The Unchained Melody of a night with friends

Don't you love it when an evening degenerates? It begins sipping a crisp Riesling in a swanky bar and finishes slurping cheap sparkling from a jug (I kid you not - a plastic jug at that) and singing Dire Straits in a cupboard-sized karaoke bar. That's just how we roll in the Fibro.

On Saturday night, The Builder and I abandoned left the children in the capable hands of Gran and Pops and steered Theresa the Territory in the direction of The Big Smoke. The wind was howling, the rain was torrential, the piggy bank was all but empty, but nothing was going to stop us. We had a date with old friends. We had a date with Neil Perry at Rockpool Bar & Grill that had been four months in the planning. We had a date with Dire Straits - though we didn't know it at the time.

We stayed with TICH* and his girlfriend La Fashionista in their uber-cool new apartment. They have a knack for finding the kind of accommodation that makes me drool. High ceilings, wide floorboards, quirky courtyard arrangements all furnished in that funky retro style that is hard to manage when you have to store four container-loads of plastic toys. I like to go there and luxuriate in the minimalist vibe.

Sitting in the restaurant was like dining in the foyer of the Gotham City Bank (see pic). If only all banks had the same service. Our meals were lovely and if we were seated a little too close to the open kitchen for pure comfort, the fact that we could keep a close watch on our meals being made was a bonus. So close that we were able to name the chicken that a member of our party had chosen for dinner. (Frank was reportedly delicious, thanks for asking.) We talked, we laughed, we drank fabulous, glamorous wines.

So far, so relaxed sophistication. It was afterwards, after numerous text messages to and from TICH (who was enjoying his own grilled meal - otherwise known as a barbecue - across town) that we found ourselves at Echo Point. If you've never been to an underground karaoke bar, you might not want to rectify that situation. Picture a very small, very dark, very hot room. Bench seats on three walls, large coffee table in the middle. Two microphones, one TV, two song books. All drinks in plastic jugs, with small plastic glasses.

And we sang. Loudly and with gusto in our sound-proof cupboard. Cheering each others' efforts, helping out with the hard bits, laughing at the rock star moves on offer.

Two hours later, we emerged blinking into the streetlights. And the rain. There was a renewed intimacy between us. It's hard to go back once you've seen your friend perform Rocky Raccoon. Or Celebrity Skin. Or Romeo & Juliet. Or Unchained Melody, for that matter.

It was a great night. Some things are worth braving wind, rain and bankruptcy for.

*My brother, The Inner City Hipster.

{image: Rockpool Bar & Grill}

In other news, I'm guest posting today over at The Red Dress Club. All about creating the perfect pitch to sell your ideas to publications. It's a precis of part of a workshop I developed with Alex Brooks a few years ago. Is worth a visit. Promise.


And just to prove that I'm a total floozy, I'm also guesting with The Drama Mama today. If you ever wondered how I got into journalism, you may find this surprising.

A perfect night for a spring fling

Don't you just love a party? I adore them - particularly when someone else is hosting them. Last night, The Builder and I went to a Spring Fling, where every detail was perfect. Tea lights flickered inside jam jars that were wired to hang in the branches of the trees, from the pickets of the fence, along the chook pen. Silver tins of orange flowers dangled alongside them. Earth-coloured bunting was strung across the garden. A fire danced inside the circular pit constructed for the occasion. The night was cool and clear, the wine was cold and crisp. Everyone brought a 'plate' and a CD, so both food and music were eclectic and surprising.

Are you jealous?

When I was a child, I wasn't really into parties - well, not judging by the photos and old film footage that my parents took. I never looked entirely comfortable in my party hat. Probably worried that I'd blow the candles out wrong or something.

I remember hosting parties with flatmates in my late teens and early 20s where we'd empty the house of all contents, put plastic on the carpets and then wait to see if anyone would turn up. The most important ingredients for the evening were the alcohol and the playlist. If people were due to arrive at 7pm, we'd be all dolled up by 6pm, having a few 'quiet drinks' to settle our nerves. By the time the first guests arrived fashionably late at 10pm, we'd be so plastered that someone would already have been put to bed.

Great nights, all of them.

These days when The Builder and I hold parties or dinners, I tend to keep myself so busy, worrying about everything being perfect, that it's not until the end of the night, when most of the guests have gone home, that I kick of my shoes and unwind with the half a dozen 'stayers' who you know won't leave until the wee hours.

Last night, we found ourselves in the now-unusual position of being two of the 'stayers'. Sitting around the fire with half a dozen others, laughing and talking until well past our bedtime. No thought of having to get up with the kids, who were staying with my Mum and Dad (and we are eternally grateful). No thought of being responsible parents at all. Just us, under a black, black sky, hanging out with our friends, surrounded by those flickering tea lights.

Sigh. Don't you just love a party?

{image: Tim Walker/Michael Hoppen Gallery}

I've entered this post in the Tuesday Tag-Along blog hop from TweePoppets - say hi if you're popping by from the hop!