To a local bar whose arty backers recently pulled out. If the bar survives at all, it will not be as the moody cool spot it’s been these past few years.
Tonight, the main floor jumps with noisy and excitable teens while a handful of existentialists huddle on the mezzanine.
We have an enjoyable night in our corner and everyone’s on good form.
Laura mentions visiting a money-to-burn artist couple who have given a whole apartment over to their pet cats. It’s decorated, she says, with works by Alexander Calder and Joan Miró.
“There’s no way they have a Miro cat flap,” says Neil, “that’s a classic screen memory.”
“Cat flat,” says Laura over the noise.
“I mean it’s hilarious that they dote on their cats like that but there’s no way there’s a Miro on a cat flap.”
“Cat flat,” says Laura again, “flat.”
“What’s a cat flat?” says Neil.
“A flat for their cats. There are Miros in the cat flat, not on a cat flap,” says Laura.
“Oh!” says Neil, “cat flap, yes.”
I’m not sure what my face is doing at this moment, but it clearly betrays my thoughts:
“Well,” says Neil, “at least that’s tomorrow’s blog sorted.”