The day had finally come. My stunning, sparkly stilettos, with a five and a half inch silver heel were about to embark on their debut appearance. Although I was extremely excited about the grand unveiling of my new love, I was becoming increasingly anxious as the time drew closer for me to don these heavenly shoes. Not due to their lethal height, but because I feared I would return at the end of the night and they would be ruined. Despite these apprehensions, I willingly slid them on and departed.
That evening I would not be among the company of my accustomed horde of friends. Instead, I would be thrusting my presence upon some of the few individuals I’ve kept in contact with from my schooldays. I must divulge that, previously, I have become exceptionally intoxicated on outings with said group, which, I undoubtedly do not need to reveal, ended horrifically. So tonight, like every other night, I vowed to stay respectably tipsy and to not humiliate myself once more.
To begin the night, I joined my boyfriend for a drink. As I consumed my double vodka and diet coke, I became worryingly tipsy, giggling to myself for a reason unknown to me, let alone anyone else. Was this the start of another catastrophic night to come? Luckily, this fleeting moment of uncertainty passed and I was able to walk to my next setting with as much ease as is possible when adorning the footwear I was. It was at this point that I received the first comment in regards to my remarkable shoes. Contradictory to what may be expected; this compliment came from a man and was along the lines of “Those are some awesome shoes.” I knowingly smiled and continued on my way.
On arrival, I was immediately made aware of the multitude of people in the pub. As I made my way through the crowd, momentarily distracted by an old bloke, graciously enquiring, “Oh ‘ello, what’s your name then?” I was exceedingly pleased to spot my friend as she came to my rescue.
We struggled our way to the bar, where we, unsurprisingly, had to wait an exasperatingly long time to be served. Once we had eventually been attended to by the dishevelled barman, we made our way further into the pub to our seats. However, here lies yet another bout of alcohol induced amnesia on my behalf. The initial hours of my night seem to have unwittingly vanished from my memory, quite unconventionally, as I tend to remember the earlier events of a night out quite accurately. Nevertheless, there is a moment that has preserved itself within my memory. We were taking a small number of pictures where we sat and amidst trying to sustain enough composure to not laugh the second before the flash went and outbursts of “Delete it!” I remember requesting that one of the pictures my friend took to be cropped so I didn’t look like a “hunchback”. The vanity I emit astounds even me sometimes.
After we had finished our drinks, we left and began our journey to Liquid, situated, agonisingly, at the complete opposite end of the high street. Crossing the road, I found myself engaged into conversation with a woman who was admiring my footwear. I had to break it to her that, although my shoes are obviously divine, they were causing me quite a lot of discomfort, to the point of blood being shed. I had attempted to thwart their plans to butcher my feet by applying plasters, but these efforts weren’t entirely successful. However, being of the creed that if something looks good, it is worth the anguish, I soldiered on. Admittedly, the alcohol was beginning to thrive in my body and this surely helped numb my pain.
Following our trek down the road, ID’s being checked, bags being searched, paying and receiving our chic, bright yellow, VIP wrist bands, we eventually found ourselves in the toilet, where we reapplied our makeup and added to our collection of photographs. Feelings of sobriety began to creep back to me and so it was time to purchase another drink. Luckily for us, we were in the VIP section and therefore we were served in an adequate amount of time. Here, we sat, drank, talked and sang, until the effects of the alcohol sunk deeper into our systems, and the urge to approach the dance floor pursued.
It had been a long time since I’d graced Liquid with my presence and so I found a lot of the music being played I was unfamiliar with. Therefore, when Rihanna started to play I became overly excited and was grateful that we were already dancing. When I say I was not familiar with the music, I am elaborating slightly. I recall repeatedly saying “I don’t know this song”, with my friends’ response always being “You will in a minute!” and of course she was right. Being a club for mostly mainstream music, it is hard to not recognise snippets of most of the songs that are played.
And I believe it is here that we spent most of the remainder of the night, adding more pictures to the collection, taking the piss out of peoples dancing and having throat debilitating conversations, as we shouted to understand each other.
Throughout the night I had been in contact with my boyfriend, texting him, with conversations of how I missed him and things to that effect. So it is no surprise that he ended up meeting me when I left.
As I waited for him to make his way to me, I found myself in the kebab shop next door ordering my food. To my dismay I did not have enough money, but they had already prepared my post-binge meal. Frantically, I picked up my phone and rang my boyfriend, to determine whether he was equipped with the £1.50 I needed in order to satisfy my drunken food cravings. My savour! I knew there was a reason I was with him. The kind gentleman who served me let me begin to devour my food whilst we waited. I lingered in the doorway, barefoot, looking out for my boyfriend to make an appearance. As I slovenly munched on my chicken and chips, covering my newly bought dress in mayonnaise, I was undoubtedly the epitome of the average drunk girl.
Once my boyfriend had provided me with the money to release me from the hands of the kebab shop, our next task was to order a cab. As we strolled down the high street, me barefoot, inhaling my food, him, carrying my deceitful heels, we must have been quite a sight. This was confirmed as my boyfriend told me a girl had made a snide remark, which I had been totally unaware of, about my lack of footwear. But, having not been disheartened, I managed to secure us a way of getting home and as we had earlier decided, the 24 hour HSBC branch became our shelter from the cold whilst we waited for our cab to arrive.
It has occurred to me now that my boyfriend was quite the fool to let me get into his bed after I had been traipsing around outside with no shoes on. But the drunken mind is not one to think logically or practically, so this crossed neither of our minds at the time.
Lights out.
