As the bus tip toes through the crowds of people being ejected from clubs around
Eight years later, I stir my empty mind and puff my cheeks with fatigue as the bendy bus finally reaches inhospitable
Nowadays, I have a little mantra: know when to go home. Problem is, after my sixth or seventh drink, I don’t have a lot of time for receiving my received wisdom. And so, every few months, I try to do what I would have effortlessly done twice-weekly ten years ago, and experience weary despair at how much just one night of it pains me. I will be going to bed at 9pm for a week.
“Hey, look at you, fatso!” someone who hadn’t seen me for a year had said earlier that night.
Oh, lost youth.