Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Bluey’s bodybuilder friend jiggled effeminately to the music, sliding up and down the blonde door-frame, while we rooted around the air-conditioned larder for wide-necked jars to accommodate the pool balls pinched from the games room. Daniel played mixologist, creating ‘dry pussies’, a hard, sour blend of vodka, Pernod, pickling juice and thin balsamic. We used the fourth round to fill the pickled onion jars rammed with stripes. The solids were scattered among the honey, chutney and jam jars in the heaving larder. We laughed hard, and I began to choke, when Vanessa walked in, her lavender hair flowing.