I didn’t normally frequent nightclubs, but TPR was away and I wasn’t going to stay in on a Saturday night. I jumped into a taxi with three young men, muttered an apology for hitching this free ride, and travelled with them to a club on the outskirts of town. The smart one in the suit made to pay my entrance fee, but I pulled out a Scottish £10 note just in time to stop him. (I later discovered that I needn’t have paid at all. My membership of another club in town was also valid here.)
I spent a long time chatting with two boys on the club reception desk, entertaining them with the contents of my handbag. These included a pile of unopened bills that I had stuffed in there, originally with the intention of paying at some point, but subsequently forgotten. We also watched live footage of the American plane crash on a huge television screen.
Eventually I left the boys at their desk and went upstairs. Here the nightclub transformed into a gift shop. Once again, I spent nearly all my time there with the two staff, and before long I was serving customers. I also bought lots of stationery and nick-nacks for Christmas stockings. I thought my father would particularly like the multicoloured sticks of sealing wax.
I was just about to leave when I saw a semi-familiar face. I was unsure if it was who I thought it was at first. As far as I knew, J was on holiday. In addition, this person looked like she had been wounded. As she approached me I understood what I saw. J had used the excuse of a holiday to spend a few days in hospital, and her face was still bruised as she recovered from surgery for a facelift. Even her partner N had no idea of her secret mission.
Dreamaticus 