On the cold, wet and miserable day that was Friday, J-J and I fought against the elements, and made it to the champagne bar at St Pancras, as noted in a previous post. What a station. I really loved it - everything from the beautiful blue girders, through to the considerate announcements over the tannoy about a couple who had left a pink bag in their taxi. OK, so the waiting staff were bordering on outrageously rude, but they had great uniforms and frankly nothing was going to get in the way of a J-J/SP night out.
We were remembering previous evenings of fun. Like the time we rocked up at the Met bar at the height of its popularity. Our chances of getting in looked pretty glum, until some considerate soul hurled a cupcake (?? - don't ask me why) out of a window high above us. It landed on my head, and in alarm, the doormen waved us in. Or the time we ended up at G-A-Y getting a little too friendly with some randoms. The less said about that one the better, I think. Endless nights out in the shitty pubs of Westminster village also feature heavily in our back catalogue, alongside a host of random unidentified injuries, embarrassing texts and gender-bending antics. Happy times, guaranteed carnage and a lot of laughter. Who wants to grow up and have dinner parties?
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