Hooray! More free peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast! I love psychological research.
Once I was breathalysed and it was established that the University of Melbourne could no longer be held responsible for any injuries, losses or death arising from the fact that they plied me with vodka the previous night, I called a cab and was on my way. To be “on one’s way” is an idiom which means standing on a street corner, waiting for a taxi that doesn’t come and then hailing another passing taxi due to frustration. It was one of those cab rides where you have a nice long chat with the driver. This fellow was from Iraq and was convinced that I was in “Army”, despite me repeatedly telling him that while I lived near army barracks, I was not and have never been in “Army”. Unlike his brother, who had been in “Army” for eleven years. Because of Saddam Hussein. Of course.
I vacuumed the house and managed to get some work done and even bought a denim jacket from Savers for Eurovision on Sunday. Heck yeah. I’ve got my Eurotrash costume ready and I will look revolting.
Anyway, it was off to the Theatre with me as I was again front-of-housing (there has to be a better verb) for that crazy Japanese/Cabaret/devised piece. However, I didn’t stick around to watch the show but instead nicked off to (via being yelled at on the tram by a loonie going on about “faggot Serbians” and then almost being part of some Indian parade down Swanston Street) to Tattersalls Lane and the Shanghai Dumpling House (pictured). Since the semester’s finished (well, apart from exams), I decided to organise a dinner-and-drinks type of soirée.
I arrived at Tattersalls Lane and stood outside the restaurant, waiting for everybody else and watching the restaurant owner tell people off for various things. He actually told a group “Goodbye! Come back tomorrow!”. Dumpling Nazi? Anyway, James (sans hair) and Jackie arrived and we went in so as not to lose our reservation.
“Hi. I had a reservation for eight people.”
“One, two three. Not eight!!”
“Uhhh… our other friends are coming”
He just walked off. Oh well, part of the appeal of coming to this place is the almost theatrical nature of its eccentric owner. Who isn’t quite as scary as the Soup Nazi, because he’s a little Chinese man. Eventually, Charlotte and Logan and Alice and Simon showed up. And we all ate dumplings. And noodles. And weird bun things with sweet bean filling. And O God I’m hungry just thinking about it.
So after we ate our fill (it was all you can eat) and heard the damned Shanghai Dumpling Happy Birthday song about a dozen times and figured out how to pay (CASH ONLY NO SPLIT BILLS!), we left and were off. And that’s another story…