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Because Mary's venue was a shop, there was no booze for sale, and, forewarned, I had gone to 7-Eleven first to stock up. Unfortunately, as we get further and further away from pay day, I'm more and more skint, and so I found myself staring at the refridgerator of alcohol and trying to figure what was the most advantageous ratio of price:booze. I'm sure I haven't done that since I was an impecunious teenager. Perhaps the strain of life in Hong Kong has got to me and I'm making the first steps towards being an alcoholic. However, although they had plenty of wifebeater (Stella Artois, for those of you without the advantages conferred by an English upbringing) and Diamond Black (8% cider with a shot of blackcurrent juice in it for added fun and excitement), I went for a couple of bottles of Heineken. Because they were cheap. Like me.
Also, I didn't really want to get utterly drunk: it was going to be a long night, and I have a lot to achieve this weekend.
[Tonight I'm hosting at the comedy club, and I can't think of any topical jokes that I didn't use last week. Perhaps I should be reading the paper more often. (With tae-kwondo monkeys fighting their trainer in China, I don't think there's any point making jokes about the news when the news itself is more funny.) Then tomorrow I've got an audition for a romantic comedy, for filming in January and February.]
After eating lots of hummus at Mary's, I figured it was time to go back to Cicada and see how the party was going there. As I walked along Hollywood Road, I saw a familiar back of head; it was Gary, walking down the street to his own party. By now he was half an hour late, so we compounded this by going into G.O.D so he could buy a notebook, and arriving at Cicada around 8:40. I think everyone must have turned up at eight, found no sign of Gary and then gone away again, so I hung out with him until another of his friends was retrieved via a phone call, and my girlfriend arrived. Then back to Mary's, to retrieve my bag full of beer, to head down to the third party, at Tom and Hilary's.
I didn't get to talk to Tom or Hilary much; I'd never met them before, but I can happily report that they are both very tall. And they have a cat, which seems to be quite fat and also most amenable to being stroked. I'm now also a little worried that I might be allergic to cats, because I couldn't stop sneezing after we left the flat, and my eyes and throat felt horrible for the next two hours. Of course, this was after I left the flat, so perhaps I'm not allergic to cats, just to leaving the places that cats are situated in. This may require further research to confirm.
At the party I met several French people, discovering that a French accent is indeed a wonderful thing. A man can say that he "was vomitting drunk" and it still has a certain Gallic charm to it. I also met a Norweigan who I could practice my Norweigan swearing on, and a environmental consultant who had studied at Oxford at almost the same time as me. That wouldn't be so much of a coincidence, but she also lives in the same block of flats as me, although she's on the uppermost floor. This is terrific news, as I like being high up - I will have to wrangle a visit to the 22nd floor as soon as I can.
By 11:30 I was done for the day; the usual day at the office plus peripatetic socialising had taken its toll on me. It wasn't like the old days, when I could drink until 3am and then roll into the office at 9, sweating beer and shivering at my desk. Thus I was a little surprised to wake up this morning feeling like I'd been run over by a truck; I turned off my alarm and didn't wake up until 11 in the morning, half the day already disposed of.
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