Out and About With Miss Delish – Naughty and Nice

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On a Wednesday evening my closest friends and I catch up for dinner over a cheap meal. Sometimes the conversation is enthralling, while at other times it’s quite serious, but there is always hilarity involved, particularly when we regale each other with the events of the weekend. Last Wednesday I was pleased to tell the tale of a typical St Kilda evening I had recently experienced, complete with sentiment and ghastly behaviour all mixed in to eight hours. I explained it as follows…

There was a sign in Port Melbourne five years ago that read “Locals do it best,” I can’t remember what they were referring to ‘doing,’ but the memory of the sign came flooding back to me on Saturday evening as I entered the St Kilda Bowls Club for a charity Trivia Evening. To give you some background: I attended the Australian Water Ski Team fundraiser and joined a room of casually dressed, friendly enthusiasts, where banter and old fashioned looking alcoholic drinks were being consumed. In short the night was fun and low key, the trivia was interactive and well organised (if not historically sound in a few of the answers), and the mix of age groups around the tables was varied(18-60 at a glance). Well done to the team for organising such a great event, I hope to attend again next year.

It was the venue itself that reminded me of that sign seen so many years ago. There we were, mostly locals, nestled into a typical ‘run of the mill’ Australian club room, surrounded by living green carpets that are lovingly and painstakingly cared for by members of the community. The building has been kept in its original state, and the timber walls, achievement banners, polished pine bars and basic toilets add to the feeling of nostalgia one feels as they enter the place. In summer time the bowling club becomes very busy and is filled with young people who keep it a breathing and perhaps even profitable business. Part of the charm is the cheap drinks that are served in 1960’s glasses where a pot was still a pot; the young one’s love it! What amazed me was that it had remained like this, and all the while everything around it has changed to some degree. Adjacent to a modern IGA building, across from a sleekly renovated apartment block on Fitzroy St, a hop, skip and jump from some of the busiest bars in Melbourne, and sitting humbly and proudly is the original St Kilda Lawn Bowls Club. Even the staff were friendly and relaxed, which adds to any experience that relies on service.

So relaxed I was that four champagnes later I was ready to kick on somewhere else that felt like home. Towards the Cicciolina back bar we set off, and more bottles of my favourite liquid gold were guzzled. A full night of fun wouldn’t be the same in this old place if there wasn’t a twist to the end of the evening. Staggering out of the venue I felt the need to devour a cheeseburger. I flagged a cab and bundled myself in, leaving my friends standing on a corner wondering why I had decided to phantom in the name of starvation without telling anyone where I was off to. The sense of urgency was overpowering, until, I was thrown around the backseat while the taxi drove at speeds unprecedented on the tram lines. The driver turned around and looked at me with a rage in his eyes…he was definitely operating on another frequency where everything was fast (if you know what I mean). Frightened for my life, I threw him the first note I could find in my wallet, and abandoned ship at the first sign of slowing down.

Finding yourself in a car park, at any hour way past midnight, swaying with the wind and feeling the colour drain from your face is the most obvious siren to one’s self that there is only one way the night will end. And so it was… after making the call to the boyfriend that I was lost and feeling rather unwell, I was collected from my perch in the gutter, safely bought home, and deposited rather softly in prime position to ride the porcelain train for the next hour. There is no need to recall what that hour looked like, suffice to say I used quite a bit of Mr Muscle on the Sunday after rising, removing evidence of poor behaviour. Later that afternoon, as I pieced the evening together, clearly omitting my sea sick hours from my memory, I smiled to myself, ‘yes…locals do it best’.

The point I was trying to make while sitting around the table at ‘steak night’ was that it’s always nice to have yourself a typical evening at home, and my friends nodded their heads knowingly, for in St Kilda that is just what it can look like.

See You in The Village

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