I’ve been brought to the famous Bonnington Café for dinner. Many times I said I’d visit, but it took generous offer of a meal (in exchange for some camera advice) to get me here. First impressions? Cute. Not a particularly novel description of the place, but certainly accurate.
I’m at the table waiting for Olivia to return from a booze run, listening in to the conversations of my fellow dinners. The lady to my right, for example looks like she has never not been in the arts. Stripey blue jumper, talking about soy milk and an old life in California…I feel like I’m about to munch down on cliché vegan pie. Thankfully, the food was decent, and the company better. Truly wonderful to talk to someone trying to make their creative dreams come true before they’re old enough to write it off as infantile fantasy.
It’s weird to think that this person I’m going to share dinner with is a third generation friend. Friend of a friend of a friend. I haven’t had dinner with first generation friend in about 4 years. But then maybe, like in a well worn marriage, you stop doing those things. These days, I only see people for dinner that I 1) haven’t seen for ages or 2) fancy the absolute granny pants off of. Is that so wrong, or the inevitable consequence of hitting your mid 20s single?
It’s later now, and I’m going to see Simon Bailey and Ben ‘RAF-getting-married’ Carson. One big, one small – both successful, both reminders of how far I’ve got to go to be on a social par. In my head anyway. Part of my head. Most of my head is pleased to see them.