Sitting in the back of a cab, sandwiched between two of my best friends, blasting (as loud as my phone would allow) songs we could only sing the first verse to, a bandage wrapped round my food, plasters on my face, shoeless and wearing a dress that wasn’t mine. Is that the way a 20 year old should behave?
All day at work I’d been glancing at the clock; the hours dragging by as the anticipation bubbled around inside me. Luckily, as home time approached, I was alone in the office and my cheeky eagerness boiled over and I decided to leave early. On the way home I bumped into my friend on the bus, who abruptly told me “Don’t look in this bag!” You see, my teenager years were running short; I was to turn 20 the following day. With one day left to enjoy the right to be reckless, I decided there was no better way to spend it than with my friends, pumping our body with alcohol and dancing like no one’s watching.
The night began with a long cab journey into Watford where my birthday celebrations were to be held. Throughout the journey the conversation was mainly held by me and a girl I used to go to school with, about the days we spent in classrooms, not doing any work. Whenever I go out with said individual we always end up reminiscing about the good old days, often including embarrassing and hilarious moments from primary drunken escapades, as well as the characters from “the best years of our lives”. Whilst we pissed ourselves about girls looking like mammals and general girly gossip, we were gradually getting closer to our destination, where the alcohol awaited us.
Once there, my mission began; walking in 6 and a half inch heels. Admittedly, it was easier than I thought it would be, but I still had to take it slow and clung on to my boyfriend for the duration of our journey down the high street. After eventually making it to the pub and in once piece, we settled ourselves in a nice corner and the conversations continued as others arrived.
One specific moment I remember amidst the flow of drinks is my friend turning to me and telling me that she feels it’s ok to say less than kind things about others when she’s with me, because I’m probably thinking exactly the same things. I have no shame in confessing I tend to speak before I think when it comes to judgements and I accepted my blunt honesty a long time ago. My mouth can run away with me at the best of sober times, without a glance at the angel sitting on my shoulder, urging me to be a bit more subtle, sympathetic, and compassionate. So when I’m 3 double vodkas down, the devil perched on the other side dominates the reigns of my initiative and any morals are drop-kicked out of sight.
Soon Vodka Revs began to call us and we abided to her wishes and made our way next door to indulge in some more alcoholic treats. Two of my friends and I each decided to have two shots of flavoured vodka. Even after all these years of knowing that I detest straight vodka, I still buckled under the pressure Vodka Revs thrust upon me and stepped up to the bar to fulfil her bidding. I tried to convince myself, as I stood in front of the varying colours of alcohol that were placed before me, that this wasn’t going to be as bad as I remembered, for these shots were diluted with fresh fruit flavours. Of course looks can be deceiving and after forcing each shot down, I had to request a glass of water, confirming that I am still a complete pussy when it comes to shots.
As it was getting later and a few members of the group were soon going to have to depart, we decided to move on swiftly to Area, our final destination and the location I would wave farewell to my teenage years and embark upon my 20’s.
After purchasing our drinks, the countdown began to midnight. I was quite drunk and more excited than I would have usually been. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1!” “Woo!” “Happy birthday!” “Here, blow out this candle that’s sitting on the table!” “Yayyy!” I stared down, trying to focus on the blurry candle before my eyes, and blew. Next thing I knew, I was covered in candle wax. The table burst into raucous laughter and as I giggled my way to the bathroom, trying to peal the wax from my face, I was unaware to the disaster that I was about to see reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror.
I ran into the toilet and cleaned up my wax covered skin with ease. However, as I leaned away from the mirror, horror struck as I saw the white stains covering the front of my black dress. In all honesty, I think I stayed relatively calm throughout the whole ordeal. After futilely trying to clean my dress, it was considered a lost cause. Luckily, I had a plan. One of my friends was leaving soon and she just so happened to be wearing a dress I had drooled over previously that night. Despite being something I wouldn’t usually wear, I boldly asked her if we could possibly swap dresses. She graciously accepted and became the saviour of the night. Exciting the bathroom, I held my head high and navigated my way back to our table. I definitely needed another drink.
