James Bond ball
Do you want to end the year with a bang or a whimper?
This is one of those years that requires a big bang celebration. The Posthouse Kensington, a hotel off High Street Kensington, announced their James Bond New Year's Eve Ball early enough for me to call and reserve tickets.
It's just another excuse to dress up and spend loads of money. Champagnes don't come by the glass but by the £37 a bottle. Other drinks come by the glass, only if you're prepared to queue for half an hour.
Young women in body-hugging evening dresses came in smaller groups than equally young men in tuxedos and space suits. After a walk around the hotel, it's clear to anyone that this is a singles party.
It feels like another industry event but I know not a single soul. Some guys are wearing the boring grey suit of Dr Evil in "Austin Powers", others conform to characters in James Bond films. I am wearing a green dress, short black boots, and feather jacket - all acquired in January this year. My date is a handsome 007.
Together we visit the three main dancing halls. One plays techno. Another plays rhythm and bass. The third plays tunes I like, but the dance floor is a passageway for the disrespectful. So I dance wildly in hopes of dissuading them. My long hair swings or slaps their faces. My boots threaten to stamp on their feet. My arms register a high entropy value (high uncertainty - hence the chance of hitting someone is high). But the nondancers still head my way.
It's almost midnight. Still no sign of James Bond, Pussy Galore, Miss Moneypenny. Worse, I haven't heard any recognisable song from James Bond movies.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Happy New Year!
I toast my date with a bottle of Beck's beer. We didn't have enough cash to buy a bottle of champagne. Meanwhile, I have two bottles sitting in my shed celebrating that they're still alive.
31 December 2001 Monday