Rinsed

Dearie, dearie me. I seem to remember thinking I was getting the hang of going out and managing to have a decent time without being ridiculous, then this weekend happened. I shudder to think of the beating my wallet took; the sight of my bank balance gives me spasms and chills and I have to go away and pretend I'm Alvin Hall for a bit (a stretch in more ways than one, I realise). If I do end up washing dishes in the next few months I'll know why. Eighteen hours spent in the club from Saturday to Sunday with Kate and Charlie (Revolver, again - last weekend I committed the schoolboy error of getting chucked out for smoking in the lavs, obviously this had to be made up for at the next available opportunity by staying there longer than anyone else, including most of the staff) and a face yesterday apparently resembling something you'd find in a morgue.
Oh well, can't be helped now. At least it was (sort of) memorable. Cousin Kate's off tomorrow for Sydney and, shortly, South America - a final coffee together at lunch today, a glimpse of a red coat retreating in the distance and it's goodbye til Christmas. Happy travels. My own plans haven't changed - waiting at present, slightly nervously, for my passport to be returned from a travel agency in New South Wales with a shiny Vietnamese visa hopefully attached; still should be Tasmania beginning of next month, then probably Adelaide. Oh, and a little trip out to Bendigo this weekend, couple of hours on the train - thought after 6 months that I should possibly see a bit more of Victoria than just the centre of Melbourne. Leaving my cash card at home might be wise.