I think Wednesday nights are dressing up ones in the clubs in town. As a result they were a motley crew ambling their way up the hill at 3.30 am this morning. By then the novelty of their costumes has worn off and they have forgotten that they are wearing them, like the girl I saw on Northgate Street in a Tigger onesie or the lad in ripped jeans sitting on the steps by The Marine with a purple velvet tricorne hat on his head. They also appear to have dressing gown nights, though I think that the girl I saw in the pink one by the fire escape behind Alexandra Halls talking to boy, had just left her bed in need of a cigarette. Anything goes in this town. Etiquette is a fluid thing. And I like it that way. I am the oddity, I think. And I like that too.
Alas, there is work to do. And the beginnings are always the hardest.
