Soho House

It was a Saturday night, Paul and I were off to Nick’s (a good mate of Paul’s) fortieth birthday party at Soho House, I’ve met him once. It’s a rare event us going out, such a great deal of organisation involved, babysitters, food preparation and extra energy, so we make the most of it.
Soho House, no messing then, serious attention to outfit and general appearance. I’m a little over weight so naturally I did indulge in some lengthy wardrobe research and presentation. Best bra, best knickers (well nothing from a pack of five anyway), clean hair, serious attention to make up. Outfit examined and re-examined with obscene scrutiny for any hint of unpleasantness.
We arrived and were greeted by Nick,
‘Hi Sandy, can I get you a drink?’
‘Thanks Nick, Happy Birthday! A cranberry juice on ice would be great.’
‘What, you’re not drinking? Surely you’ll have vodka in that?’
‘No thanks, just cranberry would be fine.’
‘Well, I just can’t get my head around that, why would you not drink Sandy? Are you driving?’
‘No Nick, I just fancy a cranberry juice.’
‘But not drinking, I mean how is that? Oh! (Points at me) cystitis?’
The room is full of people talking, so I don’t quite catch the last bit.
‘Pardon?’
‘CYSTITIS! You’ve got CYSTISTIS?’
‘NO! I just want a cranberry juice!’
Nick returned with the drink and Paul disappeared to the loo, so I went and sat at the bar, as far away from Nick as possible. Paul soon returned and I’d finished my drink, so he ordered me another. The bar was very full now with that squashed shouty atmosphere, people talking just a pitch above the norm.

I picked up my new drink and began to take a sip; the glass broke in my hand, and all the contents were tipped straight onto my lap. I gasped as the freezing cold, cranberry juice spilled all over me. I was mortified and wet through to my shoes and those best knickers.
Well, everyone was looking at me now. A new drink appeared with a thoughtful napkin. Paul marched off to see the manager, as I felt the night couldn’t get any worse.
As he disappeared out of sight, the woman sitting next to me said,
‘And when is your little baby due?’
‘I’M NOT PREGNANT!’ I wailed.
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry will you ever forgive me? How silly of me, are you sure? What, you’re not having me on; you’re really not pregnant?’ The verbal diarrhoea eventually stopped; perhaps she was worried that she’d see my fist up close. And I calmly replied,
‘NO.’
‘But you know, you look stunning.’
‘OH FUCK OFF!’ Is what I said in my head, but nice polite middle class me said,
‘Don’t worry.’
I had begun to have an out of body experience, looking down on myself and the ridiculous drama. I held the strong hope that the earth would swallow me up. For no good reason, I put the napkin I was holding over my head, and began to laugh. I’d suddenly realised how unimportant my precious night out really was, even though I was embarrassed, soaking wet and wishing I was tucked up in bed at home, I knew I had far more important things to worry about. After over a decade of dealing with the bleak realities of DS, some trivial knocks that life can throw my way, fall easily into their proper place.
Paul returned to say that Soho House would pay for a cab home. I caught the slight glint of fear in his eye as he saw me with a strange napkin accessory and he suggested that immediately might be a good time to leave. We did, and I must say it took a very brave man to ride home with me the cab.