We pillage and plunder, we're really bad eggs....

Drink up me hearties, yoho. It's funny how no matter which goals you set for yourself, the city and beat of the rhythm has a way of taking you to a place where those ambitions don't matter, and it's just you, the night, and the music. Last night I visited Deville's Pad in Perth for the first time; a truly sinful place, full of temptation, gorgeous bartenders and 84-year old Big Jay McNeely's honkin' saxophone from the stage. I entered on the premise of being home by 11 pm (which I knew wouldn't happened) and got home at seven o'clock this morning, having met a whole bunch of interesting people, tasted snow crab for the first time, and randomly watched the Norwegian movie Troll Hunter at a friend's house in Maylands. It's amazing how responsibilities, commitments, obligations and all those other grown-up things vanish the minute you enter an interesting venue - and I suppose just that is the definition of a good club - and get lost in the moment. It is a truly disappearing art, that ability to be just where you are, when you are and who you are and enjoy it. I suppose a Sunday night is as good as any to be a little irresponsible, at least if you don't have a back to back shift waiting for you in the morning. Cause when you get home, shower and put on your morning clothes, all that magical stuff from last night disappears and you're just a regular, boring, full-of-obligations 20 year old girl who's on her way to work where the first customers of the day are bound to make some snidy comment about the keyboard going while the service stands completely still. It's worth it though. I'll take an exhausted day of rude customers for a night of amazing magic any time.