With crap tv in the background, the phrase “bring on the…” surfaced just as I started to write. The title is thus a gift from Echo and the Bunnymen, and just a little of the Great New Zealand Spelling Bee. A little. I’m filling in some time here until Rome starts.
All week we Wellingtonistas had been pestering that most urbane of our number, Tom, to take us ingénues to one of his classy gin-joints for a real martini. On Friday he obliged, and we (that is, myself, Martha and Glen, Jo, and the mysterious Maximus) went to the Last Supper Club. Given that the last martini I’d had was more reminiscent of aviation fuel than anything actually worth drinking my expectations were not very high, despite Tom’s buildup on Kim Hill and during the week. I was very pleasantly surprised to the point where I’d have liked to have had another. But luckily for me I had to shoot away after an hour or so, as martini number two would have put me on the path of no return.
As probably was to have been expected, I did not make it to Minuit last night, for which I am mildly regretful. (Sorry Paul, if you are reading this.)
I had the chance to go too: a late call from one of the other Playcentre parents asking if I was going (she’d tried, and failed, to convince her older early-teen children to go with her) but frankly I couldn’t be shagged. There was a roast chicken in the oven and a nice bottle of red warming up. Stepping out the door just seemed like too much effort. And this morning the girls were up and about just after 6am, which would have made a late night very awkward.
Even so, it’s a slippery slope to me being content staying in with only my pipe and slippers and the occasional small glass of port (only on high days and holidays, of course) for excitement. There’s a second chance later in the month – Minuit are back playing Sandwiches (wherever the hell that is – I am so out of the scene) on the 26th. We shall see.
And so another week begins.