So, the Friday.
The evening kicked off in the same way as many have before. Staggering into our usual 'start' pub, slightly worse the wear following a typical Friday lunchtime (fortunately, the creeping US Corporatisation of our little company hasn't spread to Friday lunchtimes. Not yet, at any rate.)
A friend who has just set up home with his first long-term girlfriend drunkenly offered advice:
"Mate, you don't wanna do what I did. Playing the field and all that..."
(Er, yes. I think I probaby do)
"Nah, nah, it just leaves you empty. Empty and lonely. I've been there, mate. Been there, you know? Different girl every night..."
(Still sounding a valid plan to me. I'm empty and lonely already. Empty and lonely with company of an evening? I'll go for that)
"Cos you're a great bloke, and you might lose yourself. You do. You forget who you are... I mean, look at me..."
He fell over at around that point.
I also had a bit of a Lemonesque epiphany. I've got a really poor self-image - when I hit the bars with mates, I always regard myself as 'the fat friend'. While buying a round of drinks, I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar and thought "Heck, you look ok. I'd fancy you, if I was a girl. A fairly desperate girl with bad eyesight admittedly..." (my psyche can't resist the odd jibe, even when in cheerleading mode)
However, I did return to the table with confidence boosted.
A truly awful curry was partially consumed, more drinks were had, brandy and tequila were poured down throats in equal measure and at closing time we went our seperate ways. Me back to a solitary existance in a hotel room.
Of course, my evening didn't end there. On my way back, I pottered past a restaurant I used to go to with The Ex and First-born quite regularly. The place was closed, and through the window you could see the staff playing cards and enjoying a pre-going home bottle of wine. I know the chef quite well (in my other life as 'person who knows about computers' I set some things up for him) and one of the waitresses always served us (she likes First-born.) It was the waitress who waved. I waved back. She came to the door and said "Hello! We haven't seen you for ages! (the chef) wants to buy you a drink for fixing his computer - do you want to come in?"
So in I went. As they dealt me in, I had to explain why I'd not been in for the last few months. A plate of fresh garlic bread appeared from nowhere and a glass was pressed into my hand, and so I spent a few happy hours losing at cards, exchanging jokes and banter. As the chef locked up and began to walk away, the waitress paused and called after him: "I'll catch up, ok?"
She turned to me and said: "Hey look, I'm really sorry about what's happened. And I really respect what you're trying to do. But, you know, if you want to hook up sometime, call me. Yeah?"
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe I was still feeling the euphoric effects of a good evening. But I kissed her.
Her hand snaked inside my jacket, another went to the back of my head. And she kissed me back. With feeling.
She pulled away and pressed a piece of paper into my hand: "Gotta go. My lift's waiting. Call me. Ok?"
As the tail-lights dwindled in the distance, I looked at the paper, half expecting to find a punchline to a joke. Instead, there was a mobile number and a message: "Call me!"
