So there was this social event that we were kind of looking forward to, some less, some more; some even felt the need to change their not-altogether-repellent appearance to what is generally known as the skinhead-ish ginger-ear-flapper, others apparently dusted off their grandmother‘s dresses and hoped no one will notice. Well, notice we did.
Next thing you know, everyone’s got out their cameras, iPhones, little scrapbooks, feeling the need to be able to show that “yes, we have been here” and trying to convince themselves that by immortalizing the same groups of people pressed together, smiling, making would-be funny faces and showing how liberal you are by kissing the same gender will perhaps make their aging process somewhat easier. Once you get through the first wave of this procedure and are still full of hope that the evening can be saved by the right amount of alcohol, you find out that a glass of beer costs forty or fifty crowns. If you’re not a metre and a half sexy young lassie who’s being eyed by the local bartender, the only solution is to get out and get your hands on a Vietnamese martini. Extra dry. If you succeed and are lucky enough to know some people from the personnel, you might even find yourself in a remote room with your soul mate for the evening. But there is no escaping the situation. After having one or two glasses you decide it’s time to return and suffer round two of greetings, stupid half-drunk smiles and, of course, pictures. And never forget the dancing. Because apparently saying that you are not interested ten times in a row is not enough.
But it’s not all bad. Towards the end, your view of things is getting somewhat blurred and unattractive girls suddenly become attractive, stupid people become less stupid and with a fifty-crown beer in your hand, you suddenly start having fun.
