Sohohohohoho

Having recently declared my need to "party on down", "get on it" and "tit about like we used to", last night four single ladies (including my PIB - Partner in Breakup - a friend whose relationship and employment demise echoes mine) braved the cold and headed out into the West End to put plans into practice. It's all too easy to succumb to the warmth and comfort of a friend's house at this time of year, and although I'm never one to turn down a night in front of the telly with a glass of wine and a pizza, there's only so many 'girlie nights in' a girl can take before cabin fever sets in.

Fantastic, I thought, as we wondered in to a quiet bar off Oxford Street, grabbed a table and a bottle of wine and got chatting. It was a mixed crowd; a few couples here and there, but we were the only group of girls. Even better, I mused, as the bar began to fill up with groups of good looking men. That's nice, I pondered, seeing blokes arriving and meeting other lone drinkers on the surrounding tables.

It took four London born and bred girls longer than it should have done to put two and two together: the perfectly shaped eyebrows of those around us and our close proximity to Old Compton Street, the heart of London's gay scene. Bah.

So we embraced the Soho charm, wormed our way into a club, then after a few tequilas (etc) the two of us still able to function decided to head to Camden. I am reliably informed that my PIB threw up on the night bus home (and again this morning), that another of our party woke up at 11:30am in her own bed but fully clothed down to the shoes, and that I stayed in bed until 5:30pm this evening and have yet to get dressed.

A successful evening all round, in my book.