It was freezing, the news had threatened snow, the sky was open, the stars were out, and the wind had a pretty mean edge. And yet there we were, huddled side by side on a concrete doorstep. We'd missed the start of the party cause we'd arrived while they were off on one of their 'need to get provisions' missions. In short, a house party worth of people were down the road getting booze while we were waiting patiently outside. We poured cheap vodka into our cans of red bull, found some fun tracks on our phones and had our own little party. On my friends doorstep, in the cold.
By the time my friends had come up the street with their circus, making a racket and dancing along, us two had mostly caught them up: the booze was running high + happy and I was already loud and a little bit obnoxious. It was to be a messy messy night. Sure enough the time came where the floor was blurring with the ceiling. I'd reached the point of too much booze, too many drugs, and the little voice in the back of my head was positively demanding that it was time to make the frozen walk home.
I don't really remember much of the party, I remember there was Moet (I wrote my name + the date on the cork!), and some one tried to cook something deep fried in the oven (we're a mix of classy hobos, really). I have vague memories of the walk home (and a friend trying to convince me that it was a good idea to meet him in town. I'm not sure my argument against was especially coherent). But of all the fun things I do remember, what I appreciate most is that private little party on the doorstep. Cold, but perfectly merry.
This is definitely what London is right now. A mix of the outrageously ridiculous and the sometimes but not very classy fun times.
This is the only photo I took of that night, and it just so happened to be at the doorstep party. I'm sure you can tell by my amazing composition what state we were in...