Saturday Night (part two)

This is a continuation of last week’s tale. Cliffhanger-tastic!

Last week, I left you in Reflex. I’m sad to say, by the time I came downstairs again, Kat and Barry had already left, leaving me to either find a taxi or party alone. A couple of hours later, I found the text from Kat wondering where I’d got to. If I’d only have set my phone to vibrate!

Instead, I danced to more stuff, mostly in the company of a dark-haired feller in a suit who I seemed to amuse. I danced, I took the mickey, I asked the DJ for Queen (a hard request to refuse and a safe request for a rocker in a trendy club), and I finally left when the club shut. On the way out, the man in the suit said to me, “I like you; you’re willing to have a laugh.” As I said last week: I’m not a chick magnet, but I do seem to appeal to other blokes’ sense of fun.

So it was taxi time. But rather than get a taxi, some delusional part of me decided that maybe, just maybe, I could get away with going on the pull last minute. So I went round the corner and leant on the walls of the Arcadian to watch the dance and see if it was worth making my move. I should have found a friend. There were too many girls in pairs about and, judging by the other clumsy buggers trying to chat up women, no-one’s going to just get in a taxi with some bloke and abandon their mate. And before I could get delusions of anonymity, another drunk pair of girls wanted their photos taken with me…

As I stood against the wall, having abandoned testosterone demands in favour of people-watching, a tanned girl with a magnificent pair of false lashes took a leaning point that was not quite out of my personal space. An invitation? Possibly. There were plenty of spaces to lean on that wall out of range. As I debated the point, another bloke stood the other side of her.

“You look cold love, can I help you?” came the slow mutter.

“What can you do about it?” she replied.

“I can give you a hug.”

And that was that. I think I can only file that one under, “If you snooze, you lose.” So, the opportunity blown, I went for a burger.

Outside Caspian’s, by Holloway Circus, where I used to get my burgers in the days of Edward’s No. 8, I was approached by a little black guy in glasses.

“You got any coke?” he said.

“No, mate.”

“You got any pills?”

I’ve been mistaken for security at gigs. My first night working at one particular cinema, I got asked if I was something to do with the police when I asked to be directed to the manager’s office. Now, apparently, I look like a drug dealer. I knew I should have worn a different shirt.


~ by Scary Rob on 11 October, 2010.

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