Monday, September 20, 2004
Saturday Night's All Right
The general perceived notion round these parts (well, Compton Street come closing-time) is that we metropolitan Marys all lead hugely hedonistic lives, mwah-mwahing our way from guest-list to A-list with our cutting-edge clothes and designer drugs, setting the standard in all things superficial, and generally shagging anything remotely resembling a member from a boy-band.
So by rights, and so as not to let the side down, I should have been spotted this weekend somewhere in a mixed-up and sweaty mess of muscled madness, amyl up the nose, trousers round the ankles, slappers at my side, and dancing to next door's Hoover after having partaken of far too much of the fifth and eleventh letters of the alphabet.
Instead, my dears - and if someone had even been bothered to look - they would have found me at home, slopping around in my trackie bottoms, re-reading a favourite book by table-light, whilst sipping a fine red wine, and listening to the complete recorded works of Kathleen Ferrier.
Staying in on Saturday night: it’s the new rock 'n' roll, don't you know? Now, someone get me my pipe and slippers.