And then there was Friday, where the comparative refinement of a Malaysian lunch and leisurely wander through the Citibank Photography Prize 2003 exhibition with Benny gave way to a debauched night with Mark at the annual UCL Debating Society Foundation Dinner, where we skipped the dinner and most of the debating bits, and concentrated our efforts on getting, as Mark often so colourfully observes, “off our nipples”. I hazily remember spilling Guinness on Alec and getting all teary on the way home remembering how fond I still am of many old UCL debating hacks.
Because of Friday, I was fairly useless on Saturday, although the effects of the hangover thankfully confined themselves to my mental faculties rather than my stomach lining. This wasn’t a problem during the day when I lounged around, finished English Passengers and wasted time on the Internet, but rendered me extremely boring at Nick’s birthday do at Cargo that night. So I clutched my cider (yes, I like cider, you wannamakesomethinuvit?) and stood around desperately trying to think of something to say other than observations on how boring I was being. Not much came, until the music changed from dub-electronica-Arabian-folk to Work It (Missy’s), and I sought relief in silent gesticulating on the dancefloor.
On Sunday I was lured to Spitalfields Market, where I talked myself out of buying a £20 orange bag, explained to a girl from China selling bracelets (I bought one, orange) that yes I could speak Mandarin but no I couldn’t speak it very well and no not everyone in Singapore was quite as lousy, and marvelled at how flatteringly the dress on the cross-dresser manning the organic veggie stall hugged his very considerable curves. On Brick Lane, a car slouched by blasting Still Dre. On Commercial Street a car slouched by blasting Mundian To Bach Ke. On Bishopsgate a car slouched by blasting Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These.