Up in Da Club

So I am up in the VIP room of the Club sitting with a couple of girls. Of course, one of them is Russian - a friend of mine, and I have been practising a few phrases with her. Around her wrist is a luminous green glow-bracelet that I just gave her. I did this because the red VIP tag we were given did not match her dress at all. And even though the glow-bracelet was bright green, she appreciated the joke.

Anyway, downstairs in the club is a proper buzzing Old Skool Garage party going on. Upstairs now, the lights are low key and the music is soulful RnB - the bar is full of happy, good-looking people. There is no sense of menace or trouble that might usually accompany a night out in a big city. There are a lot of pretty young things playing at pretending to be grown up women. They are nice to look even though they virtually guarantee an altogether different type of headache.

I take a big tug of my Cuban cigar and breath it in to my lungs. The MC calls out my name over the music and I look over at him and wave. I turn to my good friend who is perched by the bar and I give him a friendly nod. The unmistakeable buzz that a good cigar gives is making we feel alive.

I think of a beautiful text message that my girlfriend sent me a couple of minutes ago.

And I am happy.

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