White Nights

Today

Brighton, for reasons best known to its partying soul, has decided that it's probably best to avoid going to bed at all on the night the clocks go back. Whether this is because the residents hope to catch a glimpse of the tear in the fabric of time caused by this event or just like the idea that you get an extra hour of frolicking, so to speak, I can't tell.

We had planned to be part of this happening. First we went to St Bartholomews Church ("The Ark") to hear the Monteverdi Vespers. Afterwards, the church was continuing to host free musical events until 2.00, rounding off with matins. We were diverted from our intention of staying for this by bumping into our upstairs neighbours who invited us to the nearest hostelry for drinks.

Brighton was heaving, mostly with people dressed as zombies (sometimes with ties worn over their grave-clothes and all of them with impeccable party manners) or accident victims, intent on seeing in the new time-age as well as celebrating Hallow e'en. 

We did our best, but by 1.30 pm we were walking companionably back up the hill to the flat. Paul got to bed later than I by dint of first passing out on the sofa for an hour, but I'm not sure whether that counts.

Yesterday, walking into town at about midday, we saw many a reveller, still dressed in bloody rags (well, we assumed it was still fancy dress and not the real thing), making their way home after the party.

In My Day

When I was a student, all-night parties were de rigueur. It wasn't a proper party if you weren't sitting on some appallingly dirty carpet, clutching a glass of bad wine listening to Bob Dylan at about 5.00 am. You eventually fell asleep as the dawn broke, curled up uncomfortably in an old quilt with your head on a equally filthy sofa cushion. When you awoke you tried to pretend that a: you'd had a great time, b: you had absolutely loved sleeping on the floor and c: you weren't desperate to rush off home to be sick and have a bath and hairwash.

I remember 2 rather better occasions. The fact that they were both at 4BH, therefore on home territory, may have made them more enjoyable. One was a party given by Chris. I know that I was wearing silver tights which caused a sensation. I think we had the usual dancing, drinking and talking. As it began to get light someone suggested breakfast. We walked up to the just-opened grocery, bought eggs, bacon etc and went back home to make an enormous fry-up. I have no idea where Mamma and Daddy were but they put in no kind of appearance.

The other was the famous party at which I met Bob Kenna. To begin with I wasn't invited to this party, which was Beatrice's, because I would upset the gender balance in some way. As I prepared to go out instead, a (female) guest phoned to cancel so Beatrice graciously allowed me to stay. This was a very jolly party; we no doubt danced to the Beachboys, Beatles and Stones. I think Mamma and Daddy were home but they kept out of the way. This was the kind of party where much snogging went on in various places but you simply ignored it. The weather was mild and damp and at 4.00 am a group of us fancied a walk round the streets of Upper Norwood. Linking arms we set off round the block, all feeling most jolly. By the time we got back, I was very firmly Bob's girlfriend and I don't think Beatrice ever forgave me.

Actually, I'm just the smallest bit ashamed that I lacked the stamina to manage the whole night on Saturday.