Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Nights... And Lazy Lazy Lazy Lazy Days

Dear Readers, your Humble Blogger must be commended. It is the morning (afternoon) after the night before, she can barely function, she is sat in a darkened room with an glass of ice water and the air-conditioning single-handedly destroying the earth's resources, and yet she is here, ready to recount the tales of the Housewarming.

We had drinks. We had snacks. We had finally told various people that festivities were on the cards. But when it hit 10.30pm and not a soul had turned up, we began to wonder two things:

1. Was anybody actually going to come?

2. Would we have been better hosts had we actually given people a rough idea of a start time?

Finally one lone guest drifted in, at which point your Humble Blogger disappeared to change. Given that the party was in my house, she was literally going to be all dressed up with nowhere to go, but it's nice to make an effort. At this point, the opening notes of some garish party tune wafted through to this Humble Blogger's ears, with the promise of more guests at the door. They were indeed. Well before midnight, there was a small crowd of people equipped with not-unimpressive supplies of alcohol, and a desire to let it all hang out (thankfully, no one did). This Humble Blogger immediately found herself some rum, some cigarettes and some corner space, and proceeded to get quietly merry. But, Dear Readers, do not think that this was a display of anti-socialness itself. This time, the mountain came to Mohammed.

At no point in the evening was your Humble Blogger alone. Indeed, people came from across the party to converse with her. She had more conversations with people she knew and people she didn't than any other night of the past eight months. She found that there are indeed some people out there who are worth the effort. She learned that there are others who should from now on, perhaps, be avoided, due to not-underwhelming evidence that they are possibly marginally insane. She learned that there are more english speakers than ever imagined, and all with a higher level than expected. She learned that it is probably not wise to ask a handful of people whether one particular guest is a lesbian.

The middle of the party saw the group divide into two factions. Those at the front of the flat, and those on the patio at the back. Towards the end of the night, when more people arrived, the atmosphere shifted and people started to mingle once again. Your Humble Blogger, however, stayed right where she was, on the patio, sipping rum and coke and chain smoking the night away? Why, Dear Readers? Aside from the fact that there was no desperate need to get up, this party host wasn't entirely sure what the state of affairs would be if she tried...

And the Frenchies? El Chileno? The latter joined me in a pact to get drunk in corners, and then convinced me to accompany the remaining stragglers to a bar halfway across town, which at 4.30am was almost certainly closed but someone was saying they knew someone that worked there. Half an hour of trekking later, we arrived to discover it was indeed closed, and that this someone didn't know anyone. Where was Frenchie II? At a club, with some Argentines. And Le Frenchman? Having vomited twice, he proceeded to go to bed and sleep it off, and to slap away any attempts by this Humble Blogger to take care of him.

Thankfully, the carpet remained, for many a reason, vomit-free.