I had a busy time last night. First up was a birthday party out in the suburbs. Had a very interesting drunken conversation with a couple of other middle class, middle aged ladies, reminiscing about youthful misadventures with drugs whilst at the same time bemoaning similar behaviour in our own children. But, you see, the situation is very different now because… but I can’t remember what the arguments were now. Never mind. The worst part was having to Uber away just as the fabulous looking cake was brought out, in order to make it to my next engagement on time.
Heading back into town, I caught up with some workmates at a bar, ready to check out a band as potential entertainment for the conference we’re organizing next year. They were a covers band, but the evening had a theme which was the entire soundtracks of first The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and then Grease. The band was excellent, and a good time was had by all. I was astonished to discover that my junior colleagues had never seen the first movie. By the time we were onto the second set, I was too afraid to ask. By then we had split into two groups, those that remembered seeing Grease when it first came to movie theatres, and those that probably hadn’t even been conceived yet.
When the band (called Superbad – but a misnomer, I can assure you) had finished and we had grabbed their business card like the serious grown up people we are, we moved on to another little bar for a debrief. During the next round of drinks, the conversation moved on to work and other colleagues. My eyes were opened, I can tell you. Everything was off the record, because I’m the editor of our departmental newsletter and consequently no one trusts me (I have been tarred by the brush of the gutter press! Sad) But I have this advice for my senior colleagues: be nice to that medical student/ house surgeon/ registrar, because they have long memories and boy can they hold a grudge.
By now it was after midnight, but it was such a lovely evening I walked all the way home (inner city living: can’t beat it). Plenty of people still out and about, but nothing too raucous going on. I bumped into our dog sitter on the way home – because Wellington is tiny. There was some sort of youthful shenanigans going on a few hundred metres from my house, but the young men were all very polite as I went past. One of them even called me “miss”. The only person I’ve met recently who wanted to be called Miss was a transgender patient we looked after last week, but I’m sure their intentions were good.
And so to bed.