In between parties

I feel like I've just been beaten up. I wish I could sleep. Sleep until I wake up, litteraly. Which would probably not be before 9pm on Sunday.
Not bound to happen.

I have a party of my own to organise. That's right. In The House.
The sixth one of our fancy-dress parties.
Like the past ones, it will probably attract about a hundred persons, if you don't count the gate-crashers... That' s how famous -or infamous- our parties have become over the months in West London.

I can't wait. There's always loads happening. Even if The House might end up somehow destroyed...Again.

But, if I am still laughing at last night randomness, I am too knackered to think straight.
I was wild last night.

The original plan was a quiet dinner with Brooke in Covent Garden. Yeah right, like we stopped at that...
One thing leading to another, we then dropped by that gay bar for a few free drinks (an old school-mate works there), and at 11:30pm, decided we couldn't resist the clubbing call and jumped in the tube.
Direction: Fabric.

Except that, when we got there, the queue to get in was going all the way around the block. Some bouncer I asked to said we should expect about three hours of queuing.

No thanks.
I'm not Bristish enough to love queuing that much, and London is bloody cold at that time of the night in November.

So we walked around for a while and sat down outside a crap coffee shop for a cigarette.
The owner sat with us and invited his prostitute friend to join in, which made for an interesting conversation...
"Bianca" (that was her "stage name") told us they were having a great night at Turmills and that we should go. I complimented her on her shoes (maybe a bit too much for me, but still really cute!), and we headed to the club.

What a great choice! I should follow more often prostitutes advices!
As expected, people in there were out of their faces, but so much fun nethertheless.

Here are some the things I said, and to whom:

*To the bunch of blokes who asked us which "stuff" we were on and where we got it:
-double-espresso: Caffe Nero!
-sambuca shots: the cute bartender!

*To all the people who told me they luuuuved my sunglasses:
Cheers! Portobello Market, four pounds!

*To the guy who waved a glow stick two inches away from my face for half an hour, hoping I would take it:
Sorry darling, but that's too small for me!

*To all of those who asked for a spare cigarette:
Nope. I'm an addict. And when I run out, if you ask again, I'll probably savagely murder one of you guys and search your dead bleeding body for anything smokable.

*To the guys who asked me if I had a boyfriend:
Nope. I don't have one. I have two. And that's more than enough, thanks!

*To the guy next to the toilet who offered me mushrooms:
Sorry, don't do them, but do you have some of the non-magic organic ones from Sainsbury's? I love them!


And on and on...

Appart from talking bullshit with randoms, we danced, and danced and danced. The DJ in the back room is a genius.
But the place was a bit too hot. Seriously, it felt like doing aerobics in a steam room.

At 5am, ours legs refusing to keep up with the jumping around and feeling extremely dehydrated, we embarqued on our 3+ night buses journey home.

Oh, and I'd like to make a little dedication to the Spanish guy on the N55, who kept going on and on about how two girls ate his sausage;
Yes, I understand Spanish, and yes, I was laughing at you.