The morning arrived with a spin and a blur, and before thoughts of proceeding home in an orderly mid morning fashion had fully formulated, others roused in the household in which Ron had gained consciousness. The previous evening’s half-baked notion that clogging arteries with a Full English (breakfast that is – not a gram of smack) was followed through in a drunken stupor.
Sausages came and went, as they are wont to do. The ragged notion that walking from Angel to Camden along the canal was a spiffing thing to do, suddenly sprang into Ron’s head. After a few false starts and the collection of an Irishman with no sense of direction, which naturally entailed a pint at a local hostelry as he wended his way to where they were waiting, the quartet set off.
Due to the last of the light ebbing away towards the US before the journey was fully realised, the gang of four elected to stop at only other pub for a drink, to speed their Camden bound progress. They rightly felt that the night closing in on them while they were alongside the general nocturnal inhabitants of the area might pose a variety of risks to their personal well-beings.
Luckily, the Mac Bar came to their rescue on the outskirts of Camden before they could wind up in too much trouble. The worst injury was when one of Ron’s favourite fingers spontaneously burst into blood tears, for no apparent reason, as most drink-related wounds are wont to do.
Time passed, as did cocktail waitresses, as did cocktails. Before long, Ron had to depart, for an evening of tapas was required in order to celebrate the birthday of the only buddhist solicitor that he knew in the area. Not a solicitor for mendacious buddhists – no that solicitor would perhaps be a very poor one – but a solicitor who was a buddhist. As luck would have it, said buddhist solicitor was dating the manager of the tapas bar and upstairs salsa club, as these people are wont to do.
Ron arrived an hour before the rest of the party, and realising that he was perhaps too drunk to sit down and communicate with anybody for any period of time, he bought pints of cider to sober him up. Needless to say, this was not totally successful, but as his sister had always told him when he had forgotten to buy her even paltry birthday presents, it was the thought that counted. The evening bestowed a fantastic number of plates of food on the guests, to help wash down the gallons of champagne, and before long, thoughts turned to salsa, and the thoughts turned to knee wobbling steps.
Ron found himself hypnotised by salsa, in which two left feet were a positive boon. This was the case when dancing with an El Salvadorian man who knew both how to lead and be led, and wanted to switch between the two. As the dancing progressed, it became clear that switching between traditionally male and female roles on the dance-floor was not the only place that he envisaged this action with Ron.
As the salsa club was closing, another birthday attendee named Mash, who appeared to have stolen David Bellamy’s beard for the evening, suggested a squat party. With little encouragement, Ron, Mash and Zoe set off to push back the boundaries of salsa and squatting…