The Havishams of Here

the second time i stepped into a club was last night. i was surprised tt jen invited me to her party cos we only know each other as durga's friend. i had a ginger ale for myself and supped a bit of other pple's alcoholic drinks to make myself feel rebellious. it wasn't very happening; helped out with the cake, danced to some house, yada yada. i don't understand why zehzeh likes Rouge so much. maybe it was just my mood. 10 of us stayed till bout 1 and we later moved on to sojourn at glutton square (see: a stupid ripoff). then we took a 15 min walk to killiney rd's Mitre hotel.

i had never even heard of the place but when we got to the gates, i recognised the entrance tt i had always mistaken for the entrance of just another old abandoned residence. we huddled a bit and walked past the weathered walls with the numbers 145 unglamorously spray-painted on, down the unlit road. where the road ended, a fascinating new story quietly began for me. i thought jen was playing some sick joke on us. it was as like an alien spaceship had landed here discreetly, disguised as a dilapidated mansion. i think only jen and pohling had been there before (jen apparently did an article on the place and had interviewed the owner). so anyway this plumpish, less than pretty, awkwardly dressed youngish lady greeted us and said the old man said it was time to close or the police might come so we couldn't lounge inside. i didn't get it but i was too weirded to protest. we nervously complied when she suggested we make ourselves comfortable at the porch while she went in to get us beers. there were plenty of chairs outside but they comprised a motley of dusty deck chairs, damp office chairs and seats with torn leather cushions so we sat on the steps. through the old metal grilles, i looked at the spacious sitting rm with a really high ceiling tt was furnished with old mismatched couches and coffee tables, all lined up on either wall, leaving a crooked aisle in the centre. this old man hobbled out frm a door i never saw, across the discoloured tiled floor and told the awkward young woman to stay outside to talk with us. then he whipped out a padlock and locked us out and said goodnight. it was so weird. then a petite angmoh fella with a messy grey hair and a beard came out to talk to us through the grille (am i locked in or are you? he joked, holding a beer in one hand and clinging on to the grille with the other. am i in jail?) and the old man insisted the small guy either got out or return to his own rm. hospitality in a very alien form indeed. after a tense discussion, the little guy joined us at the steps outside. his name was Tom and he was an oil rigger frm australia and he he he h- was a bit drunk on tiger but karol and i managed to hold a decent, interesting conversation with him. turns out the place is popular with oil riggers who come here often for work and it's been tt way since goodness knows when.

at bout 3 this morning, after cab money frm perrine, i shook hands with Tom and bid him a safe journey back to wherever.

it still hasn't settled in, the impression the old hotel left me. but it was just so intriguing to go to a place i know nothing bout and talk with pple i know nothing bout. (i can't wait for next yr's adventure; i already started looking at the rates for local bed & breakfast dorms two days ago). wat sticks with me now is tt as i walked away from Tom, frm the feisty old man, his awkward daughter, their hotel with all its mozzies, in all it's curious venerability and obsoleteness, back out to the world as i knew it, i realised tt converse to the itchy bites and the lingering weirdness the whole thing left me, i was probably just another visitor to them. bonding without strings tt bind. this could be wat i've been wishing for. it just might be it.

[cue in topic change]

two nights ago, i dreamt of andrew and then later in the morning i dreamt of durga. no connection. just thought i'd write it down.


listening to: Please Send Me Someone to Love, fiona apple