After a quiet weekend last week, I was excited about the approaching Saturday night; Rock Night. My outfit was newly bought, with a lust-worthy pair of heels to match. With the attendance of friends I hadn’t seen in a while, the night was sure to be a good one.
The journey there proved to be eventful in itself. Firstly, as we were walking to the bus stop, my friend realised she didn’t have enough money for the bus and I didn’t have any to lend her. Therefore, as I continued my slow trot to the bus stop in my heels, she had to dart home to get some. Running all the way back to the bus stop, she just made it in time before our bus came.
Then, whilst on the bus, it stopped to let a passenger off and just as the doors were about to close, on jumped three gentlemen, who proceeded to bellow “INDIAAA!” and then simply get off, laughing as they went and continued on to whatever venue they planned to bombard with their obnoxiousness next. My friend and I found this enormously hilarious. My response being “Is there some sort of sport going on?” and her, in a tone of announcement, coining the phrase “You’ve been Indi-ed”. Whether our fellow travelers found this quite as amusing will remain unknown.
After we’d arrived in town, we met our friends and the drinking began. Luckily for me, my body had decided that for tonight, it was going to encompass similar traits to a sponge and after having consumed just two drinks, I was more than feeling the effects. Fragmented discussions of summer holidays, boys and birthdays are jumbled around in my brain. There is also evidence of our attempts to take pictures, whilst still in a semi-sober state, that could probably be deemed as a failure.
One story I remember telling my friends, is to why I only had one lace glove on. This particular tale also involved one of the other occupants at the table. One night many weeks ago I had a small gathering at my house. At one point my friend found herself in my bedroom, where, lying innocently on my bedside table was a pair of lace gloves. She took quite a fancy to them and decided she was more than welcome to take them. However, later she realised that she should probably give them back, but by this time one of them had mysteriously disappeared and so she was only able to reunite me with the single glove. I didn’t let this get me down though and I chose to wear the lone glove anyway.
After a trip to the toilet to fix our makeup and continue our self indulgent picture snapping, we returned to our seats to finish our remaining drinks, which was immediately followed with blind panic, as we realised we had to leave instantly otherwise we were going to have to pay to get into the next pub and that was not an option. We rushed out the doors as fast as our heels could carry us and began, what we felt was, a speedy descension down the road to our destination.
It was on this journey that I was assured of a rather odd superstition that I had only been discussing with my mother earlier that day whilst we were shopping. Having got off the bus, I proceeded to dodge the third grate in a row of three that was in the pavement. I revealed to my mum that for some unknown reason I have an irrational fear that if I walk on said area that I will have bad luck. Now, as I was walking along, arm in arm with one of my friends, she suddenly pulled at my arm in order to prevent me from stepping on the looming third grate. It’s safe to say that my excitement was probably rather dramatised. But after my mother had pulled a face and acted as if I was crazy, this reassurance was greatly appreciated; I now know I’m not the only loony!
As usual, when we arrived the drinks continued to flow. Despite partially spilling two of my drinks early on in the night, I was becoming increasingly merry. Images from here and there are distorted in my mind; from trying to give myself cleavage to kisses with my boyfriend.
Towards the end of the night we made our way inside. I think I have yet to inform my readers that I don’t actually choose to listen to the type of music that is played at rock night. However, I try not to let this dishearten me and I rarely pass up the chance to dance and neither do the majority of my friends. So inside we went, threw our leather jackets to the side and graced the dance floor. I attempted to request a few songs but to no avail, until I mentioned the Offspring to which they said was a possibility, but after all that effort, we left before they had a chance to satisfy my musical needs.
Throughout the weeks I’ve been writing my blog, one of the things people tend to comment on, is the honesty in which I try to write. I have no animosities in being open and detailing the good and the bad experiences I’ve faced. One thing I do tend to avoid is going into the finer points about my lack of self-control I have with my boyfriend when intoxicated. I’m not one to shy away from public displays of affection, even less so in said state of mind and apparently any sense of composure is hastily thrown out the blurred window of inebriation. I lack the capacity to endeavor in suggestive flirtations and tend to get straight to the point and rather bluntly tell him I’d rather be having sex, with no efforts at subtlety or appreciation for unconcerned ears. No doubt, certainly from where I was standing, the sexual tension and frustration I was experiencing this night, was rather intense. I doubt whether the reason for our departure was at all to do with either of us being tired.
This is where our night ended. My memory of the cab journey has completely escaped me and I barely remember what happened when we arrived home. I do know that I had a great night though. Being able to spend time with those I hadn’t been out with in a while definitely made the night what it was.
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