2002-02-17 - 3:02 p.m.
�Join our club��
If there�s a better soundtrack to a hangover than Saint Etienne, then I�ve yet to hear it.
I�m on a residual high as, in possibly a first in the an(n)als of this journal, I made, as they say, out last night. It�s a perfunctory, delusional high as I was totally rejected at the end of it, but, hey, I�m claiming it as progress, OK? OK!
It was a house party, shaping up to be just another Pole-fuelled vodka-fest, when in stepped the Scottish brunette, a friend of a friend, like a big Caledonian reason to keep on living. Several bouts of unidentifiable sprits later, we�re together on the couch, or, if you will, sofa. Reader, I kissed her. There was no small amount of both upper and lower lip action, and even intermittent incidents of toungal interplay. She said, and I�m naturally quite embarrassed to relate, but what the hell, that I was the �nicest kisser� she�d ever (I know, sorry, it�s quite nauseating, but I�m just reporting the facts) known, though I suspect the 17 shots of neat tequila we�d just knocked back were having some influence on her judgement.
It was all downhill from there, of course. The mid-snog change of heart is always vaguely disconcerting. Pulling away just as I was hoping to move my hand somewhere more sensual than the armrest, she said, �I don�t think we should do this. You can�t get too close to me.� She told me she was �damaged�, and despite my enthusiastic protestations that this was perhaps the defining characteristic that I look for in a casual petting participant, she was having none of it, and before you could say �physical highlight of the year so far� she went off to flirt with less linguistically compatible, but more handsome, East Europeans.
�I know you want to hold my hand�I know you�re gonna love my band��
So that was that.
�Do you believe in magic?�
