Parga 3.

I was date raped by a Canadian Club in the Island Bar. The club was a three foot bottle that Michael had laid on for his leaving party and regularly decanted into a pitcher, the type they use for table beer in the US; not whiskey. The initial slopes were gentle conversations about living in Parga. They steepened with a difference of opinion about Van Morrison with the feisty Scottish, attractive owner of the establishment. But she downed the Club like a Scot and disappeared early.  Michael, a gentle bear of a body below a sun-browned egg, drank from a thimble sized glass. I apparently did not. As the party broke up Mothermouse et al appeared from their girls night out equally damaged by three Brandy Alexanders and we all went to the Rock Bar. By now the slope was getting steep. Janemouse decided a dance was a good idea so she and I split to find an unmarked door in a back street. Behind was a large room with small lights, big speakers, few people and lots of floor. Here was a perfect opportunity to show one’s style. Being nearer 70 than 60 and on the moguls of a black run style wasn’t the right word. Janemouse fielded me from tables, walls and the other dancers. It appeared to me my reverse wasn’t working. I could do the wibbly wobbly arm waving front and side but there was no stopping me in reverse till I met an immovable object. A teacher once said dance as if you’re on the point of falling over; OK in a class but pissed it came all too easy. I was near falling over standing still. Janemouse thought leaving was a good idea. The rest was a crazy zigzag home fielded by Mothermouse who could walk straight but had her own cross to bear. So date rape, a truly despicable and cowardly offence, wouldn’t work on men; we’d be no use to man nor beast, but I might condone its use by women for getting their own back on dickheads.