A light rain drifting out of the grey sky and a low dreary mist limited the morning view to an indistinct middle distance. Monday and my mood was about as low as the clouds.Remembering my counselling I tried to think ahead to something better, focus on a positive. Like the view from the train window, life stretched ahead in a featureless plain. Miles Davis ‘but not for me’ is trying its perky uptempo best to swing me into a sunnier place.
I am startled from my misery by the sharp buzz in my hip pocket. Message from Emily. She is throwing a Halloween party. My first thought is to think up an excuse. Emily’s partys were filled with ex students who couldn’t let go of the lifestyle. Boring and self obsessed they were an odious bunch. Most of them had jobs in trendy bars and boutiques, some were ‘artists’, others played a charade of being ‘creative’ in some way or other. They all had one thing in common, daddys’ money. For reasons that mystified me, they were the most powerful ‘in’ crowd in town, so wherever they chose to be was soon descended on by cliques of the second circle and quite often the ‘in the knows’ from the third. They revelled in this pretensious charade and their incestuous goings on. The hearsay and the sycophantic fawning that went with it irritated me beyond belief. That said I wasn’t doing anything else, my voyeuristic demon got the better of me and I was keying the reply,’sounds fun’. Emilys’ parties had been the stuff of college legend. Her priveleged social network and family connections gave her access to an inexhaustible catalogue of bizarre and uber cool venues. Arty theatrical friends were drafted in to turn these into fantastical backdrops to what usually ended up as Bacchanalian displays of unrestrained excess.
One particular event though marked the nadir of the worst. It had wound up splashed across the red top nationals, in 48 point lurid headlines illustrated by half blurred stills taken from movie clips. ‘A sex slave in a minotaur’s maze!’. Images depicted the laughing face and naked body of a blonde girl, starkly white against the black shape of an athletic male figure wearing the head of a bull, huge curved horns stretching off the edges of the frame. It was very impressive, like an illustration from an early pulp horror magazine, a dark devil towering over peverted innocence. Except as I recall there wasn’t any innocence to pervert. I remembered the scene well, although I had been viewing it through the eyes of the bull mask.
The reminiscence cheered me up a bit, maybe a party was what I needed.