TGIF

Things could have gone either way.
My morning caffeine pusher had neglected to post the day's astrology prophecy on his DeLonghi. This left my latte quivering like a strung out question mark.
But, being a Friday, there was that syrupy optimism that stops you stabbing people that throw “thank god its Friday” at you as if it were a boomerang they expect you to hurl back. To, me that phrase is nothing but a stick to impale such plebs upon.
Still, a friend of a friend had suggested early drinks at the Fuche Bar. I got a headstart on ‘early’ waiting for Safari Bob and Scorpio Gal to collect me.
Safari Bob arrives with the idea that it is okay to wear purple in public even though he is quite clearly NOT a Wiggle.
Fortunately, being the Pink Minx, I just happen to have a men’s XXL Pink shirt in which he immediately attracts Melkior the neighbourhood cat. It also proves that men in pink are guaranteed pussy galore.
With Scorpio Gal at the wheel and aperitif in hand we head to Fuche only to be met by a veritable Berlin Wall due to a lapsed liquor license. A hand scrawled sign invites us to hang in there till Wednesday when it’ll be business as usual.
It seems a long time to wait for a drink but at least we’d be front of the queue. We take refuge at the Melbourne where we are convinced we must go to the Bakery.


I like the Bakery. As a venue its come a long way. Here we stumble upon Paddo. He’s being ghosting me since we met at the local swingers jungle party. He was in camouflage, I was in a guerrilla suit. He seems sober but who am I to judge.
Turns out he and Safari Bob recently met up in Malaga. How quaint, I think to myself, how parochial. I imagine them drinking warm beer with whinging Poms on the tacky coast of Spain. Turns out Malaga is also an industrial suburb of Perth, just beyond Bum Fuck Egypt.
The only live act, Sir Apple, comes on somewhere around midnight by which stage the punters are desperate to enjoy themselves so they can pick up and move on.
We just move on to the Moon for nightcaps and nachos. As always, we are lulled into feeling welcome…until some pseudo boho eyes our table and we admit it's time for bedtime stories….autobiographical.

Before leaving, I glimpse my stars. It advises that Venus is in trine with Uranus. I’m glad I didn’t have the sushi.

[photo courtesy Safari Bob]