Adelaide! Such fond memories.
They sit on the periphery of my mind’s eye and come back to haunt me when I least suspect it. As always it begins with tequila. The Rhino Room serves the potent yellow liquid and the staff hand it over with a glint in their eye. You slam it down and you feel a shudder run down your throat. “One more thanks,” you request before the corners of your mouth have returned to their rightful position. You knock back a second. And a third. You’re feeling confident. You’re certain you’ve never been funnier, more insightful, more attractive. You talk, you blubber, you hold court and then when the Rhino Room closes you stumble out into the cold clean air with only your wits and enough money for a yiros and a taxi.
The yiros is tasty, perhaps too full of taste. You’ve asked for chilli sauce, garlic sauce, barbecue sauce and a splattering of cheese. The man behind the counter at the Felafel House looked at you uncertainly. His eyes probed to see if you’re sure this is what you want to do for this will be a taste sensation. You laugh. Doesn’t he know who you are or more importantly who you aren’t? He hands it over and you bite not bothering to unwrap the treat from the paper.
You blink and suddenly you’re in the Mall. You have one of the brass pigs in a gentle headlock, the one that is staring into the bin. You’re whispering into its cold ear. You love that pig. With all your heart. But you don’t want the other pigs to hear, you don’t want to play favourites but when you try to kiss its snout you chip a tooth.
Ah Adelaide! Such fond memories…