To hell with Tuesday morning

Due to a friend’s birthday yesterday, last night’s status as a school night went for a ball of chalk and I found myself cycling home under a bright moon along deserted, bitter streets early this morning.

Happy hour at Péché (with its tagline of: “We are the reason prohibition was repealed”) meant $5 cocktails, with NY Sour, Dark and Stormy, and Texan Mule on the roster.

Discussion dissected the machinations of American pawn shops, which I’d always assumed involved selling your watch, never to be seen again, for hard cash desperately needed.  In fact, you hand over your watch for cash, but can claim it back within a certain period once you’ve paid back the cash with  interest–so more a loan against collateral. Shows what I know after living here for over two years.

Proceedings ended at The Ginger Man, where a patriotic order of Boddingtons by Jack, he of the birthday and British, fell by the wayside, tasting especially funky and having to be ditched.

Ben spoke earnestly about the trials of fatherhood, including defending his choice of burgundy-coloured socks and a ribbed jumper (sweater) as his evening apparel against the charge from others in the group that fatherhood detrimentally affects one’s fashion sense.

As a night out, it’s unlikely to go down in history and none of the world’s problems were put right–but it was worth it and to hell with Tuesday morning.

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