The Boogie Monster.

I wish I could bottle the smell of Friday afternoons. It would be a heady mix of relief and anticipation, coupled with hints of drama, passion and fun. Oh, and we mustn't forget, liberal doses of alcohol.

I'm really looking forward to this weekend. Manic diarising has meant i am attending two barbecues, a night out on the town and then the lovely anticipation of 'whatever goes". But first, there is work to attend to.

A massive generalisation that is probably true - the minutes seem to tick over more slowly when you can't wait to get out of there. I'm doing all of my little tricks - refusing to look at the time until I think 5 minutes has passed, holding my breath for two minutes, taking a sip of water every 30 seconds. How did the time go from 5.29 to 5.28?

Finally, as I stare at the time in the bottom corner of my computer screen, in slow motion the digits change from 5.59 to 6.00. "I'm done", I say as I stand up, log off my computer, grab my handbag and push my chair in, all in one easy motion.

Barbecue # 1 is a casual affair, simply a few drinks between workmates over the wafting scent of sausages. Its a chance to toil down over the working week, bitching about issues to people who actually can relate to them, and understand the jargon and acronyms. Its always better to moan and gripe here, rather than be that messy one who bitches later on at people who barely move to emit bodily gas, let alone have a full time job. A few quick drinks here and then a slightly wobbly dash hailing a cab, and I'm off to the next one.

Sydney has an amazing harbour, and this barbecue has been plonked perfectly on the shores of our idyllic harbour. Add to that a dusky evening where the mosquitos have not yet begun to bite and I feel more and more relaxed as the hours while away. This is one situation where I would be happy for the minutes to go backwards.

But no rest for the wicked. After a few hours of becoming one with a picnic blanket and some bottles of wine, its time for the night to turn the bass up...I am going dancing.

Preparations are slightly messy, to say the least. Downing tumblers full of wine (we gave up on the wine glasses way back when we discovered they didn't hold enough) there is lots of singing, jostling for mirror space, frequent cigarette breaks and I do believe there was even a dance rendition to the Spice Girls song "Stop". Perhaps we should have taken heed from the words of the song - a neighbour politely knocked on the door and asked us to turn it down a smidgen.

Into a cab we pile, a merry duo off to meet like minded party goers. We meet up with my friends, some of whom I was having beers with only that afternoon, and immediately hit the bar for vodka doubles.

Don't judge me - it saves time lining up later on.

The place is trading as an R&B funk joint tonight, so there is plenty of bounce bounce baby bounce factor. Lots of gorgeous men too, I muse, roving an expert eye over the talent out tonight. But plenty of time for that later - I'm here to shake a tail feather. So dance, we do. We drop it like its hot. We raise the roof. We like big butts and we cannot lie. We ain't no Hollaback Girl. We never knew a love like, love like this before. You get the idea.

I duck outside for some fresh air (read : my eighteen millionth cigarette for the night) and in my drunken state manage to smash a glass all over some poor girls exposed foot. I apologise profusely, and the apology is taken with poor grace. Never mind. She had ugly shoes on anyway.

Eventually we tire of dancing and decide to get a meal from one of the late night chinese establishments. Into the place we tumble, our shiny eye makeup and high heels at odds with the lino flooring and chinese warbling coming from the karaoke on the screens. Meals are ordered, drinks are ordered and finally a little bit of order is in place.

Easy conversation is flung from table side to table side, but I am restless. I feel there is still so much to the night and pray the others are of a similar frame of mind. No such luck, to my disappointment. So I cast my nets wider and the following phone conversation ensues.

"Hello darlings, what are you up to tonight?"
"OMG, come out! We are at a foam party and completely off our faces."
"Lovely, I shall see you in a bit. Meet me out the front."
"Its a lesbian foam party!!"
"A lesbian foam party?"
"Yah, and there are hot lesbians everywhere. I slipped in the foam and fell off the stage!!"
"Hmm, ok. I will see you soon."

I share a taxi with one of my mates as we are going the same way, and I can kind of sense he wants to come too, he just needs some very strong arm twisting. I'm not sure how long I'll stay though so I leave it for this time, leaving a mental memo for another day.

My friend meets me at the door with a flaming great big kiss. I suspect this is due to the door bitches at the club turning away a lot of men, due to it being, as you know, a lesbian affair. I have no troubles getting in (hmmmm...) and once past the velvet rope I stop in shock for a second.

There is foam everywhere.

I can barely see some peoples faces, they are covered from head to toe in bubbles. Immediately I regret coming in open toed heels and a satin dress. I am absurdly over dressed for such an event, however I am feeling slightly mollified by the appreciative looks being thrown my way by the women in the area.

I traipse downstairs to the lower dance floor, where the foam abates slightly and order drinks at the bar. Double vodkas again, yes. In for a penny, in for a pound, I say.

After some very tentative dancing (the floor is slippery) we manage to get outside to the smoking area, where I am immediately abandoned by my companion with promises to return in one second.

I'm not too fussed and lean against the wall, drink in hand. After a few minutes, I'm approached by two good looking males and small chit chat is made. While this occurs, I spot a gorgeous specimen of an man leaning on the opposite wall, casting a glance in my direction every now and again. What would I do here? I've started talking to these two other guys, it would be unfeasibly rude to turn away and start a conversation with another?

I head back inside and the night, as they tend to do, passes in a blur. Nothing much of note happens, except I have a great time, which is something in itself, I suppose. As I leave the club I notice I don't have any more cash in my wallet and so a call to the ATM is necessary. I walk down the street, in the midst of drunks, junkies, police, rowdy boys, slutty girls - if you live in Sydney you will know I'm referring to Oxford St ...

Before I reach the cashpoint though, I hear someone behind me trying to get my attention. I turn around and I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather - it was the boy from the alleyway. He saw me leave and had left his friends to come and speak to me. Now, I would never let an effort like that be for nothing so I went and had some drinks with me in the nearest pub.

He was lovely to speak to and spend time with, opening doors, pulling out my chair (??) and I enjoyed a nice easy banter with him. Until he spoke about his ex girlfriend. I asked him when they had broken up, as it seemed to me it must have been recent. He said a few hours ago. I thanked him for the drinks and then left.

Did I overreact? I think not. I would have just rather been on my way home then spending time with someone who obviously was out for a revenge/spite shag. In another world, maybe.

On my way home, I drink dial. I ring my Go To Guy, the boy down the road. He was thankfully awake and so instead of going straight home I get dropped off at the boys house. I'll not divulge too many details, but lets just say itches got scratched, cuddles were given, and a few hours later with the sun high up in the sky I got dropped at my front door, high heels in my hand.

What an utterly fabulous night.

Good luck in life and love,

Honey xx