Call me Cinderella


As I’m fleeing Forge at 1am with minor bouncer protection hastily hailing a taxi, with bags and laptop flailing behind me, part of me is feeling like Cinderella, part of me is remembering the words of my friend “bad things happen at Forge!” and part of me is laughing at another brilliant night out.

It all started so … badly, or mistakenly or misguidedly, more accurately, specifically when I uttered the words “can I have an Old Fashion cocktail? … oh that one with the aged bourbon sounds nice!” … “what’s that green stuff … Absinthe?!?!!”

It was delicious, smooth and delicious, with a hand-carved rock of ice.

Some (3) later and I’m trying to persuade my friends to go downstairs and dance. I want to dance, I’m born to dance (in my head). But there is my arch enemy down there, strobe lights, sodding strobe lights. The killer of many nights out. Damn Epilepsy!

In between the laser bursts (with my hands over my eyes) I spent the evening dancing, until a slightly freaky guy took a rather unhealthy and unyielding fondness for my arse… And that’s when I fled, like Cinderella into the night, “I’ll be back in two minutes” … Bags hastily grabbed from the cloakroom; a favour asked of a guy, to talk to me while I sort my self out; taxi hailed, I’m out the door within two ~ he’s probably still wondering when I’m coming back from the loo … I’m not.

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