Party

We spent a good half hour looking for the place, walking back and forth on pretentiously named streets, slugging back value cider from its loudly labelled bottle. Model citizens. F**k the model, we probably have more wordly regard than most of the shite pigs who made the model anyways. We knew we were close and apart from the sobbing, end of Summer chill, I was fairly content pissing up and down shady, tree lined streets under my little star blanket. Well, we found it in the end amid a row of old, narrow, terraced houses with little front gardens and yellow street lights beaming on tiny tiled paths, I didn't know the people but he did. All I knew is they were French art students . . . . . oh s**t, everyone deserves that one chance.