This night was by far the best I have had with the attending company. With no animosities flying around, no police rides home, no tears and no sickness, it was a winning night. To add to my joy, I didn’t spend a fortune and I have plenty of photographic memories to remind me of our successful night.
That evening I would not be among the company of my accustomed horde of friends. Instead, I would be thrusting my presence upon some of the few individuals I’ve kept in contact with from my schooldays. I must divulge that, previously, I have become exceptionally intoxicated on outings with said group, which, I undoubtedly do not need to reveal, ended horrifically. So tonight, like every other night, I vowed to stay respectably tipsy and to not humiliate myself once more.
To begin the night, I joined my boyfriend for a drink. As I consumed my double vodka and diet coke, I became worryingly tipsy, giggling to myself for a reason unknown to me, let alone anyone else. Was this the start of another catastrophic night to come? Luckily, this fleeting moment of uncertainty passed and I was able to walk to my next setting with as much ease as is possible when adorning the footwear I was. It was at this point that I received the first comment in regards to my remarkable shoes. Contradictory to what may be expected; this compliment came from a man and was along the lines of “Those are some awesome shoes.” I knowingly smiled and continued on my way.
On arrival, I was immediately made aware of the multitude of people in the pub. As I made my way through the crowd, momentarily distracted by an old bloke, graciously enquiring, “Oh ‘ello, what’s your name then?” I was exceedingly pleased to spot my friend as she came to my rescue.
We struggled our way to the bar, where we, unsurprisingly, had to wait an exasperatingly long time to be served. Once we had eventually been attended to by the dishevelled barman, we made our way further into the pub to our seats. However, here lies yet another bout of alcohol induced amnesia on my behalf. The initial hours of my night seem to have unwittingly vanished from my memory, quite unconventionally, as I tend to remember the earlier events of a night out quite accurately. Nevertheless, there is a moment that has preserved itself within my memory. We were taking a small number of pictures where we sat and amidst trying to sustain enough composure to not laugh the second before the flash went and outbursts of “Delete it!” I remember requesting that one of the pictures my friend took to be cropped so I didn’t look like a “hunchback”. The vanity I emit astounds even me sometimes.
After we had finished our drinks, we left and began our journey to Liquid, situated, agonisingly, at the complete opposite end of the high street. Crossing the road, I found myself engaged into conversation with a woman who was admiring my footwear. I had to break it to her that, although my shoes are obviously divine, they were causing me quite a lot of discomfort, to the point of blood being shed. I had attempted to thwart their plans to butcher my feet by applying plasters, but these efforts weren’t entirely successful. However, being of the creed that if something looks good, it is worth the anguish, I soldiered on. Admittedly, the alcohol was beginning to thrive in my body and this surely helped numb my pain.
Following our trek down the road, ID’s being checked, bags being searched, paying and receiving our chic, bright yellow, VIP wrist bands, we eventually found ourselves in the toilet, where we reapplied our makeup and added to our collection of photographs. Feelings of sobriety began to creep back to me and so it was time to purchase another drink. Luckily for us, we were in the VIP section and therefore we were served in an adequate amount of time. Here, we sat, drank, talked and sang, until the effects of the alcohol sunk deeper into our systems, and the urge to approach the dance floor pursued.
It had been a long time since I’d graced Liquid with my presence and so I found a lot of the music being played I was unfamiliar with. Therefore, when Rihanna started to play I became overly excited and was grateful that we were already dancing. When I say I was not familiar with the music, I am elaborating slightly. I recall repeatedly saying “I don’t know this song”, with my friends’ response always being “You will in a minute!” and of course she was right. Being a club for mostly mainstream music, it is hard to not recognise snippets of most of the songs that are played.
And I believe it is here that we spent most of the remainder of the night, adding more pictures to the collection, taking the piss out of peoples dancing and having throat debilitating conversations, as we shouted to understand each other.
Throughout the night I had been in contact with my boyfriend, texting him, with conversations of how I missed him and things to that effect. So it is no surprise that he ended up meeting me when I left.
As I waited for him to make his way to me, I found myself in the kebab shop next door ordering my food. To my dismay I did not have enough money, but they had already prepared my post-binge meal. Frantically, I picked up my phone and rang my boyfriend, to determine whether he was equipped with the £1.50 I needed in order to satisfy my drunken food cravings. My savour! I knew there was a reason I was with him. The kind gentleman who served me let me begin to devour my food whilst we waited. I lingered in the doorway, barefoot, looking out for my boyfriend to make an appearance. As I slovenly munched on my chicken and chips, covering my newly bought dress in mayonnaise, I was undoubtedly the epitome of the average drunk girl.
Once my boyfriend had provided me with the money to release me from the hands of the kebab shop, our next task was to order a cab. As we strolled down the high street, me barefoot, inhaling my food, him, carrying my deceitful heels, we must have been quite a sight. This was confirmed as my boyfriend told me a girl had made a snide remark, which I had been totally unaware of, about my lack of footwear. But, having not been disheartened, I managed to secure us a way of getting home and as we had earlier decided, the 24 hour HSBC branch became our shelter from the cold whilst we waited for our cab to arrive.
It has occurred to me now that my boyfriend was quite the fool to let me get into his bed after I had been traipsing around outside with no shoes on. But the drunken mind is not one to think logically or practically, so this crossed neither of our minds at the time.
Lights out.
This night was by far the best I have had with the attending company. With no animosities flying around, no police rides home, no tears and no sickness, it was a winning night. To add to my joy, I didn’t spend a fortune and I have plenty of photographic memories to remind me of our successful night.
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