I was going to write all about going to a Soho gay bar last night, except I never actually got there. What happened was that Emma, Julie, Kirsti, and I decided to go over to see our friends at International Students House (we're having a girly weekend, since the boys are all in Amsterdam smoking themselves stupid), and head to the gay bars from there. So we got all dolled up including the sky-high heels that I'd unearthed in the back of my closet when packing and wondered "Why don't I ever wear these? These are adorable!" During the five-minute walk from our flat to the tube station, I began to realize just why it is I never wear those shoes when I'm going to be doing more walking than to my car and back. In retrospect, I really should have gone back to change, but a lot of London clubs have really strict dress codes, and I was worried that my comfy walking shoes wouldn't pass the bouncer. Stupid, I know, but I was in a rare party mood.

Anyway, we managed to make it to ISH after getting lost for a bit (it turns out that none of us actually knew how to get there), and at some point in the half-mile walk I gave up and took my shoes off. I must note here that the pavements of Marylebone are quite foot-friendly, being made of nice smooth slate or some similar stone. Upon arrival at ISH, we drank a brew or two with our buddy Myles, went into the boys' bathroom because Myles didn't know where the girls' was (and met a cute Aussie boy in there to boot), and headed off for Soho.

Now, here's where I give some advice to those of you who ever might be going to a gay bar in Soho. First of all, wear shoes you can walk a few miles in (this goes for trips to London in general, really), second of all, if you're trying to get there before 11 PM for the cheap cover, leave before 10:30, and third of all, find out where the hell your chosen bar is before you leave. As you can guess, all of these important rules were broken last night, and we found ourselves wandering around Soho aimlessly asking every remotely gay-looking person if they knew where this particular club was. No luck. Finally, Emma rounded a corner and got mobbed by cute dykes who gave us free passes to the club we were looking for, with a little map to the club on the back! Score! By this point in the walk, I'd taken off my shoes again, and even gone into Tesco Metro to see if they had any cheapo flip-flops for sale (no luck). I figure it was another half-mile or so from where we were to where the club was, and when I tripped on a stone and wrenched my knee a quarter-mile or so into it, I decided I'd had enough and headed for home.

I assured the gang that I'd be just fine, and caught the bus to Trafalgar Square. Unfortunately, during that short ride, I had a strange conversation with a creepy guy (sample - Guy: Would you like me to show you where the other bus stop is? Me: No, I'll stay here. Guy: That sounded suspicious, didn't it? Me: Yes. Yes, it did.) and realized that I didn't have my keys with me and that nobody was likely to be home. Eek. Fortunately, I managed to lose the creepy guy and get on the bus for home with no problem, and during that ride, I remembered that although none of the Guelph group was home, the Aussie couple living upstairs would be. So in the end, I got home, Steve and Isabella let me in, and I had a peaceful evening resting my poor abused feet (which are just fine this morning, by the way). Next time I decide to go to the gay bar, I'm wearing comfortable shoes, and to hell with what the gay fashionistas think.