Girls’ Night

On Friday
night I went out with one of my oldest friends in the whole universe.

I’ve
known her since I was 14, back when I was blonde, and she was the boys’
favourite. We bonded over singing Nina Simone during P.E. lessons as we let somebody
else go up to bat because NO, NO, NO! MISSISSIPPI
GODDAMN- LET’S HARMONISE THAT ONE!

She
is passionate and beautiful and fun. I
met her off the train and couldn’t believe how stunning my friend looked, walking through Kings Cross like a pint-sized supermodel,
full of so much life, so much love, and how, after eighteen months without
seeing each other, it was as if we’d just done lunch together yesterday.

She
told me I looked like a grown up. I told her she looked like someone off the
telly. We laughed, and linked arms, and the crowds parted through sheer force
of friendship as we started twelve different stories and didn’t finish any of
them, battling to the front of the taxi cue with suitcases and bags and witty
banter that sparkled with memories. 

I was
dimly aware of the cabbie watching us through the rear view mirror of his ride
as we headed to dinner. He smirked for the entire journey to the restaurant,
listening to us, all, so then he said…
and then I said… and she was like… and simply nodding, “Let’s just call
that a straight fiver, then,” as we didn’t even break breath to open the door
into the rain, leaving him to his night so that we could continue on to tackle
ours.

We
met my friend’s sister and her
friend, and OH HEY SEX AND THE CITY. The four of us sat over bottle of wine
after bottle of wine, picking up those twelve different stories at intermittent
points, examining them in irrelevant detail before somebody exclaimed, NICE
NIAL POLISH! and we got distracted by the finer points of Shellac versus mani-at-the-Chinese-place-on–the-corner and OHMYGOD
HAVE YOU SEEN WHO JUST GOT ENGAGED? IT’S ALL OVER FACEBOOK! I CAN’T BELIEVE I
DIDN’T TELL YOU!

When
the waitress came over we had to confess that actually, we hadn’t even looked
at the menu.

Forty-five
minutes after entering the restaurant we all ordered what we had said we were going
to have in the first place, forty-four minutes
ago. Of course, after declaring you’ll have the fish you then have to go
through everything on the menu by way of elimination, thinking at length about
the risotto and arriving back at the John Dory only as soon as the server
presses for a decision because GOD IT ALL LOOKS SO GOOD! Could I get a side of
mash potato, too? Sorry- what were we saying? Oh yes, so then I text him and said…

It’s
not even about the food, really. It’s about what exactly the right face shape
for the Scousebrow is. The meaning behind when he maybe-sorta-kinda tried to hold your hand. It’s daddy issues, the
difficulties in getting a decent bra that doesn’t cost a fortune, women at
work, boys at work, how good the goat’s cheese is. It’s should we have pudding,
or another bottle?

By
the time the waitress asked us to leave because, urm yeah, we’re kind of closing now, it was unanimously agreed that
we’d seek out free drinks where one of us had once slept with the barman,
because somebody has always slept with
the barman. And goddamn if strawberry shortcake cocktails don’t taste
better when they’re free, and the man serving them is winking and blushing a
lot.

When
girls get together somebody always wants to dance- everybody always wants to dance, past a certain point- and I think
it’s the law that for every group of bumping and grinding girls there has to be
one allocated Turkish man who thinks he stands a chance. On a proper girls’
night real men know to stay well away. That much I know to be true.

By 2
a.m. one of us wanted to go home, which meant everyone leaving together because
that’s what proper friends do. Unite. Unite and stand in the cold, flagging
down taxis and looking as night bus timetables and air kissing and laughing
from the belly and saying ohmygod, we
CAN’T leave it this long next time, love you- kisses- byeeeeeeee!

Whatever
the last word is is never actually the last word, though, since somebody has to
be responsible for turning around and shouting down the street AND TEXT ME TO
LET ME KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WITH THE BOY/THE MEETING/THE MOVE/THE APPLICATION.

It
was on this Friday night, the one after I went with one my oldest friends in
the whole universe, that I had that incomparable, overwhelming brilliant feeling
of cor blimey. Girls are a bit bloody
good, aren’t they?

I don’t
know why we do leave it so long. 

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