Do you remember that strange night we spent in purgatory, our faces torn between the heaven of tipsy candlelight and the hell of gaudy neon signs?
That curious liminal state in which we existed, somewhere between the safety of our private candlelit sanctuary, the warmth and comfort afforded by the melting pillar that stood coyly between us as we sat in quiet contentment, bellies full of steak and rioja, and the rhythmic blinking of those electric signs on the other side of the window, the crackling letters in brash colours screaming 18+, touting Soho’s finest mags + dvds + toys + girls girls girls, and MASSAGE with a short-circuited M.
In that late-night limbo known only by the lost, we were faced with the age-old conundrum of deciding what to do next. The world was our oyster. The best city in the world was under our feet. We could have gone anywhere, everywhere. And instead we chose nowhere.
Retreating from ideas of excitement and excess, under the dim glances of tired streetlights on a silent faraway road we questioned our uncharacteristic decision to “be boring.” We discovered that waking up on a Sunday morning without a hangover would be a new experience in itself. And the money we didn’t spend could be used on our next adventure. And anyway, the golf ball in the sky told me that I was right to choose home instead of psychedelic liquid light shows – at least this time.