I had yesterday off work (mostly anyway) and so spent most of the day alternating between boring-but-necessary chores and catching up on shows I'd bookmarked to watch/listen to. Bliss. In the evening, I headed out for a beer - ironically with people from work, although none of whom I actually work with, so that's OK. It's a big company, that can happen and I rather like it.
On the way to the pub I get suddenly redirected by the invitation to impromptu birthday drinks in town. I'm game, so I head to Covent Garden rather than Shepherd's Bush. It's not a hard choice to make.
I end up in a trendy basement lounge/bar arrangement - it's happy hour, and half full of local suits and fashionistas taking advantage of the half-price cocktails. The music's just one long anonymous boom-chk-boom affair, accurately blared out at the level at which it's impossible to have a reasonable conversation with anyone. I know a fair few people there who I've not seen in ages, and with whom I'd appreciate the chance to catch up with, but there's no chance of that. I sup a mojito, which took half an hour to procure and about three minutes to drink.
T, who's 8 months pregnant, shows up with her SO, who I've not met before. She introduces me as 'the smartest guy I know'. I offer a rebuttal, offering that I'm perhaps the tallest guy she knows. The half-joke gets lost in the din.
Hotpanted girls - I don't know if there's a name for them, or what their job titles could possibly be - float around and proffer test tubes full of God-knows-what. It's too loud to find out, and anyway my carefree vodka jelly days are very much over.
H and L show up, and we attempt to catch up. It's nice to see everyone but it's just not happening. Having made sure I've seen everyone for a hello, I slip quietly out and head home.
I'm hungry, so I scoff the tuna salad in the fridge, and am subsequently taken over by the spirit of Peter Rabbit. Conked out on the sofa in a rum/lettuce coma, the cat sits on my head. Zzzzz.