Friday night in the gollem

I had a bitch of a week at work. I had my plate full, and my boss was out of the country, so there was less of the camraderie, and more of the head down, music blaring, smoke coming off the keyboard atmosphere. By the time I'm finished the week, I'm glad it's friday. I head home to fill my belly ready for a weekend on the town. I've not enjoyed work allw eek, so I know I'm going to be keen to make the most of the weekend.

Eventually the phone calls are made, and we are heading for the Gollem. No-one could make up their mind, so we kind of gravitated towards there:



I'm going to have to stop writing about it here. It is the busiest I've ever seen it. Even worse, I think we know more than half the people in the bar. I'm late, so I have my first few beers standing on the street, where my parents phone from America where they are visiting my sister. I'm am on the St. Bernardus tonight:



There is yet another Kiwi visiting, and all the kiwi's in the bar inevitably know him via some drinking mate. All the usual suspects are here, Bulgarian friends, Work colleagues, new friends, old friends, flatmates - the lot. The drink flows, and it really feels like a friday night.

After a long night of getting rid of the memories of a week of work, someone suggests we go and visit a small bar where one of the kiwi girls has started working. It's a new bar on me, and I can't remember the name.(we took so many wrong turnings to get there, I can barely remember the location), but I'm sure we'll be in there again.

Before long, I'm ready to cycle home. Friday nights are frustrating - you want to party all night, but your body just wnats to sleep.