The story begins on an overcast Friday evening in March (as if a Friday evening in England would be anything but overcast. Or July for that matter.). It was balmy and I had a case containing my laptop with me. The train was late but I was on time. London was throbbing with an invisible pulse, the city felt alive, electric even.
It was...
THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. KNOLL AND THE POLISH VODKA BAR... (oooohhhhh)...
How the bloody godfathers do I always manage to go to the Polish vodka bar, start off with the best intentions (ie no vodka karma papa, pray let me drink no vodka), meet no fewer than 75 new people and consume even more shots, wake up the following morning with a troupe of Siberian forest yaks playing Tennessee banjos in my head WITHOUT ACTUALLY REMEMBERING A SINGLE HUMBLE NANOSECOND OF THE JOURNEY HOME????
Why, dear reader? How, dear reader??? Elucidate this mystery for me, I beg thee! This has been going on since time immemorial and still I cannot conjure an answer.
Answers on a postcard please my friends, but forgive me if I do not hold my breath.
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1 comment:
Man, you still going to this place?
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