I woke up with a pulled butt muscle from rolling off a picnic table, a pinched ankle, a bruise on my knee, a cigarette burn on my wrist and new scabby mosquito bites. Danny reports a hole in his crotch, tree branch scratches and probably a massive hangover. Sure, I’ll say the Full Moon Party had to be at least mildly fun. Ok, it was a lot of fun.
The party had a small hill overlooking the water for people to chill out and roll around drunk on, and a raving dance floor under a small dome structure. Given all the other options going on tonight, this was definitely the right place to be at.
It was a long half hour walk from the Promenade because god knows who dissuaded the group from taking a cab in, laden with cockroaches, ick! Trust in Google Maps next time!
Before heading over, we grabbed a shitload of sparkling wine and perched along the stone wall for a scattered, treacherous game of Ring of Fire, a parlour favourite when in mixed company. The afternoon was spent croquetting at an Oxbridge garden party thing, Pimm’s and blue sky and all. Croquet is supposed to be one of those posh things I should hate but is actually really fun, but it would be even more fun if the mallets looked like flamingos.
Brittany: Aren’t you afraid that your dark shirt will trap heat from the sunlight?
Danny: The flamingos will protect me!
We had trouble catching a cab after lunching at Limehouse on Ship Street, so we decided to just pose for a million photos, excluding the one person who actually went to work hard to hail all of our lazy asses a cab. Hehe oops.
Snoozy Q roger out.