bottoms up

it's party season, in case you haven't noticed (the pools of vomit everywhere and over-aggressive males should be a giveaway).
so i have been reacquainting myself with my inner john travolta. isn't it amazing how one minute you're a shy and retiring wall flower, who would much rather sip delicately on a glass of paintstripper posing as white wine than cause a fuss on the dancefloor and then suddenly, one old Madonna record and there's no holding you back. or holding me back. fortunately i'm more of a shuffler than a hands-up-for-detroit waver (my friend Jeremy turns into one of those multi-armed Hindu goddesses when he hits the floor) but i do find my footwork getting ever fancier as the night wears on and the white wine goes down.
i've also been reminding myself (as if i'd ever forgotten) that when it came to the handing out of off-switches, the Shorts were at the back of the queue, probably too busy quaffing Pomagne to notice. we just don't have them, you see.
when others are raising their hands to cover their glass lest a stranger fill them with glass/plastic cup/mouth...
luckily, i'm as disciplined as i am louche and have yet to let a hangover keep me away from work....