Blonde's Eye View: 24 hour drinking in London
Angela Clarke doesn't need to go home any more
I have discovered a bar near St Pancras that serves as late as you like.
An all-night bar sounds like a convenient and wondrous place to hold dear to my heart - but having continuous access to alcohol is disastrous.
There are many kinds of drunks. The angry violent one you should ostracise, or pointed in the direction of AA after they punched through a glass door.
The perpetual weeping drunk, who dilutes all fun with their vats of tears. The dozing drunk that falls asleep wherever, their head lolling, drool falling from their snoring mouth. The all-night drunk that wants to keep drinking, like an intoxicated Duracell bunny.
I am the last one, that tipsy energetic rabbit. I always want to find another bar, another club, or a hotel where one might purchase a cocktail at 2am.
I often work into the early hours of the morning - my body prefers the gentle cushion of the darkness to the sharp reality of the daylight. I am a lady of the night, in the nocturnal sense. I want to stay out.
It makes me a dreadful person to socialise with. I sound fine (a bit slurry after a while). I look reasonable (give or take the odd mascara smear). I have money (well, a bank card). And I don't ever want to go to bed. I can keep going for hours. Sleep is boring. Sleep means it will soon be morning and I'll be hungover.
But it's OK, because I've found somewhere that will serve me. Forever. They even do cheese on toast.
My trains run all night - I conveniently live in a town on an airport route. The wine stars have aligned. Nothing can stop me now. At this rate I'll be dead by Easter, or worse: teetotal.
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