It’s been an interesting weekend so far, which probably means it’s going to be a terrible week. This year I still haven’t managed to find that fine line between unwinding from the week and getting so completely unwound that you can’t get yourself together for the next one. In case my mother is reading this, I have to clarify that I don’t mean that in a drinks, drugs and bad, bad men way, I just mean it in a not doing my work way. Which she shouldn’t have a problem accepting, given that I’ve been like that my whole life.
The Gallery at Turnmills on Friday was well worth the eight pounds (the best thing about getting on the guest list, given that their members’ bar vibe was more like a slightly run-down sandwich shop than anything else. Note to whoever does the music: Playing Air, good. Just chucking the entire Air album into the player, not so good.) We were a slightly disparate group united only by the fact that we were all Vish’s friends who all enjoy clubbing, but given that conversation isn’t exactly a factor that defines the success or failure of a club experience, it felt far less awkward than any other kind of social event would have been. Less enjoyable moments of the evening included losing Russ for an hour, which was stressful given that he had my money and keys, and I didn’t fancy throwing myself on the mercy of the various dodgy characters who tried equally dodgy pick-up lines on the nearest lone female they could find. Being sandwiched between Crazy Elbows At Eye-Jabbing Level Girl and Very Sweaty Shirtless I’m Sooo Cool Because You Can See My Calvins Over The Top Of My Well Filled Trousers Guy, as was my unfortunate situation at one point, can also lead you to contemplate giving up the unequal fight for dance floor space and just rocking to and fro in a fetal position. But it was, all in all, a good night. :)
After spending my Friday night in a mother-worrying activity, I decided to spend my Saturday night doing stuff that would make her happy. There was a youth celebration mass at Westminster Cathedral, which most of the people in Newman House, as well as the Singaporean Catholics, were going to, so when I woke up (at 4 pm!) I decided to make the effort, despite the worrying possibilities that the words “youth celebration” suggest. Thankfully, it wasn’t that bad – they did, for the most part, manage to strike a balance between making the mass a little more upbeat than usual and making the stupid assumption that all youth like electric guitars, full drum sets and feelgood but ultimately meaningless outbursts of praise when they go to mass. The marked lack of enthusiasm displayed by the congregation whenever the songs did involve clapping was truly heartening. So there, Charismatics…
So now I’m sitting here with some honeyed water and some, er, ham (don’t ask), with a big bands compilation on, and I’m happy with two well-spent nights. Give me a club or a cathedral, Heineken or honey water, Timo Maas or Tommy Dorsey – it’s all good. :)