Drunk and happy (Part I)

Photo: Akif Hakan Celebi

I am your little bear

Why don’t you reap my fur

Tomorrow, or better now!

I want to be your teddy, somehow.

This Saturday I swap a ‘second choice’ entertainment (drinks with ex-colleague, who doesn’t hide the fact he wants to get me into bed) for a top birthday party of someone I’ve never met. Yes, Ela’s friend’s is throwing a ‘80' Lace&Leather’ themed birthday bash.

In a taxi, dressed in 60’ short lace dress that belongs to Ela (and to Ela’s mother before that), and wearing the highest heals imaginable (I can't walk, only stand in them), I’m adding red lipstick and try to check the result in the mirror.

‘Bernadetta writes she feels like a foreigner in her own house’ – Ela gloomily reads out a text message – ‘apparently there are lots of English people there’ – she comments 'How odd'. 'Hello, we are in England' I comment in my thoughts and remember that Ula and her Italian friends always hung out in the same group, forgetting they don't live in Italy any more.

‘You look good Ula’ I reassure her about her choice of clothes – a lace bra with a semi-open jacket (without a blouse), and leggings made of fake leather.

‘I’m definitely ovulating today' – states Ula thoughtfully, gazing through the car’s window.

We stop the taxi in front of a licence shop to get drinks. With head stuck in a fridge I quietly comment on my own choice ‘No, not Rose… Only slats drink rose at house parties’. Ula giggles and I pick a bottle of red.

At the party now. I pass through the first room full of frightened-looking, unattractive Italians, who also happen to be massively shorter than me (now measuring 6’1 at least).

The next, equally small area has a group of dressed up gays dancing around a handbag.

We decide to inspect downstairs – it feels like an office party. Actually, more like a henhouse.

Calculating the odds of finding interesting people to talk to / have fun with, I decide to hit the ‘dance floor’ upstairs.I walk straight to the group of gays and smile. Everyone smiles back politely; a tall, blond girl shows me a large Russian prison-style tattoo on her upper arm. I pretend to admire it ‘Oh, that’s... great’.
’It’s not real’ the girl informs me looking at me gravely.

Alcohol takes its effect; I start dancing as if my life depended on it. ‘You’re poison!’ yells speaker. I encourage people to air guitar and practically form a band!  At this point I notice a guy wearing a lot of eye make up, staring, and then smiling at me. I’m too busy, with a routine of arm loops I started throwing, to return a smile but suddenly I am blushing. I now try to stop myself from blushing.

The next song is a bad one - MC Hammer – how do you dance that?? With determination and with bended knees! I develop new moves by keep opening and closing my legs. Satisfied with the outcome I look up and see two guys looking at me amused while pointing fingers and laughing. I get crossed and recognise one of them being the good-looking one with mascara on; thoroughly embarrassed I plan to run away and hide, but now see them both coming over. Oh, great!

To be continued…