Talking Loud and Saying Something

So I'm in a members bar in Kensington with M on Thursday night. It's his friend's 40th, we've drunk three bottles of champagne between him, his wife, myself and M. I'm staring at a row of tequila slammers...and you all know how the story goes.

The next day is spent is a post-tequila haze, as I try to remember why I let myself be pressed into drinking three shots of tequila to celebrate the birthday of a man I'd never met before? Go figure.

Big Sis calls to invite me to a party later to celebrate the end of Africa 'O5, an arts programme she was involved in, at the Arts Council. Fortified by lots of water, dinner and a couple of Co-Codamol (legal drugs for the inebriated), I make my way to the northside. Walking ten minutes in the wrong direction in the red cone-heeled vintage Kurt Geiger peep-toes, did not help my humour, but I soon forgot my pain when I reached the party.

Ta daaaa! My tweed trilby enters the room before I do. I see an old colleague from Channel 4 first. "You wasn't this pretty when you worked at Channel 4." J don't change, what a bitch. Funny though, he had no chat for me when I told him it was good to see he'd managed to keep the weight off. Man blushed harder than a virgin at a 'roast'.

My sis introduced me to all her arts people, bigging me up as a journalist. I felt like the embarrassed little sister. Met Jonah's friend, a creative director for promo's at the BBC, and Gus Casely-Hayford, Africa '05's curator, now director for a multi-million pound art space opening in Hoxton in 2007. Also a lovely Jamaican curator of the memorial to Marcus Garvey in Kingston, she shared my name, and had such a nice vibe about her she felt like family. Made a few new contacts, including a journalist who'd worked for the Standard, Metro and Time Out.

Spoke to Kofi, lovely eyes, with those long curling eyelashes, which I don't have naturally but will be buying for Christmas. He manages the website for the Notting Hill Carnival. I got his contact details for my black journalist's group as we really need a website built. Before I could even think 'ulterior motives', a woman came up to him and asked how 'Eva' was. I guessed from his body language Eva was his diva.

I was about to jet when this other brother came up to me. His opening line was: "I met you last night." I said: "Really? Where?". Thinking maybe it was at the members bar, scene of the tequila/champagne carnage. So I look at him. Not a flicker of recognition. He thinks I'm joking. "No seriously, I don't remember." The tequila had gripped the memory portion of my brain, and squeezed it into numbness. "Last night, outside the Ritzy cinema." Recognition dawns. Just 24 hours previously I had been introduced to him, by a girl I vaguely know. I remember him standing apart from her, looking at the ground, and the black jumper (he says cardigan) he was wearing. Shame. If he hadn't spoken to me, I wouldn't have walked past him. He thought I remembered him and was being 'stush' (stuck-up). Never heard that before. No wonder they call it the demon drink. Alcohol is evil (shut it S).

K does press and marketing for the Horniman Museum. No pun intended. We swapped details, and I was heading down to Stratford to check out Charlie Dark's spoken word night. (Happy Birthday Charlie - I was coming to give you a birthday kiss x) As he lives in east we decided to roll together. By the time we ambled to the station, I realised Stratford was 'long', and my feet were hurting. K was up for staying out so we decided to go to DJ Norman Jay's session at Amplified at the Medicine Bar in Old Street. I led him a merry dance around Shoreditch, taking him to the wrong bar. As we walked in the right direction we bumped into Rapscallion (DJ) and his missus. Hopped in his ride (praise Jesus cos the feet were talking loud) to go to the bar, I thought his woman looked familiar. "Have we met before?" "No, I don't think so." I'm looking at the face, thinking but I know this girl, why is she lying? Walking behind her to the bar, I notice her substantial badonkadonk (so many words for the bottom) and the penny dropped. We hadn't met before. But I had seen her posing in underwear for a massive Dove advertising campaign. Looking at her bottom somehow triggered the memory.

We get to the bar, I see a few heads I haven't seen for a while (wassup Big M - what a way yuh locks get long eh) and find a spot to sit down. He notes the amount of people I greet. He doesn't rave, smoke or drink. I know he goes to church before asking him. He's passionate about his work, loves history, sociology and the arts. He's confident, smart, cheeky, and an excellent conversationalist. He's seven years younger than me. He's a gentleman. We sit and talk all night, venturing onto the dancefloor once for ten minutes to watch Norman Jay in action. We move on totally different 'scenes', but this being black London, we invariably meet someone we're both on nodding acquaintance with.

He chides me on my poor performance tonight, the memory loss, addressing people by the wrong name, sorry Zak (or Gus as I called him). I also have no money because I forgot to go to the cashpoint. But he's sure I would be better on a first date. I'm impressed he can use those words in a sentence. I tell him how square he looked in his jumper and trousers (designer apparently). He remembers I was wearing bicycle clips on my trousers when we were introduced. We go back and forth, but it's all good-humoured, and lots of bashful looks are exchanged.

I'm out much longer than I intend, due to the fact that I'm enjoying talking to K, but realise if I want to keep the youthful age-defying look, a girl needs to get some beauty sleep. I cadge a lift with a group of people I know heading back to south London, and thank K for a lovely, unexpectedly decent evening. Although we talked for nearly five hours, I didn't ask him if he has a girlfriend. And I didn't have a drink.