Saturday Night Fever

When S and I moved to East London, we envisioned a life of endless partying and socialising, and only really coming home to go to bed. We won't care about the noise, we said, because we'll be the ones making it! We'll be out every night, meeting hot East London guys in achingly cool bars. We'll drink outselves to sleep and live for the weekends. Bring on the adventure, tally-ho!, etc.

We realised that this might not quite be the case when we spent our first Friday night here watching I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, in S's bed, in matching onesies.

To be fair, we have both had our fair share of adventures since moving here. S wet herself on our doorstep after a particularly messy night at a gig, and I rocked home at 5:30am after our office Christmas party following a misadventure in Hackey with a chap called James. (I went back to his house with him; I sent him back to the club to find my coat which I had left there; I realised I had given him all the signals that I was totally up for it; I panicked; he returned empty-handed; I left. The end.)

However, lying on the sofa watching Take Me Out and eating my way through a Cadbury's Favourites selection bag isn't quite the Saturday night I had hoped for.

My mother came to visit today, primarily to deliver the stuff I physically couldn't carry back with me on Wednesday, and secondly to have a good moan about my brother. My brother and my mother have the kind of difficult relationship common between people whose personalities are too similar. They are both ferociously stubborn, deeply argumentative, and overly sensitive to criticism. To both his and our mother's chargrin, he is living at home following his graduation from university in the summer with a disappointing 2:2. This seems to have affected him deeply, and he now rarely emerges from his bedroom (where he is supposedly "working from home" as part of his music journalism internship) other than to go out drinking, is rude, unpleasant to be around, and negligent of his personal hygiene. Our family friend thinks he might be depressed. Personally, I'm surprised that my mother hasn't smothered him in his sleep yet. She has never been the most patient person in the world, but my brother has turned irritating her into something of an art form.

Thankfully S returns tomorrow, hopefully bringing some semblance of normality with her.