You Can’t Make An Omelette Without Breaking Some Eggs…

An unusual weekend was had in the end. After a truly awful Friday in which I sent myself to my room early with very little supper (it was either that or involve myself in a full blown row with my parents) Saturday passed without much incident and in the evening it was time to venture into that inconsistent place Worcester. I was to join Dom and his housemates for a session. I’d also said to Naomi that I’d make it along to see her perform as part of The Sunset Dancers in an Oriental Dance display at Worcester Arts Workshop… So after having dropped my stuff off at Dom’s and watched the first half of the incident packed Italy/USA match I stuck my head round the door of the Workshop’s Café Subterranea and got to see Naomi (+3) in a vibrant and pulsing “Folkloric Duet” that saw all four decked out in multi-coloured silks replete with little bells and jewels and ting. They were only enjoying themselves marginally more than the audience. The next movement was actually a bit sinister as Naomi and co sprited off stage and were replaced by a tribe of women in black congregating around another woman with a jewel encrusted Arabian sword that she kept brandishing at the audience and balancing on her head in equal measure. The beat became a bit more Bhangra which lulled us into a trance. This was a good thing because it focused attention away from a rather large lady in the troop who probably shouldn’t have been dancing. The third and final movement featured the sword-happy she- warrior doing some further prancing. It was all spirited stuff but the cellar area we were in was a bit stifling on this hot evening and I was glad to pay my respects and get out.

I met up with the guys and we hit the town. Dom took us to a jazz bar he had been raving about called “Bossa Nova” which was a lot better than it sounded. The place had the mismatched and eclectic feel of a decent bar and could have had a great atmosphere but for the cheese you can find anywhere and the usual grotesque gallery of troglodytes stuffed inside. After a swift one there we moved on to a second floor bar called “13” (unlucky for some). This was a half decent joint with a DJ, a nice bar area and some refreshingly busty bar maids. After that we moved on to the club phase of the evening. Dom and his mates had been to the opening night of “Breeze” which in its former life had been a contemptible place called “Bamboo” and before that the equally nasty “Torch”. The boys had had a great night there the previous Thursday because it had been packed full of students but on Saturday the place was dead. With a capital dead. The space was imaginatively used; they had a live musician jamming along to whatever the DJ cared to play; the outside area had a bbq area with a few entertainers around and a sort of Modernist-Bedouin area for you to rent a hookah. In short its far too adventurous and “alternative” to attract anyone from Worcester on a Saturday night. The students stay away on Saturday (who can blame them) and because it’s a little removed from the central cluster of bars and clubs people probably can’t be bothered to go out on a limb. After it dawned on us that the night was a bust we left. We’d opted to pay a little more money on the door and get drinks tokens so I traded mine in for bottles and exited with my sagging pockets full of beer (which the doormen announced they “hadn’t seen”). We got back to Dom’s and as a consolation he broke out the legendary George Forman Lean Mean (Fat-Reducing) Grilling Machine and cooked up some chicken. All was not lost. The same machine was put to further use next morning for a fry up. Not the most healthy of weekends considering we also failed to walk past Scoffs and failed to resist their hot pork rolls the night before too.

I swear that trying to get home from Worcester never used to be such a struggle but yesterday I got to the station to discover that the trains had been replaced with buses and the next one to Malvern departed in an hour and half. As if that news hadn’t been hard enough to swallow (stranded in Worcester on a grey and uninspiring day, hung over and feeling like someone else’s ghost) a sea gull decided the only suitable punch line to all this would be to crap all over my jacket. Bastard thing. I stuffed the jacket into my bag along with the bottles of beer and clanked my way around town trying to find some distractions to my situation. Window shopping is a little dispiriting when you’ve no money but I managed it all the same and coffee helped (coffee is excellent). After the bus had delivered me from the city I got home into time for a superb roast chicken dinner and a grateful Dad who appreciated his card and bottle of wine that I’d left for him. Sleeping on someone else’s floor is easy after a night’s drinking but still makes you appreciate your own bed like nothing else. After dinner I was ready and willing to send myself to bed early once again.