All pints are at an end and we decide to go home. The never ending, slightly ironic (but with serious undertones) conversation about us three chaps being involuntarily committed to a life of solitude and emptiness continues, tongues firmly in cheek. We round a corner and who should we see, thats right, blond girl, glasses girl, and the other one! But they are not alone. They are in mid-party splendour, in the front garden of a house, smoking with various other party goers.
And whats more, they remember us! It's only been half an hour but their alcohol intake combined with our apathetic natures can't have made it easy for us to have left any kind of lasting impression. Well, apparently it did! We are being given a second chance! Going quietly into the night is an option that is slowly being clawed away from us. Damn you, Powers That Be!
"Hey! So you decided to come after all?!" It's blondey, right on cue. We slow down a bit.
"Well, we actually live down here, so . . . " laughs Lee. He's got a point.
"You have to come in for a drink, a least one," she decides, "otherwise you're not allowed past."
Ever the ones to follow instruction, we agree and go through the front door. It's a pretty healthy party. The music is of optimum volume and quality, paper cups are scattered everywhere (always a good sign) and theres loads of people. I'm leading our small group though the masses with no apparent idea where I'm going or what I'm hoping to achieve. My eyes are wide and alert as I search for some kind of clue to tell me what I should do.
We find ourselves in the kitchen, drinkless, amongst a good ten people we don't know. The girls from the pub hadn't followed us in, they are still puffing away outside. No one makes an effort to talk to us and we make no effort to talk to them. Everyone's in such heated conversation that I expect our our recent appearance has gone unnoticed. Do these people all know each other already? Or have they met tonight? They're getting on like childhood friends. Every time someone new comes into the kitchen he or she is adopted by the many and brought into the core of the conversation. I spot a book hanging out the pocket of a pair of jeans and wonder if it's some kind of rule book explaining how to interact with other humans at parties. Everyone here seems well read on the matter.
Then everyone leaves the kitchen, leaving the three of us. We start to laugh.
"This always happens!" exclaims Lee, "are we supposed to follow? Or what."
"Dunno, man, I think they all know each other, probably gone off to play Twister or some shit," Paul says.
"Well, maybe we can find something to drink," I say with some desperation. I head over to the fridge and open it. The little light flicks on revealing. . . ahh, you can always count on students. . . dirty cheap vodka! Paper cups at the ready I pour three vodkas and top them up with some nearby lemonade. Not one of us feels a twinge of guilt during this act of mindless theft, and the drink provides some much needed support.
"So, what are you up to this weekend?" says Lee to both of us.
"No plans," I reply. Paul shrugs. "You?"
"Nothing planned," says Lee, "could go out on Saturday?"
"Yeah, be a shame to end the weekly tradition." We do seem to end up in the same club every Saturday night, just us three.
"Maybe we can get a few more people to come," I say.
"Yeah, right!"
The party has come back into the kitchen. The chatting and laughing continues for another twenty minutes or so, until I find myself without a drink, opposite the fridge which now has a lone girl standing next to it. She's standing with a plastic cup staring slightly vacantly into thin air. I should say 'hi' to this girl, I think. That's quite a normal thing to do; we are at a party, after all.
I go over and open the fridge door. But, what do I say? As I unscrew the vodka I contemplate various questions or introductions - ask her why she's alone? Offer her some vodka? Each idea goes though a mental process lasting split seconds during which my brain examines it and provides quality control, omitting all items that could be considered provocative, offensive, arrogant etc.; removing all risk and leaving everything neutral. As a result, I come out with the blandest thing anyone has ever said to anyone.
"Hi, there . . . so do you, like, live here?" I amaze myself with this profound question.
"Oh!" she replies, suddenly becoming animated, "no, I know Katy who is friends with Lisa, and Lisa's boyfriend lives here. But I think the party is for someone else who lives here, it's their birthday, apparently. But I haven't seen Katy in ages, we were trying to steal other peoples' drinks and then she kind of just went away with some guys, I think there doing bongs in the other room or something."
I am in shock. This is going brilliantly! Such a committed response to the blandest question in the word. She loves me! I am on fire!
"Ah, right," I respond with infinitely less enthusiasm than intended. I am desperately searching for something else to say, anything, dammit, even the weather, come on, man. The girl looks me in the eye and executes a half smile. "I'm gonna go get another drink," she says. She stares at the floor as she walks away, through the corridor and out of site.
The inevitable sigh ensues, coupled with a strange sense of self-satisfaction. Hey, that went pretty well.
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