Sometimes I forget that at night, with the lights on, the neighbors can see into my house.
I guess seeing naked Seaman is a risk of living in Newtown.
The Mardi Gras Parade was on the weekend, and I hosted pre-drinks. I prepared cheeses and dips, and stocked Scotch, Vodka, mixers and various other beverages. I told people to come after 5:30, and at 4:45, I stood naked in my bathroom.
I heard a voice.
'SEAMAN!', it shrilly cried.
I wrapped a probably-far-too-small towel around myself, and stomped to the door. Kirsty and Jeremy had arrived. They were early.
Which totally goes against all previous social events in the decade that I’ve known them. I left them on the sofa, and had a shower.
Kirsty went home, and as I got ready Jeremy played PS4. Then I lost my keys. This, coupled with Scotch and subsequent Vodka Sunrises, caused something of a stressful time for me. Brendo arrived, and Kirsty found my keys.
I made Sunrises, and music was played. Apparently, I did the single greatest rendition of Barry Manilow’s ‘Copacabana’ ever. It was magisterial.
Then came Jack Morris. And Vodka shots. Or something. I had no tequila. We stayed longer here than expected, and arrived at Oxford Street sort-of late, catching only the tail end of the parade. Seb joined us at St. James, Chad soon afterwards.
There was latex, leather and glitter everywhere, and it seemed many people were having a good night. A small guy tried to fight a cop, whose reaction was ‘Fuck you.’ The cop then effortlessly pushed him out of the crowd.
We all needed to pee, so covertly infiltrated a classy bar, then left in groups of three.
We wandered between some bars, and I had a Pina Colada. Then tequila shots. Seb left us, we had pizza and kebabs. It rained somewhat.
We ended up at Scubar. Which I don’t like. Interestingly, I bumped into Lisa there - she now works at Credit Suisse. Her friend Sammy, who I know from previous parties was also there. And Prue arrived, with a friend who seemed to recognize me.
I did that hug thing I do where I pick people up and kiss their foreheads.
Then I taxied home, cleaned and went to bed.
At 2:36 Kirsty called me.
'WE'RE ON KING STREET. BE BY SOON.'
So, at 3:11 AM on Sunday morning, drunken Kirsty, Brendo, Jack and Jeremy all arrived. Kirsty crashed on the Ottoman, the other three spooning on the sofa.
I was a less than generous host, and threatened to stab someone if they didn’t go to sleep. Regardless of my threats, there were many drunken renditions of ‘YOU’RE THE ONE THAT I NEED’.
My sister/room-mate just got home, and she’s hyperventilating all over the lounge room. I told her to take her shoes off, because I value a clean floor.
While just down the street in Newtown, she and her friend thought they recognized someone as the noted film director, Baz Luhrmamn (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baz_Luhrmann), so they asked him who he was, and he confirmed that he was indeed Baz.
They remained skeptical, so he showed them his email inbox and family photos (which he noted is something he normally wouldn’t do), then they took a whole bunch of selfies with each other.
Cassandra then insisted he pop up his cap, and I can in fact confirm that it was the noted film director. He seems a nice chap.