“No thank you,” I said. “I don’t want to accept a drink from you, because then I would be obliged to purchase one for you in return,
and I’m afraid I’m simply not interested in spending two drinks’ worth of time with you.”
“Eh?” he said, cupping his hand around his ear. Clearly he had tinnitus or some other hearing impairment.
I communicated via mime, simply shaking my head and waving my index finger, while mouthing NO.
I turned around and went in search of the lavatory before he attempted any further conversation.
It was difficult to find, located down a corridor, and I could only see signs for a Powder Room.
This, it eventually transpired, meant Lavatories. Why don’t people just call things what they are? It’s confusing.
There was a queue, which I joined, standing behind a very inebriated woman who was dressed inappropriately for her age.
I do feel that tube tops are best suited to the under twenty-fives, if, indeed, they are suited to anyone.
A sheer, sparkly jacket was doing an inadequate job of covering up her enormous, crepey bosom.
Her makeup, which would have been subtle had it been intended for a stage performance in the Royal Albert Hall, had started to run.
For some reason, I could imagine this woman sobbing on the stairs at the end of the night.
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