This morning when I picked Michael up from the train, he said:
“I am giving you a choice for your birthday either I take you out for lunch or dinner tomorrow or we go out tonight and party and then tomorrow I will cook you a nice dinner.”
I chose to party.
I chose to party.
There is this rather dodgy place that we go to that mostly hosts middle age people. It is known as a “pick up joint” but seeing that we are already “picked up”, we have no worries.
(Last year I went there with a girl friend and a guy tried picking me up, I showed him my wedding ring and then the unexpected happened he showed me his, REALLY)
We like going there because they play music mostly rock music, there is none of this hip hop, house and kwaito stuff.
After a few drinks the band starts to sound good.
The conversation usually goes like this:
Early in the evening:
“Shit, that is that Nirvana song he is trying to play, I did not even recognise it, Kurt must be turning in his grave right now.”
Later in the evening:
“Wow this band is good, never hear such a good cover of a Metallica song done ever.”
Our dancing also changes.
Early in the evening we are trying to dance with dignity and look cool. We are barely moving and we are standing very upright.
Later in the evening we have lost all dignity and inhibition. Everything and anything that can jiggle is jiggling. We suddenly think it is extra cool to do actions for every word of the song. We also look as if we are having weird spasms.
Early in the evening Michael and I are standing on our own chatting sedately.
Later in the evening we have newly acquired friends that we are talking our hearts out to and there is a lot of hugging and we have come up for solutions for all the world’s problems.
Last year I went out twice, once with a friend and once with Michael. Usually we only go out once a year, if even. We really are becoming old farts.
It may be very long before I blog again because it takes me forever to recover from a night out.