Honeytrappers, wherefore art thou?

Yesterday I used my car to try and kill Hachar's fence.

It wasn't one of those dramatic 100km/h ram down the fence with the jewels in the getaway car sort of deals. It was more of a slow, deliberate mashing. And only because I was distracted by the fact that I had, by dint of some overenthusiastic turning while reversing, used all 2500 pounds of my car to grind his neighbour's plants into a squishy little mess in the dirt. The car and the fence survived unscathed. The flowers didn't. It was somewhat ironic, given that I had zipped through my virgin exploration of the city centre without mishap.

I've also discovered why I hate clubbing here with 20 year olds. Especially here.

We were supposed to meet at 10:30 for pre-drinks at someone's flat. Somehow I ended up being the designated driver. We ended up sitting around for one hour waiting for ONE person to finish primping. I could have told her to save the effort though, because damn if the blouse she changed into wasn't fugly. If it had been The Other Cat or RunsWithStilettoes, an executive decision would have been made fifteen minutes into the waiting to get the party started with whoever wanted to go. And take no prisoners.

When we finally made it into the club strip, we realized an additional dilemma - one of our number didn't have the correct ID. This ended up with us traipsing from club to club in the hopes of finding one which she could get into, a search proving ultimately futile, leading to a forty dollar cab ride home. I could sense silent appeals from said individual that I might maybe drive her back to pick up her passport, but it was already 1 a.m., I had spent two and a half hours waiting, and I was beginning to feel like I was in serious need to some nicotine, always a bad sign. So, no.

While lining up for our fifth club of the night, I discovered the alleyway where all the drugs in the area are sold. Primarily because I was standing right in front of the entrance. Not a highlight of the evening.

And what is wrong with this city? You get a stamp when you go in, but when you leave the club and want to re-enter, you have to line up again. What, so the stamp's just for decorative purposes? Fuckwits.

I miss the Honeytrappers, who will dirty-dance with me on platforms, who, when in the mood, will divide and conquer the available hot men as if it was a competitive sport, who will drinnk and be merry and be ridiculous and will celebrate with Fluffies if we can find them. I also miss SheWhoRunsInStilettoes, who never has to buy a drink and who can reject men with a single contemptuous look. And on one memorable occaision, with physical violence.

It was fully 2:30 in the morning before any serious dancing got done. And yes, I really felt my age when everyone went wild when the Backstreet Boys was played while I looked on with an expression of horror. Then I had to send everyone home. I am getting too old for this shit. I should have stuck to my original plan of having some quality time with David Boreanaz.