.
I make my way to meet my friend Caitlin, who just recently moved here from New York. Her American/Irish name is intially invariably misheard/mispronounced by all in the UK ("Please to meet you, Catherine" being the most usual butchering).
We saunter off together to wonderful bunch of gay friends of hers, and they ply us with good chat and good drinks as I unwind from the travelling and bustling of the week. But after an hour and a half or so, an interesting conversation about fisting later (I maintained that it wasn't strictly a gay thing, obviously) we must leave our gracious hosts, and head to...
...a wrap party for my friend's play, that he'd helped produce near St. Martin's school of Fashion in Holborn. I honestly couldn't tell you the name of the production, but I had known David since we were both born in the same hospital two weeks apart, and he's always been one for an interesting, if not exciting, night.
Now sometimes (i.e. most of the time) my favorite parties are not those filled with glam (really) celebrities (really), or models (okay, maybe that one is essential), but house parties of a few close friends. All right, so this house party was in a flat in Clerkenwell, and apart from David, I knew no one save for Caitlin, but all the girls there (and there were quite a few, though many taken) were cute to gorgeous and there was a variety of alcoholic beverages floating around.
I was introduced to people with names like Fergus and Georgina (You think her father expected a boy, and then just decided to add a couple of letters at the end?) and quickly went from red wine to straight vodka, with an unwise backstep to beer (but it was Becks, which I love, and there was no other booze).
I eyed the gorgeous girl I was chatting to, and over to my new friends making group trips to the bathroom, coming out rubbing their noses, and wondered if I had a stab at either. I decided on stimulating chat with the girl over stimulants of other varieties.
Before I knew it, I looked at my mobile and realized it was almost four a.m. Not bad for someone who had just flown in that morning. Still, after exchanging numbers with the girl and tentative plans for later in the week, I decided not to push my luck.
An opportune night bus later, a raiding of the fridge at my World's End home, and I'm cosily ensconced in my bed.
Aaaaaaah... London.
posted by Unknown at 12:16 PM
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