Leaving, On A Boeing 747

I suppose this is goodbye, then.

I am writing this through the haze of a rather terrifying hangover. Last night my Biarritz friends and I went to a Greek restaurant near Tottenham Court Road, and drank our collective bodyweight in wine and gin, before moving on to the sambuca. It was an awesome place. Unassuming, and kind of like any Greek restaurant in that it had murals on the walls depicting windows looking out to sea, elaborate floral paintings of, well, mainly flowers, and flirty waiters. We ate, and drank, and then there was a belly dancer whose real name was Natalie but who we christened 'Lola'. The we told the waiters that my friend Nick and I were twins - Paul and Paulina - and that it was our birthday. Upon receiving this information we given a shot of sambuca each and forced to sing the Copacabana over the PA system, despite the fact that we were just shouting over the CD player and neither of us knew any of the words besides "Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl... la la la...flowers in her hair... doo dum dum... dress cut down to there...". After this display of karaoke prowess, we all danced in the middle of the restaurant to a thoughtfully-provided Wham! CD, before progressing to Love Shack and Greased Lightning a little later on. Lola (Natalie) the belly dancer came out at that point and kindly obliged the boys by putting up with their own, very special, brand of belly dancing, which involved wiggling and throwing themselves at various points of the 'dancefloor' (can it be a dancefloor if it's carpeted and just the space between two tables?) whilst pretending not to stare at Lola's (Natalie's) tanned and toned body.

After a few hours of this, and also a possibly ill-advised game of limbo played with a man's walking stick, someone mentioned going to a karaoke bar. At this point I cheered, and most people went home. Sharpish. It was midnight, the time when everyone on a night out in London must consider the options that lie before them: last tube now, or nightbus later?

Four of us chose the latter option. I was conned, because I only wanted to stay out for the karaoke, and the place was shut, so I had to go and dance in a club called Pop instead and throw some very ill-advised shapes on the (non-carpeted) dancefloor.
Then the nightbus home.

I feel tired and wan, but uplifted somehow.

Tomorrow I shall be perky, ready to face the thousands of people at Heathrow airport and board a shiny aeroplane to Singapore, where I will pass the time by blogging at the airport. You may all look forward to that with bated breath.

Now, though, you must wish me luck. Luck for getting through the rest of the day without dying of hangover-related diseases, luck with packing at the rate of a million clothes in a suitcase per hour and luck flying on a plane all the way across the world, despite the very real possibilty that they will be showing Tom Cruise films.

Goodbye for now, my friends.