A distinct sense of autumn hangs in the air and suddenly summer feels like a distant memory. Last Friday, I walked through Clapham Common to get to a pub that nestled itself between overarching trees and a rough gravel driveway. Our bus journey there had been made particularly arduous when a horde of 15 year olds with bottles of varying pink wine got on at the same time we did. The girls screeched in the company of the bellowing boys, and they seemed to be dressed for opposite seasons, the boys in puffer jackets, the girls in the miniest of skirts.
When we had got off at our near-pitch black bus stop on the edge of the common, empty ‘Lotta Colada’ Buzz Ball in hand, we searched for directions to the pub we’d be at tonight. We strode along, briefly pausing so that my friend could anxiously adjust her hair (her lover awaited) and get my opinion on whether it was limp or not. From where I stood the moon was visible only through a circle of leaves made by varying tree branches. It felt as though we’d been plummeted into October, particularly since the moon was clouded in thick fog. “You’ll regret that little coat later”, I said to her in a tone that resembled a worrying mother as we trudged. She argued the alcohol hereafter would keep her warm.
The pub was packed and seating looked scarce. I also felt as though I walked on to the set of Made in Chelsea, a feeling I texted to a friend upon arrival. She later replied that I must find myself a “posh bloke, a Hugo if you will”. I told her it would be fitting because I loved that name, particularly when pronounced in an under enunciated French accent. My friend and I found an empty seat for two and plonked our glittering bags down on the table, a combination of keys, lip glosses, hand mirrors, and purses clinked together when meeting the wood.
I was admittedly moody when we had sat down. I had decided on my outfit minutes before I was set to leave, apologising to my friend that my tardiness was down to a sudden, sombre realisation that nothing in my wardrobe looked right. I wore a red boat neck top, a black puffball skirt, black sheer tights, cowboy boots and my brown trench coat. Once on, I felt that the top was too long for the skirt, messing with my proportions, and that my tights were cutting into my stomach. I had also just got my period a few hours prior and so everything about my appearance felt momentarily uncomfortable. This heavily explained my temperament.
She got me a large glass of wine that I slowly sipped in between adjusting the folds of my top. The effects of my Buzz Ball were still heavily felt, and I like to my pace myself. She knew a few people who worked at the pub and so would stop in her conversational tracks to hug them as they worked the beer garden floor, then introducing us. Hours passed and it got to closing time (a modest 11pm). She asserted that we were able to stay until her beau, and the team had finished closing as she had previously done a handful of times. Security scanned the beer garden until we were the only ones left asked to leave. “Oh no, we’re with X” she offered when he told us we had to skedaddle, he looked down at her confused. An awkward silence fell over the three of us and I had to hold back my laughter. “We’re closing, you have to go”.
I stood up, a plastic cup with a few millilitres of Vinho Verde left sloshing in my hand and insisted to my friend that we just wait outside, along the driveway. Just then her beau had come out and noticed us, joking that we had been kicked out. He tried to reason with security, “they’re with me so they can stay” he offered, to which security humbly replied “why?”, I took that as our queue to leave. “I don’t see how you can hate from outside the club, you can’t even get in” I mumble, a joke I usually make when I watch other people be removed from a venue (or when I have to wait in a queue).
Peer pressure had successfully led to my friend’s date and some of his colleagues following us to a place across the road that’s set up looked more like that of a greasy spoon than a bar opened till the early hours. Him and his group emerged as we awaited their arrival on a large bench built to fit at least eight. I got another glass of white whilst my company all nursed beers. One of his colleagues was particularly handsome and found himself sat next to me. We took synchronised sips of our drinks in the pauses of conversation. I continuously tucked my hair behind my ear, preening.
It was now 1am and his colleagues all called it a night. We however headed to Afters, a club along the Clapham strip that my friend and her date were eager to show me. Paramore’s Misery Business blared through heavy duty speakers and my earlier preservations about going to a rock club melted away. We screamed the lyrics, one of our favourite songs as a tween. “13 year old us would be so happy at this moment” my friend shouted in my ear, and we grew exceedingly soppy.
We continued to dance and blurt out the lyrics of mostly nostalgic college rock songs. I accidentally hit a man in the face when dancing, an occupational hazard when moving in a packed club. I hoped it wasn’t too hard, but I felt both his nose and mouth against my backhand. I immediately apologised at my haphazardly movement, though it felt fitting given the environment… For the rest of the night, I was unable to live the moment down.
Linger by The Cranberries played, and couples oscillated with the rhythm, swaying almost in unison as the once dim lighting intensified. It was time to make our exit. Settling on KFC as our end-of-night-meal (thank God it stayed open all night), we discussed varying food options with pragmaticism. Food ordered, a man next to me struck up conversation whilst I waited for the rest of my party to pick up their food. “It’s like the worst game of bingo” he remarked, and I offered a laugh, shovelling chips in my mouth after I finished.
I advised him not to waste his money on an uber to Hertfordshire for the night when he had a place to stay in southwest. “£122!” I screeched when he told me the price, it almost startled me sober. “You’re right, you’re right” he replied. Once my friends had retrieved their orders, he continued his conversation with us until my friend interjected that we had to be going. He offered pleasantries and asked for our names, when we gave ours, he remained silent and joked he wouldn’t give it to leave an air of mystery. “You’re an enigma” I jested.
He then appeared by my side somewhat suddenly and I continued to make my way through my seasoned fries, accepting a further chance at drunken conversation. “My name is Lorenzo, silly I know”, “Italian?” I asked, to which he nodded. He told me his family were from Palermo, and I replied ‘Sicily’ to which he seemed surprised. “You know your stuff” he joked, and I, distastefully joked “well yes, I’ve watched The Sopranos”. He scoffed at my stereotypically charged comment.
“Sorry, that was racially motivated”, I offered, to which we both laughed (is this when I tell him my Nan was Italian?). “They were from Naples anyway” I stated, and he seemed excited that I was an actual fan of the show and not just naming pop culture references related to Italians. He told me about an art piece he had bought from a certain century that depicted a certain saint that was supposedly from the region. It sounded very interesting, but I was far too inebriated to digest it, and too romantically removed to probe further.
Realising now that he was walking in the opposite direction to get back to his neighbourhood, he stopped in his tracks. “Well…” he said assuredly, “I better go because if we keep talking, we’re just going to fall in love with each other and then what are we going to do?”. To this I laughed and bid him adieu. I feared my chicken wrap was getting cold.
*
It seems as though autumn is presenting itself quite rapidly. Admittedly we are only in our second week, and I have already had two pumpkin spice frappes. Some may say I’m milking Septembers arrival just a tad. Only three weekends ago I was wearing my white, sequined rara skirt (no tights required) giggling over amapiano music, resistant to the cold. I danced in a filled-to-bursting nightclub with a gentleman in a manner that can only be likened to that of a scene from Love Jones (1997). Over resonant soulful house, wrapped up in the whimsy of summer, he shouted into my ear as we swayed “I feel like I’m in a movieee”. That night it was incomprehensible that summer would end. Now, dusk comes sooner and with darkness comes an uncomfortable nip in the air that a shirt or cardigan simply can’t withstand. Though I must say, I’m thrilled to have coats, and subsequently pockets, back.
P.S Happy 1st birthday to Queencoc0 Talks, as always, thank you for reading! Bisou bisou ❤
Queencoc0 Talks 
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