Friday night:
I think mine and Gilly's Friday night can be summed up by the ringtones on our cellphones. Gilly's is 'Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me'. And mine is 'Girls just wanna have fun'.
We had been planning last night for some time. We hadn't been drunk for ages...well, together. Gilly's birthday, new job, etc etc etc.
So, it was clearly ime to get dressed up, wear makeup and dresses and go out for cocktails. And we did. Japanese for dinner, then to Mighty Mighty for our first cocktail, which are not the ones picured above. Those would be numbers 2 or 3. An excellent martini, and a very good mojito.
And after meeting a very entertaining Canadian chap called Kevin (who hadn't met Clare, despite the fact she's in Vancouver, where he's from...odd) who bought us a shot made with Chambord, baileys and something else, we intended to head to Good Luck, but turned the wrong way, and ended up at Tupelo.
When we left Mighty Mighty, we congratulated ourselves on maintaining out target of a 'contant level of sophisticated intoxication'.
At Tupelo we perched at the bar, and drank cocktail after cocktail. At least three margaritas. Maitais. Something called an Albert St, with Elderflower syrup. A shot of rum. Seriously. Who buys shots of rum? (not us, we were bought it).
Call of the evening:
"So, are you guys celebrating the end of lectures?"
and
"You guys seemed to have started a trend...you came, and then all the other people came. It's like you are the party."
Well, yes, we are.
I got into a discussion with a man who believes Noam Chomsky is the height of journalistic integrity, and that September 11 was a Government conspiracy. Gilly met a woman who can't see - not because she needs glasses, but because she has 30% brain damage (in which case she might want to lay off the scotch, I'd have thought).
The barmen gave us staff discount (heh), entertained us, didn't seem to mind us mocking them when they looked up a cocktail recipe in a book, and above all, were cute. Very, very cute 20 year old barmen. They brought us good fries when we decided we needed carbs, looked after our bags when we went outside to smoke (what? nothing) and then made sure there were umbrellas for us.
And when we left, they hugged us. Hugged us. A level of service unparalled in Wellington bars.
Stumbing home to Gilly's (because I was told I had to go back to Gilly's and have a cup of green tea, and then bacon in the morning) we realised that a 'constant level of sophisticated intoxication' was a pipe dream and perhaps 'not falling down' should have been our goal.
My cheeks hurt from smiling.
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