It's summer, so that must mean Mother. Mother doesn't call in winter. But summer: febrile, trashy and hot, with your wedge shoes on and a scarf around your neck and your pink print dress and your eyeliner in little flicks: Mother wants you.

Mother reacts with the heat and the lust and the pheromones and the hunger and the desperation, and around 11pm, she sounds her siren call. If you want something to happen, but you don't even know what it is, you end up at Mother.

Of course, you don't start off at Mother. Mother isn't destinational, dahling. Anyone voluntarily choosing to involve Mother in the evening's plans is sadly deluded and almost certainly not from round here, but from There, which could be Camden or it could be West London or it could be South of the River.

Each one of those holds its own terrors: from plum voices and cashmere to Loughborough Junction and a crusty ambience; and I could say Round Here ain't any better either - and certainly it's packed with swooping fringes and harsh, self-regarding eyes - but I'd be lying to pretend that wasn't infinitely preferable.

(Five years ago in South London I'd have scored my throat with a rusty blade for suggesting such a thing, but I was different then, and that was before, and who wants to be held responsible for choices they made in Nineties? Are *you* still wearing clothes that do up with Velcro and doing lines off your Fatboy Slim and Chemical Brothers albums? I pray for your sake you are not.)

But who am I to preach? I ended up at Mother! It was summer: febrile, trashy, and hot, and we were too, in our booze-addled minds. Happy hour cocktails gave way to beer in cold glass bottles; club flyers became impromptu fans; then our palms grasped pints, then gins, and then Mother called.

Outside Mother there was a swirl of taxi drivers shouting into our faces, and the boy I was with bought a hot dog, smeared with acrid yellow mustard and surrounded by slippery caramelised burnt onions which I picked at with shiny fingers and slithered into my mouth.

The night had the grey/ purple heat-shimmer of a July Friday at chucking-out time: booze blurs the barriers between you and those before you in the queue, and the pavements and walls slant at strange, exciteable angles.

We made it in. It’s always the same, Mother. People slumping down in chairs, and it always seems like everyone is wearing t-shirts, the thin cotton slipping off shoulders, clinging to bellies, sagging over belt-buckles, skimming the waistbands of jeans that display sweat-drenched shiny asscracks when the wearer leans forward. Eyeliner melting off faces, sweat gleaming on brows, drinks spilling on sofas and trousers; cigarettes sizzling in hair; smoke-tears smarting; the air smelling thick, like lust and chemicals and perspiration. Good old Mother. It's nice to have something to depend upon in life, someone who's always there for you when you're wild-eyed and mussy-haired and lasciviously pissed.

[blah blah blah - ouf, i finish another time- am doing print amp at the moment - it's exciting!]

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