Saturday morning was bright and sunny, and despite a late night I had a good feeling about the weekend ahead. After making a packed lunch and picking up the birthday girl. We ate our lunch in a layby on the A1. Parking at Cockfosters as usual, we got off to a good start by finding a ticket seller with a REAL sense of humour. He was making it like a quiz showing asking us questions to get the right tickets, and then said "That'll be £148 please". I imagine the look on my face was worth him turning up for work that day. It was really £28 for the weekend all zones for us both.
After finding the hotel and dumping our bags, we hit Oxford Street. After finding a nice John Rocha top in Debenham's sale we went to Selfridges. Angela says that when Holly Golightly says that nothing bad could ever happen in (Breakfast at) Tiffany's, that sums up how she feels about Selfridges. Now I understand why! Basically, we got free make up and perfume and hair straightening just by walking through the store. I did actually buy some of the products but only stuff I already wanted. We had our eyebrows waxed and made up again too so all that was left was to get dressed for the evening and eat! Obviously we had to go to the Champagne bar for champagne and oysters and then to the food hall to buy olives and a selection of healthy stuff from RAW. We scoffed them back at the hotel, tweaked hair and make up slightly, washed London off our feet and got changed.
By the time we hit Covent Garden it was pushing 11pm! We'd had a quick drink in Tottenham Court road and then really struggled walking round the cobbles of the Garden looking for somewhere that was still serving. In search of a cashpoint we found Navajo Joe's where I was keen to revisit because the barstaff throw the cocktail shakers around properly and serve tasty snacks! Access DENIED. The doorman said they were closing, and even after debating that 11pm didn't sound like a "late bar" as the sign said he just didn't want us in there. We were getting desperate, the champagne buzz had worn off and it was looking like a very sensible night ahead for us. It wasn't looking good, since everywhere had queues outside and the thought of joining them in heels wasn't terribly appealing.
More cobble hobbling and we found a decent place, paid for drinks and miraculously found a seat. It didn't take long before we were joined by some rather boring but pleasant enough bloke who took a shine to Angela, said comedy things like "You both look very alike", "Have you been here before?" and mispronounced every place name that came up in conversation. When he, AT LAST went to the bar, girly chat took place and I started yawning when he came back, Angela went to the ladies and I got talking to four very nice, but VERY young lads all aged 19, rather than talk to our new "friend" who was from Persia (he doesn't like saying Iran). They confirmed that everywhere was about £15 to get in, but at their tender age, having been ID'd on the door, couldn't recommend anywhere in particular. Angela tried to ditch the Persian by saying I was tired (remember my stage yawns) but he was having none of it, insisting that they walk me back to the hotel then they go out again! Then he tried to persuade me, as a friend that I should agree to this since she said it was mean. I said it was mean and that we'd come out to have fun together but he'd hogged her company all night. He showed no signs of giving up at all so I pulled out the Cancer Card. I said she wouldn't leave me because I'd had cancer and was still recovering (well it's not a million miles from the truth). The git didn't believe me!! I offered to show him my scars which he declined. But he did at least let us leave on our own. We were looking for somewhere to hide from him in case he decided to follow when a long haired French man appeared from nowhere and asked if we'd like to go to a club. Oh YES, but how much? £7 each.......DONE.
The club was called Salvador & Amanda and was Spanish. After initial apprehension, mixed with relief that we'd escaped Mr Dullsville, we walked down the steps into the basement club. It was already a great atmosphere, it was cosy not gloomy and not too big. We sat down and I had to fend off conversation from a rather dull, but probably very nice bloke from Norway who looked very out of place. We spotted a girl from Angela's village who even sat at our table, after checking the seats were free then ignored us and didn't acknowledge she knew who we were! Weird! There was a group of four dancing near us, really having a good time so we went for a wander and somehow got bought tequila slammers...........we spent the rest of the night chatting to Spanish and Mexican chaps who were just lovely and friendly. They weren't sleazy or anything, just well, NICE! I have a few photos on my phone with most of them in and outside the club which to be honest, I don't know who took!
