Recently, I spent a very amusing, not to mention enjoyable evening with two very good friends. There's a reason you have mates, especially those that you've gone to school with, shared embarrassing moments with and relied on more heavily than they'll ever know. Quite frankly girls, you've assisted me in hanging on to my sanity.
Despite spending a night out with my friends, Cath and Tracey (she won't take kindly to me missing out the 'e'), enjoying a meal and going on to watch an excellent band, my overriding memory of the evening will always be Tracey saying to me, "Don't let me get too drunk. If you see me in the zone, don't let me do high leg kicks."
I've known Tracey and Catherine for 30 years. A lot of cheap cider and wine has been consumed over the years. I'd say after three decades, we know each other as well as we will ever know each other. Therefore, why did Tracey for one minute think I was the more responsible one? A more likely scenario than me stopping her in her tracks, was one where I told her I would hold her drink if she fancied trying out some high leg kicks.
Thirty years clearly taught the three of us nothing. We got drunk on not-so-cheap cider and staggered to Charing Cross. The only thing stopping the high kicks was the physical inability to get our feet more than 18 inches off the ground.