My friends are on the way to pick me up in 10 minutes, and I am not even slightly ready. I am undressed with a giant bowl of ice cream in front of me.
My first priority is nutrition and nourishment. With this in mind, I wolf down chunks of cookie dough, chocolate, brownies and nuts held together by frozen dairy. Despite my being lactose intollerant, I am usually very partial to ice cream. Today is so exception. The Dairy Deity will later punish this abject sinning with absolute purging. I wince at the thought, but it is a small price to pay for such a delicious treat.
Whilst breaking my dairy excommunication, I am reminded of the forcefed and chemically pregnant cows from where my ice cream began its journey. I pause momentarily, in comtemplation. I press on.
In the panic of getting ready, I struggle to find my belt and shoes. They are both leather. I wonder what symbolism I am communicating to the Dairy Deity by dressing myself in dead cow carcass. I pause momentarily, in contemplation. I press on.
My jeans are stained but this is okay, I tell myself. I am Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll.
Mr Rock ‘n’ Roll proceeds to remove his nasal hair with an expensive electrical item. He wonders whether the Rolling Stones ever tackled this sensitive and no doubt typical rockstar issue in a musical format. Suddenly, he realises a gap in the market to be exploited, and considers whether he can fit this into his economics essay. A moment’s deliberation tells him this does not fit into the topic of “Foreign Direct Investment as the best way to stimulate growth in developing economies”. He is disheartened, the slow tumbling of shaved nasal hair into the abyss of the sink a perfect metaphor for his crumbling dreams.
After of a minute of stream of consciousness narrative in which I refer to myself in the third person, my ego is sufficiently built up enough to face the wild world of lawless and primitive human behaviour that is That Club on a Thursday.
Just a few last minute touches – aftershave (“no spray, no lay!” sager advice is rarely spoken by toilet attendants with a weak yet profound grasp of English), flossing and just a touch more hairspray.
I am ready, with seemingly moments to spare. A straw hat momentarily doubles as the leather fedora of Indiana Jones snatched out from the jaws of death or worse yet, exposure of hat hair. The headband crunches over elegantly coiffed hair.
Five minutes later and my sense of urgency and high-octance lifestyle have dissipated somewhat. I am picking detritus from under my keyboard. I ascertain my friends are somewhat late this evening.
Five more minutes pass. I am considering doing some reading in these vital moments, perhaps I could find that one realisation that has been missing all my life.
Ten minutes pass. I am paralysed by my indecision. Then, a knock at the door liberates me from the tyrannical yoke of choice.
I dash across to the door, opening it onto those vaccous and warm greetings that always proceed a night out. Big smiles, handshakes and raucous laughter fill my hall.
“So what’s the plan?”
“I think we’re just going to stay and watch a film. Something funny,” says Friend #1. Friend #2 nods in agreement.
“Oh right.” My excitement leaks away like air from a balloon. “How about In Bruges?”