A Double Life And Strange Cases

I finished working late yesterday.

Happy hour goes for 3 hours on Friday. That's quite a bit of happy.

I learned via sms that Cuntastic's plans to avoid Friday Happy Hour and go swimming ("I'm lookin after health and liver now") had been rail-roaded. Rail-roaded by Happy Hour, no less.

I popped in at the end and it seemed like the happy had rubbed off quite well on the group.

Fast forward 2 hours and a few Long Island Iced Teas ... to find C and I on the stairwell at the restaurant, having already waved goodbye to the owner and now stealing bottles of wine from a wayward fridge. She is focused, aggressively passing me a cold bottle and barking instructions about how it should be stored under my left armpit.

We walk down the stairs and I wave a stiff, one-armed goodbye to the staff. I think to myself how much fun it is to run with the wrong crowd.

It's wrong to steal, of course, even from the rich potatoes who own this restaurant. I regret it now of course. But at the time it's fun and alcohol wipes away all manner of ethical considerations.

Fast forward 20 minutes and we're walking into someone else's living room armed with champagne flutes and cheery dispositions. It took a while for us to realise. A worn out our welcome while.

Fast forward - fast forward - fast forward.

I don't remember getting home the front door was locked.

It feels like I'm living a double life and this - the Mr Hyde side - which counters my daily Jekylls.

I wonder what the bank Chairman - who I met with this morning - would think if he saw this hurried, furtive scene on the stairwell? He wouldn't - couldn't - believe it was the same person. Not simply because we all look the same. My colleagues don't behave like this when they go home or go out. Ok maybe "La Reina" but not the real ones. Is that possibly part of the appeal?

Normal people go home. They go out. They visit friends. They smile and laugh and they leave at 11.30. They don't go nuts, stealing stuff and unaffectedly trespassing.

When is Spring Break going to end? ... or at least ... when is this spring in my brain going to run out of ... umm ... spring? If this type of palaver continues while I grow greyer and older, will I be doing it in pyjamas? And will people give me money to leave their lounge room? I hope so.