As a result of a somewhat impromptu plan, I was tasked with rapidly getting ready for a night out. I’d not long got in from work and was residing on the front room sofa idly scrolling through Instagram. My reels consumption has increased by a somewhat concerning amount, particularly since the reason I got rid of TikTok back in 2021 was for this very reason, to stop myself from falling into the never-ending pit of doomscrolling. A whole hour can be wasted staring blankly at shortform videos. I keep getting reels related to interracial dating and feet and I’m not sure how to feel about that. A notification across my screen causes my eyes to focus; it is a link to a gig at a bar in Bermondsey that my friend is on her way to. It will be a group of them going, some of whom I’ve met before and others completely unfamiliar, which to me is exciting. I like situations that are tinged with an element of surprise, the opportunity for unknown possibilities.
I quickly buy my ticket and visualise outfits in my head, my mind whirling with potential clothing combinations. A black and white gingham slash neck top, black tennis skirt, tights, and tall black leather boots with thick, solid soles is what I settle on. After looking on maps and realising that I was a quick bus ride from the venue, I delighted in having more time than I thought to get ready. Though I still ought to be mindful, suffering from time blindness and all. My hair was already styled so at least that part was out of the way. If need be, I could knead extra bits of my product through sections of curls that look particularly worn and weary after a day at work. I start on my face, making the firm decision to go lash free (no time to faff with lash glue).
I follow my usual steps and play around with my Givenchy pressed powder, not really sure if I’m applying it right but remembering the important ‘T-Zone’. My favourite part of doing my makeup is always adding blush, seeing the immediate colour that flushes my face when my cheeks are covered in a rosy pink, suffused with colour, emanating faux heat.
I frantically pick out my jewellery, realising I somehow still managed to go over the clock. I beckon my mum over from her bedroom to help me decide between two sets of earrings, acknowledging I am now entering frantic, rushing mode which somehow stops me from being decisive. I douse my pulse points in perfume, and it melts into my skin, gleaming from a layer of Lush Sticky Dates body lotion. I’m left smelling like the olfactive love child of sticky toffee pudding and crème brûlée, it’s perfect.
Once I am off the bus, I am directed to a dark, derelict-looking sideroad who’s appearance prompts me to take my headphones out. Best to not have any of the senses muted. I hear the bassy reverberations of rock music approaching and I know that I am going the right way. A distant hand waves amongst large groups of people and although I don’t have my glasses, I know it’s my friend. I run over and she introduces me to the large group as I try to spot faces that ring bells. “It’s very much rock music tonight, queen!” she says, almost apologetically. I laugh and give her a hug “no, that’s fun” I reply enthusiastically, as I try to make a joke about being the girlfriend of a rockstar, but it comes out wrong and so we both break out into laughter.
We head to the bar, and I quickly fear this brewery only serves beer and IPAs both of which I am not a fan of. I get to the front and ask if they sell Kopparberg to which the bartender pauses and then emphatically shakes his head no. In retrospect that was a ridiculous ask of an indie taproom, like going to a small bakery and asking if they do a Greggs stake bake. I ask for a cider, and he disappears behind a wall, bringing out two small shot glasses which he explains are their two in-house ciders, presenting the cups for me to try. Over thundering punk rock, the names of the drinks are unintelligible. “Definitely this one” I scream, before my friend taps me to ask if I just bought two shots. “No, he’s letting me taste the ciders before I choose” and she raises an eyebrow, smirking. I wait for my pint, and he offers further samples of their slushy cocktails. We disagree on which one is better.
The lead singer of the band performing has known my friend since primary school and it feels sweet to be amongst a group of people who have known each other for such a long stretch of time. We move our feet and shoulders to heavy basslines and guitar solos; it is so loud I feel each beat in my body and the vibrations course through my chest. I take a sip of my friend and her boyfriend’s IPA, and it tastes like soy sauce. I grimace instantly and return to my sweet cider.
