For those here in anticipation of an update on the BOF and Pretty Neighbour saga, do not fret. There have been developments. But until they can be revealed in full, please distract yourself with today's trip to the pictures:
My ambient cellist friend Pegson (for details of former adventures see here) is a media darling, so evenings spent with him always seem to contain people who introduce themselves as being 'in the arts'. What can this mean? They seem sure it is impressive. Connected to something that occasionally produces 'art'. I digress.
For this week's jaunt, we (Pal, Pegson and I) ambled to the launch of a worthy new venture which was celebrated with the screening of a very non-worthy (though hilarious) new film.
Afterwards, there was a drinks thing on. Pegson and Pal said 'no let's not, it'll be dry,' but I, attired in BOF's cloak of belligerence, argued that we really should go rather than dashing in for the free film and sodding off. It was at a members club somewhere about. It was packed. Also it was for charity so there was no free booze. The signs should have been obvious.
In we went - Pegson and Pal mumbling aggressively to one another behind me. Secretly I was also keen because the club was near and I was bursting for the loo.
|'You can't go up here.'|
This I announced before negotiating the crowds to the most likely area for a loo-venue. There, by a flight of stairs, stood a tall surly waiter-ish man dressed in black.
'Excuse me, where would I find the loo?' I asked him, politely.
Chap: 'You can't go up here.'
KitC: 'That's fine, I just want to go to the loo.'
Chap: 'Up here is members only.'
KitC: 'OK great. Where's the bathroom please?'
Chap (getting hostile): Look. You can't go up here, it's for members.'
KitC (desperate now): I don't want to! I just want to find a loo!
Chap: Well you can't, you...
Happily, at this point, another similarly attired gent arrived, looking surly too, but slightly more helpful.
KitC (relieved): Oh hi. Excuse me, where's the loo?
Chap 2: ¿Que? [OK, that's made up. But it was something similarly blank. He continued:] I only just start work here.
At last, I found the lavatory. Unisex. Isn't that everyone's favourite loo genre? It lends itself so well to the inevitable moment when that man in the queue before you decides that your loo is the loo for him. In this case the chap after me was so emphatic in his belief that my locked loo was in fact free, that he managed to push the door open, while I was in there in flagrante.
I returned to Pal and Pegson. 'That's it. We've got to leave. Now.'
The gits (delighted at being proven right) insisted we stay. Lesson learned.