* jazzyhands *

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It is so easy to turn nocturnal when you aren't working. Today is the first day in ages I have been out of bed before lunchtime. It makes me feel so slugful and slow, sleeping the day away for no good reason but I just can't help sitting up all night stuffing around. Still I have managed to get a few things done over the holidays.

We didn't plan NYE until the last minute. Some ideas had been floated. It all came together though - a huge New Year's feast at Gurkhas on Lygon Street. It was only going to be the six of us; then it was five; then someone's friend wanted to come and could they bring a friend? Suddenly we were about fourteen or so and all the merrier.

Getting to Lygon Street was an ordeal (I was beginning to feel like Froddo in Two Towers). I had left work early so I could have the prequisite nap. That part of the plan worked well. Friends called at 7.00 to work out public transport plans; suggested meeting at Flinders Street station around 7.45. No problems. That gives me 45 minutes to shower, whack on some makeup and ... I always forget to consider travelling time. Ok, take the train timetable into account. Yikes that gave me 20 minutes to get ready. I called back - maybe the next train? I called again. Maybe a cab? There is a $5 surcharge. Wowsers. Ok, the train.

I ran around the house in a getting-ready frenzy. The hair was done, the face was done. I had money and a clean hanky. Booze? I needed booze. I grabbed a bottle out of the cupboard and I had my work bonus, a bottle of champs done up in tizzy paper and ribbons, on the hall cupboard. Sorted.

Every clock in my house, except the computer clock, is wrong. As I put on my shoes to run out the door I called to Andrew to check the time. Oospies, I had missed the train by 1 minute. Maybe I shouldn't have fartarsed around with those hot rollers? Damn. Shit. I called my friends back, shamefacedly apologetic. Would I wait half hour for the next train? Maybe I should drive, but where to park? I checked the timetable again. If I go to Seddon station I could catch the Williamstown train. Seddon station isn't so far.

Half way to Seddon station I realised it is far, very far. I realised that my sensible walking shoes weren't and I realised that I could have saved time on makeup because I had to reapply most of it anyway. I was convinced I was going to miss this train as well. I walked as fast as my aching legs and my stitch-ridden body would let me. I left home wearing my pretty purple tiara. That went missing somewhere on the way.

So I just caught the train. No time to buy a ticket, I jumped on, grabbed a seat and breathed a sigh of relief. Then I got out the makeup, opened up my big-arsed Lancome makeup kit thing and fixed myself up (yes, I am one of those annoying people who does their makeup on the train). I fixed my hair sans-tiara (I grieve for that tiara) and sat back and relaxed. At North Melbourne the ticket inspectors boarded the train. Ok, I'm busted. I can tell them my whole woeful story but they will have no sympathy. I sat and avoided their eyes. The inspector leaned over and grapped my wrist. Shit, fuck, damn. I am so busted. He pointed to my comb I left sitting on the seat. I thanked him and picked it up. That's it. Man, I am so lucky.

I got to Flinders Street and found my friends. They tell me we have to get back on the train and go around the city loop. The trams arent' running in Swanston Street. What the fuck is with that? That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. We got to Melbourne Central station (my friend still calls it Museum station - how cute) and caught the tram. We got off and were walking toward Lygon Street and I casually mention that I would have driven over if I had somewhere secure to park it. It then dawned on my friend that he works on Lygon Street and could have parked his car at work. Bastard. Luckily we had some nice hard bottles on us with which to bash him.

Dinner was fun. The food was superb and plentiful. I made a New Year's resolution -- I am going to get a pair of custom made shoes this year. We pulled party popper and blew whistles. We drank, we eat. On the table were helium balloons weighed down with potatoes. The table behind us made a potato man. We took that as a challenge. Our potato had to be the best.

After dinner I decided I have had one too many trips down the stairs for a cigarette. Behind our table was the window to outside. A corrugated iron roof covered the diners on the street but, on close inspection, there was a nice stone ledge before the roof started. I was dared. I did it. I climbed out on to the roof for cigarette. Then it was on. Everyone decided to join me on the ledger. We sat there, like a row of parrots, watching mini-dramas going on up and down the street and talking up our bravado.

The staff pushed back the tables and put on music for dancing. A round of margaritas was in order. We toasted in the New Year with margaritas and more party poppers and more champagne then more dancing, a conga line, another round of margaritas. Then it was bed time.

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