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I
think it was a thursday night. We, my fellow pal, a dj of some note, fast
rising in this most fashionable part of town, spent a ludicrous amount
of time awaiting public transport (how could we!) to take us into Mayfair
for a rock show performed by the lovely Miss Fahey.
We caught the last three minutes of the show.
My guestlist status had me searching the ground for the brazen cheek of
it all, and Miss Fahey was not approached as one could hardly say: "Sweet
Lady, I enjoyed ever second of it. All one hundred and eighty of them."
So I gathered a flock of some likeable types, we now numbered six, and
marched from the warmth of Mayfair into the heat of Soho. This being November
the previous sentence barely works- but at any rate (a muddish heart rate)
our vaccuous spirits were warmed, or should that be singed, by each others
company.
Old Compton Street lead us to our little hovel: Balan's Cafe. Ah, the
place of so many nocturnal debates. Our table was given to us within seconds
of greeting the doorman. I believe it was Gillian who first suggested
we eat rather than merely drink- I completely agreed with him and soon
others followed.
Our neighbours tonight were the lovely Jessibell of Counterpoint fame-
she has recently been ignoring me after that comment I made about her
shoes, and yet tonight all was forgiven over a vegetarian breakfast fry-up.
We shared a few glances as she dipped her fried potato into my pool of
maroon sauce.
Meanwhile back at my table a small eruption of art bile had spilled into
my ears. Someone was declaring the latest single by Miss Manouvre to be
a work of genius! I begged to differ and yet his fork with a gloop of
banoffee pie dug into my face. The manager spotted this ruffle of the
Truffle Team and quickly dashed to hush the tempers. I managed one last
crack of the whip before serving up a compliment to deflect further intrusions
into my sacred realm of the unmentionable.
Bunny Hoptoes declared it bill time by screaming for it at the top of
her falsetto voice. The waiter, I think his name may have begun with the
letter c, with all the affection of a greedy aunt had the nerve to ask
us if we would like anything else! Do they not teach manners at Servant
School these days? It is impolite to suggest that someone doesn't know
when to call it a night. Sister Hugo coughed, "My good man, I intend
to leave as soon as possible- you are the only one preventing me from
leaving at this very moment!". I groaned privately to Gillian- when
one table falls one must build a bridge to the next one.
In the end nothing was said but everything was thought. I will never speak
to Sister Hugo again!
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