After we left the club we went in search of food and found Mohamed who sold us some good coffee and falafels. Yum. Just as we were debating how to get back to the hotel in heels at 4am with a pedotaxi driver I sort of lost my footing on the kerb and erm.....fell off it. I was in a LOT of pain, so it must have hurt, given I'd have a few drinks. I couldn't get up........but I'd landed with the coffee upright and didn't spill one drop. The driver picked me up and made me sit on the seat of the trike. He took us (OK, should have seen this coming) to his mate's cab office. We did haggle them down a fiver.......and sauntered into the hotel at some ungodly hour. The guy on duty in reception greeted us with "You like dancing ladies?" I guess by the state of Angela's dirty bare feet, heels in hand and me limping it was obvious we'd been up to something.
We woke up after a few hours kip, and Angela eventually had to steel herself to check what the squeaking was just outside the window near her head, fearing a family of rats.
What she saw was one fat ugly baby pigeon and a scrawny weedy looking one. Little rat with wings was pecking the big one saying "Stop eating all the food you fat git", making a right old song and dance. Nearby was the gnarled remains of a dried up dead pigeon. I'm not sure if fat pigeon ate him, or just his food or if the weedy looking one nagged and pecked him to death. We reckoned the mum was squatting and had rung the council to take the dead one away but, well you know what they're like! She looked like she was probably on crack anyway (yes I know she was a pigeon but we'd had a lot of tequila the night before and they sort of developed human characteristics).
Despite the swelling on my right foot, the pain in my right hand and the HUGE graze on my left knee I was determined we should complete our weekend with gallery visits as planned.
So, hobbling like Tiny Tim along the riverside towards Tate Modern, a strange man dressed in black with a curly ginger ponytail slowed his pace to mine (my "mate" was steaming ahead forgetting I was lame) and asked in a mysterious low foreign accent
Man: "Are the eyes connected to the paranormal?"
Me: "Erm, no"
Man: "So you do not have second sight?"
Me: "Um, no, I don't think so"
He nodded and walked off.........then paused, turned around and came back to say
Man: "I once saw a king cobra dance to the tune of a flute, he had two blue eyes on his back".
He then gave me a knowing look and a smile, a nod and disappeared.
Weirdos, I draw them like water to a sponge. Dirty bath water.
Hayward gallery was pretty good - it was Psycho Buildings exhibition. We spent a well earned rest on the floor inside a plastic bubble with people crawling around on a suspended plastic shelf above us. We also spent, what felt like forever wandering (very slowly and painfully in my case) round the Tate Modern - as thought provoking as many of the works were, I was still pretty damn relieved to get to the top level - the overriding provoked thought being that of pain and the need to lie down and not move for a very long time.
More hobbling and limping required to get to the tube - Southwark station - and we just kept getting the giggles. To the point where we thought we MIGHT lose control - pelvic floor kinda control! Just as we stopped doubled over laughing at me hobbling twenty paces behind Angela and how pathetic I looked and felt some men across the road pointed and started taking the mickey. One of them was loading up a van with equipment and started chatting, asking if we were pissed. Another disappeared then reappeared with a bottle of cold water to hold on my swollen ankle. I was getting first aid in the middle of London from a man with a FILM CREW name tag.........they were apparently filming a new series of Minder where Shane Richie plays Arthur's nephew (well someone's nephew, maybe it's Terry's nephew). Sadly we didn't see Shane but two rather nice looking men in expensive suits got into a chauffeur driven car. They were probably famous.
All in all it was a pretty damn good weekend with a lot of laughing and I believe the laughing probably helped tone my abdominal muscles more than the two weeks at the gym I've missed because my ankle and wrist were too painful!
I can't believe it's taken me so long to get round to finish this. I think it's because I've been busy! Oh and I went out on a date with a man. For dinner. He's very nice!
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