coming down
My previous post ought to serve as a glaring reminder that I need to keep myself away from my beloved laptop after returning from a night out - the results are evidently disastrous and highly embarrassing. Friday afternoon - when the effects of alcohol began to wear off - had me gawking in horror at the nonsense I had posted at 4 a.m. that morning. Friends want to use those now-classic lines of poetry as their e-mail signatures. Thanks. No need to credit the author.Thursday night at 19:30 had us (D, Z, N, J1 , J2 and F) in the basement bar at Roka, which was swarming with beautiful people. A lovely, exotic bar, but I cannot stand their sodding clad-in-black doorman, who clearly has the IQ of a gnat, and who bars the entrance with his hands clasped over his genitals. But I digress. Seeing as our reservation for Yauatcha (pan-Asian dumpling restaurant in Soho) was for 21:00, we accomplished some very efficient drinking (efficiency = consuming large amounts of alcohol in very short periods of time) before walking/stumbling (delete as applicable) over to the restaurant.
F has fabulous taste when it comes to restaurants - Yauatcha was his choice. It is currently one of London's hottest. Its entrance opens into a low ceilinged, white walled tea room, in which pretty little dainty cakes line one side, and a glowing neon-blue backlit aquarium snakes along the walls. But the basement dining room is spectacular - dark and mysterious, with a black ceiling studded with hundreds of twinkling lights, and black walls overlaid with smoked glass shelves, along which hundreds of flickering coloured candles burned. The food was delicious - prawn dumplings with shark fin, accented by bits of gold leaf; delicately flavoured Chilean seabass mooli rolls; and exquisite roast venison puffs covered in golden flaky pastry which melted in the mouth. Drinks emerged from behind a royal blue translucent glass wall, behind which the silhouettes of the chefs could be seen flitting back and forth. We had wine, wine, and more wine, and when the cheque came to a simply astounding £198 for six people, we were too drunk to notice (or care).
It was decided that the night ought to go on. By 12:15 we were stood in a queue outside Chinawhite, one of London's most exclusive clubs of which J2 was a member. Most unfortunately the club was at full capacity, and thus could only admit J2 and one (not six) of us, so we headed over to Cafe de Paris, another popular nightspot and perennial celebrity haunt. Upon arrival we encountered the bouncers turning away some clubbers - trashy girls with all of their wobbly bits hanging out, and a young man who was yelling 'But these jeans are by Phat Farm! And this top cost me £80! My trainers are by Adidas!' at the bouncers. They were turned away. At that moment in time, I was terribly glad that I had even bothered to dress up, although it had been quite a chore. My friends - God bless them - were dressed to the nines, and we were all clothed head to toe in slick black outfits and wearing smart coats. We got in.
D and J2 made a beeline towards the bar which was charging extraordinary prices (£7.50 for a vodka and lemonade? Never again). We drank. We danced. We drank some more. We danced some more. And consumed more alcohol, whilst dancing up a storm and seeing colours having sex, and shapes exploding, as it were. (I ought to point out that this is not necessarily a result of dodgy substances, but more a result of consuming staggeringly copious amounts of alcohol - so much that we might as well have been high.) By 2:30 J1 and I were giggling nonsensically and clinging onto each other whilst tripping over sweaty bodies on our way to the loo. Whilst in the cubicle, I could barely stand up nor see straight, so it was rather surprising that I had the sense to realise that it might be a clever idea not to drink any more that night.
D and I could have gone on dancing but J1 and J2 were knackered by 3:15, so we left. I was in bed at 4:30, got two hours of sleep, and fell out of bed again a couple hours later to attend the last set of lectures of term (if that's not dedication, I don't know what is). Needless to say, I was extremely knackered, my voice resembled that of a phone sex operator (again), and my ears were ringing. The day was spent tripping over cracks in the sidewalks, and falling down flights of stairs, accompanied by a pounding headache and a burning desire to curl up on the pavement to nap. D and Z rang me later on in the day, complaining of similar symptoms, not too surprisingly.
Being one of the best nights out I've had, the hangovers were worth it. Those horny colours and orgasmic shapes really are beautiful. And until you experience them for yourself, you'll just have to take my word for it.
L'Esthete @ 20:35
