millionreasons | Party like it's 1989

I failed to write about the party we went to on Saturday night. Jo-Jo knew where it was but didn’t have the address on her, so gave us Treasure Hunt-style clues: (“Opposite the Clockwork Pharmacy, on a side road above some shops with a white door”), thus we walked up through Barnsbury, with all the Christmas windows shining poshly pretty, to the slightly less salubrious Cally Road to stand outside a white door looking doubtfully at the lit windows above. But it turned out to be the right place and we went up and had a Really Lovely Time. Partly because it was a Girl’s Party so there was food to soak up the copious amounts of pineapple malibu (and rum to take away the taste of the malibu), partly because it got to 4 o’clock without me noticing the time or getting bored and tired or wanting to go home, but mostly because it seemed like a growed-up party. No-one drank too much and cried in a corner. There were no lads flailing around or shouting or trying to grope people, the toilet wasn’t engaged for 20 mins because someone was being sick or having sex. Conversely, nobody talked about mortgages or babysitters or moving to the countryside to escape the rat-race. Sometimes I don’t mind being 32 so much.

And the streets of Islington at 5 a.m. are soft and cold and empty.