Joy (cithra) wrote,

trousers, coffee spoons, beach. Sign me up.

I'm not allowed to take ibuprofen this week (Friday's surgery) so I'm even more creaky than usual this morning. Tis a pity I squandered my youth on - well, can you "squander" something, technically, if you don't actually do anything with it? Hmm.

I lied, and my braving the Mercury earlier on reconnaissance was all in vain - we went to the Vogue. Sarah is a most loyal patron. We thought about and walked by the Mercury on our way home, but I was social-ed out. Perhaps another time - if she ever comes down on a Friday, say. Club-hopping - ah, I only aspire to such gregariousness. I always feel a bit triumphant merely from managing to pry myself out of the house at all.

I had a decent time, when I wasn't being elbowed in the kidneys by No Sense of Personal Space Woman. Perhaps it was an obscure form of come-on, since no matter where on the dance floor we moved to, she seemed to be there again within half a song. Or maybe there was actually a squad of bob-haired, be-trousered women deployed to surruptitiously whack me periodically in an effort to help me develop some skin. In truth, I suspect it was an outgrowth of the same phenomenon that finds me worked to the back of the room at shows, no matter how close to the front I start out: I have an outsized sense of personal space. At concerts and such, what happens is: I feel crowded and move away from the people next to me, which creates enough space around me for someone with a 'normal' sense of personal space to be comfortable in, so someone worms their way in next to me, at which point I feel crowded and back up, and the cycle repeats. It took *years* of somehow ending up back at the border between 'the crowd' and the rest of the room (where of course I couldn't see a damn thing) even after showing up early enough to start out in the front row, for me to figure this out. Actually, the revelation was sparked by the line about Adam's aura in Good Omens.

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