Amongst the sea of 'booze blues' that I'm still recovering from, I have a story of fun to report. On Friday, with my work buddy and new found partner in crime, I finally sampled Maddisons Bar, located up in the rafters of One New Change. In summary: lovely bar, stunning view, lots of suits. Unfortunately, the partner in crime and I were soon cornered by two of the most tedious and racist men I have ever met (racist against English people- surely the first rule of flirting is to know your audience?!)
Thankfully, we were soon rescued and whisked to the dance floor by our knights in shining armour...or the modern day equivalent, men in well cut suits. I'm yet to hear the partner in crime's debrief of her rescuer, but mine from bleary memory appeared friendly, humorous (possibly) and an enthusiastic dancer. He was also 35. A real, certified grown-up!
Age is something we've been discussing numerous time at The Slutty Suppers Club - just how old (or young, in SugarM's case!) would you go? But, as The Grown-Up had already texted me by the time I'd stumbled home, treasured chicken McSandwich in hand, it struck me that meeting an older bloke may offer pleasant novelties. Perhaps in his world there's less game playing, with minimal concern to the silly politics of who texts who first, how long to wait before sending a reply etc. An enticing possibility indeed that this crap ceases to exist when you're over 30...
We texted quite a few times on Saturday, and he wasn't even perturbed by my texting-misspelt rubbish to him at 4am on Sunday morning, when he was sensibly fast asleep after a night of Ovaltine and Top Gear (or so he said!). Communications have gone rather quiet today, possibly in part due to the evil V Day throwing an elephant into the room, but we'll see!
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