leper night

I went out with work. It was all arranged around ex-employee Richard (spiky blond hair, self-proclaimed 'wacky funster'). As is his wont, he never turned up, but it didn't seem to matter. Paul (ginger, at his most enthusiastic when yawning) talked about the animals he's discovered under his bedclothes over the years. Sam (female, at her most enthusiastic all the time) wound up writing on people, which is how I ended the night with the mysterious phrase 'leper party' scrawled on my arm in biro.

We didn't go to Sam's, Brentwood's finest (and only) nightclub. I was emotionally blackmailed into going there on Thursday night, by people who pointed out that I 'might never see them again' if their plane to Spain the next day happened to blow up (it didn't). Everybody in the place was at least 15 years younger than me, so it was of strictly anthropological interest (observation of courtship rituals, ceremonial dances, etc., etc.) They used to play 80's music on a Thursday. At least then I could hold court at the bar, keeping a young audience enthralled with my anecdotes about what Kajagoogoo were like the first time round. Now the snatches of Cyndi Lauper and Soft Cell are buried so deep in the mix it's like they're something to be ashamed of. Which they are, of course.