Despite PetiteFolle’s slanderous claims that I might verge on being a control freak, hence my lack of willing participation in any surprises, I can attest to my love of one kind of surprise: the random night out.
While the organised night out on the town certainly isn’t high up on my agenda these days (because, as you know, I’m getting old), I do appreciate the in-the-moment conversion of a bar area into an impromptu dance floor.
You know those nights.
The ones where someone cries “It’s still early!” once you’ve finished dinner, followed swiftly by “Let’s just go for one.”
After one (bottle), watches are consulted, and another cries “We’ve still got 2 hours before the last train – plenty of time for one more!”
Then suddenly, you find yourself sucked into a round. And you can’t leave without squaring up your turn.
The last train goes. Without you on it. And once you’ve resigned yourself to catching a cab, it’s pretty much all over, red rover.
Drinks will be spilled. Tables will be danced on. Someone will cry. And fast food will be consumed before falling into bed at 4am, on a Wednesday night, your daily alarm reproachingly letting you know that you’ve only got a three hour window of sleep before a full day of meetings. Followed by a work gala dinner to attend. Snap.
But despite the headaches, the queasiness, and the rapid fire consumption of greasy foods the next day – it will all still be worth it, because it was just SO. DAMN. FUN.