the ball

preball drinks: some flapper, some glam, travolta and newton-john, and a cowboy

predrinks - mia farrow, eva peron, uh...guy in shirt, sarah j parker, and apparently that is grasshopper (means nothing to me)

we meet for predrinks at um 5 actually, on a friend’s balcony. more and more people arrive arriving, dressed to the nines as they say, until the balcony’s full and people flow on inside around the makeshift bar –

But I preferred it outside: you can see from there that we're circled by mountains. With the soft blue triangles as the background, for a moment it’s as if it’s a set and the stage is the balcony and we’re all caught up in some bigger drama – the mountains sometimes lend you that sense of largess, of life from a greater perspective.

There was time for a few drinks actually and I meet two ticket-less guys who we later sneak into the ball, one jokingly poses as a photographer but somehow it works; then the sun's popped down and the inside lights shone out brightly - and then in cars and cars we went into town, to the Bird (the local hotel), to the ball.

Inside – a drink in the downstairs bar. It’s packed full of people and hot and bar service is slow – then upstairs and to tables.

Somehow I am sitting on a table next to the Governor. He sits at a table of similarly important men; none of them look like they’re having much fun over dinner; maybe they cheered up later, when the dancing started. I am sitting next to someone whose name I immediately forget, but I keep that quiet and find out that he’s a bit of a (self-called) wordsmith and we have a bit of a rave. And on my other side is a volunteer mate, the cheeky cowboy, who somehow later on gets voted best-dressed male. (he has fake pistols, and is warned not to muck around with them – people will think he’s serious. He laughs and tries it – and suddenly it’s no joke: people are not amused. A few nights ago I was driving through town late at night and saw a security guard with a bow and arrow; presume he wasn’t joking, but you never can tell.)

And we eat and chat and there’s some entertainment - most of it I saw the night before at the uni’s dramatic arts performance or at the coffee festival during the day, so unfortunately I am not overly taken in. instead, what grabs my attention is the dozen beers that turn up at the table, donated by an anonymous person, so before any mistake is realised (serious? Joke?) we are ripping them open. Ahaha: tinnies!

And somehow later on I am at the bar and there are tequila shots lined up. We down them and someone goes off onto the dance floor, someone else disappears, and I remain at the bar with a mate having a debate about something insignificant (highly unusual behaviour of mine…). At 3ish we head off; my neighbours (and with them my lift) have already left, so I stay at a friend’s. (Of course I don’t go straight to bed but instead stand in the kitchen raving to another person whose name I immediately forget, but I keep that quiet again.)

The next morning I pop in to a friend’s and find him with a hooded sweatshirt on. This isn’t a joke: the hood hides a thick white bandage around his head. After the tequila – within 5 minutes of being on the dance floor – another fella had smashed a bottle on his head. He’d seen it coming, and turned, so that it caught the top of his ear and left a jagged cut down his hairline. He knew who had done it, but didn’t say much more than that. Maybe he’d stepped too close to someone’s lady; unlikely (he’s married), but too much too much to drink and it’s possible someone saw it that way. I hadn’t noticed anything the night before – but it wasn’t just my goggles, no one else had either. He’d been bundled up quick and taken to the hospital for 33 stitches. He was glad of that tequila, he said; didn’t feel a thing.