The scratch-marks down my back burned all evening; it had been an intense afternoon. I headed home after we’d eaten spaghetti, and went to ready myself for Eileen’s 30th birthday. Dunk and Kate were sat at the kitchen table when I arrived, eating pizza. We chewed the fat over a cider, and it was lovely.
Eileen’s party started at Proof, which wasn’t as shit as I’d thought it would be. Yes, I’m aware that’s to be damned with faint praise, but that’s appropriate for somewhere edging with Escape for the prize of naffest bar in Chorlton that you’d still go into. If you had to. Woody and Clare were there, as were Paul and Jim, and a whole crowd. Jean and Danny exchanged a few Profanisaurus terms: Wizard’s Sleeve, F.L.A.M.E , Clown’s Pocket and so on. My favourite was a face like a stuntman’s knee. Beautiful.
My mild consumption and the hustle and bustle of Mojo weren’t a great combination, so I got out of there and headed homewards. Laura was in 42s. Would it be too much of me to pop in and to kiss her? Would that be too much? Reader, I did.
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