In which we have the most random walk home ever…
At the weekend YB and I went out to a Bierkeller, in Old Street. Apart from the prevalence of stag dos and the deafening 80s power ballads, it was a good night out – there’s a sort of infectious enthusiasm to be had from loud music, two pint glasses of beer, plates piled high with weiner schnitzel and lots of drunk men in silly hats.
Having imbibed suitably, and ready to head home and curl up under a duvet in front of a bad horror movie, we left around 10am – sober enough to enjoy the much drunker people on the tube, including a group of seven girls in the shortest dresses and tackiest shoes they could find in Primark. It was classic watching the dynamic of the cool, popular girl, sporting the sluttiest dress, as the others fawned around her like bees to a honey pot. Sitting next to them were two young guys who were still wrestling with the onset of chin bumfluff, while trying desperately hard not to dribble at the girls. It was prime mating season. YB and I felt very old.
When we got off the tube we had to make a small hosiery related pit stop – which mainly involved me hiking up my crotch on the side of the road. Classy. One guy walking past looked at us quizzically, I explained that I was adjusting my tights, to which he replied: “A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do.” Big prizes for anyone who can make sense of that one.
Slightly further along the road we came across a girl kneeling on the floor with her handbag and suitcase and all her belongings all over the pavement. The boyfriend (we assumed) was leaning against a wall looking resigned, and kind of bored.
“Everything alright here,” asks YB in manner of concerned bobby on the beat.
We attempt to walk on when the crazy, drunk girl shouts: “Oi, wait…” Turning around, excepting some sort of verbal attack YB is met with a massive hug. “You have such good karma mate,” says the crazy drunk girl. “That’s, like, amazing. Really. You’re awesome.”
She catches sight of me. “And you. Hey. Let me give you a hug too. It’s all about the karma.” I lean in for my hug, which is more of a drunken drape, but hey, it’s a hug from a stranger and that means a Good Night in my book.
“Have you lost something,” I ask?
“Yeah, my wallet, it’s, like, just, gone,” she replies. I nod, sagely. “Don’t worry, it’ll be in there somewhere.” Crazy drunk girl smiles and bounces back to her mid-pavement unpacking, all the while yelling; “Karma, man, you guys are the BEST.”
We walk on, giggling at the randomness of strangers, and then, just as we get to our front door, we hear a wooping of delight from way down the street.
Yes. Crazy, drunk girl has found her wallet.