On a typical Saturday night I see a lot of drinks ordered – and I mean, a lot. I’m a career barfly, it comes with the territory. Now, I may look like I’m glamorously leaning against the bar, all insouciant coolness and draping hair. But really, I’m silently entertaining myself with judgement calls on drinks that go over the bar. I have my own categorisation system – ready?
“Vodka, soda – is that real lime? Good.” – Disco juice. You shred for Stereos. Your pantry is more supplement than supper.
“White wine” – what, no particular type? You’re female (or wish you were). You discuss “the economy”, but think stock is something kept out the back in big boxes.
“Martini. Make it dirty” – you have mixed drinks about feelings. You’ve chosen the path of reality resistance.
“Which whiskey do you have? Oh……yeah I suppose that’ll have to do. On ice. With a splash of water” – go home young man and think about your sins. Right now.
“Cider please. Oh yes, ice would be nice” – I didn’t realise playgroup had field trips. How sweet.
Now, you want to ask what I drink? You’ll need to keep an eye out on a typical Saturday night for that one. I’ll be glamorously leaning against the bar, all insouciant coolness and draping hair……