chick night

I met up with The Chicks last night.
Sex, drugs and rock and roll, or the discussions thereof over some alcohol always ends off the day rather nicely.
And as it goes, we all came from work, bitching and moaning about something, whether it be the broken fax machine, the irrationally-demanding and hormonal boss, the endless pile of ever-increasing paperwork, or boredom of monolithic sanity.

So the question, How was your day, then? is always met with similar responses:
C: hard work, I so much I have to do.
N: Hectic, can our server actually crash eight times in one day?
S: Boring. I had to all but shove toothpicks between my drooping eyelids to stay awake.
Klo: I have no time for myself, my clients always want to see me after hours.
Peas: Boring, help, I need a holiday, the server crashed, the boss asked me to reload the entire website, the editor is out to destroy me and I didn’t get to eat lunch.

You know, the usual.

Then E2 piped up:
“Chinas, shut the fuck up already. You think you had a bad day?”

Turns out E2 had to run around a corporate head office, filled with auditors, merchant bankers, financial strategists and such, in a life-sized lobster outfit.

If that wasn’t enough, she had to jump around getting people excited about a new campaign, with a vuvuzela, a large stick with a crab on it (the theme was obviously an icthy-related topic), and large goggles.
For four hours.
The student hired to do this job didn’t pitch. So E2 had to step in.

You win.

After a couple of tonks and a snack basket, one suddenly got that unmistakable waft of puke that one unmistakably cannot ignore. Someone, something, had chundered within very close proximity of our table, and we were sitting downwind. The pub in which we had chosen ourselves in which to grace was more, how do we say, upmarket?, than our lovely and very-usual, if not predictable Jolly Roger Wednesdays.
Behind us, a woman, perhaps in her mid-60s, was parking a deplorable tiger into the plants just off the side of her table. It was very obviously a work function, yet, everyone sitting at her table decided to just pretend she wasn’t [very conspicuously] vomiting and carried on chatting, snacking and sipping casually on their drinks. All while this bird, dressed in power suit, heels and tight blue perm, vomayed within everyone’s midst.

It was all quite bizarre. She was obviously too smashed to walk or get walked to the safety and privacy of the ladies water closet. We offered water, but she didn’t hear us through the symptomatic sounds of rushing water that penetrated her ears, clearly.

On an entirely different note altogether, there really is something wonderful about sleeping in the arms of someone. We still toss and turn when in the same bed – I’m still not used to sharing my linen and space with someone during dos-time – but I lay there, loving that his arms were over my body, his hands entangled in mine, his soft breathing and lips in my back, and his feet touching my feet.

What a pleasure.

Off to Christmas end of year lunch...