Grave concerns


Last Friday night to Gravesend for a mate’s family birthday party. Nice place, Gravesend, though eerily deserted as I walked through the town, only my footfalls for company etc. It’s really pretty – from what I could see in the darkling streets – but it was very strange. Where is everyone? I thought. Has a horribly virulent virus escaped from a ghost ship moored on the river, causing the burghers of Gravesend to fall off their perches in one mysterious fell swoop?

Ooh, it’s like at the pitchers. First some fisher-folk start looking peaky, then the mayor assures a town meeting there’s nothing to worry about, then the mayor goes a funny colour and keels over. Cut to me, sitting on the almost-empty train, humming, fluffing up hair, applying lipstick, texting the-friend-who-will-never-reply-because-she’s-succumbed-to-the-plague etc. DON’T GET OFF THE TRAIN, MISSY! THIS BE THE TOWN OF THE DAMNED! Etc.

Either that or everyone’s in McDonald’s Gravesend of a Friday.

The party was great – no plague, plenty of guests, hearty buffet, and a man named Chris who was on DJ duties and said things like ‘Something for everyone here tonight, ladies and gents’. Brilliant. And he was as good as his word, which meant that everyone got to shake their jangles at some point. I say shake their jangles when I mean, in my case, windmilling like a loon at varying speeds to the xfm playlist (all that practice in the kitchen, tchah, paid off). I might have had a liddle drinkie by that stage.

You know that annoying motto about dance like no one’s looking? I did and then realised that Mel’s bro was filming on his phone.


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