Tempting Fate
On Friday night I had some beers and a bite to eat in a cool little bar along my street, and then to hear a band, chosen according to the time-honoured but highly unreliable rationale that someone's friend was in it. Not only was the band pretty good, but the act which came on afterwards was hilariously, uproariously and unintentionally stupid, which provided a comedic as well as a purely aesthetically satisfying aspect to the evening (the female lead singer kept doing these faux-naive baby-doll stylised dance moves, shaking her hair over her face, and, alarmingly, screaming; the guitarist, dressed in a Where's Wally?-style top and pudding-bowl fringe, would periodically shimmy to the front of the stage and back in a wide circular movement while exaggeratedly lip-syncing to the girl's lyrics with a deadpan face. Fantastic.) Then we went to another bar where I had fizzy lemonade (a drink which with my terrible lack of sophistication I frankly prefer to beer) and a good old blether with the ladies.
Alas, as I walked home I began to fear that I had jinxed Saturday night's dinner party by foolishly contriving to enjoy myself on Friday night, when, as any fule know, you can't have both. So I slept in till 11.30am to give myself minimum time for worrying (highly effective, no one frets while asleep). Then I shambled out into the mild midday to do my last-minute shopping of a) bread and b) wine, a combination which made me feel very wholesome and eucharistic. I will admit I felt less wholesome when I finally went to bed drunk at 6am, and not at all eucharistic when I subsequently missed Mass, but other satisfactory sensations arising from these divine substances were amply forthcoming: I don't complain about an 11-hour dinner party with a bevvy of charming gents, especially one that ends in hours of idle gossip, costly chocolates and bourbon.
Rising at a godless hour on Sunday (is it really breakfast at 1pm, even if it's toast and coffee?) I knew at once that I was bound, after such accumulated delights, to have a dismal time on the third and final day of the weekend (please don't anyone write in about how the weekend is only meant to be two days long - being an impovrsished student has to have its compensations). However, my coffee was interrupted by a phone call inviting me to the petting zoo, where I saw pregnant goats and funny chickens and a lovely cow who reminded me why Ox-Eyed is such a complimentary epithet in Homer, all in the new spring's glorious sunshine which justified (nay, enabled) a long bright walk there and back. To be whisked off to another dinner party afterwards, especially one hosted by a dashing chap with a dab hand in the kitchen who insisted on making us cocktails before, during and after every course, was surely more than anyone has a right to hope for.
I woke up puking at 4am after a bad mussel. Sigh. I suppose it wasn't the weekend any longer.
Alas, as I walked home I began to fear that I had jinxed Saturday night's dinner party by foolishly contriving to enjoy myself on Friday night, when, as any fule know, you can't have both. So I slept in till 11.30am to give myself minimum time for worrying (highly effective, no one frets while asleep). Then I shambled out into the mild midday to do my last-minute shopping of a) bread and b) wine, a combination which made me feel very wholesome and eucharistic. I will admit I felt less wholesome when I finally went to bed drunk at 6am, and not at all eucharistic when I subsequently missed Mass, but other satisfactory sensations arising from these divine substances were amply forthcoming: I don't complain about an 11-hour dinner party with a bevvy of charming gents, especially one that ends in hours of idle gossip, costly chocolates and bourbon.
Rising at a godless hour on Sunday (is it really breakfast at 1pm, even if it's toast and coffee?) I knew at once that I was bound, after such accumulated delights, to have a dismal time on the third and final day of the weekend (please don't anyone write in about how the weekend is only meant to be two days long - being an impovrsished student has to have its compensations). However, my coffee was interrupted by a phone call inviting me to the petting zoo, where I saw pregnant goats and funny chickens and a lovely cow who reminded me why Ox-Eyed is such a complimentary epithet in Homer, all in the new spring's glorious sunshine which justified (nay, enabled) a long bright walk there and back. To be whisked off to another dinner party afterwards, especially one hosted by a dashing chap with a dab hand in the kitchen who insisted on making us cocktails before, during and after every course, was surely more than anyone has a right to hope for.
I woke up puking at 4am after a bad mussel. Sigh. I suppose it wasn't the weekend any longer.
posted by Scarlet at 7:49 pm
4 Comments:
What a weekend!
Damn that mussel! We will just have to make sure that we cook the little guys better next time.
PS. I want to be cow-eyed.
*what* an exciting life you lead my dear. By comparison I watched Ugly Betty at home on Friday and went out for dinner with my 5 remaining friends in Athens (they're all leaving goddamit! Ok so I am too...) and was nicely in bed by midnight. You are Wild Child.
It's good to know that the sound Presbyterian values with which you were raised have been so influential. I'm not sure whether it's the drinking, gluttony and sloth that are the most impressive rejection of your Calvinist upbringing or whether it's the going to Mass. Let's call it a tie.
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