The band finishes their set and we all pool outside, cigarettes eagerly leaving pockets. The rest of the night is filled with loud talking and intense rounds of ‘Heads Up’ over a playlist of music that shuffles between 90s hip hop, DnB, and indie rock. I coax my friend to join us from her drinks in Fenchurch Street, an area that always seems further away than it actually is. I send her the address and check my phone in between conversations.
Forty minutes later she arrives, its roughly 1am and the music still blares. I meet her at the top of the dark road, and she runs to hug both me and my other friend, throwing our respective balances offer kilter. “I’m so drunk, I’m so happy!” she blurts out, having taken advantage of the happy hour at the German bar she came from. Worried the bar might have put in final orders already after our lengthy catch up outside, we walk to the petrol station opposite in search for BuzzBallz. When I ask, the shopkeeper looks at me with bemusement and so I let the others know we won’t be drinking any ‘Lotta Colada’ tonight.
She fills us in on her love life developments and me and my friend recoil when she drunkenly declares she intends on calling a certain guy for a late night/early morning rendezvous. We insist she shall not, trying our best to avoid firmly scolding, instead voicing our concerns in a playful tone. We each discuss our respective need for validation, and other things, as we hurry back to the bar to rejoin the group, guided by their raucous laughter. Another round of Heads Up begins, this time in the category of classic RnB and I find myself belting out Keyshia Cole’s ‘Love’ and Toni Braxton’s ‘You’re Makin’ Me High’ in 10 second bursts.
As time passes, people book cabs and make way to bus stops. We walk a friend to nearest tube station as we try to chase more of the night. I suggest heading to another area since everywhere around here is closed. The walk to the station however is longer than we thought, and my fingers grow stiff in the wintry night air. By the time we drop her off we grew tired, and with just four of us left standing, the couple decide to bow out for the night. A long journey awaits them after all.
With my other friend starving, I make a case to still go to Peckham for the chicken and chip shop that closes around 4am, that way we’re both closer to home and I can wait for her night bus back too. With drunk eyes she misreads the number of the approaching bus, and lost in conversation, I take no notice. Suddenly the next bus stop is Unicorn Theatre and we’re even further away from Peckham than we were to start with. “Wait, this isn’t on route…” I say, frantically opening my trustee maps app. We get off at London Bridge and stare at The Shard, the tip covered in thick, misty fog. It takes me by surprise each time I observe it from standing distance, finally able to take in its vastness which goes wasted from miles away. We begrudgingly trot along.
“I’m starving, please can we look for food” pleaded my friend as we finally found the bus stop for the night bus to take us home. Not wanting to veer too far away so as not to get lost, we find a teeny pizza place that is taking last orders. It is the size of a box room with a Napoli scarf decorating the wall on one side and a bulbous pizza oven encrusted with red tesserae filling the other. I order a nduja pizza and she orders one plainly titled ‘Meat’. We laugh when he calls out her order. Music from the Latin club next door leaks out as men occupy the smoking area in shirts buttoned stereotypically low, speaking in Spanish. My GCSE knowledge of Spanish lets me pick up certain parts of their conversation, I think they’re talking about women, no surprise there.
Hot vapour dances above our pizzas as they are met with the chill air. We eat our first slice in silence, invariably moaning with each bite, both at the flavour and at our hunger being satisfied. Our bus arrives and we continue to eat as each stop welcomes increasing amount of people. Stumbling drunk students, older couples, and those working the night shift fill the downstair of the bus. We laugh at silly things and delight in how good our left over slices will taste tomorrow. Thank God we got on the wrong bus, thank God for serendipity.
*
At the start of that day, I knew it would bring goodness. I had work and wasn’t particularly excited to clock in, but the beautiful sky so bright and blue held promises of joy. It hinted that spring was finally on it’s way, that perpetual darkness was no more. Walking to work I spotted a pair of little brown birds fluttering around the trees and up into the sky, my eyes transfixed as they flew off into the distance. ‘Run To Him’ by Bobby Vee played loudly in my headphones, one of my Grandad’s favourite songs. He would have turned 80 that day.
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