Was It All A Dream?...
Yesterday evening when I got in from work I was feeling tired. I put my head down on the pillow for what must have been five minutes. Long day. Jet-lag. Whatever. I needed a kip.
What seemed like moments later my mobile rang. It was Paul. "Where are you? Have you remembered we're going to David's 50th tonight?" Shit. No. I'd forgotten. Sorry. A few birthday drinks in town might help me sleep right through though. So I pull on some old jeans, a Tom of Finland t-shirt and my old dirty trainers and head on out the door. I call Paul back, "Where is it again?"
Half an hour later I'm just the wrong side of fashionably late. Gosh, this venue looks posh. The Wardolf Hilton in Aldwych no less. Maybe they're all in the front bar. So I ask at reception. Turns out I'm to head for Palm Court at the back. I eventually find it through a maze of corridors but the double doors are closed. So I gently push one of them open. It squeaks rather loudly.
Shit! There's 120 people looking back at me all wearing black tie and suits and sitting at tables. Shit! It's a formal sit down dinner. Posh as. Family, friends, the lot. I spring back out of the door again. Shit, shit, shit! What to do? They all saw me. My mind it racing. Flee or brave it out? My heart is beating fast. I look an absolute state. I can't go in can I? Can I?
I make my mind up. Go for it. I throw both doors open and march right in. All eyes on me I mince straight up to the cute host and give him a big full blown kiss on the lips. "Happy Birthday, darling! Where's the bar?!"
Four hours later I was still there, wobbly from the booze and having smoked too many pogged cigarettes chatting to a porn director and his impossibly handsome Dutch boyfriend. No one seemed to really care I was dressed as a tramp.
The moral I guess is: brave it out and you'll most probably pull it off. Missus.