Unfortunately, the time had come for our group to be severed and half of the attendees were heading home. Once they had departed, those of us left took to the dance floor. I’m surprised I managed to dance whilst balancing on my fashionable stilts, but as I’ve determined, heels are a lot easier to wear when your system is flooded with alcohol. However, I did manage to kick over my own drink, placed carefully to the side of the dance floor, hidden from any unwanted hands; I didn’t predict that I’d forget it was there myself.
The night was drawing to a close, but the fun was to not to end just yet. Gathering ourselves together, we left the club. With my mind on the kebab I was about to purchase, which I had been waiting for for weeks now, my brain neglected my feet and I catapulted myself out onto the pavement. For the thousandth time in our relationship, my boyfriend found himself dragging my limbs from the ground, as I absentmindedly laughed to myself; being drunk is the best pain killer you can get.
Whilst obtaining my meaty goodness, surrounded by potatoey delights, swimming in mayonnaise and covered in my only five a day, lettuce, little did I know my friends were on a top secret mission, to acquire an essential piece of equipment that would complete our evening: a first aid box. There was, surprisingly, method to their madness, for earlier in the evening I had complained that my heels were rubbing my feet and I needed a plaster. Obviously, by this point in time my body was numb to any pain, demonstrated by my epic fall mere minutes beforehand. So although their actions had cause, they were wholly unnecessary.
As any group of drunken individuals would do, we opened the box and proceeded to unpack its contents. Plasters, bandages, plastic gloves, were stuck and wrapped to our bodies in varying places. However, we all had a blue plaster stuck on our cheek, to confirm our alliance to the First Aid Gang. I cannot fathom what the cab driver must have been thinking as he pulled up and saw all four of us looking as if we’d just walked out of a hospital run by 5 year olds. I will never forget what that cab driver said in response to my apologies for playing music and singing loudly whilst we climbed out of his vehicle outside my house. Gesturing to my boyfriend he announced, “Don’t apologise, it’s him I feel sorry for!” With that final laugh of the evening, I made my way inside with my boyfriend and closed the door on an unforgettable 20th birthday.
All day at work I’d been glancing at the clock; the hours dragging by as the anticipation bubbled around inside me. Luckily, as home time approached, I was alone in the office and my cheeky eagerness boiled over and I decided to leave early. On the way home I bumped into my friend on the bus, who abruptly told me “Don’t look in this bag!” You see, my teenager years were running short; I was to turn 20 the following day. With one day left to enjoy the right to be reckless, I decided there was no better way to spend it than with my friends, pumping our body with alcohol and dancing like no one’s watching.
The night began with a long cab journey into Watford where my birthday celebrations were to be held. Throughout the journey the conversation was mainly held by me and a girl I used to go to school with, about the days we spent in classrooms, not doing any work. Whenever I go out with said individual we always end up reminiscing about the good old days, often including embarrassing and hilarious moments from primary drunken escapades, as well as the characters from “the best years of our lives”. Whilst we pissed ourselves about girls looking like mammals and general girly gossip, we were gradually getting closer to our destination, where the alcohol awaited us.
Once there, my mission began; walking in 6 and a half inch heels. Admittedly, it was easier than I thought it would be, but I still had to take it slow and clung on to my boyfriend for the duration of our journey down the high street. After eventually making it to the pub and in once piece, we settled ourselves in a nice corner and the conversations continued as others arrived.
One specific moment I remember amidst the flow of drinks is my friend turning to me and telling me that she feels it’s ok to say less than kind things about others when she’s with me, because I’m probably thinking exactly the same things. I have no shame in confessing I tend to speak before I think when it comes to judgements and I accepted my blunt honesty a long time ago. My mouth can run away with me at the best of sober times, without a glance at the angel sitting on my shoulder, urging me to be a bit more subtle, sympathetic, and compassionate. So when I’m 3 double vodkas down, the devil perched on the other side dominates the reigns of my initiative and any morals are drop-kicked out of sight.
