Going out tonight, feeling all right… going to let it all hang ow wow out…
London night out. It was a blur, but I think we 'pulled'
The ear worm tickled my eardrums all the way up on the train. They don’t let me out of this little Hampshire town often, so when I do get the chance to head up to London, I leap head first into the party spirit. The first part of the evening was a lovely ride on the London Eye with a glass of bubbles, and the equally lovely Vegemitevixens. Lovely. It was a gorgeous humid night and all of London was parading along South Bank. The air was thick with the smell of market stall shawarmas, and a soupcon of the best kind of trouble. After oohing and aahing on the London Eye, we popped along to Canteen on South Bank for cackling and wine-ing over delish fish and chips. Muddling Along had a pint of prawns, cos she’s a classy chick like that! London City Mum scared the waitress (I think she was a she.. short hair, no boobs…) with her Gina Hardfaced Bitch impression. (Australian readers may remember fondly Fast Forward of the 1990s!)
I'm Gina Hard Faced Bitch so Shut UP! from Australian spoof news show Fast Forward
Then it was on to the CLUB where we would dance the night away like spring chickens and let it all hang ow wow out..
But it was full. And noisy. Some of the young-uns had glow stick bracelets and white front teeth recently released from braces. With the neon glow from the glow sticks and the front teeth, it became disorienting. (I am almost certain it wasn’t the wine we’d already consumed.) At first we thought we could fit right in with the club scene, but then we noted the loudness, and the barely post-adolescent age of the clubbers and our resolve started to waver. Heather from Note from Lapland was a little concerned about the pinky toe she’d lost on the cobbled London streets. Would she still be able to be a Dancing Queen on nine little piggies? And Muddling Along had to head home to tend to the remnants of Octoberfest beer-sickness that was still plaguing her from the previous night. So we tanked on the clubbing, and headed back to our West End hotel bar.
Like old fuddy duddies sophisticated women of the world we slipped into a beige booth and relaxed. From the gentle music, to the comfy seats, everything was soft and soothing. We could even hear the other person’s conversation across the table. In fact we could even hear other loungers’ conversations, which was not so much a problem for us, being disinterested in pension plans and golfing sojourns. It was a tad more embarrassing for the other drinkers who were not prepared to be heartily regaled with stories about our previous naughty nights on the town where we did this:
Vegemitevixens rock The Oracle (Reading) with their many layered gateau!
or this
But it should be open NOW!
But what the heck, we’re all adults here.
After a time LCM had to bid us adieu and then the lounge bar turned its lights off. Which is international bar speak for ‘bugger off it’s home time!’. Undeterred, two Vegemitevixens soldiered on – Heather and I. We gathered our drinkies widget (room key) and sauntered confidently into the late night bar, which was all purple swirls and pretty Christmas lights.
“That’s early for Xmas lights” I mused to nobody in particular and then was pleased nobody had heard because on second glance it wasn’t Christmas lights at all behind the bar but lights shining through the booze bottles.
We were still in excellent shape. We were only missing two Vegemitevixens, one little pinky toe and four bottles of wine. But we could still find a corner seat on which to slump. Even with all the tricky obstacles in the way – like stairs and chairs and people.
When we did finally seat ourselves I couldn’t help but notice how bloody marvellous Heather and I were looking. Such fine attractive women of the world. And as I mentally toasted our fabulousness, I noticed it.
Searing male attention. Irish eyes were smiling. In our direction! Well of course they were! It was 1am in the morning and we were HOT!
Seizing the day, I marched over to the guy with the Irish twinkle in his eye, and wished him Happy Birthday. He smiled his thanks, paid his compliments to my chest and drew his male companion into the conversation. Then, as Heather and I sat dreamily in that little corner of that uber-now bar on one of the West End’s (lesser) hotels, he started to sing to us, his special birthday song.
And that’s how we finished our Vegemitevixens’ night on the town, serenaded by an Irishman celebrating his 60th birthday.
Oh yeah baby , we STILL GOT IT!
