Saturday Night, for Hazel and I, was copycat night. That meant we had to
duplicate the hi-jinks of the night before, because we needed to live up to
its living it up. You see, TFI Friday Night Was Music Night and, of course,
Friday Night (it bears repeating) marked when the weekend, at the
full-frontal lobe optimum, was still young—with the Sunday Night down-in the
dumps blues not even residing at the back of the mind let alone at the down
lobe of last Sunday’s precursive lo-jinx. Déjà-vu echoes were meddling
affairs at the best of times. So, when Hazel and I sported Friday Night’s
glad rags on Saturday Night, we tended to ignore the sick stains. And many
of those who could only afford putting all their eggs of entertainment in
one basket (at the Saturday Night Bop) ignored us, pretended we weren’t
there, chatted lightly of tomorrow’s Antiques Road Show, Songs of Praise and
100 Best Tunes, before they consented to a right old sing-song around the
Honky-Bonk—followed by the archetypical pub brawl. Tank-tops and
Tonk-Bops. Shell-suits and Monday Morning Rhythm & Blues. OK, OK, Hazel
was a nut. But she’s the past now, as far as I am concerned. Or at least
since last weekend. I never liked the way she’d lately been tending towards
extending Wednesdays outwards until the whole week became a no man’s land.
I am running a Big Breakfast party, starting at 7 this coming drizzly Monday
morning. Hazel does the weather. Bring a flask of tea or a bottle of RSVP.
published PURPLE PATCH 1998
