His name is Patrick also

Which really threw me the first time we talked. And when I saw talked I mean gabbled odd words to each other in an ear-shattering nightclub. I went again this week - the standard Thursday night/Saturday night routine where we're supposed to exhaust oneself on Thursday, sleep it off Friday and then repeat on Saturday. You end up a living Mummy unless you're a student, able to wake around mid-day and still are presumed to be 'working'. My 6AM thing which I continually moan about just doesn't allow human life to function on this type of sleep pattern.

Anyway, since we'd been to York Manchester, I'd missed this routine one week, and having not been in the whole mood for it, I've managed to not partake of the club scene in this rotten city for over two months - the last time being the sublime and terrifying Jamelia performance. It wasn't her menacing family standing at the side of the stage which put me off, or the hetty bitches pushing and shoving to get a look (CALM DOWN - IT'S JUST JAMELIA!), but the whole tired, fake happy, rip-off thing that made me want a break from the scene. I don't mind it in short bursts, but can't handle being ripped off continually.

I missed seeing him. 'We' do the thing of not really approaching one another much, but still acknowledging one another's presence. Some of the guys had gone off to the bar yesterday for more drinks (yet again) and I was left waiting. A minute later I feel a tap on the side of my head and expect it's a friend just being a dick so I don't hurry to turn around. When I do glance up to see who it is, his beaming face is laughing at me from above.
This I like - we're playing a game where, since I'm scared to death of advancing, I can play safe and not be too much, and yet still have fun.

That's what I'm supposed to do.... right?