birthday weekend
The weekend was brilliant. Z, White Teeth D and I spent £74 on food and drinks on Friday night, in preparation for the party. We gave the drinks, tealights (yes, we got tealights - 'a romantic dinner for 12' as D succinctly put it) and music a test run before the actual party - but ended up getting drunk and having an hour long discussion about foreplay and pillowfight/ticklefest. Boys. So immature.My parents arrived on Saturday morning. It felt like I'd just seen them yesterday, but two months had already passed. How time flies. The afternoon was spent rushing about buying last minute items for the party, and worrying about why D wasn't picking up his mobile (I thought he had fallen asleep, thus forgetting about the party, or some related silly thought). I got ready in a hurry (black floaty top, nice denim, gold round toed shoes, and gold shell necklace), kissed my parents goodnight, and ran over to D's flat where guests started trickling in and we began getting the food an drinks ready.
It was a very fun party. But if you expect me to remember very much of it, you'll be disappointed. D's flat is gorgeous and modern, with a light dimming switch, so the tealights - of which there were about 60 - scattered round the flat added a lovely touch in conjunction with the French lounge music I'd brought over. I have no idea how we ended up at the bar later on that evening. It was a bar I'd definitely revisit, and it had a very clever one way frosted glass window in the toilets, which is extremely amusing when you're very drunk and very giggly. I have no recollection of how we ended up back at D's flat after deciding that it'd be more fun having a house party than going to more bars in Soho. Upon returning to the flat, there was some rather questionable behaviour of which there exists photographic evidence (I'll pretend I had nothing to do with it), adult television channels, more sex talk, and several very funny telephone calls done in deliberately rubbish foreign accents.
It was 3 am when I left. I felt ill. The next day, I was extremely knackered. My parents and I went shopping (they particularly like Marks & Spencers) and had a lovely, quiet dinner at Zizzi on Sunday night for my birthday (I've just turned 22 and thus dinosaur-aged). On Monday, we spent the day in Covent Garden, and came home to prepare for a nice Valentine's Day dinner I'd planned at Yauatcha. They loved it. We went on a mini walkabout tour of Leicester Square and the un-dodgy bits of Soho before heading home - it was extremely windy and cold, and we were all very tired.
It's always very difficult saying goodbye to my parents when they have to leave, and this visit had been particularly short. I'm consoled by the wonders of modern technology that allow us to communicate on a daily, cost free basis; but there is something to be said about presence and contact. It will be a long, four month stretch (at least) before I see them again, and the image replaying itself over and over in my mind has been permeating my dreams - rushing back upstairs after saying goodbye in the front hallway, drawing back my curtains, and seeing my parents crossing the street, pulling their suitcases behind them. And the exact moment when my mum turned her head back up to the window, smiled and waved back at me, before turning and disappearing round the corner.
L'Esthete @ 20:57