Soon Vodka Revs began to call us and we abided to her wishes and made our way next door to indulge in some more alcoholic treats. Two of my friends and I each decided to have two shots of flavoured vodka. Even after all these years of knowing that I detest straight vodka, I still buckled under the pressure Vodka Revs thrust upon me and stepped up to the bar to fulfil her bidding. I tried to convince myself, as I stood in front of the varying colours of alcohol that were placed before me, that this wasn’t going to be as bad as I remembered, for these shots were diluted with fresh fruit flavours. Of course looks can be deceiving and after forcing each shot down, I had to request a glass of water, confirming that I am still a complete pussy when it comes to shots.
As it was getting later and a few members of the group were soon going to have to depart, we decided to move on swiftly to Area, our final destination and the location I would wave farewell to my teenage years and embark upon my 20’s.
After purchasing our drinks, the countdown began to midnight. I was quite drunk and more excited than I would have usually been. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1!” “Woo!” “Happy birthday!” “Here, blow out this candle that’s sitting on the table!” “Yayyy!” I stared down, trying to focus on the blurry candle before my eyes, and blew. Next thing I knew, I was covered in candle wax. The table burst into raucous laughter and as I giggled my way to the bathroom, trying to peal the wax from my face, I was unaware to the disaster that I was about to see reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror.
I ran into the toilet and cleaned up my wax covered skin with ease. However, as I leaned away from the mirror, horror struck as I saw the white stains covering the front of my black dress. In all honesty, I think I stayed relatively calm throughout the whole ordeal. After futilely trying to clean my dress, it was considered a lost cause. Luckily, I had a plan. One of my friends was leaving soon and she just so happened to be wearing a dress I had drooled over previously that night. Despite being something I wouldn’t usually wear, I boldly asked her if we could possibly swap dresses. She graciously accepted and became the saviour of the night. Exciting the bathroom, I held my head high and navigated my way back to our table. I definitely needed another drink.
Unfortunately, the time had come for our group to be severed and half of the attendees were heading home. Once they had departed, those of us left took to the dance floor. I’m surprised I managed to dance whilst balancing on my fashionable stilts, but as I’ve determined, heels are a lot easier to wear when your system is flooded with alcohol. However, I did manage to kick over my own drink, placed carefully to the side of the dance floor, hidden from any unwanted hands; I didn’t predict that I’d forget it was there myself.
The night was drawing to a close, but the fun was to not to end just yet. Gathering ourselves together, we left the club. With my mind on the kebab I was about to purchase, which I had been waiting for for weeks now, my brain neglected my feet and I catapulted myself out onto the pavement. For the thousandth time in our relationship, my boyfriend found himself dragging my limbs from the ground, as I absentmindedly laughed to myself; being drunk is the best pain killer you can get.
Whilst obtaining my meaty goodness, surrounded by potatoey delights, swimming in mayonnaise and covered in my only five a day, lettuce, little did I know my friends were on a top secret mission, to acquire an essential piece of equipment that would complete our evening: a first aid box. There was, surprisingly, method to their madness, for earlier in the evening I had complained that my heels were rubbing my feet and I needed a plaster. Obviously, by this point in time my body was numb to any pain, demonstrated by my epic fall mere minutes beforehand. So although their actions had cause, they were wholly unnecessary.
As any group of drunken individuals would do, we opened the box and proceeded to unpack its contents. Plasters, bandages, plastic gloves, were stuck and wrapped to our bodies in varying places. However, we all had a blue plaster stuck on our cheek, to confirm our alliance to the First Aid Gang. I cannot fathom what the cab driver must have been thinking as he pulled up and saw all four of us looking as if we’d just walked out of a hospital run by 5 year olds. I will never forget what that cab driver said in response to my apologies for playing music and singing loudly whilst we climbed out of his vehicle outside my house. Gesturing to my boyfriend he announced, “Don’t apologise, it’s him I feel sorry for!” With that final laugh of the evening, I made my way inside with my boyfriend and closed the door on an unforgettable 20th birthday.
No comments:
Post a Comment